The story was now clearly finished, but none of the boys showed any sign of dispersing. “Tell us about more matches that Savukshaw played in,” they said.
“More nothing. This was his greatest match. Anyway, he did not play cricket for long because soon after the match against the MCC he became a champion bicyclist, the fastest human on two wheels. And later, a pole-vaulter — when he glided over on his pole, so graceful, it was like watching a bird in flight. But he gave that up, too, and became a hunter, the mightiest hunter ever known, absolutely fearless, and so skilful, with a gun he could have, from the third floor of A Block, shaved the whisker of a cat in the backyard of C Block.”
“Tell us about that,” they said, “about Savukshaw the hunter!”
The fat ayah, Jaakaylee, arrived to take the chartered accountant’s two children home. But they refused to go without hearing about Savukshaw the hunter. When she scolded them and things became a little hysterical, some other boys tried to resurrect the ghost she had once seen: “Ayah bhoot! Ayah bhoot!” Nariman raised a finger in warning — that subject was still taboo in Firozsha Baag; none of the adults was in a hurry to relive the wild and rampageous days that Pesi paadmaroo had ushered in, once upon, a time, with the bhoot games.
Jaakaylee sat down, unwilling to return without the children, and whispered to Nariman to make it short. The smell of frying fish which had tickled Nariman’s nostrils ventured into and awakened his stomach. But the story of Savukshaw the hunter was one he had wanted to tell for a long time.
“Savukshaw always went hunting alone, he preferred it that way. There are many incidents in the life of Savukshaw the hunter, but the one I am telling you about involves a terrifying situation. Terrifying for us, of course; Savukshaw was never terrified of anything. What happened was, one night he set up camp, started a fire and warmed up his bowl of chicken-dhansaak.”
The frying fish had precipitated famishment upon Nariman, and the subject of chicken-dhansaak suited him well. His own mouth watering, he elaborated: “Mrs. Savukshaw was as famous for her dhansaak as Mr. was for hunting. She used to put in tamarind and brinjal, coriander and cumin, cloves and cinnamon, and dozens of other spices no one knows about. Women used to come from miles around to stand outside her window while she cooked it, to enjoy the fragrance and try to penetrate her secret, hoping to identify the ingredients as the aroma floated out, layer by layer, growing more complex and delicious. But always, the delectable fragrance enveloped the women and they just surrendered to the ecstasy, forgetting what they had come for. Mrs. Savukshaw’s secret was safe.”
Jaakaylee motioned to Nariman to hurry up, it was past the children’s dinner-time. He continued: “The aroma of savoury spices soon filled the night air in the jungle, and when the dhansaak was piping hot he started to eat, his rifle beside him. But as soon as he lifted the first morsel to his lips, a tiger’s eyes flashed in the bushes! Not twelve feet from him! He emerged licking his chops! What do you think happened then, boys?”
“What, what, Nariman Uncle?”
Before he could tell them, the door of his flat opened. Hirabai put her head out and said, “Chaalo ni, Nariman, it’s time. Then if it gets cold you won’t like it.”
That decided the matter. To let Hirabai’s fried fish, crisp on the outside, yet tender and juicy inside, marinated in turmeric and cayenne — to let that get cold would be something that Khoedaiji above would not easily forgive. “Sorry boys, have to go. Next time about Savukshaw and the tiger.”
There were some groans of disappointment. They hoped Nariman’s good spirits would extend into the morrow when he returned from the Memorial Library, or the story would get cold.
But a whole week elapsed before Nariman again parked the apple of his eye outside his ground-floor flat and beeped the horn three times. When he had raised the hood, checked the oil, polished the star and swung into the “Colonel Bogie March,” the boys began drifting towards A Block.
Some of them recalled the incomplete story of Savukshaw and the tiger, but they knew better than to remind him. It was never wise to prompt Nariman until he had dropped the first hint himself, or things would turn out badly.
Nariman inspected the faces: the two who stood at the back, always looking superior and wise, were missing. So was the quiet Bulsara boy, the intelligent one. “Call Kersi, Viraf, and Jehangir,” he said, “I want them to listen to today’s story.”
Jehangir was sitting alone on the stone steps of C Block. The others were chatting by the compound gate with the watchman. Someone went to fetch them.
“Sorry to disturb your conference, boys, and your meditation, Jehangir,” Nariman said facetiously, “but I thought you would like to hear this story. Especially since some of you are planning to go abroad.”
This was not strictly accurate, but Kersi and Viraf did talk a lot about America and Canada. Kersi had started writing to universities there since his final high-school year, and had also sent letters of inquiry to the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi and to the U.S. Consulate at Breach Candy. But so far he had not made any progress. He and Viraf replied with as much sarcasm as their unripe years allowed, “Oh yes, next week, just have to pack our bags.”
“Riiiight,” drawled Nariman. Although he spoke perfect English, this was the one word with which he allowed himself sometimes to take liberties, indulging in a broadness of vowel more American than anything else. “But before we go on with today’s story, what did you learn about Savukshaw, from last week’s story?”
“That he was a very talented man,” said someone.
“What else?”
“He was also a very lucky man, to have so many talents,” said Viraf.
“Yes, but what else?”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Jehangir said, timidly: “He was a man searching for happiness, by trying all kinds of different things.”
“Exactly! And he never found it. He kept looking for new experiences, and though he was very successful at everything he attempted, it did not bring him happiness. Remember this, success alone does not bring happiness. Nor does failure have to bring unhappiness. Keep it in mind when you listen to today’s story.”
A chant started somewhere in the back: “We-want-a-story! We-want-a-story!”
“Riiiight,” said Nariman. “Now, everyone remembers Vera and Dolly, daughters of Najamai from C Block.” There were whistles and hoots; Viraf nudged Kersi with his elbow, who was smiling wistfully. Nariman held up his hand: “Now now, boys, behave yourselves. Those two girls went abroad for studies many years ago, and never came back. They settled there happily.
“And like them, a fellow called Sarosh also went abroad, to Toronto, but did not find happiness there. This story is about him. You probably don’t know him, he does not live in Firozsha Baag, though he is related to someone who does.”
“Who? Who?”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” said Nariman, running a finger over each branch of his moustache, “and what’s important is the tale. So let us continue. This Sarosh began calling himself Sid after living in Toronto for a few months, but in our story he will be Sarosh and nothing but Sarosh, for that is his proper Parsi name. Besides, that was his own stipulation when he entrusted me with the sad but instructive chronicle of his recent life.” Nariman polished his glasses with his handkerchief, put them on again, and began.
“At the point where our story commences, Sarosh had been living in Toronto for ten years. We find him depressed and miserable, perched on top of the toilet, crouching on his haunches, feet planted firmly for balance upon the white plastic oval of the toilet seat.