For my uncle, as well as my histrionic aunt, I acted out (with growing polish) the part of surrogate son. Hanif Aziz was to be found during the day on the striped sofa, pencil and exercise book in hand, writing his pickle epic. He wore his usual lungi wound loosely around his waist and fastened with an enormous safety-pin; his legs protruded hairily from its folds. His fingernails bore the stains of a lifetime of Gold Flakes; his toenails seemed similarly discolored. I imagined him smoking cigarettes with his toes. Highly impressed by the vision, I asked him if he could, in fact, perform this feat; and without a word, he inserted Gold Flake between big toe and its sidekick and wound himself into bizarre contortions. I clapped wildly, but he seemed to be in some pain for the rest of the day.
I ministered to his needs as a good son should, emptying ashtrays, sharpening pencils, bringing water to drink; while he, who after his fabulist beginnings had remembered that he was his father’s son and dedicated himself against everything which smacked of the unreal, scribbled out his ill-fated screenplay.
“Sonny Jim,” he informed me, “this damn country has been dreaming for five thousand years. It’s about time it started waking up.” Hanif was fond of railing against princes and demons, gods and heroes, against, in fact, the entire iconography of the Bombay film; in the temple of illusions, he had become the high priest of reality; while I, conscious of my miraculous nature, which involved me beyond all mitigation in the (Hanif-despised) myth-life of India, bit my lip and didn’t know where to look.
Hanif Aziz, the only realistic writer working in the Bombay film industry, was writing the story of a pickle-factory created, run and worked in entirely by women. There were long scenes describing the formation of a trade union; there were detailed descriptions of the pickling process. He would quiz Mary Pereira about recipes; they would discuss, for hours, the perfect blend of lemon, lime and garam masala. It is ironic that this arch-disciple of naturalism should have been so skillful (if unconscious) a prophet of his own family’s fortunes; in the indirect kisses of the Lovers of Kashmir he foretold my mother and her Nadir-Qasim’s meetings at the Pioneer Café; and in his un-filmed chutney scenario, too, there lurked a prophecy of deadly accuracy.
He besieged Homi Catrack with scripts. Catrack produced none of them; they sat in the small Marine Drive apartment, covering every available surface, so that you had to pick them off the toilet seat before you could lift it; but Catrack (out of charity? Or for another, soon-to-be-revealed reason?) paid my uncle a studio salary. That was how they survived, Hanif and Pia, on the largess of the man who would, in time, become the second human being to be murdered by mushrooming Saleem.
Homi Catrack begged him, “Maybe just one love scene?” And Pia, “What do you think, village people are going to give their rupees to see women pickling Alfonsos?” But Hanif, obdurately: “This is a film about work, not kissing. And nobody pickles Alfonsos. You must use mangoes with bigger stones.”
The ghost of Joe D’Costa did not, so far as I know, follow Mary Pereira into exile; however, his absence only served to increase her anxiety. She began, in these Marine Drive days, to fear that he would become visible to others besides herself, and reveal, during her absence, the awful secrets of what happened at Doctor Narlikar’s Nursing Home on Independence night. So each morning she left the apartment in a state of jelly-like worry, arriving at Buckingham Villa in near-collapse; only when she found that Joe had remained both invisible and silent did she relax. But after she returned to Marine Drive, laden with samosas and cakes and chutneys, her anxiety began to mount once again … but as I had resolved (having troubles enough of my own) to keep out of all heads except the Children’s, I did not understand why.
Panic attracts panic; on her journeys, sitting in jam-packed buses (the trams had just been discontinued), Mary heard all sorts of rumors and tittle-tattle, which she relayed to me as matters of absolute fact. According to Mary, the country was in the grip of a sort of supernatural invasion. “Yes, baba, they say in Kurukshetra an old Sikh woman woke up in her hut and saw the old-time war of the Kurus and Pandavas happening right outside! It was in the papers and all, she pointed to the place where she saw the chariots of Arjun and Karna, and there were truly wheel-marks in the mud! Baap-re-baap, such so-bad things: at Gwalior they have seen the ghost of the Rani of Jhansi; rakshasas have been seen many-headed like Ravana, doing things to women and pulling down trees with one finger. I am good Christian woman, baba; but it gives me fright when they tell that the tomb of Lord Jesus is found in Kashmir. On the tombstones are carved two pierced feet and a local fisherwoman has sworn she saw them bleeding—real blood, God save us!—on Good Friday … what is happening, baba, why these old things can’t stay dead and not plague honest folk?” And I, wide-eyed, listening; and although my uncle Hanif roared with laughter, I remain, today, half-convinced that in that time of accelerated events and diseased hours the past of India rose up to confound her present; the new-born, secular state was being given an awesome reminder of its fabulous antiquity, in which democracy and votes for women were irrelevant … so that people were seized by atavistic longings, and forgetting the new myth of freedom reverted to their old ways, their old regionalist loyalties and prejudices, and the body politic began to crack. As I said: lop off just one fingertip and you never know what fountains of confusion you will unleash.
“And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages, the peasants must starve.”
It was at this time that I, too, was possessed by a strange demon; but in order that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the episode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friends round for cards.
My aunty was prone to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen Goddess were absent, my uncle’s house was still a popular place. On card-evenings, it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and reviews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat-sprays in their handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance-troupe, which was trying to form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; there were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All-India Radio music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued violently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, chatter. “As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints with a genuine sense of ideological commitment!”—“O, it’s too bad about Ferdy, he’ll never get another band after this”—“Menon? Don’t talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned …” “… Ohé, Hanif, yaar, why we don’t see Lal Qasim here these days?” And my uncle, looking anxiously towards me: “Shh … what Qasim? I don’t know any person by that name.”
… And mingling with the hubbub in the apartment, there was the evening color and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhel-puri vendors; and the lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hill … I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her whispered rumors, the city at my back and the crowding, chattering card-schools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card-players, I recognized the sunken-eyed, ascetic form of Mr. Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with embarrassed heartiness: “Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of course you are!”
My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly; but he was in the thrall of a curious obsession—namely, that he was determined never to lay down a hand until he completed a thirteen-card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainable perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly good threes-of-a-kind, and whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous amusement of his friends. I heard the renowned shehnai-player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed his hair, so that on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discolored by running black fluid) tell my uncle; “Come on, mister; leave this heart busin
ess, and just play like the rest of us fellows.” My uncle confronted temptation; then boomed above the din, “No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to my game!” He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such singleness of purpose, felt like clapping.
One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz’s legendary card-evenings was a Times of India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous stories. My uncle introduced me to him: “Here’s the fellow who put you on the front page, Saleem. Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really badmaash type. Don’t talk to him too long; he’ll make your head spin with scandal!” Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thought he was wonderful. “Do you really know scandals?” I asked him; but all he said was, “Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.” But he never found out that the evil genius, the éminence grise behind the greatest scandal the city had ever known was none other than Saleem Snotnose … I mustn’t race ahead. The affair of the curious baton of Commander Sabarmati must be recounted in its proper place. Effects must not (despite the tergiversatory nature of time in 1958) be permitted to precede causes.
I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping Pia to prepare sandwiches and cheese-pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr. Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me. “Breath of fresh air,” he said. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “So,” he exhaled deeply. “So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me shake you by the hand.” Ten-year-old hand is swallowed up by film magnate’s fist (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side) … and now a shock. Left palm feels paper being thrust into it—sinister paper, inserted by dexterous fist! Catrack’s grip tightens; his voice becomes low, but also cobra-like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green-striped sofa, his words penetrate my one good ear: “Give this to your aunty Secretly secretly. Can do? And keep mum; or I’ll send the police to cut your tongue out.” And now, loud and cheery. “Good! Glad to see you in such high spirits!” Homi Catrack is patting me on the head; and moving back to his game.
Threatened by policemen, I have remained silent for two decades; but no longer. Now, everything has to come out.
The card-school broke up early: “The boy has to sleep,” Pia was whispering, “Tomorrow he goes to school again.” I found no opportunity of being alone with my aunt; I was tucked up on my sofa with the note still clutched in my left fist. Mary was asleep on the floor … I decided to feign a nightmare. (Deviousness did not come unnaturally to me.) Unfortunately, however, I was so tired that I fell asleep; and, in the event, there was no need to pretend: because I dreamed the murder of my classmate Jimmy Kapadia.
… We are playing football in the main stairwell at school, on red tiles, slipping sliding. A black cross set in the blood-red tiles. Mr. Crusoe at the head of the stairs: “Mustn’t slide down the banisters boys that cross is where one boy fell.” Jimmy plays football on the cross. “The cross is lies,” Jimmy says, “They tell you lies to spoil your fun.” His mother calls up on the telephone. “Don’t play Jimmy your bad heart.” The bell. The telephone, replaced, and now the bell … Ink-pellets stain the classroom air. Fat Perce and Glandy Keith have fun. Jimmy wants a pencil, prods me in the ribs. “Hey man, you got a pencil, give. Two ticks, man.” I give. Zagallo enters. Zagallo’s hand is up for silence: look at my hair growing on his palm! Zagallo in pointy tin-soldier hat … I must have my pencil back. Stretching out my finger giving Jimmy a poke. “Sir, please look sir, Jimmy fell!” “Sir I saw sir Snotnose poked!” “Snotnose shot Kapadia, sir!” “Don’t play Jimmy your bad heart!” “You be quiet,” Zagallo cries, “Jongle feelth, shut up.”
Jimmy in a bundle on the floor. “Sir sir please sir will they put up a cross?” He borrowed a pencil, I poked, he fell. His father is a taxi-driver. Now the taxi drives into class; a dhobibundle is put on the back seat, out goes Jimmy. Ding, a bell. Jimmy’s father puts down the taxi flag. Jimmy’s father looks at me: “Snotnose, you’ll have to pay the fare.” “But please sir haven’t got the money sir.” And Zagallo: “We’ll put it on your bill.” See my hair on Zagallo’s hand. Flames are pouring from Zagallo’s eyes. “Five hundred meelion, what’s one death?” Jimmy is dead; five hundred million still alive. I start counting: one two three. Numbers march over Jimmy’s grave. One million two million three million four. Who cares if anyone, anyone dies. One hundred million and one two three. Numbers march through the classroom now. Crushing pounding two hundred million three four five. Five hundred million still alive. And only one of me …
… In the dark of the night, I awoke from the dream of Jimmy Kapadia’s death which became the dream of annihilation-by-numbers, yelling howling screaming, but still with the paper in my fist; and a door flew open, to reveal my uncle Hanif and aunt Pia. Mary Pereira tried to comfort me, but Pia was imperious, she was a divine swirl of petticoats and dupatta, she cradled me in her arms: “Never mind! My diamond, never mind now!” And Uncle Hanif, sleepily: “Hey, phaelwan! It’s okay now; come on, you come with us; bring the boy, Pia!” And now I’m safely in Pia’s arms; “Just for tonight, my pearl, you can sleep with us!”—and there I am, nestling between aunt and uncle, huddling against my mumani’s perfumed curves.
Imagine, if you can, my sudden joy; imagine with what speed the nightmare fled from my thoughts, as I nestled against my extraordinary aunt’s petticoats! As she re-arranged herself, to get comfortable, and one golden melon caressed my cheek! As Pia’s hand sought out mine and grasped it firmly … now I discharged my duty. When my aunt’s hand wrapped itself around mine, paper passed from palm to palm. I felt her stiffen, silently; then, although I snuggled up closer closer closer, she was lost to me; she was reading in the dark, and the stiffness of her body was increasing; and then suddenly I knew that I had been tricked, that Catrack was my enemy; and only the threat of policemen prevented me from telling my uncle.
(At school, the next day, I was told of Jimmy Kapadia’s tragic death, suddenly at home, of a heart seizure. It is possible to kill a human being by dreaming his death? My mother always said so; and, in that case, Jimmy Kapadia was my first murder victim. Homi Catrack was to be the next.)
When I returned from my first day back at school, having basked in the unusual sheepishness of Fat Perce and Glandy Keith (“Lissen, yaar, how did we know your finger was in the … hey, man, we got free tickets for a picture tomorrow, you want to come?”) and my equally unexpected popularity (“No more Zagallo! Solid, man! You really lost your hair for something good!”), Aunty Pia was out. I sat quietly with Uncle Hanif while, in the kitchen, Mary Pereira prepared dinner. It was a peaceful little family scene; but the peace was shattered, abruptly, by the crash of a slamming door. Hanif dropped his pencil as Pia, having slammed the front door, flung open the living-room door with equal force. Then he boomed cheerfully, “So, wife: what’s the drama?” … But Pia was not to be defused. “Scribble,” she said, her hand slicing air, “Allah, don’t stop for me! So much talent, a person cannot go to the pot in this house without finding your genius. Are you happy, husband? We are making much money? God is good to you?” Still Hanif remained cheerful. “Come Pia, our little guest is here. Sit, have tea …” Actress Pia froze in an attitude of disbelief. “O God! Such a family I have come to! My life is in ruins, and you offer tea; your mother offers petrol! All is madness …” And Uncle Hanif, frowning now: “Pia, the boy …” A shriek. “Ahaaa! The boy—but the boy has suffered; he is suffering now; he knows what it is to lose, to feel forlorn! I, too, have been abandoned: I am great actress, and here I sit surrounded by tales of bicycle-postmen and donkey-cart drivers! What do you know of a woman’s grief? Sit, sit, let some fat rich Parsee film-producer give you charity, never mind that your wife wears paste jewels and no new saris for two years; a woman’s back is broad, but, beloved husband, you have made my days into deserts! Go, ignore me now, just leave me in peace to jump from the window! I will go into the bedr
oom now,” she concluded, “and if you hear no more from me it is because my heart is broken and I am dead.” More doors slammed: it was a terrific exit.
Uncle Hanif broke a pencil, absent-mindedly, into two halves. He shook his head wonderingly: “What’s got into her?” But I knew. I, bearer of secrets, threatened by policemen, I knew and bit my lip. Because, trapped as I was in the crisis of the marriage of my uncle and aunt, I had broken my recently-made rule and entered Pia’s head; I had seen her visit to Homi Catrack and knew that, for years now, she had been his fancy-woman; I had heard him telling her that he had tired of her charms, and there was somebody else now; and I, who would have hated him enough just for seducing my beloved aunt, found myself hating him twice as passionately for doing her the dishonor of discarding her.
“Go to her,” my uncle was saying, “Maybe you can cheer her up.”
The boy Saleem moves through repeatedly-slammed doors to the sanctum of his tragic aunt; and enters, to find her loveliest of bodies splayed out in wondrous abandon across the marital bed—where, only last night, bodies nestled against bodies—where paper passed from hand to hand … a hand flutters at her heart; her chest heaves; and the boy Saleem stammers, “Aunt, O Aunt, I’m sorry.”
A banshee-wail from the bed. Tragedienne’s arms, flying outwards towards me. “Hai! Hai, hai! Ai-hai-hai!” Needing no further invitation, I fly towards those arms; I fling myself between them, to lie atop my mourning aunt. The arms close around me, tightertighter, nails digging through my school-white shirt, but I don’t care!—Because something has started twitching below my S-buckled belt. Aunty Pia thrashes about beneath me in her despair and I thrash with her, remembering to keep my right hand clear of the action. I hold it stiffly out above the fray. One-handed, I begin to caress her, not knowing what I’m doing, I’m only ten years old and still in shorts, but I’m crying because she’s crying, and the room is full of the noise—and on the bed as two bodies begin to acquire a kind of rhythm, unnameable unthinkable, hips pushing up towards me, while she yells, “O! O God, O God, O!” And maybe I am yelling too, I can’t say, something is taking over from grief here, while my uncle snaps pencils on a striped sofa, something getting stronger, as she writhes and twists beneath me, and at last in the grip of a strength greater than my strength I am bringing down my right hand, I have forgotten my finger, and when it touches her breast, wound presses against skin …