One morning, after Boman had left for work, Kashmira heard the soft, single flap of envelopes alighting on the veranda. The postman. She went to pick up the letters and stood scanning them: the ones for the paying guests landed back on the floor.
Then Najamai passed by in the compound and beckoned her out.
It was this gesture of Najamai’s, innocent and friendly, that was responsible for changing the tide of the neighbours’ apathy. Hers was the credit for the events now to follow, which would make them all eager to bear witness, but for which there would be no need because that single beckon in itself would get rid of the paying guests.
The gesture, potent as it turned out to be, would have been useless if Kashmira had elected not to go outside. Or if she had gone outside but returned quickly. Or if she had gone outside with the baby. Fortunately, none of these things happened.
Was there any little item, Najamai asked, that she could get for her while she was out shopping? Kashmira said thanks, but Boman usually got all they needed on his way home from work in the evening. What a good husband, said Najamai, then inquired about the new baby, and if there was any change in the madwoman’s behaviour because of the baby. None, said Kashmira, and she would rather die than let the lunatic’s shadow even fall upon the little one.
They stood by the steps of B Block, talking thus for some minutes: the precise number of minutes, as it turned out, that were required for the events (triggered by the beckoning arm) to gather momentum.
When Kashmira returned inside, the first thing she saw was the baby’s cot: empty. A vague fear of this sort of thing always used to lurk inside her. But she had managed to keep it bottled away under control in a remote part of her mind.
Now it escaped its bounds and pounded in her head, pumped through her veins and arteries, filled her lungs and the pit of her stomach. It felt ice-cold as it made its way. Call Boman, call the police, call for help, the fear screamed inside her, while the place where it used to be bottled up said stay calm, think clearly, take a deep breath. She rushed out to the veranda, willing to consider absurd possibilities: maybe the baby was precocious, already knew how to crawl, had crawled away, swaddling clothes and all, and was hiding somewhere.
While she dashed from room to veranda and veranda to room, a soft whimpering penetrated her panic. It came from Khorshedbai’s quarters. The door was ajar, and she peered inside. Uncertain of what she was seeing, she opened the door to let in more light from the veranda, then screamed, just once: a loud piercing scream. Behind it was gathered the combined force of the ice-cold fear and the place where the fear used to be bottled up.
Unaware of what her beckoning arm had precipitated, Najamai was almost at the end of the compound. She heard the scream and retrieved her steps. By then, Kashmira was yelling for assistance to any kind soul who could hear to come and save her child. Najamai repeated the cry for help outside C Block as she hurried towards B.
And help arrived within seconds. Later, Najamai would go over the list with Kashmira; from this day forward, in Najamai’s eyes the Baag had only two kinds of Parsis: the ones who had been shameless enough to ignore the call for help and the ones who had responded. Among the latter were retired Nariman Hansotia who was just stepping out to drive to the library, his wife Hirabai, Mrs. Karani from upstairs with Jaakaylee in tow, Mrs. Bulsara wearing her mathoobanoo, Mrs. Boyce, the spinster Tehmina in slippers and duster-coat, the watchman from his post at the compound gate — Najamai would remember them all, what they said, how they behaved, what they were wearing.
The hastily marshalled column entered the veranda with Najamai at its head, and stopped at the paying guests’ door. The screaming had emptied Kashmira of all words. She pointed within, propping herself up against the doorjamb.
Inside, Khorshedbai was leaning over the locked parrot cage. She seemed to have noticed no part of the commotion. The neighbours looked with curiosity that turned to horror as soon as their eyes adjusted to Khorshedbai’s dim room. There was a lull in the noise and confusion, a stunned silence for moments, during which the bangles on Khorshedbai’s wrists could be heard tinkling.
Ardesar sat on a chair with his face hidden in his hands. He was shaking visibly. The baby, liberated from the swaddling clothes, was inside the cage. Intermittent whistling came from Khorshedbai, mixed with soft kissing sounds or a series of rapid little clicks with tongue against palate. From her fingers she teasingly dangled two green peppers, long and thin, over the baby’s face.
Squatter
Whenever Nariman Hansotia returned in the evening from the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library in a good mood the signs were plainly evident.
First, he parked his 1932 Mercedes-Benz (he called it the apple of his eye) outside A Block, directly in front of his ground-floor veranda window, and beeped the horn three long times. It annoyed Rustomji who also had a ground-floor flat in A Block. Ever since he had defied Nariman in the matter of painting the exterior of the building, Rustomji was convinced that nothing the old coot did was untainted by the thought of vengeance and harassment, his retirement pastime.
But the beeping was merely Nariman’s signal to let Hirabai inside know that though he was back he would not step indoors for a while. Then he raised the hood, whistling “Rose Marie,” and leaned his tall frame over the engine. He checked the oil, wiped here and there with a rag, tightened the radiator cap, and lowered the hood. Finally, he polished the Mercedes star and let the whistling modulate into the march from The Bridge On The River Kwai. The boys playing in the compound knew that Nariman was ready now to tell a story. They started to gather round.
“Sahibji, Nariman Uncle,” someone said tentatively and Nariman nodded, careful not to lose his whistle, his bulbous nose flaring slightly. The pursed lips had temporarily raised and reshaped his Clark Gable moustache. More boys walked up. One called out, “How about a story, Nariman Uncle?” at which point Nariman’s eyes began to twinkle, and he imparted increased energy to the polishing. The cry was taken up by others, “Yes, yes, Nariman Uncle, a story!” He swung into a final verse of the march. Then the lips relinquished the whistle, the Clark Gable moustache descended. The rag was put away, and he began.
“You boys know the great cricketers: Contractor, Polly Umrigar, and recently, the young chap, Farokh Engineer. Cricket aficionados, that’s what you all are.” Nariman liked to use new words, especially big ones, in the stories he told, believing it was his duty to expose young minds to as shimmering and varied a vocabulary as possible; if they could not spend their days at the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library then he, at least, could carry bits of the library out to them.
The boys nodded; the names of the cricketers were familiar.
“But does anyone know about Savukshaw, the greatest of them all?” They shook their heads in unison.
“This, then, is the story about Savukshaw, how he saved the Indian team from a humiliating defeat when they were touring in England.” Nariman sat on the steps of A Block. The few diehards who had continued with their games could not resist any longer when they saw the gathering circle, and ran up to listen. They asked their neighbours in whispers what the story was about, and were told: Savukshaw the greatest cricketer. The whispering died down and Nariman began.
“The Indian team was to play the indomitable MCC as part of its tour of England. Contractor was our captain. Now the MCC being the strongest team they had to face, Contractor was almost certain of defeat. To add to Contractor’s troubles, one of his star batsmen, Nadkarni, had caught influenza early in the tour, and would definitely not be well enough to play against the MCC. By the way, does anyone know what those letters stand for? You, Kersi, you wanted to be a cricketer once.”