Bombay Time Read online

  Best wishes,

  Thrity Umrigar

  Bombay

  Time

  Bombay

  Time

  THIRTY

  UMRIGAR

  PICADOR USA

  NEW YORK

  BOMBAY TIME. Copyright © 2001 by Thrity Umrigar. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Picador® is a U.S. registered trademark and is used by St. Martin’s Press under license from Pan Books Limited.

  www.picadorusa.com

  Title-page image used courtesy of Photodisc

  Book design by Victoria Kuskowski

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Umrigar, Thrity N.

  Bombay time / Thrity Umrigar.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-27716-4

  1. Apartment houses—Fiction. 2. Bombay (India)—Fiction. 3. Businessmen— Fiction. 4. Parsis—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3621.M75 B66 2001

  813’.6—dc21

  2001021933

  First Edition: July 2001

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For noshir umrigar,

  The gentlest, most decent man I know,

  Who luckily for me.

  Also happens to be my father

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to write a book.

  I believe that. Although writing is an infinitely solitary and lonely way to spend one’s days, the writer is never quite as alone as she imagines. She sits at her computer, wrapped in the warm blanket of memory, surrounded by family members and friends—alive and dead—who stand guard around her. It is they who urge her on through moments of despair, who cheer her when she wrestles with demons, who celebrate with her when the writing flows as easily and richly as mother’s milk. When the book is done, it is the writer’s name that appears on the jacket. But she knows how much help she had in writing the book, from the people who grace her life. Here are the people who helped make my book possible:

  Colleen Mohyde, my “miracle” agent and good friend, and Carrie McGinnis, my extraordinary editor.

  Bill Kovach, former curator at the Nieman Foundation at Harvard University, for giving me the fellowship that allowed me to write the novel.

  Brad Watson and Patricia Powell, my creative writing professors at Harvard, and novelist Bapsi Sidhwa, for their wise suggestions and words of encouragement.

  The Beacon Journal, for giving me the sabbatical for the Nieman Fellowship.

  Hutokshi and Perveen Rustomfram, who came into my life at the right time and never left.

  Cyndi and Nate Howard, Anne Reid, Ray Chathams, Jenny Wilson, Arvind and Pat D’Souza, Peggy Veasey, Regina Brett, Ruth Schwartz, Barb Guthrie, Cathy Mockus, and Wendy Langenderfer— friends who have expanded my definition of family.

  Noshir and Freny Umrigar and their daughter Sharon, for the trip that changed the course of my life.

  Ronnie, Caps, and Blue, for their lessons in love, dignity, and loyalty.

  Eustathea Kavouras, a one-woman cheering squad, for her caring and support every step of the way, and Harriet Kavouras, for her prayers.

  Above all, I thank my family—my father, Noshir, for his unconditional love and good example; my mother, Ketty, for her constant encouragement and her pride in me; my aunt Homai, for teaching me the meaning of grace; my cousins Gulshan and Rointon, for being a necessary and joyous part of my life; and lastly, my aunt and uncle, Jeroo and Jamshed, who, though deceased, remain alive in me.

  Bombay

  Time

  Prologue

  Bombay is awake. All over the city, alarm clocks ring. Their ringing awakens the sun, so that it rolls out of bed and begins its slow, reluctant climb across the sky. Along the way, it leaves behind a drool of red, like the scarlet streaks of paan spit that color the city’s walls and buildings. The men doing their daily exercises at Worli Sea Face barely notice the lightening sky and the sun’s ascendancy. They grunt; they sweat; their muscled bodies gleam like dark branches in the morning light. Soon, they will be hurtled from the dark bosom of the predawn and its anonymous, elusive peace. But for this brief moment, they own the city, these shadowy men, an army of grunting, sweating silhouettes, as they do their sit-ups, practice their wrestling moves, perform their yoga exercises, breathe in the sweet morning air. For a short, precious moment, no boom box blares Hindi film music; no taxis speak in the harsh language of beeps. Just the sounds of their own breathing and of the sighing ocean as it tosses and turns in its sleep. So that it is easy for these men to believe that they own this dark city—its warm air, its palm trees, its hollow moon, its foaming waters.

  But now, the city owns them. Bombay is awake to another day.

  Across town, Wadia Baug on Bomanji Road is stirring with life. Whispers of, “Come on, it’s late. Ootho, get up,” compete with the clanging of alarm clocks. An occasional “Please, Mummy. Five more minutes to sleep” merges with threats of buckets of cold water being emptied on old sleepyhead if he doesn’t get out of bed, fatta-faat, this very moment. The damp smell of yawns gives way to the sharp scent of toothpaste. Then comes the thudding noise of fists on the bathroom door: “Hurry up. You’re not the only one living here. Minoo has to do potty urgently.” In the first- and second-floor apartments, water flows freely out of the kitchen taps. But on the third and fourth floors, the tap chokes and gurgles like an old asthmatic woman and the women beat it with their open palms, trying to coax a trickle of water. “Greedy pigs,” they mutter about their fortunate neighbors. “Using water as if Niagara Falls is flowing in their house.” Still cursing, the women dip a plastic cup into the bucket of water they had filled up the night before. With this, they brush their teeth.

  Soon, the first doorbell rings. Bhajan, the butcher, is delivering meat. The women stand at their doors in their duster coats, some with scarves on their heads. At every apartment where Bhajan drops off a slab of goat meat wrapped in butter paper, a woman opens the packet, inspects the contents, and asks for a meatier cut. “All haadis” she says. “Who you saving the good parts for? We’re paying for meat, not bones. And this piece looks gray, like it’s ten days old.” Each time, Bhajan protests, singing the praises of the meat he sells, swearing he shows no partiality among his customers. Then he gives them each a different package, containing another bony cut. Each woman takes the second packet and shuts the door with satisfaction. That badmash Bha-jan. You have to watch him every time.

  Wadia Baug is now ringing and lighting up like a telephone switchboard. First, it’s the pauwala, dropping off fresh rolls of bread. Next, the doodhwala rings the bell. Another fellow you have to watch carefully. Just to keep him on his toes, the women accuse him daily of mixing water in the milk. Some mornings, the women on the same floor all gang up on him, accusing him of the same foul deed. Together, their chorus of complaints drown out his feeble protests. They laugh at him and grumble to one another about how expensive food has become in Bombay, about the latest sugar shortage or the absurd cost of butter and cheese, about how all the best and biggest prawns and pomfrets are being exported to the Gulf. Same with fruits and vegetables. The older ones remember vaguely the good old days of British rule. And now that the women have said good morning to one another, they hurry inside their apartments, feeling better.

  While their wives are cooking breakfast, the men prepare for their bath. After a quick bath, they emerge smelling of Lifebuoy or Lux or Hamam soap. Those with relatives abroad smell of Camay or Dove or Yardley. The women suddenly feel self-conscious
of their sour, sweaty bodies.

  Now it’s time for breakfast. The women serve the largest portion of the scrambled eggs to their men. Next, they serve their elderly relatives and their children. They keep the least amount for themselves. Usually, they eat directly from the frying pan, using the bread to wipe it clean of grease. One less plate to wash.

  The men read the Times of India or Indian Express while they eat. The children fight over the comics page. There they are, their daily friends: Archie and Jughead. Ritchie Rich. Mandrake the Magician. Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks. Tarzan, King of the Apes. Lost in the comics, they barely hear their mothers’ endless droning: “Drink your milk.” “Do you have all your homework? Look at your shoes. Didn’t I tell you to polish them last night? Your teacher will think I’m raising a beggar boy.” “Here’s money for batatawadas during snack break. Don’t spend the money on film-star photos, okay? If you bring home one more photo of Sanjay Dutt, I’ll tear it into little-little pieces, I swear to God.”

  Here come the school buses. Abandoning half-drunk glasses of milk and mothers in the middle of lectures, the few young children left in Wadia Baug race down the stairs. Despite their small numbers, they sound like a herd of cattle as they stampede down the wooden stairs. Their mothers race to the windows in time to see them turn and wave a hasty good-bye that the children hope their friends will not notice. Then they are gone, swallowed up by the old, sighing school bus. Swallowed up by a world of best friends and window seats and spitting contests and Chiclets and Mad magazines.

  The men leave for work around the same time. The ones with no cars, who rely on the unreliable BEST bus system, leave first. The ones with the expense accounts that pay for cabs leave next. Finally, the ones with the cars are ready, too. Usually, their cars have been washed that morning by one of the homeless men who have adopted Bomanji Road. These men awake early each morning from the pavement, where they sleep in long rows of shivering bodies—men, women, children, and infants—and stretch the cold and soreness out of their limbs. Then they hurry up to the apartment buildings to pick up the washcloths and buckets of soapy water from the car owners. The smarter ones use the water to perform their toiletries secretly, out of the view of the car owners.

  The older residents of Wadia Baug sit at their windows, watching the last of their neighbors leave for work. Some of the more feeble ones go back to sleep or turn on the television, flipping channels until Bill Clinton and Sanjay Dutt and Mel Gibson and Atul Bihari Vajpayee become one blurry image. Clintonduttgibsonvajpayee. Others make their beds, preparing for the usual trickle of visitors who come bearing news and gossip.

  At some point today, all of Wadia Baug’s residents will interrupt their routine for one additional task—preparing the envelope. According to their means, they will stuff a white envelope with crisp rupee notes of different denominations. Regardless of the total amount, they will add a one-rupee coin to the envelope before licking it shut. For good luck. With hands made steady by good health and youth or trembling with frailty and old age, they will each write on the envelope with a red pen. “All the best, Meher-nosh,” they will print. “Good wishes for a long and happy married life.” Before the day is over, Mehernosh Kanga, a boy who grew up on their knees, will be a married man. This is a day of joy, an auspicious day.

  Now the sun is wide awake, baring its teeth, making the sweat run down people’s back. Before it will make its way across the sky and into the waiting arms of the Arabian Sea, so much will have happened: migrations into the city, births, marriages, dowry deaths, illicit love affairs, pay raises, first kisses, bankruptcy filings, traffic accidents, business deals, money changing hands, plant shutdowns, gallery openings, poetry readings, political discussions, evictions. Every event in human history will repeat itself today. Everything that ever happened will happen again today. All of life lived in a day.

  A day, a day. A silver urn of promise and hope. Another chance. At reinvention, at resurrection, at reincarnation. A day. The least and most of all of our lives.

  One

  Rusi Bilimoria glanced at his watch for the fifth time. Damn that woman, he thought. It was 7:15 P.M. already and still she was not ready. After nearly thirty years, Coomi’s inability to be ready on time still rankled him. For years, he had lied to her about the time they were to leave for an engagement, deliberately telling her they had to leave at least half an hour sooner. At first, it had worked. But over time, Coomi had either gotten wise to his little trick or had slowed down even more, so that even this didn’t work anymore.

  For instance, he’d told her earlier this morning that they had to leave the house that evening at 6:30 sharp. He didn’t want to be the last to arrive at Mehernosh Kanga’s wedding. The memory of a month ago, when old Kaizad had greeted them at the entrance of Cama Baug and boomed, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Latecomer! I was just wondering if you went to the wrong wedding or what. Chalo, you are at least in time for dinner” still made him hot with embarrassment when he thought about it. To make matters worse, Coomi had turned to Kaizad and said, “So sorry, Kaizu. But you know how bad traffic is these days. And poor Rusi works so hard at his business and gets home so late. And then he has to shower just to get all that paper dust off him.” And Rusi had marveled at his wife’s audacity, how she had neatly transferred the blame onto him, ignoring the fact that he had been home at five o’clock and had been pacing the apartment in his gray suit and dark blue tie for an hour while Coomi was still deciding what piece of jewelry to wear with her light pink chiffon sari.

  Truth be told, he didn’t even want to go to the wedding. It would be the same crowd, the women fixing their sharp gazes on Coomi and him, trying to figure out if they were on speaking terms that night, the men breathing on him with their hot, drunken breath. He dreaded the hunt for a taxi on the busy Bombay streets, the inevitable traffic jam near Grant Road, where the beggar children would swarm around the cab like locusts. He hated walking down the long, dark alley to the reception hall, past the lepers and the legless beggars on skateboards. The older he got, the less Rusi wanted to leave his home, except to go to his factory. The Bombay of his youth—or at least the Bombay of his memory—had given way to a fetid, crowded, overpowering city that insulted his senses. Stepping into the city was like stepping into a dirty sock, sour, sweaty, and putrid.

  And more and more the city—its noise, violence, pollution, filth— was invading his home. Every day, the newspaper landed like a missile at his door. ELDERLY WOMAN PROFESSOR BLUDGEONED TO DEATH, the headlines screamed, CHIEF MINISTER IMPLICATED IN FINANCIAL SCANDAL, ARMED GUNMEN FLEE AFTER BANK ROBBERY.

  Leaning on the railing of his third-floor apartment’s balcony, Rusi surveyed the chaotic scene around him. Bicyclists weaved in and out of heavy traffic. The street department had once again dug up the sidewalk, so that it lay open like a mouth. Many of the balconies of the adjacent buildings had clothes hanging out to dry, so that denim jeans and white kurtas fluttered like flags in the wind. Involuntarily, Rusi smiled to himself, remembering how the unseemly sight had never failed to exasperate his mother. Khorshed Bilimoria had always raved about how uncooth it was to hang clothes out to dry in public, for the world to see. “Uncivilized junglees,” his mother used to mutter. “These people have no class at all.” It had been one of Khorshed’s many peeves. If she’d caught some insolent youth peeing against a public building of a paan-chewingpasserby spitting a stream of sticky red betel juice onto the sidewalk, Khorshed had not been above going after them, armed with a lecture about cleanliness being next to Godliness. Then she’d come home, muttering about how the country had gone to hell after the British left.

  Today, you can’t even yell at someone for pissing or spitting near your apartment building, Rusi thought. They’re just as likely to turn around and spit on you. Or worse, they’ll come back with their goonda friends and create God knows what mischief. Mamma was lucky to have died when she did, may her soul rest in peace.

  Thinking about the city of
his birth made Rusi tired. He wondered if he and Coomi should just stay home tonight and send the wedding gift tomorrow. But his conscience pinched at him. Mehernosh’s father, Jimmy, was an old friend and a good neighbor. Besides, Mehernosh was a childhood friend of Rusi’s daughter, Binny, and had practically lived at the Bilimoria apartment when the kids were young. He had to be there.

  Rusi left the balcony and knocked on the bedroom door. “The first shift must be close to finishing dinner by now,” he said to the closed door. “At this rate, if we’re lucky, we’ll be in time for the third shift.”

  “I would’ve been ready by now if you weren’t knocking on the door every two, three minutes,” came the shrill reply. “It’s like the All India Radio news bulletin every two minutes, telling me what time it is.”

  You should leave, Rusi thought to himself in disgust as he headed back to the living room. If you were half a man, you would not say another word, just get a cab and go alone. Would serve her right, to sit at home one evening, all dressed up. Would cure her of her tardiness in one quick stroke.

  But even while he thought about it, he knew he would not do it. For one thing, he knew that Coomi would never let him forget the incident, would bring it up and throw it in his face like a dirty plate every chance she got. Besides, all their neighbors and friends would be at the reception and he’d have to come up with some excuse to explain Coomi’s absence. And if he lied, told them she had the flu or something, they’d all know by noon the next day anyway. Because Coomi would be up early the next morning, visiting Dosamai, the old widow who lived on the second floor, telling her about her shock and fright at finding that Rusi had “abandoned” her, had left for no reason at all, without a warning or anything. Then the two women would speculate about Rusi’s strange behavior, not once mentioning the issue of Coomi’s tardiness, which was legendary among those who had ever made plans with Coomi. Dosamai had herself arrived at the same system of calculation that Rusi had, so that whenever the old woman wanted Coomi to escort her to her doctor’s office, she always told Coomi to be ready an hour ahead of the time they had to leave.