Bombay Time (12 page)

Rusi met her needs perfectly. It was too good to be true that she also found him easy to love. She liked Rusi the first time she met him. She had known about the Bilimorias for years, but she and Rusi had never really talked until the night of the New Year’s Eve dance at Parsi Gymkhana. She had seen Rusi across the room and asked Sheroo to introduce them. After a moment or two, Sheroo disappeared, leaving them to chat for about ten minutes. Despite the fact that Rusi seemed distracted, despite the fact that most of their conversation revolved around Tina, the woman he was in love with, Coomi felt a sense of loss when Rusi finally excused himself and left her side. “It was nice chatting,” she said as he got up to leave. “Nice to have finally met you.” He nodded absently, but his eyes were already on Tina, who had walked in the door. Although they ran into each other regularly after that first meeting, it was about six more months before he noticed her again, during the car trip to Khandala. But Coomi was smitten. Everything about Rusi—his excruciating sensitivity, his gentleness, his moodiness, his relentless desire for self-improvement—was new and foreign to her. “That Rusi Bilimoria,” she said to Sheroo, “he’s different from the other chaps, no? Like he’s made of milk and cream or something. So soft.”

“And what are other men made of? Wood and bricks?” Sheroo laughed.

But it was true. Rusi was so different from the men she’d known that she could scarcely believe they had grown up in the same city, much less in the same neighborhood. He seemed untouched by the realities of common life, somehow. In some ways, he reminded Coomi of herself when younger. Then she, too, had lived in a fantasy world of dreams and ambition. But there were two vital diffetences: Unlike her, Rusi had a plan to turn his dreams into reality. And unlike her, Rusi was a man.

Her oldest brother, Fali, was appalled when he had found out that his sister was dating Rusi. “Of course, my only sister had to go and find the weakling of Parsi Gymkhana.
Arre, yaar.
your boyfriend doesn’t even know how to bench-press, such a dandy he is. So many of my friends are interested in you, good strong he-man types, and you have to go out with a homo. Ever seen his legs?
Saala.
they’re like two pieces of sugarcane. And how he speaks? Like he was educated in fucking Oxford or Cambridge instead of at the same
ghaati
schools we all went to. All because his daddy was having some nice post at Central Bank. No, Rusi isn’t our type of folk, Coomi. You better think twice before you
go paagal
over him.”

It was good advice, Coomi often thought in later years. But it came too late. She was already crazy about Rusi by then.

It was Dosamai who had bumped into Khorshed Bilimoria on the street accidentally on purpose one evening and told her about Coomi and Rusi. Khorshed, who prided herself on being an involved parent, was peeved to hear about Coomi from Dosamai. She was hurt that Rusi would keep his girlfriend a secret from her. Also, she was perturbed at the ominous tone Dosamai used to describe Coomi’s family. “A little different from the people who live in Wadia Baug,” Dosamai said. “The brothers, I’ve heard, are a little wild. All kinds of mischief making they are into. But they are boys, after all. Nothing to do with the
chokri
your Rusi is interested in. Also, what can their poor mother do? People say her husband was a drunkard. Just took off one day, only, and,
has,
they never saw him again. How can such fatherless children not be
junglees?
Far be it from me to judge that poor woman.”

Khorshed went home that evening with a heavy heart. But she hid from Rusi what she had heard, merely telling her son that she would like to meet the woman he was seeing, now that the whole building knew about it. She just wished he had heard it from Rusi, instead of an outsider, Khorshed said. And no, she would not tell Rusi who had told her the news.

The following Saturday, Coomi visited her future home for the first time. She was a little disappointed at how bare the rooms were and how simple the furnishings. Somehow, she had expected Rusi’s home to reflect the largeness of his imagination. There were no pictures up on the walls, other than a large portrait of Khorshed’s dead husband, no trinkets in the living room. Silence was a living thing in this apartment, she felt, and the thought made her shudder. But Coomi also noticed how gloriously large the rooms were compared to her cramped little flat, how high the ceilings were and how neat and tidy everything was, compared to the messy chaos that reigned in her home. She liked the orderliness of things in the Bilimoria household, but it also felt a little too sanitary and antiseptic, so that she felt a twinge of affection for the glorious mess that was her brothers’ bedroom. At least you know that flesh-and-blood people live there, she thought, a little defensively. People who bleed when you cut them. But then she felt ashamed of this involuntary put-down of Rusi. Rusi was very much a passionate man, and she had the love bites to prove it.

Coomi could feel Khorshed Bilimoria’s eyes on her and she fought the urge to shuffle in her seat. Khorshed was an imperial-looking woman with garlic white skin and thoughtful brown eyes. Next to her, Coomi felt gauche, awkward, and dark. Something about the old woman’s regal bearing made her feel inadequate and nervous. She jumped as she realized Khorshed was saying something to her.

“I’m sorry?” Coomi stuttered.

Khorshed laughed and glanced at her son. “I just said, ‘You will have some
chai,
correct?’ “ she repeated. “I have brought home some
daar-ni-pori
from the Ratan Tata Institute to have with tea.”

Coomi stammered a yes and then was unsure whether she should offer to make the tea. She looked to Rusi for help, but he was staring resolutely ahead. “May I help?” she asked timidly.

Khorshed shook her head. “Oh, no, no need. The kettle’s already on the stove. It will only be another minute.”

Willing her hands not to shake, Coomi sipped her tea. Looking over the rim of her cup, she saw Khorshed staring appraisingly at her. She’s trying to decide whether I’m good enough for her son, she thought. The thought made her bristle and, involuntarily, she sat up a little taller in her chair. If she asks anything about my daddy, I’m going to walk out of here, she decided.

But Khorshed did not ask her any personal questions that day. Instead, she talked about the price of fish, the recent bus strike, her deceased husband and her strong-willed son. “Put some sense into my stubborn son’s head, if you can,
deekra,”
she said. “Tell him to give up these mad ideas of being a businessman and to allow his mother to find him a decent job at Central Bank instead. My husband, God bless him, was well regarded at his job, and I still have some good contacts there. Soon, with these Hindu politicians wanting to take over everything, I won’t even be able to do that for him.”

Rusi stiffened beside her and Coomi’s heart ached for him. But she was afraid of interfering in what was apparently an old conversation between mother and son. “Rusi does what he wants, Auntie,” she said finally. “He has a mind of his own. And I’m sure if he changes his mind in a few years, you will be able to help him still.”

Khorshed smiled a wan smile. “Hard to say. If these politicians don’t mess everything up, then it’s a possibility. I tell you, I still mourn the day the British left India. Took with them the last remnants of decency and culture. The worst mistake we Parsis made was to join the freedom movement. We bit the hand that fed us. Our community had prospered and grown under the British. And this is how we repaid them, by marching in the streets and screaming, ‘English, go home.’ The height of ungratefulness. And look at the result. All these years of Hindu raj, and everything is falling apart. Nehru is a good, sophisticated man, but what can one man do alone? I tell you, India is at least lucky that it was Nehru who survived instead of Gan-dhiji. Mind you, Gandhiji was a great man, but he would have destroyed even a modern city like Bombay and turned it into a village. You know what he used to say about
khadi
and village industries and all that, no? If Gandhi had lived, I would probably have had to learn to wear a
khadi
sari and use a weaving loom.”

Rusi rolled his eyes, as if he had heard this tirade numerous times before. He knew that part of his mother’s opposition to the Indian leadership was purely aesthetic—in the early days after independence, Khorshed had feared that she would have to give up her precious silk saris and wear
khadi
instead. Rusi simply considered Khorshed’s obsession with the British to be an eccentricity, rather than a political stance. But Coomi was shocked, and for a moment, she forgot her nervousness or the purpose of her visit. “But Khorshed Auntie, how can you miss the British? After all, India belongs to us. For years, those
goras
told us they were God, and we believed them. We let them into our country as guests and they acted like common thieves. I don’t care how many blunders our leaders make, at least India is our own now. If I’d been a little older, I would’ve joined the freedom struggle, for sure.”

Rusi tensed, because he knew what was to follow. He was angry at himself for not preparing Coomi any better for this first meeting with his mother and for not steering the conversation away from controversial subjects. After all, his girlfriend and his mother were the two most stubborn people he knew.

Khorshed spoke in a soft, choked voice.
“My dear
girl,” she said. “With all due respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about. When we say
sir
to an Englishman, it’s more than his white skin we’re respecting. We’re respecting the most civilized nation on earth—the birthplace of Shakespeare and Dickens. Where would India be without the British? You answer me that. Still a backward nation of bullock carts, that’s where. No trains, no motorcars, no electricity. Can you imagine? They have given us all these gifts. Now that they’ve pulled out of here, you mark my words, life will continue to get miserable for us Parsis. Soon, we will curse the day we ever came to this country. I can see a day when even the Hindus and Muslims will unite and send us packing all the way back to Persia.”

Rusi
and Coomi exchanged wry looks. Khorshed caught the look and said, “You youngsters think I’m doing all
fekhem-fekh.
Think what you will. But I tell you, this is the voice of experience talking,” She turned to Rusi. “Did you ever tell Coomi about what happened to my Hilla’s husband?”

“No, Mamma, I didn’t. We’ve had … more important things to talk about.” Rusi’s voice was teasing but affectionate.

Khorshed smiled. “Yes, of course. No need to bore you youngsters with ancient history. Pardon the ravings of a middle-aged woman, Coomi.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. In an effort to end it, Coomi said, “No, please, Khorshed Auntie, of course I’m interested. Who is Hilla? And what happened to Hilla’s husband?”

Rusi groaned, but the two women ignored him. Khorshed leaned forward in her chair. “Hilla is my older sister. Her husband’s name was Pervez. They were well-off. No children, and Pervez had a good job selling insurance. He was a good husband—my Hilla would just have to look at a gold bangle or a silk sari and,
has,
Cyrus would buy it for her. Treated her like a queen.

“But then Pervez fell in with this group of friends and they started turning his head with silly notions about Gandhiji and home rule and all. This was around 1945. They gave him all kinds of fanatical books and pamphlets to influence him. The freedom bug bit him hard. Stopped wearing a shirt, tie, and pants and started wearing those uncomfortable
khadi kurtas.
Can you imagine a Parsi dressing like that? Looked ridiculous in them. He and Hilla used to come over and he’d sit right where you’re sitting on that sofa. Pervez and my husband would argue for hours. My husband would remind Pervez that he was a married man and that he had a responsibility to his wife. But he was like a man possessed. Wanted to give up his job and work full-time for independence only. ‘Pervez,’ I once said to him. ‘Have you no
akkal
left? You think they’ll make you prime minister or something if we get independence? Can’t you see these people are making a fool out of you?’ Well, he huffed and puffed and walked out of my house. Called me a traitor to my country. Can you imagine? Me, a traitor. What state secret did I ever sell anybody? But I made up with him the next day because of my poor sister. My Hilla was beside herself. Bit by bit, he was making her sell the gold
daagina
that she had brought as her dowry. All the money went to the Congress party. Finally, he did what she had long feared—left his job. One fine day, he left work at noon and never went back. Hilla begged him, but he had taken leave of his senses. While he was having fun with his sir-downs and hunger strikes and what all, Hilla was the one sitting at home, having to deal with creditors. I used to slip her a note out of my household expenses whenever I could.”

Khorshed paused for a minute, but neither Coomi nor Rusi had the nerve to interrupt her. “Anyway, this went on for months. Then one day, they were having another pro-independence demonstration at Flora Fountain. Hilla begged Pervez not to go. Despite having little money, she even suggested going to the cinema, because before this madness gripped him, Pervez loved movies. ‘Let’s go to the pictures today, Pervez,’ she said. ‘Just spend the day together, the two of us.’ But he looked at her like she had insulted God or something. There would be time for movies-fovies after independence, he said. And so off he went, dressed in his white
kurta-pajama
costume. Well, it was as Hilla had feared. The crowd got out of hand and the police opened a
laathi
charge. They say a policeman was beating one of the demonstrators, and Pervez, of course, had to jump in. From what we heard, he was cursing and attacking the
hawaldar
with his bare hands. Well, the fellow just swings his baton and brings it crashing down on Pervez’s head. Just one blow. But Pervez was down.”

“Baap re,”
Coomi said. “The poor man. What—did he die?” She looked at Rusi, but he sat with a deadpan look on his face. He’d heard the story numerous times before.