Rohinton Mistry - Tales From Firozsha Baag

The aroma of dhandar-paatyo , wafting from the kitchen, gently penetrated her meditation. It reminded her that Behram roje was not over yet. But she returned to the kitchen and put off the stove — it would still be a while to lunch, she knew. Instead, she prepared two cups of tea. Between ten A.M. and four P.M. she never drank tea, it was one of her strictest rules. Today, for Rustomji’s sake, she would make an exception.

She went back to him, asked if he was ready for lunch and, receiving the anticipated refusal, smiled to herself with a tender satisfaction — how well she knew her Rustomji. She felt very close to him at this moment.

He shook his head slowly from side to side, gazing pensively into the distance. “Stomach is still heavy. Must be constipated.”

“And the WC?”

“Still leaking.”

She re-emerged with the two cups she had left ready in the kitchen: “Another cup of tea then?”

Rustomji nodded gratefully.

Najamai was getting ready to lock up her flat in Firozsha Baag and take the train to spend the day with her sister’s family in Bandra.

She bustled her bulk around, turning the keys in the padlocks of her seventeen cupboards, then tugged at each to ensure the levers had tumbled properly. Soon, she was breathless with excitement and exertion.

Her breathlessness reminded her of the operation she had had three years ago to remove fat tissue from the abdomen and breasts. The specialist had told her, “You will not notice any great difference in the mirror. But you will appreciate the results when you are over sixty. It will keep you from sagging.”

Here she was at fifty-five, and would soon know the truth of his words if merciful God kept her alive for five more years. Najamai did not question the ways of merciful God, even though her Soli was taken away the very year after first Dolly and then Vera went abroad for higher studies.

Today would be the first Sunday that the flat would be empty for the whole day. “In a way it is good,” she reflected, “that Tehmina next door and the Boyces downstairs use my fridge as much as they do. Anyone who has evil intentions about my empty flat will think twice when he sees the coming-going of neighbours.”

Temporarily reconciled towards the neighbours whom she otherwise regarded as nuisances, Najamai set off. She nodded at the boys playing in the compound. Outside, it did not feel as hot, for there was a gentle breeze. She felt at peace with the world. It was a twenty-minute walk, and there would be plenty of time to catch the ten-fifteen express. She would arrive at her sister’s well before lunch-time.

At eleven-thirty Tehmina cautiously opened her door and peered out. She made certain that the hallway was free of the risk of any confrontation with a Boyce on the way to Najamai’s fridge. “It is shameful the way those people misuse the poor lady’s goodness,” thought Tehmina. “All Najamai said when she bought the fridge was to please feel free to use it. It was only out of courtesy. Now those Boyces behave as if they have a share in the ownership of the fridge.”

She shuffled out in slippers and duster-coat, clutching one empty glass and the keys to Najamai’s flat. She reeked of cloves, lodged in her mouth for two reasons: it kept away her attacks of nausea and alleviated her chronic toothaches.

Cursing the poor visibility in the hallway, Tehmina, circumspect, moved on. Even on the sunniest of days, the hallway persisted in a state of half-light. She fumbled with the locks, wishing her cataracts would hurry and ripen for removal.

Inside at last, she swung open the fridge door to luxuriate in the delicious rush of cold air. A curious-looking package wrapped in plastic caught her eye; she squeezed it, sniffed at it, decided against undoing it. The freezer section was almost bare; the Boyces’ weekly packets of beef had not yet arrived.

Tehmina placed two ice-cubes in the empty glass she had brought along — the midday drink of chilled lemonade was as dear to her as the evening Scotch and soda — and proceeded to lock up the place. But she was startled in her battle with Najamai’s locks and bolts by footsteps behind her.

“Francis!”

Francis did odd jobs. Not just for Tehmina and Najamai in C Block, but for anyone in Firozsha Baag who required his services. This was his sole means of livelihood ever since he had been laid off or dismissed, it was never certain which, from the furniture store across the road where he used to be a delivery boy. The awning of that store still provided the only roof he had ever known. Strangely, the store owner did not mind, and it was a convenient location — all that Tehmina or Najamai or any of the other neighbours had to do was lean out of their verandas and wave or clap hands and he would come.

Grinning away as usual, Francis approached Tehmina.

“Stop staring, you idiot,” started Tehmina, “and check if this door is properly locked.”

“Yes, bai . But when will Najamai return? She said she would give me some work today.”

“Never. Could not be for today. She won’t be back till very late. You must have made a mistake.” With a loud suck she moved the cloves to the other cheek and continued, “So many times I’ve told you to open your ears and listen properly when people tell you things. But no. You never listen.”

Francis grinned again and shrugged his shoulders. In order to humour Tehmina he replied, “Sorry bai , it is my mistake!” He stood only about five feet two but possessed strength which was out of all proportion to his light build. Once, in Tehmina’s kitchen during a cleaning spree he had picked up the stone slab used for grinding spices. It weighed at least fifty pounds, and it was the way in which he lifted it, between thumb and fingertips, that amazed Tehmina. Later, she had reported the incident to Najamai. The two women had marvelled at his strength, giggling at Tehmina’s speculation that he must be built like a bull.

As humbly as possible Francis now asked, “Do you have any work for me today?”

“No. And I do not like it, you skulking here in the hallway. When there is work we will call you. Now go away.”

Francis left. Tehmina could be offensive, but he needed the few paise the neighbours graciously let him earn and the leftovers Najamai allowed him whenever there were any. So he returned to the shade of the furniture store awning.

While Tehmina was chilling her lemonade with Najamai’s ice, downstairs, Silloo Boyce cleaned and portioned the beef into seven equal packets. She disliked being obligated to Najamai for the fridge, though it was a great convenience. “Besides,” she argued with herself, “we do enough to pay her back, every night she borrows the newspaper. And every morning I receive her milk and bread so she does not have to wake up early. Madam will not even come down, my sons must carry it upstairs.” Thus she mused and reasoned each Sunday, as she readied the meat in plastic bags which her son Kersi later stacked in Najamai’s freezer.

Right now, Kersi was busy repairing his cricket bat. The cord around the handle had come unwound and had gathered in a black cluster at its base, leaving more than half the length of the handle naked. It looked like a clump of pubic hair, Kersi thought, as he untangled the cord and began gluing it back around the handle.

The bat was a size four, much too small for him, and he did not play a lot of cricket any more. But for some reason he continued to care for it. The willow still possessed spring enough to send a ball to the boundary line, in glaring contrast to his brother Percy’s bat. The latter was in sad shape. The blade was dry and cracked in places; the handle, its rubber grip and cord having come off long ago, had split; and the joint where the blade met the handle was undone. But Percy did not care. He never had really cared for cricket, except during that one year when the Australian team was visiting, when he had spent whole days glued to the radio, listening to the commentary. Now it was aeroplanes all the time, model kits over which he spent hours, and Biggies books in which he buried himself.