“Maybe even a fridge is possible, then we will never have to go upstairs to that woman. No more obligations, no more favours. You won’t have to kill any more rats for her.” Daddy waited for us to join in. For his sake I hoped that Mummy would. I did not feel like mustering any enthusiasm.
But she said sharply, “All your shaik-chullee thoughts are flying again. Nothing happens when you plan too much. Leave it in the hands of God.”
Daddy was taken aback. He said, summoning bitterness to retaliate, “You are thinking I will never get a better job? I’ll show all of you.” He threw his piece of toast onto the plate and sat back. But he recovered as quickly, and made it into a joke. He picked up the newspaper. “Well, I’ll just have to surprise you one day when I throw out the kerosene stoves.”
I liked the kerosene stoves and the formidable fifteen-gallon storage drum that replenished them. The Criterion had a little round glass window in one corner of its black base, and I would peer into the murky depths, watching the level rise as kerosene poured through the funnel; it was very dark and cool and mysterious in there, then the kerosene floated up and its surface shone under the light bulb. Looking inside was like lying on Chaupatty beach at night and gazing at the stars, in the hot season, while we stayed out after dinner till the breeze could rise and cool off the walls baking all day in the sun. When the stove was lit and the kitchen dark, the soft orange glow through its little mica door reminded me of the glow in the fire-temple afargaan, when there wasn’t a blazing fire because hardly any sandalwood offerings had been left in the silver thaali; most people came only on the holy days. The Primus stove was fun, too, pumped up hot and roaring, the kerosene emerging under pressure and igniting into sharp blue flames. Daddy was the only one who lit it; every year, many women died in their kitchens because of explosions, and Daddy said that though many of them were not accidents, especially the dowry cases, it was still a dangerous stove if handled improperly.
Mummy went back to the kitchen. I did not mind the kerosene smell, and ate some toast, trying to imagine the kitchen without the stoves, with squat red gas cylinders sitting under the table instead. I had seen them in shop windows, and I thought they were ugly. We would get used to them, though, like everything else. At night, I stood on the veranda sometimes to look at the stars. But it was not the same as going to Chaupatty and lying on the sand, quietly, with only the sound of the waves in the dark. On Saturday nights, I would make sure that the stoves were filled, because Mummy made a very early breakfast for Daddy and me next morning. The milk and bread would be arriving in the pre-dawn darkness while the kettle was boiling and we got ready for cricket with the boys of Firozsha Baag.
We always left by seven o’clock. The rest of the building was just starting to wake up: Nariman Hansotia would be aligning, on the parapet of his ground floor veranda, his razor and shaving brush and mirror beside two steaming cups, one of boiling water and the other of tea, and we often wondered if he ever dipped the brush in the wrong cup; and the old spinster Tehmina, still waiting for her cataracts to ripen, would be saying her prayers facing the rising sun, with her duster-çoat hoisted up and slung over the left shoulder, her yellowing petticoat revealed, to untie and tie her thick rope-like kusti around the waist; and the kuchrawalli would be sweeping the compound, making her rounds from door to door with broom and basket, collecting yesterday’s garbage. If she happened to cross Tehmina’s line of vision, all the boys were sure to have a fine time, because Tehmina, though blurry with cataracts, would recognize the kuchrawalli and let loose at her with a stream of curses fouler than any filth in the garbage basket, for committing the unspeakable crime of passing in front of her, thereby polluting her prayers and vitiating their efficacy.
Even Daddy laughed, but he hurried us along as we lingered there to follow the ensuing dialogue. We picked our way through sleeping streets. The pavement dwellers would stretch, and look for a place to relieve themselves. Then they would fold up their cardboard pieces and roll away their plastics before the street sweepers arrived and the traffic got heavy. Sometimes, they would start a small fire if they had something to cook for breakfast, or else try to beg from people who came to the Irani restaurant for their morning chat and bun. Occasionally, Mummy would wrap up leftovers from the night before for Daddy and me to distribute to them along the way.
It had been such a long time since we last played cricket. Flying kites had also become a thing of the past. One by one, the things I held dear were leaving my life, I thought gloomily. And Francis. What about poor Francis? Where was he now, I wondered. I wished he was still working in the Baag. That awful thrashing he got in Tar Gully was the fault of Najamai and Tehmina, those stupid old women. And Najamai saying he stole eighty rupees was nonsense, in my opinion; the absent-minded cow must have forgotten where she left the money.
I put down the tweezers and reached for the comics. Daddy looked up. “Don’t stop now, it should be perfect this week. There will be an interview or something.”
Avoiding his eye, I said stolidly, “I’m going to read the comics,” and walked out to the compound steps. When I turned at the doorway Daddy was still looking at me. His face was like Mamaiji’s when the thread broke and slipped through her fingers and the spindle fell to the floor. But I kept walking, it was a matter of pride. You always did what you said you were going to do.
The comics did not take long. It used to be more fun when Daddy and I had a race to the door to grab the Times, and pretended to fight over who would read the comics first. I thought of the lines on Daddy’s forehead, visible so clearly from my coign of vantage with the tweezers. His thinning hair barely gave off a dull lustre with its day-old pomade, and the Sunday morning stubble on his chin was flecked with grey and white.
Something — remorse, maybe just pity — stirred inside, but I quashed it without finding out. All my friends had fathers whose hair was greying. Surely they did not spend Sunday mornings doing what I did, or they would have said something. They were not like me, there was nothing that was too private and personal for them. They would talk about anything. Especially Pesi. He used to describe for us how his father passed gas, enhancing the narrative with authentic sound effects. Now he was in boarding-school. His father was dead.
From our C Block stone steps I could observe the entire length of the compound, up to A Block at the far end. Dr. Sidhwa’s black Fiat turned in at the gate and trundled laboriously over the rough-hewn flagstones of Firozsha Baag. He waved as he went past. He looked so much like Pesi’s father. He had the same crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes that Dr. Mody used to have, and even their old cars seemed identical, except that Dr. Mody healed animals and Dr. Sidhwa, humans. Most of us had been treated by him at one time or another. His house and dispensary were within walking distance of Firozsha Baag, even a sick person’s walking distance; he was a steadfast Parsi, seen often at fire-temples; and he always drove over for his house-calls. What more could we want in a doctor?
The car stopped at the far end of the compound. Dr. Sidhwa heaved out, he was a portly man, and reached in for his bag. It must be an emergency in A Block, I decided, for someone to call him on Sunday. He slammed the door, then opened and slammed it again, harder now. The impact rocked the old car a little, but the door shut properly this time. Viraf emerged from the steps of A Block. I waved to him to let him know I was waiting.