From Bhagwan Baba’s house to the railway station was a short walk along a dirt road. Jehangir and his parents hurried along silently in the face of a rising wind. A sombre, rainless cloud cover dominated the sky.
The dirt road was deserted. The suns midday sharpness had been replaced by a heavy, stifling air mass moving over the land. Clouds of dust rose at the least provocation and Mother held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. A few simple shacks and shanties on either side of the road were the only structures on the barren plain. Their sunken-cheeked occupants watched with empty eyes as the three figures made their way to the station.
The shelter of the waiting-room was a relief. It was deserted except for the man attending to the cold-drink stand. They purchased three bottles of Limca and settled on a bench to await their train. The bottles were closer to tepid than the ice-cold promised by the sign, but the drink was refreshing.
Bathrooms were located next to the cold-drink stand. From behind one of the doors emerged the song of a broken tap, the copious drip splashing in complex, agitated rhythms upon the stone floor.
“Shortage of water everywhere. But listen, listen to the shameful waste,” said Father. He sipped Limca through the straw, anticipating the final empty gurgle to signal the end. “It was a little disappointing. He removed his dark glasses to see the photo, but did not say much. And three hours in line.”
Mother said, “That is normal. Bhagwan Baba never speaks unless you ask him specific things. Jehangir did not open his mouth sidhö-padhrö, to speak clearly. Not one word. What do you expect Bhagwan Baba to do?”
“But you said you would explain …”
“I said I would begin for you. That does not mean you show no interest in what is your problem.”
“I don’t have a problem. You do because you don’t like her.” The entire day had passed without argument. Now it seemed the heat and dust would take their toll.
“I never said I do not like her. But no sense talking to you, you don’t want to understand. We decided to come, you should have shown more concern. Now we still don’t know what is the best thing for you.”
Jehangir returned the empty Limca bottles to the cold-drink counter. A ceiling fan hung motionless in the waiting-room, and he pointed to it when the cold-drink man caught his eye. “Power shortage,” the cold-drink man replied. “No lights even. At night I sell by lantern light. And kerosene is not cheap. So price of cold-drinks had to go up.”
Jehangir nodded indifferently and returned to the bench. Father said, “Bhagwan Baba did not say much. But it seems to me he did give an answer. He said life is a trap, full of webs. Ask yourself, what does the sensible person do if a trap is facing him? Avoid, get away from it. So I think Bhagwan Baba was saying that Jehangir should stay away from that girl.” He was pleased with his interpretation.
“But if that was what Bhagwan Baba meant, why not say it plainly?” said Mother. “Every other time he has given us plain answers, simple language.”
“I don’t know. There is always a reason for what Bhagwan Baba does. That much I know. To me his words sounded like a warning for Jehangir.”
“But Jehangir is not saying anything. Again you are staying quiet, like you did with Bhagwan Baba. Tell us whatever is on your mind.”
And he was tempted to telclass="underline" of the sight which had shocked and embarrassed him one night when he had come home, changed his clothes, and left them on the pile for the gunga to wash next morning. A few minutes later he had returned, having forgotten his pen in one of the pockets. But Mother was there, sniffing; scrutinizing the gusset under the light. To find smells of illicit sex? Stains to corroborate her suspicions of the girl’s sluttishness? Evidence that her boy had been ravished by a flesh-and-blood succubus? She had started counting garments for next day’s washing quota when she saw him.
Trying to conceal the rough edge of resentment that crept into his voice now, he was only partly successful. “You keep saying the girl, the girl, the girl. You know her name is Behroze, why don’t you use it? Do you think if you pronounce her name she will become more real than she is?”
His parents shifted uncomfortably. “You never talk to us these days,” said Mother. “You were not like that in school. How you used to come home and tell me everything. The little butter we could afford I would always save for you, make your tea, help with homework. And how you used to go running to Dr. Mody every Sunday at ten o’clock, do you remember, with your stamps.” Those happy years brought a wistful smile to her face. She reached out as if to stroke his cheek. But the memories also exacerbated the imperfection of the present, and she left the gesture unfinished.
“We never treated you like other parents when you misbehaved. That old Karani woman in B Block, she used to make her boy stand naked out on the steps for punishment, to shame him. A brilliant CA he is now, but to this day the poor man has not completely recovered from that cruelty. And Dr. Mody, rest his soul, would slap his son Pesi left-right on the face. Outside in the compound for all Firozsha Baag to see.” Mother paused, remembered the point she was trying to make, and continued.
“Maybe it is because you have changed so much that we fret. You used to care about our problems, worry just like Daddy and me. More and more selfish you seem to be now, so what am I to think? That your new life in college, and your new friends, and that girl — Behroze — have changed you.”
“Again we are starting to argue. No use talking of it now,” said Father, “when we are all so tired.”
“But I want to tell you what I think,” said Jehangir. “Bhagwan Baba talked about a trap. He also said no one can do anything about it. No one means not you or I or Bhagwan Baba himself. So what is the point of a warning no one can act upon?”
“You see what I mean?” asked Mother, turning in despair to Father. “What I mean when I say he has changed? He takes all these logic and philosophy courses in college and gives us smart answers. We begged and borrowed to pay his college fees, and this is the result. Not afraid even to twist the words of Bhagwan Baba. Don’t forget, all your smartness and your ambition to go to America will come to nothing. This girl will change you and keep you here. Then you will finish your days like your father and me, in poverty and filth.”
The suburban local to Bombay Central was announced over the loudspeaker. As the train swept in, Mother realized that the brown paper bag of oranges blessed by Bhagwan Baba was missing. Jehangir raced into the waiting-room and back to the compartment where they had found seats.
“You can eat one every day for the next three days,” Mother said. “It will help you think clearly about your problem.”
Jehangir did not tell Behroze about Bhagwan Baba. She would dismiss him as a fake, lumping him in the same category as the quacks and charlatans of whom there was no dearth in Bombay, who sold their charms and potions and had a thriving trade among the educated and the uneducated alike. It would lead to an argument, and he did not want to have to defend Bhagwan Baba.
That week, he missed choir practice and went to the Hanging Gardens. He walked, taking the short cut up the hill as he had done so many times with her. He mulled over the words of Bhagwan Baba. Not that it matters one way or the other what he meant, he kept assuring himself. A trap, he had said. Did he mean Behroze trapped me? That was absurd. Why would she want to? If anything, he had trapped Behroze, luring her with his melancholy looks and the sad and gentle air which so became him and his shyness. Or had Bhagwan Baba meant trap in a larger — sort of cosmic — sense, so that he and his parents and Behroze were all trapped, and must work out their lives within its confines? This interpretation at least had some metaphysical appeal to it.