I resented her speaking against Daddy and calling me a child. She twirled the spindle, drawing fibres into thread from the scrap of wool in her left hand as the spindle descended. I watched, expecting — even wishing — the thread to break. Sometimes it did, and then it seemed to me that Mamaiji was overcome with disbelief, shocked and pained that it could have happened, and I would feel sorry and rush to pick it up for her. The spindle spun to the floor this time without mishap, hanging by a fine, brand new thread. She hauled it up, winding the thread around the extended thumb and little finger of her left hand by waggling the wrist in little clockwise and counter-clockwise half-turns, while the index and middle fingers clamped tight the source: the shred of wool resembling a lock of her own hair, snow white and slightly tangled.
Mamaiji spun enough thread to keep us all in kustis. Since Grandpa’s death, she spent more and more time spinning, so that now we each had a spare kusti as well. The kustis were woven by a professional, who always praised the fine quality of the thread; and even at the fire-temple, where we untied and tied them during prayers, they earned the covetous glances of other Parsis.
I beheld the spindle and Mamaiji’s co-ordinated feats of dexterity with admiration. All spinning things entranced me. The descending spindle was like the bucket spinning down into the sacred Bhikha Behram Well to draw water for the ones like us who went there to pray on certain holy days after visiting the fire-temple. I imagined myself clinging to the base of the spindle, sinking into the dark well, confident that Mamaiji would pull me up with her waggling hand before I drowned, and praying that the thread would not break. I also liked to stare at records spinning on the old 78-rpm gramophone. There was one I was particularly fond of: its round label was the most ethereal blue I ever saw. The lettering was gold. I played this record over and over, just to watch its wonderfully soothing blue and gold rotation, and the concentric rings of the shiny black shellac, whose grooves created a spiral effect if the light was right. The gramophone cabinet’s warm smell of wood and leather seemed to fly right out of this shellacked spiral, while I sat close, my cheek against it, to feel the hum and vibration of the turntable. It was so cosy and comforting. Like missing school because of a slight cold, staying in bed all day with a book, fussed over by Mummy, eating white rice and soup made specially for me.
Daddy finished cutting out and re-reading the classified advertisement. “Yes, this is a good one. Sounds very promising.” He picked up the newspaper again, then remembered what Mamaiji had muttered, and said softly to me, “If it is so duleendar and will bring bad luck, how is it I found this? These old people —” and gave a sigh of mild exasperation. Then briskly: “Don’t stop now, this week is very important.” He continued, slapping the table merrily at each word: “Every-single-white-hair-out.”
There was no real enmity between Daddy and Mamaiji, I think they even liked each other. He was just disinclined towards living with his mother-in-law. They often had disagreements over me, and it was always Mamaiji versus Mummy and Daddy. Mamaiji firmly believed that I was underfed. Housebound as she was, the only food accessible to her was the stuff sold by door-to-door vendors, which I adored but was strictly forbidden: sarnosa, bhajia, sevganthia; or the dinners she cooked for herself, separately, because she said that Mummy’s cooking was insipidity itself. “Tasteless as spit, refuses to go down my throat.”
So I, her favourite, enjoyed from time to time, on the sly, hot searing curries and things she purchased at the door when Daddy was at work and Mummy in the kitchen. Percy shared, too, if he was around; actually, his iron-clad stomach was much better suited to those flaming snacks. But the clandestine repasts were invariably uncovered, and the price was paid in harsh and unpleasant words. Mamaiji was accused of trying to burn to a crisp my stomach and intestines with her fiery, ungodly curries, or of exposing me to dysentery and diphtheria: the cheap door-to-door foodstuff was allegedly cooked in filthy, rancid oil — even machine oil, unfit for human consumption, as was revealed recently by a government investigation. Mamaiji retorted that if they did their duty as parents she would not have to resort to secrecy and chori-chhoopi; as it was, she had no choice, she could not stand by and see the child starve.
All this bothered me much more than I let anyone know. When the arguments started I would say that all the shouting was giving me a headache, and stalk out to the steps of the compound. My guilty conscience, squirming uncontrollably, could not witness the quarrels. For though I was an eager partner in the conspiracy with Mamaiji, and acquiesced to the necessity for secrecy, very often I spilled the beans — quite literally — with diarrhoea and vomiting, which Mamaiji upheld as undeniable proof that lack of proper regular nourishment had enfeebled my bowels. In the throes of these bouts of effluence, I promised Mummy and Daddy never again to eat what Mamaiji offered, and confessed all my past sins. In Mamaiji’s eyes I was a traitor, but sometimes it was also fun to listen to her scatological reproaches: “Muà ugheeparoo! Eating my food, then shitting and tattling all over the place. Next time I’ll cork you up with a big bootch before feeding you.”
Mummy came in from the kitchen with a plateful of toast fresh off the Criterion: unevenly browned, and charred in spots by the vagaries of its kerosene wick. She cleared the comics to one side and set the plate down.
“Listen to this,” Daddy said to her, “just found it in the paper: ‘A Growing Concern Seeks Dynamic Young Account Executive, Self-Motivated. Four-Figure Salary and Provident Fund.’ I think it’s perfect.” He waited for Mummy’s reaction. Then: “If I can get it, all our troubles will be over.”
Mummy listened to such advertisements week after week: harbingers of hope that ended in disappointment and frustration. But she always allowed the initial wave of optimism to lift her, riding it with Daddy and me, higher and higher, making plans and dreaming, until it crashed and left us stranded, awaiting the next advertisement and the next wave. So her silence was surprising.
Daddy reached for a toast and dipped it in the tea, wrinkling his nose. “Smells of kerosene again. When I get this job, first thing will be a proper toaster. No more making burnt toast on top of the Criterion.”
“I cannot smell kerosene,” said Mummy.
“Smell this then,” he said, thrusting the tea-soaked piece at her nose, “smell it and tell me,” irritated by her ready contradiction. “It’s these useless wicks. The original Criterion ones from England used to be so good. One trim and you had a fine flame for months.” He bit queasily into the toast. “Well, when I get the job, a Bombay Gas Company stove and cylinder can replace it.” He laughed. “Why not? The British left seventeen years ago, time for their stove to go as well.”
He finished chewing and turned to me. “And one day, you must go, too, to America. No future here.” His eyes fixed mine, urgently. “Somehow we’ll get the money to send you. I’ll find a way.”
His face filled with love. I felt suddenly like hugging him, but we never did except on birthdays, and to get rid of the feeling I looked away and pretended to myself that he was saying it just to humour me, because he wanted me to finish pulling his white hairs. Fortunately, his jovial optimism returned.