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S FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, StARCH 1997

All rights reserved under International and Pan’A]nei’ical3 Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a dMsion ofRandom House, law,, New York, Originally published in Canada in hardcover Contentsas Talesfinn F,rozsha Baagby Penguin Books Canada Limited in 1987. Firstpublished in the United States in hardcover by Houghlon Muffin Company.

Boston. in 1989.

The following stories were previously published in slightly different versions.“Auspicious Occasion” in The Fiddlehead, No, 141, Atituinu 1984, and The AioPress Aolholo’ #2: Brat Stories, C.elseral Publishing. 1985, “One Sunday” in TheAntigonish Review, Nulnber 61, Spring 1985. “The Ghost of Firozsha Bang” inQuarn’. Volulne 35, Number 2, Spring 1986, “Condolence Visit” in CanadianFiction Mago:ine, NumbersO/5l. “The Collectors” in 3foIahat Rtt’iezi’, Ntllnher 72,1985. “Of Wfl3ite Hail’s and Cricket’ in llsues, \‘oltime 14,Ntilnber 3. Winter Auspicious Occasion1986. “Lend Me Your Light’ in The Toronto South Asian Rrt’iru \‘o)sIlne 2,Numbcr 3, Winter 1984, “Exercisers” in Canadian Fiction Magazine. Number 54. One Sunday 23“Condolence Visit,” “The Collectors,” and “Lend Me Your Light” in CorningAttractions #4, Oheron Press, The Ghost ofFirozsha Baag 41

The author grateftill acknowledges the assistance of the Exploi’ations Pm’ngramn Condolence Visit 57of the Canada Council and that of the Ontario Arms Council, which made it possible so write some of these stni’ies.

The Collectors 77 Libran’ of Congress Carnlogrng’mn’Ptmb]scation Data

OfWhite Hairs and Cricket 105Mistn’, Rc.hinwn. 1952— [Tales from Fimoasha Baag)

‘ The Paying Guests 121Swimming lessons and other stories fron, Firozsha Baag / by Rohinton Mistn’.—l st Vintage International ed.

Squatter 143p. cm, ISBN 0-679-77632-X

Lend Me Your Light 1711. Bombay (India)—Social life and custums—Fictlon. I, Title.

Exercisers 195PR9199.3.M494T35 1996 813’,54—dc2O 9&31214

SwimmingLessons 227CII’ Random House Web address: http://snoc.mndomhouse.com/

Authorphotograph couflen ofF Mistn’

Printed in the United States ofAmerica 10 9 8

E Condo(ence Visit

Yesterday had been the tenth day, dusmoo, after the funeral of Minocher Mirza. Dvsmoo prayers were prayed at the fire-temple, and the widow Mirza awaited with apprehension the visitors who would troop into the house over the next few weeks. They would come to offer their condolence, share her grief, poke and pry into her life and Minocher’s with a thousand questions. And to gratify them with answers she would have to relive the anguish of the most trying days ofher life The more tactful ones would wait for the first month, maasiso, to

elapse before besieging her with sympathy and comfort. But not the early birds; they would come flocking from today. It was open season, and Minocher Mirza had been well-known in the Parsi community ofBombay. After a long and troubled illness, Minocher had suddenly eased

into a condition resembling a state of convalescence Minocher and Daulat had both understood that it was only a spurious con valescence, there would be no real recovery. All the same, they were thankful his days and nights passed in relative comfort. He was able to wait for death freed from the agony which had racked his body for the past several months.

60 CondDlence Visit 61

And as it so often happens in such cases, alongwith relief from physical torment, the doubts and fears which had tortured his mind released their hold as well. He was at peace with his being which was soon to be snuffed out. Daulat, too, felt at peace because her one fen’ent prayer was be

ing answered. Minocher would be allowed to die with dignity, without being reduced to something less than human; she would not have to witness any more ofhis suffering. Thus Minocher had passed away in his sleep after six days spent

in an inexplicable state ofgrace and tranquillity Daulat had cried for the briefest period; she felt it would be sinful to show anything but gladness when he had been so fortunate in his final days. Now, however, the inescapable condolence visits would make her

regurgitate months ofendless pain, nights spent sleeplessly; while she listened for his breath, his sighs, his groans, his vocalization of the agony within. For bearers ofcondolences and sympathies she would have to answer questions about the illness, about doctors and hospi tals, about nurses and medicines, about X-nys and blood repon& She would be requested (tenderly but tenaciously, as though it was their righthil entitlement) to recreate the hell her beloved Minocher had suffered, instead ofbeing allowed to hold on to the memory of those final blessed sixdaThe worst of it would be the repetition ofdetails for different visitors at different hours on different days, until that intensely emotional time she had been through with Minocher would be reduced to a dry and dull lesson learned from a textbook which she would panot like a schoolgirl. last year. Daulat’s nephew Sarosh, the Canadian immigrant who -

now answered to the name ofSid, had arrived from Toronto for a visit, after ten years. Why he had never gone back he would not say; nor did he come to see her any more After all that she and Minocher had done for him. But he did bring her a portable cassette tape recorder from Canada, remembering her fondness for music, so she could tape her favourite songs from All India Radio’s two Western music programs: ‘Merry Go Round” and ‘Saturday Date:’ Daulat, however, had refused it, saying “Poor Minocher sick in bed, and I listen to music? Never:’ She would not change her mind despite Sarosh-Sid’s recounting of the problems he had had getting it through Bombay customs.

Now she wished she had accepted the gift. It could be handy, she thought with bitterness, to tape the details, to squeeze all of her and Minocher’s suffering inside the plastic case, and proffer it to the visitors who came propelled by custom and convention. When they held out their right hands in the condolence-handshake position (fingertips of left hand tragi cally supporting right elbow, as though the right arm, overcome with grief, could not make it on its own) she could thrust towards them the cassette and recorder: “You have come to ask abou my life, my suffering, my sotrow? Here, take and listen. Listen on the machine, everything is on tape. How my Minocher fell sick, where it started to pain, how much it hurt, what doctor said, what specialist said, what happened in hospitaL This R button? Is for Rewind. Some part you like, you can hear it again, hear it ten times if you want: how nurse gave wrong medicine but my Minocher, sharp even in sickness, noticed different colour of pills and told her to check; how wardboy always handled the bedpan savagely shoving it underneath as if doing sick people a big favour; how Minocher was afraid when time came for sponge bath, they were so careless and rough — felt like number three sandpaper on his bedsores, my hi-ave Minocher would joke. What? The FF button? Means Fast Forward. If some part bores you,just press FF and tape will turn to something else: like how in hospital Minocher’s bedsores were so terrible it would bring tears to my eyes to look, all filled with pus and a bad smell on him always, even after sponge bath, so’ begged of doctor to let me take him home; how at home I changed dressings four times a day using sulfa ointment, and in two weeks hedsores were almost gone; how, as time went by and he got worse, his friends stopped coming when he needed them most, friends like you, now listening to this tape- Huh? This letter F? Stands for Pause Press it if you want to shut offmachine, if you cannot bear to hear more ofyour friend Minocher’s suffering...” Daulat stopped herself. Ah, the bitter thoughts of a tired old

woman. But of what use? It was better not to think of these visits which were as inevitable as Minocher’s death. The only way out was to lock up the flat and leave Firozsha Baag, live elsewhere for the next few weeks. Perhaps at a boarding-house in Udwada, town of

the most sacrosanct ofall fire-temples. But though her choice of location would be irreproachable, the timing of her trip would generate the mostvirulent gossip and criticism the community was capable of. to weather which she possessed neither the strength nor the audacity. The visits would have to be suffered, just as Minocher had suffered his sickness, with forbearance. The doorbell startled Daulat. This early in the morning could

not bring a condolence visitor. The clock was about to strike nine as she went to the door. Her neighbour Najamai glided in, as fluidly as the smell of

slightly rancid fat that always trailed her. The pounds shed by her bulk in recent years constantiy amazed Daulat. Today the smell was supplemented by dhansaak masata, she realized, as the odours found and penetrated her nostrils. It was usually possible to tell what Najamai had been cooking; she carried a bit ofher kitchen with her wherever she went. Although about the same age as Daulat, widowhood had

descended much earlier upon Najamai, turning her into an authority on the subject of Religious Rituals And The Widowed Woman.This had never bothered Daulat before But the death of Minocher offered Najamai unlimited scope, and she had made the best of it, besetting and bombardingDaulat with advice on topics ranging from items she should pack in her valise for the four-day Towers OfSilence vigil, to the recommended diet during the first ten days of mourning. Her counselling service had to close, however, with completion of the death rituals. Then Daulat was again able to regard her in the old way with a mixture of tolerance and mild dislike. ‘Forgive me for ringing your bell so early in the morning but I

wanted to let you know, ifyou need chairs or glasses,just ask me” ‘Thanks, but no one will—” “No no, you see, yesterday was du.smoo, I am counting carefully

How quickly ten days have gone by People will start visiting from today, believe m Poor Minocher, so popular, he had so many friends, they will all visit—”

‘Yes, they will, and I must get ready” said Daulat, interrupting what threatened to turn into an early morning prologue to a con dolence visit. She found it hard tojudge her coo harshly. Najamai

Condolence Visit 63

had had her share ofsorrow and rough times. HerSoli had passed away the very year after the daughters, Vera and Dolly, had gone abroad for higher studies.The sudden burden ofloneliness must have been horrible to bear. For a while, her large new refrigerator had helped to keep up a flow of neighbourly companionship, drawn forth by the offer of ice and other favours. But after the Francis incident, that, too, ceased. Tehmina refused to have anything to do with the fridge or with Najamai (her conscience heavy and her cataracts still unripe), and Silloo Boyce downstairs had also drastically reduced its use (though her conscience was clear, her sons Kersi and Percy had saved the day). So Najamai, quite alone and spending her time wherever she

was tolerated, now spied Minocher’s pugrea “Oh, that’s so nice, so shiny and black! And in such good condition!” she rhapsodized. It truly was an elegant piece of headgear, and many years ago

Minocher had purchased a glass display case for it. Daulat had brought it out into the living-room this morning. Najamai continued: “You know, pugrees are so hard to find

these days, this one would bring a lot ofmoney. But you must never sell it. Never. It is your Minocher’s, so a]ways keep it.” With these ex hortatoty words she prepared to leave Her eyes wandered around the flat for a last minute scrutiny, the sort that evoked miLd dislike for her in Daulat. “You must be very busy today, so I’ll — “ Najamai turned towards

Minocher’s bedroom and halted in mid-sentence, in consterna tion: “0baaprThe lamp is still burning! Beside Minocher’s bed — that’s wrong, very wrong!” “Oh,! forgot all about it,” lied Daulat, feigning dismay. “I was so

busy. Thanks for reminding, I’ll put it out.” But she had no such intention. When Minocher had breathed

his last, the dusworji from A Block had been summoned and had given her careful instructions on what was expected of her. The first and most important thing, the dustocrji had said, was to light a small oil lamp at the head ofMinocher’s bed; this lamp, he said, must burn for four days and nights while prayers were performed at the Towers OfSilence But the little oil lamp became a source of comfort in a house grown quiet and empty for the lack of one silent feeble man, one shadow. Daulat kept the lamp lit past the

64 Condolence Visit 65

prescribed four days, replenishing it constantly with coconutoil. ‘Didn’t dustoo4i tell you?” asked Najamai. “For the first four days

the soul comes to visit here The lamp is there to welcome the soul. But after four days prayers are all complete, you know, and the soul must now quickly-quickly go to the Net’ World. With the lamp still burning the soul will be attracted to two different places: here, and the NextWorld So you must put it out, you are confusing the soul,” Najamai earnestly concluded. Nothing can confuse my Minocher, thought Daulat, he will go

where he has to go. Aloud she said, “Yes, I’ll put it out right away.” “Good, good:’ said Najamai, “and oh, I almost forgot to tell you,

I have lots ofcold-drink bottles in the fridge, Limca and Goldspot, nice and chilled, if you need them. Few years back, when visitors were comingafter Dr Mody’s dusmoo, I had no fridge, and poor Mn Mody had to keep running to Irani restaurant. But you are lucky, just come to me” What does she think, I’m giving a party the day after dusnwo?

thoughtDaulat. In the bedroom she pouredmore oil in the glass, determined to keep the lamp lit as long as she felt the need. Only, the bedroom door must remain closed, so the tug-ofwar between two worlds, with Minocher’s soul in the middle, would not provide sport for visitors. She sat in the armchair next to what had been Minocher’s bed

and watched the steady, unflickering flame of the oil lamp. Like Minocher, she thought reliable and always there; how lucky I was to have such a husband. No bad habits, did not drink, did not go to the racecourse, did not give me any trouble Ah, but he made up for it when he fell sick. How much worry he caused me then, while he still had the strength to argue and fight back. Would not eat his food, would not take his medicine, would not let me help with anything. In the lamp glass coconut oil, because it was of the unrefined

type, rested golden-hued on water, a natant disc With a pure sootless flame the wick floated, a little raft upon the gold. And Daulat, looking for answers to difficult questions, stared at the flame Slowly, across the months, borne upon the flame-raft came the incident of the Ostermilk tin. It came without the anger and frustration she had known then, it came in a new light. And she

could not help smiling as she remembered. It had been the day of the monthly inspection for bedbugs. Due

to the critical nature of this task, Daulat tackled it with a zeal unreserved for anythingelse She worked side by side with the ser ‘ant. Minocher had been made comfortable in the chair, and the mattress was turned over. The servant removed the slats, one by one, while Daubt, armed with a torch, examined every crack and corner, every potential redoubt. Then she was ready to spray the mixture ofFlit and Tik-20, and pulled at the handle of the pump. But before plunging in the piston she glimpsed, between the

bedpost and the wall, a large tin ofOstermilk on the floor. The ser vant dived under to retrieve it. The tin was shut tight she had to pry the lid open with a spoon. And as it came off, there rose a stench powerful enough to rip to shreds the hardy nostrils of a latrine- basket collector. She quickly replaced the lid, fanning the air vigorously with her hand. Minocher seemed to be dozing off, olfac tory nerves unaffected. Was he trying to subdue a smile? Daulat could not be sure But the tin without its lid was placed outside the back door, in hopes that the smell would dear in a while The bedbug inspection was resumed and the Flitting finished

without further interruption. Minocher’s bed was soon ready, and he fell asleep in it. The smell of the Ostermilk tin had now lost its former potency.

Daulat squinted at the contents: a greyish mass of liquids and solids, no recognizable shapes or forms amongst them. With a stick she explored the gloppyc sloppy mess. Gradually, familiar objects began to emerge, greatly transmogrified but retainingenough of their original states to agitate her. She was now able to discern a square offried egg exhume a piece of toast, fish out an orange pip. So! This is what he did with his food! How couldhe get better ifhe did not eat. Indignation drove her back to his bedroom. She re fused to be responsible for him if he was going to behave in this way Sickness or no sickness, I will have to tell him straight. But Minocher “as fast asleep, snoring genfl Like a child, she

thought, and her anger had melted away. She did not have the heart to waken him; he had spent all night tossingand turning. Let him sleep. But from now on I will have to watch him carefulLy at mealtimes.

Beside the oil lamp Daulat returned to the present. Talking to visitors about such things would not be difficult But they would be made uncomfortable, not knowing whether to laugh or keep the condolence.visitgrimness upon their faces. The Ostermilk tin would have to remain their secret, hers and Minocher’s. As would the oxtail soup whose turn it now was to sail silently out of the past, on the golden dise, on the flame.raft ofMinocher’s lamp. At the butcher’s, Daulat and Minocher had always argued about

oxtail which neither had ever eaten. Minocherwanted to try it, but she would say with a shudder, “See how theyhang like snakes. How can you even think ofeating that? It will bring bad luck, I won’t cook it.” He called her superstitious. Oxtail, however, remained a dream

deferred for Minocher. After his illness commenced, Daulat shopped alone, and at the meat market she would remember Minocher’s penchant for trying new things. She picked her way cautiously over the wet, slippery floors, weaving through the nar row aisles between the meat stalls, avoiding the importunating hands that thrust shoulders and legs and chops before her. But she forced herself to stop before the pendent objects ofher dread and fix them with a long hard gaze, as though to stare them down and overcome her aversion. She was often tempted to buy oxtail and surprise Minocher —

something different might revive his now almost-dead appetite But the thought ofevil and misfortune associated with all things serpentine dissuaded hereach time. Finally, when Minocher had entered the period ofhis pseudo-convalescence, he awakened after a peaceful night and said, “Do me a favour?” Daulat nodded, and he smiled wickedly: “Make oxtail soup.” And that day; they dined on what had made her cringe for years, the first hearty meal for both since the illness had commandeered the course oftheir lives. Daulat rose from the armchair. It was time now to carry out the

plan she had made yesterday, walking past the Old-Age Home For Parsi Men, on her way back from the fire-temple If Minocher could, he would want her to. Many were the times he had gone through his wardrobe selecting things he did not need orwear any longer, wrapped them in brown paper and string, and carried them to the Home for distribution.

Condolence Visit 67

Beginningwith the ordinary items ofeveryday wear, she started sorting them: sudras, underwear, two spare kustis, sleeping suits, light cotton shirts for wearing around the house She decided to make parcels right away — why wait for the prescribed year or six months and deny the need of the old men at the Home ifshe could (and Minocher certainLy could) give today? When the first heap ofclothing took its place upon brown paper

spread out on his bed, somethingwrenched inside her. The way it had wrenched when he had been pronounced dead by the doctor. Then it passed, as it had passed before. She concentrated on the clothes; one ofeach in every parcel: sudra, underpants, sleeping suit, shirt would make it easier to distribute Bent over the bed, she worked unaware ofher shadow on the

wall, cast by the soft light ofthe oil lamp. Though the curtainfess window was open, the room was half-dark because the sun was on the other side of the flat. But half-dark was light enough in this room into which had been concentrated her entire universe for the duration ofher and Minocher’s ordeal. Every little detail in this room she knew intimately: the slivered edge of the first compart ment of the chest ofdrawers where a sudra could snag. she knew to avoid; the little trick, to ease out the shirt drawer which always stuck, she was familiar with; the special way tojiggle the key in the lock of the Godrej cupboard she had mastered a long time ago. The Codrej steel cupboard Daulat tackled next This was the dif

ficult one, containing the “going-out” clothes: suits, ties, silk shirts, fashionable bush shirts, including some foreign ones sent by their Canadian nephew, Sarosh-Sid, and the envy ofMinocher’s friends. This cupboard would be the hard one to empty out, with each gar ment holdingmemories ofparties and New Year’s Eve dances, wed dings and navjotes. Strung out on the hangers and spread out on the shelves were the chronicles of their life together, beginning with the Parsi formal dress Minocher had worn on the day of their wedding: silk dugli, white silk shirt, and the magnificent pugree. And to commence her life with him all she had had to do was move from her parents’ flat in A Block to Minocher’s in C Block. Yes, the)’ were the only childhood sweethearts in Firozsha Baag who had got married, all the others had gone their separate ways. The pugree was in its glass case in the living-room where Daulat

had left it earlier. She went to it now and opened the case It gleamed the way it had forty years ago. How grand he had looked then, with the pugree splendidly seated on his head! There was only one other occasion when he had worn it since, on the wed ding ofSarosh-Sid, who had been to them the son they never had. Sarosh’s papers had arrived from the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi, and three months after the wedding he had emigrated with his brand new wife They divorced a year later because she did not like it in Canada. For the wedding, Minocher had wanted Sarosh to wear the pugree, but he had insisted (like the modern young man that he was) on an English styled double- breasted suit. So Minocher had worn it instead. Pugree-making had become a lost art due to modern young men like Sarosh, but Minocherhad known how to take care ofhis. Hence its mint condition. Daulat took the pugree and case back into the bedroom as she

went lookingfor the advertisement she had clipped out oftheJam Ejamshed. It had appeared six days ago, on the morning after she had returned from theTowers OfSilence: “Wanted — a pugree in good condition. Phone no. .“ Yesterday, Daulat had dialled the number; the advertiser was still looking. He was coming today to inspect Minocher’s pugree The doorbell rang. It was Najamai. Again. In her wake followed

Ramchandra, lugging four chain ofthe stackable type The idea of a full-time servant who would live under her roofhad always been disagreeable to Najamai, but she had finally heeded the advice of the many who said that a full-time sen-ant was safer than an odd- job man, he became like one of the family responsible and loyal. Thus Najamai had taken the plunge; now the two were inseparable They walked in, her rancid-fat-dhansaok-rnasala smell em

broidered by the attar ofRamchandra’s hair oil. The combination made Daulat wince “Forgive me for disturbingyou again, I wasjust now leaving with

Ramu, many-many things to do today, and I thought, what ifpoor Daulat needs chairs? So I brought them now only before we left. That way you will. - Daulat stopped listening. Good thing the bedroom door was

shut, or Najamai would have started another oil lamp exegesis.

Condolence Visit 69

Would this garrulous busybody never leave her alone? There were extra chairs in the dining•room she could bring out. With Sarosh’s cassette recorder, she could have made a tape for

Najamai too. It would be a simple one to make, with many pauses duringwhich Najamai did all the talkinw Neighbour Najamai Take One — “Hullo, come in” — (Long pause) — “hmm, right” — (short pause) — “yes yes, that’s okay” — (long pause) — “right, right.” It would be easy; compared to the tape for condolence visitors.

you are listening, no? So chairs you can keep as long as you like, don’t worry; Ramchandra can bring them back after a month, two months, after friends and relatives stop visiting, Come on Ramu, come on, were getting late” Daulat shut the door and withdrew into her flat. Into the silence

of the flat. Where moments of life past and forgotten, moments lost, misplaced, hidden away, were all waiting to be recovered. They were like the stubs ofcinema tickets she came across in Minocher’s trouser pockets orjackets, wrung through the laundry, crumpled and worn thin but still decipherable Or like the old program for a concert at Scot’s Kirk by the Max Mueller Society of Bombay, found in a purse fallen, like Scot’s Kirk, into desuetude. On the evening of the concert Minocher, with a touch of sarcasm, had quipped: Indian audience listens to German musicians inside a church built by skirted men — truly Bombay is cosmopolitan. The encore had been Für FUse. The music passed through her mind now, in the silent flat, by the light of the oil lamp: the beginning in A minor, hill ofsadness and nostalgia and an unbearable yearning for times gone by; then the modulation into C major, with its offer ofhope and strength and understanding. This music, felt Daulat, was like a person remembering — if you could hear the sound of the workingofremembrance, the mechanism ofmemory FürEhse was what it would sound like. Suddenly, rememberingwas extremely important, a deepseated

need surfacing, manifesting itself in Daulat’s flat. All her life those closest to her had reminisced about events from their lives; she, the audience, had listened, sometimes rapt, sometimes impatient. Grandmother would sit her down and tell stories from years gone by: the favourite one was about her marriage and the elaborate matchmaking that preceded it. Mother would talk about her Girl

Guide days, with a faraway look in her eyes; she still had her dark blue Girl Guide satchel, faded and frayed. When grandmother had died no music was allowed in the house

for three months. Even the neighbours, in all three blocks, had silenced their radios and gramophones for ten days. No one was permitted to play in the compound for a month. In those old da> the compound was not flagstoned, and clouds ofdust were raised by the boys ofFirozsha Baag as they tore aboutplaying their games. The greatest nuisance was, ofcourse; to the ground floor: furniture dusted and cleaned in the morningwas recoated by nightfalL. The thirty-day interdiction against games was a temporary reprieve for those tenants. That month, membership in the Cawasji Fnmji Memorial Library rose, and grandmother’s death converted several boys in the Baag to reading. During that time, Daulat’s mother in troduced her to kitchen and cooking — there was now room for one more in that part of the flat. Daulat had become strangers with her radio shortly after

Minocher’s illness started. But the childhood proscription against music racked her with guilt whenever a strand ofmelody strayed into her room from the outside world. Minocher’s favourite song was “At the Balalaika.” He had taken her to see Balalaika starring Nelson Eddy at a morning show. It was playing at the Eros Cinema, it was his fourth time, and he was surprised that she had never seen the film before How did the song... she hummed it, out oftune: At the Balalaika, one summer night a table laid for two, was just a private heaven made for two... The wick of the oil lamp crackled. It did this when the oil was

low. She fetched the bottle and filled the glass, shakingout the last drop, then placed the bottle on the windowsill: a reminder to replenish the oil. Outside, the peripatetic vendors started to arrive, which meant

it was past three o’clock. Between one and three was nap time, and the watchman at the gate of Firozsha Baag kept out all hawkers, according to the instructions of the management. The potato-and.onion man got louder as he approached now, “Onions rupee a kilo, potatoes two rupees,” faded after he went past, to the creaky obligato ofhis thirsty-for-lubrication cart as itjounced through the compound. He was followed by the fishwalli, the

Condolence Visit 71

eggman, the biscuitwalla; and the ragnan who sang with a sono rous vibrato:

Ofold saris and old clothes I am collector. Ofnew plates and bowls in exchange! am giver...

From time to time, B.E.S.T buses thundered past and all sounds were drowned out Finally came the one Daulat was waiting for She waved the empty bottle at the oilwalla, purchased a quarter litre, and arranged with him to knock at her door every alternate thy. She was not yet sure when she would be ready to let the lamp go out The clock showed halfpast four when she went in with the bot

tie Minocher’s things lay in neat brown paper packages, ready for the Old-Age Home She shut the doors of the cupboards now almost empty; the clothes it took a man a lifetime to wear and en joy, she thought, could be parcelled away in hours. The man would soon arrive to see Minocher’s pugree She

wondered what it was that had made him go to the trouble of advertising. Perhaps she should never have telephoned. Unless he had a good reason, she was not going to part with it. Definitely not ifhe wasjust some sort ofcollector. The doorbell. Mustbe him, she thought, and looked through the

peephole But standing outside were second cousin Moti and her two

grandsons. Moti had notbeen at the funeral. Dauht did not open the door immediately. She could hear her admonishing the two lit tIe boys: “Now you better behave properly or I will not take you anywhere ever again. And if she serves Goldspot or Vimto or something be polite, leave some in the glass. Drink it all and you’ll get a pastingwhen you get home” Daulat had heard enough. She opened the door and Mod, laden

with eau de cologne, fell on her neck with properly woeful utterances and tragic tones. “0 Daulat, Daulati What an unfortunate thing to happen to you! 0 very wrong thinghas come to pass! Poor Minocher gone! Forgive me for not coming to the funeral, but my Gustadji’s gout was so painful that day Completely impossible I said to Gustad ji, least I can do now is visit you soon as possible after dusmoo.” Daulat nodded, trying to look grateful for the sympathy Moti

was so desperate to offer to fulfil her duties. It was almost time to reach for her imaginary cassette player. “Before you start thinking what a stupid woman lam to bring

two little boys to a condolence visit, I must tell you that there was no one at home they could stay with. And we never leave them alone It is so dangerous. You heard about that vegetablewalla in Bandra? Broke into a flat, strangled a child, stole everything. Cleaned it out completely. ParvarDaegar!Save us from such wicked madmen!” Daulat led the way into the living-room, and Moti sat on the sofa.

The boys occupied Najamai’s loaned chairs. The bedroom door was open just a crack, revealing the oil lamp with its steady un wavering flame Daulat shut it quickly lest Moii should notice and comment about the unorthodoxy ofher source ofcomfort. “Did he suffer much before the end? I heard from Ruby — you

know Ruby sister ofEwch Uncle’s son-in-law Shapur, she was at the funeral — that poor Minocher was in great pain the last few days.” Daulat reached in her mind for the start switch of the cassette

player. But Moti was not yet ready: “Couldn’t the doctors do something? From what we hear these days, they can cure almost anything.” “Well,” said Daulat, “our doctor was very helpful, but it was a

hopeless case, he told me, we werejust prolonging the agony:’ “You know, I was reading in the Indian &press last week that doc

tors in China were able to make” — here, Moti lowered her voice in case the grandsons were listening, shielded her mouth with one hand, and pointed to her lap with the other — “a man’s Part. His girlfriend ran offwith another man and he was very upset. So he chopped off’ — in a whisper — “his own Part, in frustration, and flushed it down the toilet. Later, in hospital, he regretted doing it, and God knows how, but the doctors made for him” — in a whisper again — “a New Part, out ofhis own skin and all. They say it works and everything. Isn’t that amazing?” “Yes, very interesting” said Daulat, relieved that Moti had, at

least temporarily, forsaken the prescribed condolence visit questioning. The doorbell again. Must be the young man for the pugree this

time But in stepped ever-solicitous Najamai. “Sorry; sorry. Very sorry;

Condolence Visit 73

didn’t know you had company.Justwanted to see ifyou were okay, and let you know I was back. In case you need anything.” Then leaning closer conspiratorially, rancid-fat-dhansank’masala odours overwhelmingDaulat, she whispered, “Good thing, no, I brought the extra chairs.” Daulat calculated quickly. IfNajamai stayed, as indeed she was

eager to, Moti would drift even further from the purpose of her visit. So she invited her in. “Please come and sit, meet my second cousin Moti. And these are her grandsons. Moti wasjust now tell ing me a very interesting case about doctors in China who made” — copying Moti’s whisper — “a New Part for a man:’ “A new part? But that’s nothing new. They do it here also now,

putting artificial arms-legs and little things inside hearts to make blood pump properly” “No no,” said Moti. “Not a new part. This was” — in a whisper,

dramatically pointing again to her lap for Najamai’s benefit — “a New Part And he can do everything with it. It works. Chinese doctors made it.” “Oh!” said Najamai, now understanding. “A New Part!” Daulat left the two women to ponder the miracle, and went to

the kitchen. There was a bottle of Goldspot in the icebox for the children. The kettle was ready and she poured three cups of tea. The doorbell rang for the third time while she arranged the tray. She was about to abandon it and go to the door but Najamai called out, “It’s all right, I’ll open it, don’t worry, finish what you are doing:’ Najamai said: “Yes?” to the young man standing outside “Are you Mrs Mirza?” “No no, but come in. Daulat! There’s a young man asking for

Daulat settled the tray on the teapoy before the sofa and went to the door. “You’re here to see the pugree. Please come in and sit:’ He took one ofNajamai’s loaned chain Najamai and Moti exchanged glances. Come for the pugre&

What was going on? The young man noticed the exchange and felt obliged to say

something. “Mrs Mirza is sellingMr Mirza’s pugree to me You set my fiancée and I, we decided to do even’thing, all the ceremonies,

the proper traditional way at our wedding. In correct Parsi dress and alL” Daulat heard him explain in the next room and felt relieved. It

was going to be all right, partingwith the pugree would not be dif ficult. The young man’s reasons would have made Minocher ex ceedingly happy. But Najamai and Moti were aghast. Minocher’s pugree being

sold and the man barely digested by vultures at the Towers Of Silence! Najamai decided she had to take charge. She took a deep breath and tilted her chin pugnaciously Look here, bawa, it’s very nice to hear you want to do it the proper Parsi way So many young men are doing it in suits and ties these days. Why; one wedding I went to, the boy was wearing a shiny black suit with Iacnc frilly-frilly shirt and bow tie. Exactly like Dhobitalao Goan wedding of a Catholic it was looking! So believe me when I say that we are very happy about yours.” She paused, took another deep breath, and prepared for a for

tissimo finale “But this poor woman who is giving you the pugree, her beloved husband’s funeral was only ten days ago. Yesterday was dusmoo, and her tears are barely thy! And today you are taking away his pugree. It is not correct! You must come back later!” Then Na jamai went after Daulat, and Moti followed. The young man could see them go into a huddle from where he

sat, and could hear them as well. Moti was saying. “Your neighbour is right, this is not proper. Wait for a few days:’ And Najamai was emboldened to the point ofpresentingone of

her theories. “You see, with help ofprayers, the soul usually crosses over after four days. But sometimes the soul is very attached to this world and takes longer to make the crossing. And as long as the soul is here, everything such as clothes, cup-saucer, brush-comb, all must be kept same way they were, exactly same Or the soul becomes very unhappy:’ The young man was feeling extremely uncomfortable He, of

course, had not known that Daulat had been widowed as recently as ten days ago. Once again he felt obliged to say something. He cleared his throat: “Excuse me” But it was washed away in the downpour ofNajamai’s words. He tried again, louder this time: “Excuse me please!’

Condolence Visit 75

Najamai and Moti turned around sharply and delivered a challenging “Yes?” ‘Excuse me, but maybe I should come back later for the pugree,

the wedding is three months away.” ‘Yes! Yes!” said Moti and Najamai in unison. The latter con

tinued: “I don’t want you thinking I’m stirring my ladle in your pot, but that would be much better. Come back next month, after maasi-so. You can try it on today ifyou like, see ifit fits. In that there is no harm.Just don’t take it away from the place where the soul ex pects it to be” “I don’t want to give any trouble,” said the young man. “It’s all

right,! can try- it later, the wedding is three months a”-ay. Fm sure it will fit:’ Daulat, with the pugree in her hands, approached the young

man. “If you think it is bad luck to wear a recently dead man’s pugree and you are changing your mind, that’s okay with ma” The young man vigorously shook his head from side to side protesting, as Daulat continued: ‘But let me tell you, my Minocher would be happy to give it to you if he were here. He would rejoice to see someone get married in his pugree So if you want it. take it today.” The young man looked at Mon and Najamai’s flabbergasted

countenances, then at Daulat waiting calmly for Ins decision. The tableau of four persisted: two women slackjawed with disbeliefl another holding a handsome black pugree; and in the middle an embarrassed young man pulled two ways, like Minocher Mirza’s soul, in a tug-of-war between two worlds. The young man broke the spell. He reached out for the pugree

and gently took it from Daulat’s hands. “Come,” she smiled, and walked towards the bedroom, to the

dressing table. “Excuse mc” he said to Najamai and Moti, who were glaring

resentfully, and followed. He placed the pugree on his head and looked in the mirror. “See, it fits perfectly,” said Daulat. “Yes,” he answered, “it does fit perfectly’ He took it off, catessed

it for a moment, then asked hesitantly-, “How much - - - Daulat held up her hand; she had prepared for this moment.

Though she had dismissed very quickly the thought of selling it,

she had considered asking for its return after the wedding Now, how ever, she shook her head and took the pugree from the young man. Carefully; she placed it in the glass case and handed it back to him.

It is yours, wear it in good health. And take good care of it for myMinocher’ “I will, oh thank you;’ said the young man. “Thank you very

much:’ He waited for a moment, then softly, shyly added, “And God bless you:’ Daulat smiled. “Ifyou have a son, maybe he will wear it. too, on

his wedding:’ The young man nodded, smiling back. She saw him to the door and returned to the living-room. Moti

and Najamai were sipping halfheartedly at their tea, looking somewhat injured. The children had finished their cold drink. They were swishing the shrunken ice-cubes around in the forbid den final quarter inch of liquid, left in their glasses as they’d been warned to, to attest to their good breeding. An irretrievablymixed up and confusingbit of testimony. A beggar was cryingoutside, “Firsifloorwaila bai! Take pity on the

poor! Secondfloorwalla bail Help the hungry!” Presentlc Najamai rose “Have to leave now, Ramchandn must

be ready with dinner:’ Moti took the opportunity to depart as well, offering the

fidgetiness of the two little boys for an excuse Daulat was alone once more Leaving the cups and glasses where

they stood with their dregs of tea and Goldspot, she went into Minocher’s room. It was dark except for the glow of the oil lamp. The oil was low again and she reached for the bottle; then changed her mind. From under one of the cups in the living-room she retrieved a

saucer and returned to his room. She stood before the lamp for a moment, looking deep into the flame, then slid the saucer over the glass. She covered it up completely, the way his face had been covered with a white sheet ten days ago. In a few seconds the lamp was doused, snuffed out. The

afterglow ofthe wick persisted; then it, too, was gone The room was in full darkness, Daulat sat in the armchair. The first round, at least, was definite

ly hers.

The Collectors