Family Matters Read online

  But Yezad’s silent criticism was always followed by remorse. He knew they had to keep telling their story, just like Jews had to theirs, about the Holocaust, writing and remembering and having nightmares about the concentration camps and gas chambers and ovens, about the evil committed by ordinary people, by friends and neighbours, the evil that, decades later, was still incomprehensible. What choice was there, except to speak about it, again and again, and yet again?

  “So there was no choice for us,” Mr. Kapur would say. “We had to run. And we came here. But Bombay treated us well. My father started over, with zero, and became prosperous. Only city in the world where this is possible.”

  And because of his background, he claimed his love for Bombay was special, far exceeding what a born-and-bred Bombayite could feel. “It’s the difference between being born into a religion and converting to it,” he said. “The convert takes nothing for granted. He chooses, thus his commitment is superior. What I feel for Bombay you will never know. It’s like the pure love for a beautiful woman, gratitude for her existence, and devotion to her living presence. If Bombay were a creature of flesh and blood, with my blood type, Rh negative – and very often I think she is – then I would give her a transfusion down to my last drop, to save her life.”

  At times, Yezad thought the proprietor’s passion for Bombay verged on the fanatical. But he also understood that he was pouring into it his yearning for his family’s past in Punjab, lost to him forever. And Bombay, perhaps by default, had become the recipient of his devotion.

  So Mr. Kapur collected books about the city, old photographs, postcards, posters, and shared everything with Yezad, all the little-known facts about its history or geography that he uncovered during his researches.

  “You know why I was late today? Let me show you.” He sat Husain down on the steps where he could watch the road, to keep him from going back to his dark corner in the storage room. Wielding an imaginary cricket bat, he went behind his desk and made a sound with his mouth: pock! of willow and ball connecting. Then, with a magician’s flourish, he produced two photographs out of his attaché case.

  “I had to rush to buy these from a private collection. Before the dealers got there.” He slid one across to Yezad.

  Great way of running a business, thought Yezad. A proprietor who races off to buy photographs, a peon periodically unable to work. He wondered what would happen here without him. He examined the print: the foreground showed a canopy of trees; beyond it, a row of graceful bungalows. In the background, behind the residences, was a maidaan and more foliage.

  “Seems like a charming place.”

  “Guess where it is?”

  Had to be long-ago Bombay, Yezad knew, to be in his boss’s collection. He scrutinized it again, seeking a clue to the location. “Resembles a European city more than Bombay.”

  Mr. Kapur laughed. “If I said this is your chaotic Marine Lines station, would you believe it?”

  “That’s a photo-and-a-half. How many years ago?”

  “Roughly 1930s. Those are military bungalows, just before they were demolished, when the army got new reclaimed land in Colaba cantonment.”

  “What a change – just sixty years.”

  “Look,” Mr. Kapur pointed at the picture, “if you follow this side of the road, you come to Sonapur cremation and burial grounds. And your station stands here. Before the reclamation, at high tide Back Bay would cover the place where the railway tracks now run.”

  Yezad began to see the present-day Marine Lines in the old photo. It had a strange effect on him, as though he were living in two time zones, six decades apart. But it was a pleasant, reassuring feeling.

  He relinquished the print, placing it carefully on the desk. “That must be valuable.”

  “Beyond money,” said Mr. Kapur. “These are my beautiful Bombay’s baby pictures. Priceless. Her time of innocence. Now look at the other one.”

  Yezad’s brow wrinkled as he studied it – the place had a vague familiarity about it.

  “Follow me,” said Mr. Kapur. They went outside to the pavement, where he pointed towards the corner, at Metro cinema, then held up the print in Yezad’s line of vision.

  “That’s it! Dhobi Talao junction, before Metro was built!”

  “Correct,” beamed Mr. Kapur.

  Husain rose from the steps, curious to see what it was that they found so exciting. Mr. Kapur welcomed him: “Ao, Husain, dekho, very interesting.”

  But the faded black-and-white photograph contained nothing to amuse the peon. He studied it to humour his employer and returned to the step.

  Yezad’s eyes moved from the print to the junction where six roads converged, and back to the print, willing the cinema to disappear with the picture’s aid. “What are these low structures in the photo?”

  “I went to the Asiatic Society library and did some research. This plot of land was acquired by the Metro Goldwyn Corporation in 1936, on a lease for ninety-nine years, at one rupee per year. What you see in the photo are the stables of the Royal Air Force.”

  “Why would the Air Force need stables?”

  “For their horses.”

  “Very funny. Okay, so why would they need horses?”

  “To wheel the planes out of the hangars, to haul heavy machinery – mix of high tech and low. Like it still is – last week, the phone company was laying state-of-the-art fibre-optic cable near my house, but the ditch was being dug with pickaxes and spades, the rubble carried away in baskets on women’s heads.”

  They went inside, and Mr. Kapur turned to the news of the day. He did not bury himself only in the city’s past, he also burrowed in the complicated morass of contemporary politics, following every turn, every new abomination perpetrated by the government, which, he said, hurt him as though his own flesh had been wounded.

  “So now the bastards are going to shut down the Srikrishna Commission.”

  “Which one is that? For the terrorist bombs?”

  “Yes, as well as the Babri Mosque riots. Everything was on the point of being exposed: Shiv Sena involvement in looting and burning, police helping rioters, withholding assistance in Muslim localities.”

  “Don’t get excited, Mr. Kapur,” cautioned Yezad. “You know what your doctor said about blood pressure.”

  As Mr. Kapur took a deep breath and fell silent, Husain became agitated: “Is true, sahab, yes! Police so – so budmaash!”

  “Hanh, Husain, wohto sutch baat hai,” agreed Mr. Kapur, changing to Hindi to make it easier for the peon, who could follow their English conversation only up to a point.

  Husain switched languages too, and became more eloquent: “Sahab, in those riots the police were behaving like gangsters. In Muslim mohallas they were shooting their guns at innocent people. Houses were burning, neighbours came out to throw water. And the police? Firing bullets like target practice. These guardians of the law were murdering everybody! And my poor wife and children … I couldn’t even recognize them …” His voice was a sob now and he stopped speaking.

  “Hahn, Husain, it was shameful,” said Mr. Kapur, writhing in his chair. “More than three years have passed, and still no justice. Shiv Sena polluted the police. And now Shiv Sena has become the government.”

  Still sobbing, Husain said he would bring them more tea, but Yezad offered to get it instead. Mr. Kapur motioned to him to wait: it would be good for Husain, who found the brewing of tea, the serving and drinking of it, always a therapeutic pursuit.

  The peon soon returned with steaming cups. “Shukriya, Husain miyan,” said Mr. Kapur. “You have some? Good.”

  Then he turned to Yezad. “Am I silly to be so disgusted by these evil men? Aren’t you outraged by it all?”

  “I am a born-and-bred Bombayvala. That automatically inoculates me against attacks of outrage.”

  Just before closing time, Yezad handed over the cash payments for the day, the ones for which no invoices or receipts had been issued. Mr. Kapur asked him to stay for a drink.
/>   “How are you feeling, Husain? Beer laayega?” The peon nodded, and received money for the errand.

  “Two bottles of Kingfisher. Jaldi, hanh, before they turn warm in your hands.” Husain laughed, promising to keep his hands cool, and set off for Merwan Irani’s beer bar at the corner.

  “Well,” said Yezad, “I finalized the contract for Alliance Corporation this morning.”

  “Excellent. Come, let’s sit in my office.”

  Tiny though it was, the cubby-hole was air-conditioned, and Yezad was always happy to be invited in. He watched Mr. Kapur go to the large, hard-shell suitcase in the corner and, with his back to him, dial its combination lock. The money from the cash transactions went inside.

  This daily routine had startled Yezad when Mr. Kapur had first explained it to him with a dollop of flattery, saying it was a blessing to have a Parsi employee: “I don’t need to worry about cash sticking to the lining of your trousers. If only there were more communities like yours.”

  Yezad had been embarrassed. “I’m sure we have our share of crooks and good-for-nothing loafers.”

  “Oh, don’t be modest, the Parsi reputation for honesty is well known. And even if it’s a myth – there is no myth without truth, no smoke without fire.”

  As a new employee, Yezad hadn’t pursued it further, more concerned about the implications of tax evasion, wondering if Mr. Kapur realized he was praising his employee’s honesty in the same breath as he was instructing him to be dishonest. Of course, the proprietor had justified the suitcase by calling it his pension plan, a “non-standard business practice” that everyone was forced to follow, thanks to the government’s absurd tax laws.

  Now Mr. Kapur locked the suitcase and put out two glasses to await the beer. Yezad came back to the new contract, the size of the order, estimates about net profit – the figures were ready at the tip of his tongue. He was hoping Mr. Kapur would be impressed, which would give him an opening to discuss improvement in his commission from the deal. Anything extra would help, with Nariman to look after.

  But Mr. Kapur was not interested in talking shop. “We do that all day. Bombay Sporting is now closed for the night.”

  Meanwhile, Husain returned with the Kingfishers and opened the tall bottles, pouring carefully, for he knew sahab did not like too much foam.

  Smiling at his glass, Mr. Kapur took a long draught and topped it up. He examined the bottle, still a quarter full, and held it out in Husain’s direction. “Want it?”

  “Yes, sahab,” said the peon, reinforcing the response with a circular nod.

  “After you finish drinking, you can go home. I’ll lock up.”

  Husain gurgled it down before them. “Very nice,” he said, eyeing the other bottle.

  “Want more?” asked Yezad. He, too, was rewarded with a circular nod.

  “Now you won’t get drunk, will you, and come late to work tomorrow?” joked Mr. Kapur.

  “Aray, sahab,” he laughed, “only a little baby will get drunk in this much beer. An old fool like me has to drink six full ones.” He drained the bottle, thanked them both, and left.

  They sat in silence for a while. Mr. Kapur reclined in his chair and put his feet up on the low filing cabinet. “Something I need your opinion about.”

  “Sure.”

  “You know how I’m always talking about Bombay – how much it means to me, how much it has given me. You’ve heard my family story.”

  “Yes, many times.”

  Mr. Kapur took a deep breath. “I want to run in the next municipal election.”

  Yezad stared at him, feeling that combination of affection and exasperation which Mr. Kapur often evoked in him. “Why?”

  “I just told you – because Bombay is everything to me. No use complaining about crooks destroying it if—”

  “I mean, what good will it do? You always say politics is filthy, soiling everything it touches.”

  “That’s no excuse any more.” Mr. Kapur took a swallow and put his glass down. “If the woman you love is being molested, will you do nothing just because you are outnumbered? No, you’ll defend her, end up beaten and bloody, maybe dead, and God knows how much it will help her. But you’ll still intervene.”

  “Yes, but that’s a personal —”

  “Same thing. My beloved Bombay is being raped.”

  Yezad knew there was no arguing with him when he spoke of the city in these flesh-and-blood terms. “Okay, let’s say you run. Which party would you choose?”

  “No party. Independent.”

  “How effective would you be?”

  “I already answered that: it doesn’t matter. I cannot stand by and watch the thugs.”

  “What about Bombay Sporting?”

  “You can take my place. All the suppliers and major buyers know you. And of course I’ll make it worth your while.”

  The proposal made Yezad contemplate the possibility with new interest. The increment would help Roxana, things would no longer be so tight at the end of each month …

  He was almost ready to support the crazy idea. Then he felt ashamed of his selfishness. “That’s not the point. Isn’t it your duty to look after your father’s legacy? Doesn’t your Bhagavad-Gita tell you to let nothing interfere with duty?”

  “That’s a good one, Yezad,” he smiled. “So how shall I define my duty? Definitions are the last refuge of the scoundrel, but I really feel my father would be happy with my decision.” He emptied his glass. “Wish I hadn’t sent Husain home, he could have got us more beer.”

  “Have mine, I’ve a lot left.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “If you don’t mind it from my glass.”

  Mr. Kapur slid his glass over. “You see how we two are sitting here, sharing? That’s how people have lived in Bombay. That’s why Bombay has survived floods, disease, plague, water shortage, bursting drains and sewers, all the population pressures. In her heart there is room for everyone who wants to make a home here.”

  Right, thought Yezad, fourteen million people, half of them living in slums, eating and shitting in places not fit for animals. Nice way of sharing the gift of Bombay. But none of this would have any effect on Vikram Kapur launched in poetic flight.

  “You see, Yezad, Bombay endures because it gives and it receives. Within this warp and weft is woven the special texture of its social fabric, the spirit of tolerance, acceptance, generosity. Anywhere else in the world, in those so-called civilized places like England and America, such terrible conditions would lead to revolution.”

  Which might not be a bad thing, thought Yezad.

  “From now on,” said Mr. Kapur, “in this shop we will celebrate all festivals: Divali, Christmas, Id, your Parsi Navroze, Baisakhi, Buddha Jayanti, Ganesh Chaturthi, everything. We’ll decorate the windows, put up appropriate greetings with lights and all. We are going to be a mini-Bombay, an example to our neighbourhood. I made this decision after an amazing thing I saw last week.”

  He drank what he had accepted from Yezad’s glass. “Last week, I parked my car near Grant Road station and bought a platform ticket. To watch the trains and passengers. Just felt like it.”

  He paused for another swallow, and continued, “I never travel by train, I see how crowded they are when I drive past the tracks. But from the platform that day I saw something new. A train was leaving, completely packed, and the men running alongside gave up. All except one. I kept my eyes on him, because the platform was coming to an end.

  “Suddenly, he raised his arms. And people on the train reached out and grabbed them. What were they doing, he would be dragged and killed, I thought! A moment later, they had lifted him off the platform. Now his feet were dangling outside the compartment, and I almost screamed to stop the train. His feet pedalled the air. They found a tiny spot on the edge, slipped off, found it again.

  “There he was, hanging, his life literally in the hands of strangers. And he had put it there. He had trusted them. More arms reached out and held him tight in their embr
ace. It was a miracle – suddenly he was completely safe. So safe, I wondered if I had overreacted to the earlier danger. But no, his position had been truly perilous for a few seconds.

  “I waited on the platform to see more trains. It was then I realized that what I had witnessed was not a miracle. It happened over and over: hands reaching out to help, as though it were perfectly normal, a routine commuter procedure.

  “Whose hands were they, and whose hands were they grasping? Hindu, Muslim, Dalit, Parsi, Christian? No one knew and no one cared. Fellow passengers, that’s all they were. And I stood there on the platform for a long time, Yezad, my eyes filled with tears of joy, because what I saw told me there was still hope for this great city.”

  Yezad nodded quietly. What Mr. Kapur had described, he saw every day – a mundane sight in the daily grind. But Mr. Kapur had revealed an aspect of it he had not seen, and it made him wonder what else he had missed.

  “Now you understand why I want to act before it’s too late,” continued Mr. Kapur. “This beautiful city of seven islands, this jewel by the Arabian Sea, this reclaimed land, this ocean gift transformed into ground beneath our feet, this enigma of cosmopolitanism where races and religions live side by side and cheek by jowl in peace and harmony, this diamond of diversity, this generous goddess who embraces the poor and the hungry and the huddled masses, this Urbs Prima in Indis, this dear, dear city now languishes – I don’t exaggerate – like a patient in intensive care, Yezad, my friend, put there by small, selfish men who would destroy it because their coarseness cannot bear something so grand, so fine.”

  Yezad was silent, admiring Mr. Kapur’s ability to adapt Shakespeare. Nariman would enjoy it, he would repeat it for him tonight. “Bravo,” he exclaimed. “If you can do that in Hindi and Marathi as well, you’ll win the election.” He offered him his hand.

  “So I can count on your vote?”