Swimming Lessons Read online

  In those days she had to venture beyond the compound of Firozsha Baag and buy ice from the Irani Restaurant in Tar Gully. It was not the money she minded but the tedium of it all. Besides, the residents of Tar Gully amused themselves by spitting from their tenement windows on all comers who were better-heeled than they. In impoverished Tar Gully she was certainly considered better-heeled, and many well-aimed globs had found their mark. On such evenings Tehmina, in tears, would return to her flat and rush to take a bath, cursing those satanic animals and fiends of Tar Gully. Meanwhile, the ice she had purchased would sit melting to a sliver.

  As the door finally unlocked, Tehmina spied a figure at the far end of the darkened hallway. Heart racing a little, she wondered who it might be, and called out as authoritatively as she could, “Kaun hai? What do you want?”

  The answer came: “Bai, it’s only Francis.”

  The familiar voice gave her courage. She prepared to scold him. “Did I not tell you this morning not to loiter here? Did I not say we would call if there was work? Did I not tell you that Najamai would be very late? Tell me then, you rascal, what are you doing here?”

  Francis was hungry. He had not eaten for two whole days, and had been hoping to earn something for dinner tonight. Unable to tolerate Tehmina much longer, he replied sullenly, “I came to see if Najamai had arrived,” and turned to go.

  But Tehmina suddenly changed her mind. “Wait here while I get my ice,” she said, realizing that she could use his help to lock the door.

  Inside, she decided it was best not to push Francis too far. One never knew when this type of person would turn vicious. If he wanted to, he could knock her down right now, ransack Najamai’s flat and disappear completely. She shuddered at these thoughts, then composed herself.

  From downstairs came the strains of “The Blue Danube.” Tehmina swayed absently. Strauss! The music reminded her of a time when the world was a simpler, better place to live in, when trips to Tar Gully did not involve the risk of spit globs. She reached into the freezer, and “The Blue Danube” concluded.-Grudgingly, Tehmina allowed that there was one thing about the Boycés: they had good taste in music. Those senseless and monotonous Hindi film-songs never blared from their flat as they did sometimes from the other blocks of Firozsha Baag.

  In control of herself now, she briskly stepped out. “Come on, Francis,” she said peremptorily, “help me lock this door. I will tell Najamai that you will be back tomorrow for her work.” She held out the ring of keys and Francis, not yet appeased by her halfhearted attempt at pacification, slowly and resentfully reached for them.

  Tehmina was thankful at asking him to wait. “If it takes him so long, I could never do it in this darkness,” she thought, as he handed back the keys.

  Silloo downstairs heard the door slam when Tehmina returned to her own flat. It was time to start dinner. She rose and went to the kitchen.

  Najamai stepped off the train and gathered together her belongings: umbrella, purse, shopping-bag of leftovers, and cardigan. Sunday night had descended in full upon the station, and the platforms and waiting-rooms were deserted. She debated whether to take the taxi waiting in the night or to walk. The station clock showed nine-thirty. Even if it took her forty minutes to walk instead of the usual twenty, it would still be early enough to stop at the Boyces’ before they went to bed. Besides, the walk would be healthy and help digest her sister’s pupeta-noo-gose and dhandar-paatyo. With any luck, tonight would be a night unencumbered by the pressure of gas upon her gut.

  The moon was full, the night was cool, and Najamai enjoyed her little walk. She neared Firozsha Baag and glanced quickly at the menacing mouth of Tar Gully. In there, streetlights were few, and sections of it had no lights at all. Najamai wondered if she would be able to spot any of the pimps and prostitutes who were said to visit here after dark even though Tar Gully was not a red-light district. But it looked deserted.

  She was glad when the walk was over. Breathing a little rapidly, she rang the Boyce doorbell.

  “Hullo, hullo —just wanted to pick up today’s paper. Only if you’ve finished with it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Silloo, “I made everyone read it early.”

  “This is very sweet of you,” said Najamai, raising her arm so Silloo could tuck the paper under it. Then, as Silloo reached for the flashlight, she protested: “No no, the stairs won’t be dark, there’s a full moon.”

  Lighting Najamai’s way up the stairs at night was one of the many things Silloo did for her neighbour. She knew that if Najamai ever stumbled in the dark and fell down the stairs, her broken bones would be a problem for the Boyces. It was simpler to shine the flashlight and see her safely to the landing.

  “Good-night,” said Najamai and started up. Silloo waited. Like a spotlight in some grotesque cabaret, the torch picked up the arduous swaying of Najamai’s buttocks. She reached the top of the stairs, breathless, thanked Silloo and disappeared.

  Silloo restored the flashlight to its niche by the door. The sounds of Najamai’s preparation for bed and sleep now started to drip downstairs, as relentlessly as a leaky tap. A cupboard slammed…the easy chair in the bedroom, next to the window by day, was dragged to the bedside…footsteps led to the extremities of the flat…after a suitable interval, the flush…then the sound of water again, not torrential this time but steady, gentle, from a faucet…footsteps again…

  The flow of familiar sounds was torn out of sequence by Najamai’s frantic cries.

  “Help! Help! Oh quickly! Thief!”

  Kersi and his mother were the first to reach the door. They were outside in time to see Francis disappear in the direction of Tar Gully. Najamai, puffing, stood at the top of the stairs. “He was hiding behind the kitchen door,” she gasped. “The front door — Tehmina as usual — ”

  Silloo was overcome by furious indignation. “I don’t know why, with her bad eyes, that woman must fumble and mess with your keys. What did he steal?”

  “I must check my cupboards,” Najamai panted. “That rascal of a loafer will have run far already.”

  Tehmina now shuffled out, still clad in the duster-coat, anxiously sucking cloves and looking very guilty. She had heard everything from behind her door but asked anyway, “What happened? Who was screaming?”

  The senseless fluster irritated Kersi. He went indoors. Confused by what had happened, he sat on his bed and cracked the fingers of both hands. Each finger twice, expertly, once at the knuckle, then at the joint closest to the nail. He could also crack his toes — each toe just once, though — but he did not feel like it right now. Don’t crack your fingers, they used to tell him, your hands will become fat and ugly. For a while then he had cracked his knuckles more fervently than ever, hoping they would swell into fists the size of a face. Such fists would be useful to scare someone off in a fight. But the hands had remained quite normal.

  Kersi picked up his bat. The cord had set firmly around the handle and the glue was dry; the rubber grip could go back on. There was a trick to fitting it right; if not done correctly, the grip would not cover the entire handle, but hang over the tip, like uncircumcised foreskin. He rolled down the cylindrical rubber tube onto itself, down to a rubber ring. Then he slipped the ring over the handle and unrolled it. A condom was probably put on the same way, he thought; someone had showed him those things at school, only this looked like one with the tip lopped off. Just as in that joke about a book called The Unwanted Child by F. L. Burst.

  He posed before the mirror and flourished the bat. Satisfied with his repair work, he sat down again. He felt angry and betrayed at the thought of Francis vanishing into Tar Gully. His anger, coupled with the emptiness of this Sunday which, like a promise unfulfilled, had primed him many hours ago, now made him succumb to the flush of heroics starting to sweep through him. He glanced at himself in the mirror again and went outside with the bat.

  A small crowd of C Block neighbour
s and their servants had gathered around Najamai, Silloo, and Tehmina. “I’m going to find him,” Kersi announced grimly to this group.

  “What rubbish are you talking?” his mother exclaimed. “In Tar Gully, alone at night?”

  “Oh what a brave boy!” cried Najamai. “But maybe we should call the police.”

  Tehmina, by this time, was muttering non sequiturs about ice-cubes and Scotch and soda. Kersi repeated: “I’m going to find him.”

  This time Silloo said, “Your brother must go with you. Alone you’ll be no match for that rascal. Percy! Bring the other bat and go with Kersi.”

  Obediently, Percy joined his brother and they set off in the direction of Tar Gully. Their mother shouted instructions after them: “Be careful for God’s sake! Stay together and don’t go too far if you cannot find him.”

  In Tar Gully the two drew a few curious glances as they strode along with cricket bats. But the hour was late and there were not many people around. Those who were, waited only for the final Matka draw to decide their financial destinies. Some of these men now hooted at Kersi and Percy. “Parsi bawaji! Cricket at night? Parsi bawaji! What will you hit, boundary or sixer?”

  “Just ignore the bloody ghatis,” said Percy softly. It was good advice; the two walked on as if it were a well-rehearsed plan, Percy dragging his bat behind him. Kersi carried his over the right shoulder to keep the puddles created by the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully from wetting it.

  “It’s funny,” he thought, “just this morning I did not see any gutter spilling over when I went to the bunya for salt.” Now they were all in full spate. The gutters of Tar Gully were notorious for their erratic habits and their stench, although the latter was never noticed by the denizens.

  The bunya’s shop was closed for regular business but a small window was still open. The bunya, in his nocturnal role of bookie, was accepting last-minute Matka bets. Midnight was the deadline, when the winning numbers would be drawn from the earthen vessel that gave the game its name.

  There was still no sign of Francis. Kersi and Percy approached the first of the tenements, with the familiar cow tethered out in front — it was the only one in this neighbourhood. Each morning, accompanied by the owner’s comely daughter and a basket of cut green grass, it made the round of these streets. People would reverently feed the cow, buying grass at twenty-five paise a mouthful. When the basket was empty the cow would be led back to Tar Gully.

  Kersi remembered one early morning when the daughter was milking the cow and a young man was standing behind her seated figure. He was bending over the girl, squeezing her breasts with both hands, while she did her best to work the cow’s swollen udder. Neither of them had noticed Kersi as he’d hurried past. Now, as Kersi recalled the scene, he thought of Najamai’s daughters, the rat in the bedroom, Vera’s near-nude body, his dispossessed fantasy, and once again felt cheated, betrayed.

  It was Percy who first spotted Francis and pointed him out to Kersi. It was also Percy who yelled “Chor! Chor! Stop him!” and galvanized the waiting Matka patrons into action.

  Francis never had a chance Three men in the distance heard the uproar and tripped him as he ran past. Without delay they started to punch him. One tried out a clumsy version of a dropkick but it did not work so well, and he diligently resumed with his fists. Then the others arrived and joined in the pounding.

  The ritualistic cry of “Chor! Chor!” had rendered Francis into fair game in Tar Gully. But Kersi was horrified. This was not the way he had wanted it to end when he’d emerged with his bat. He watched in terror as Francis was slapped and kicked, had his arms twisted and his hair pulled, and was abused and spat upon. He looked away when their eyes met.

  Then Percy shouted: “Stop! No more beating! We must take the thief back to the bai from whom he stole. She will decide!”

  The notion of delivering the criminal to the scene of his crime and to his victim, like something out of a Hindi movie, appealed to this crowd. Kersi managed to shake off his numbness. Following Percy’s example, he grabbed Francis by the arm and collar, signifying that this was their captive, no longer to be bashed around.

  In this manner they led Francis back to Firozsha Baag — past the tethered cow, past the bunya’s shop, past the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully. Every once in a while someone would punch Francis in the small of his back or on his head. But Percy would remind the crowd of the bai who had been robbed, whereupon the procession would resume in an orderly way.

  A crowd was waiting outside C Block. More neighbours had gathered, including the solitary Muslim tenant in Firozsha Baag, from the ground floor of B Block, and his Muslim servant. Both had a long-standing grudge against Francis over some incident with a prostitute, and were pleased at his predicament.

  Francis was brought before Najamai. He was in tears and his knees kept buckling. “Why, Francis?” asked Najamai. “Why?”

  Suddenly, a neighbour stepped out of the crowd and slapped him hard across the face: “You budmaash! You have no shame? Eating her food, earning money from her, then stealing from her, you rascal?”

  At the slap, the gathering started to move in for a fresh round of thrashing. But Najamai screamed and the crowd froze. Francis threw himself at her feet, weeping. “Bai,” he begged, “you hit me, you kick me, do whatever you want to me. But please don’t let them, please!”

  While he knelt before her, the Muslim servant saw his chance and moved swiftly. He swung his leg and kicked Francis powerfully in the ribs before the others could pull him away. Francis yelped like a dog and keeled over.

  Najamai was formally expressing her gratitude to Silloo. “How brave your two sons are. If they had not gone after that rogue I would never have seen my eighty rupees again. Say thanks to Percy and Kersi, God bless them, such fine boys.” Both of them pointedly ignored Tehmina who, by this time, had been established as the minor villain in the piece, for putting temptation in Francis’s path.

  Meanwhile, the crowd had dispersed. Tehmina was chatting with the Muslim neighbour. Having few friends in this building, he was endeavouring to ingratiate himself with her while she was still vulnerable, and before she recovered from C Block’s excommunication. By the light of the full moon he sympathized with her version of the episode.

  “Najamai knows my eyes are useless till these cataracts are removed. Yet she wants me to keep her keys, look after her flat.” The cloves ventured to her lips, agitated, but she expertly sucked them back to the safety of her cheeks. “How was I to know what Francis would do? If only I could have seen his eyes. It is always so dark in that hallway.” And the Muslim neighbour shook his head slowly, making clucking sounds with his tongue to show he understood perfectly.

  Back in her flat, Najamai chuckled as she pictured the two boys returning with Francis. “How silly they looked. Going after poor Francis with their big bats! As if he would ever have hurt them. Wonder what the police will do to him now.” She went into the kitchen, sniffing. A smell of ammonia was in the air and a pool of yellowish liquid stood where Francis had been hiding behind the kitchen door. She bent down, puzzled, and sniffed again, then realized he must have lost control of his bladder when she screamed.

  She mopped and cleaned up, planning to tell Silloo tomorrow of her discovery. She would also have to ask her to find someone to bring the rations next week. Maybe it was time to overcome her aversion to full-time servants and hire one who would live here, and cook and clean, and look after the flat. Someone who would also provide company for her, sometimes it felt so lonely being alone in the flat.

  Najamai finished in the kitchen. She went to the bedroom, lowered her weight into the easy chair and picked up the Boyces’ Sunday paper.

  Kersi was in the bathroom. He felt like throwing up, but returned to the bedroom after retching without success. He sat on the bed and picked up his bat. He ripped off the rubber grip and slowly, meditatively, started to tear the fresh
ly glued cord from around the handle, bit by bit, circle by circle.

  Soon, the cord lay on the floor in a black tangled heap, and the handle looked bald, exposed, defenceless. Never before had Kersi seen his cricket bat in this flayed and naked state. He stood up, grasped the handle with both hands, rested the blade at an angle to the floor, then smashed his foot down upon it. There was a loud crack as the handle snapped.

  The Ghost of Firozsha Baag

  I always believed in ghosts. When I was little I saw them in my father’s small field in Goa. That was very long ago, before I came to Bombay to work as ayah.

  Father also saw them, mostly by the well, drawing water. He would come in and tell us, the bhoot is thirsty again. But it never scared us. Most people in our village had seen ghosts. Everyone believed in them.

  Not like in Firozsha Baag. First time I saw a ghost here and people found out, how much fun they made of me. Calling me crazy, saying it is time for old ayah to go back to Goa, back to her muluk, she is seeing things.

  Two years ago on Christmas Eve I first saw the bhoot. No, it was really Christmas Day. At ten o’clock on Christmas Eve I went to Cooperage Stadium for midnight mass. Every year all of us Catholic ayahs from Firozsha Baag go for mass. But this time I came home alone, the others went somewhere with their boyfriends. Must have been two o’clock in the morning. Lift in B Block was out of order, so I started up slowly. Thinking how easy to climb three floors when I was younger, even with a full bazaar-bag.

  After reaching first floor I stopped to rest. My breath was coming fast-fast. Fast-fast, like it does nowadays when I grind curry masala on the stone. Jaakaylee, my bai calls out, Jaakaylee, is masala ready? Thinks a sixty-three-year-old ayah can make masala as quick as she used to when she was fifteen. Yes, fifteen. The day after my fourteenth birthday I came by bus from Goa to Bombay. All day and night I rode the bus. I still remember when my father took me to bus station in Panjim. Now it is called Panaji. Joseph Uncle, who was mechanic in Mazagaon, met me at Bombay Central Station. So crowded it was, people running all around, shouting, screaming, and coolies with big-big trunks on their heads. Never will I forget that first day in Bombay. I just stood in one place, not knowing what to do, till Joseph Uncle saw me. Now it has been forty-nine years in this house as ayah, believe or don’t believe Forty-nine years in Firozsha Baag’s B Block and they still don’t say my name right. Is it so difficult to say Jacqueline? But they always say Jaakaylee. Or worse, Jaakayl.