“Sahibji? she said, then noticed her son’s tear-stained face. “Arre, Jehangoo, what happened, who made you cry?” Her hand flew automatically to the mathoobanoo, tugging and adjusting it as she did whenever she was concerned or agitated.
To save the boy embarrassment, Dr. Mody intervened: “Go, wash your face while I talk to your mother.” Jehangir went inside, and Dr. Mody told her briefly about what had happened. “Why does he not play with the other boys?” he asked finally.
“Dr. Mody, what to say. The boy never wants even to go out. Khoedai salaamat raakhé, wants to sit at home all the time and read storybooks. Even this little time in the evening he goes because I force him and tell him he will not grow tall without fresh air. Every week he brings new-new story books from school. First, school library would allow only one book per week. But he went to Father Gonzalves who is in charge of library and got special permission for two books. God knows why he gave it.”
“But reading is good, Mrs. Bulsara.”
“I know, I know, but a mania like this, all the time?”
“Some boys are outdoor types, some are indoor types. You shouldn’t worry about Jehangir, he is a very good boy. Look at my Pesi, now there is a case for worry,” he said, meaning to reassure her.
“No, no. You mustn’t say that. Be patient, Khoedai is great,” said Mrs. Bulsara, consoling him instead. Jehangir returned, his eyes slightly red but dry. While washing his face he had wet a lock of his hair which hung down over his forehead.
“Ah, here comes my indoor champion,” smiled Dr. Mody, and patted Jehangir’s shoulder, brushing back the lock of hair. Jehangir did not understand, but grinned anyway; the doctor’s joviality was infectious. Dr. Mody turned again to the mother. “Send him to my house on Sunday at ten o’clock. We will have a little talk.”
After Dr. Mody left, Jehangir’s mother told him how lucky he was that someone as important and learned as Burjor Uncle was taking an interest in him. Privately, she hoped he would encourage the boy towards a more all-rounded approach to life and to the things other boys did. And when Sunday came she sent Jehangir off to Dr. Mody’s promptly at ten.
Dr. Mody was taking his bath, and Mrs. Mody opened the door. She was a dour-faced woman, spare and lean — the opposite of her husband in appearance and disposition, yet retaining some quality from long ago which suggested that it had not always been so. Jehangir had never crossed her path save when she was exchanging civilities with his mother, while making purchases out by the stairs from the vegetablewalla or fruitwalla.
Not expecting Jehangir’s visit, Mrs. Mody stood blocking the doorway and said: “Yes?” Meaning, what nuisance now?
“Burjor Uncle asked me to come at ten o’clock.”
“Asked you to come at ten o’clock? What for?”
“He just said to come at ten o’clock.”
Grudgingly, Mrs. Mody stepped aside. “Come in then. Sit down there.” And she indicated the specific chair she wanted him to occupy, muttering something about a baap who had time for strangers’ children but not for his own son.
Jehangir sat in what must have been the most uncomfortable chair in the room. This was his first time inside the Modys’ flat, and he looked around with curiosity. But his gaze was quickly restricted to the area of the floor directly in front of him when he realized that he was the object of Mrs. Mody’s watchfulness.
Minutes ticked by under her vigilant eye. Jehangir was grateful when Dr. Mody emerged from the bedroom. Being Sunday, he had eschewed his usual khaki half-pants for loose and comfortable white pyjamas. His sudra hung out over it, and he strode vigorously, feet encased in a huge pair of sapaat. He smiled at Jehangir, who happily noted the crow’s-feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. He was ushered into Dr. Mody’s room, and man and boy both seemed glad to escape the surveillance of the woman.
The chairs were more comfortable in Dr. Mody’s room. They sat at his desk and Dr. Mody opened a drawer to take out a large book.
“This was the first stamp album I ever had,” said Dr. Mody. “It was given to me by my Nusserwanji Uncle when I was your age. All the pages were empty.” He began turning them. They were covered with stamps, each a feast of colour and design. He talked as he turned the pages, and Jehangir watched and listened, glancing at the stamps flying past, at Dr. Mody’s face, then at the stamps again.
Dr. Mody spoke not in his usual booming, jovial tones but softly, in a low voice charged with inspiration. The stamps whizzed by, and his speech was gently underscored by the rustle of the heavily laden pages that seemed to turn of their own volition in the quiet room. (Jehangir would remember this peculiar rustle when one day, older, he’d stand alone in this very room, silent now forever, and turn the pages of Nusserwanji Uncle’s album.) Jehangir watched and listened. It was as though a mask had descended over Dr. Mody, a faraway look upon his face, and a shining in the eyes which heretofore Jehangir had only seen sad with despair or glinting with anger or just plain and empty, belying his constant drollery. Jehangir watched, and listened to the euphonious voice hinting at wondrous things and promises and dreams.
The album on the desk, able to produce such changes in Dr. Mody, now worked its magic through him upon the boy. Jehangir, watching and listening, fascinated, tried to read the names of the countries at the top of the pages as they sped by: Antigua … Australia … Belgium … Bhutan … Bulgaria … and on through to Malta and Mauritius … Romania and Russia … Togo and Tonga … and a final blur through which he caught Yugoslavia and Zanzibar.
“Can I see it again?” he asked, and Dr. Mody handed the album to him.
“So what do you think? Do you want to be a collector?”
Jehangir nodded eagerly and Dr. Mody laughed. “When Nusserwanji Uncle showed me his collection I felt just like that. I’ll tell your mother what to buy for you to get you started. Bring it here next Sunday, same time!”
And next Sunday Jehangir was ready at nine. But he waited by his door with a Stamp Album For Beginners and a packet of 100 Assorted Stamps — All Countries. Going too early would mean sitting under the baleful eyes of Mrs. Mody.
Ten o’clock struck and the clock’s tenth bong was echoed by the Modys’ doorchimes. Mrs. Mody was expecting him this time and did not block the doorway. Wordlessly, she beckoned him in. Burjor Uncle was ready, too, and came out almost immediately to rescue him from her arena.
“Let’s see what you’ve got there,” he said when they were in his room. They removed the cellophane wrapper, and while they worked Dr. Mody enjoyed himself as much as the boy. His deepest wish appeared to be coming true: he had at last found someone to share his hobby with. He could not have hoped for a finer neophyte than Jehangir. His young recruit was so quick to learn how to identify and sort stamps by countries, learn the different currencies, spot watermarks. Already he was skilfully folding and moistening the little hinges and mounting the stamps as neatly as the teacher.
When it was almost time to leave, Jehangir asked if he could examine again Nusserwanji Uncle’s album, the one he had seen last Sunday. But Burjor Uncle led him instead to a cupboard in the corner of the room. “Since you enjoy looking at my stamps, let me show you what I have here.” He unlocked its doors.
Each of the cupboard’s four shelves was piled with biscuit tins and sweet tins: round, oval, rectangular, square. It puzzled Jehangir: all this bore the unmistakable stamp of the worthless hoardings of senility, and did not seem at all like Burjor Uncle. But Burjor Uncle reached out for a box at random and showed him inside. It was chock-full of stamps! Jehangir’s mouth fell open. Then he gaped at the shelves, and Burjor Uncle laughed. “Yes, all these tins are full of stamps. And that big cardboard box at the bottom contains six new albums, all empty.”