Tehmul saw his figure framed in the light. ‘Gustad. PleaseGustadplease. Theywouldnotletmetouchnotoncenotonce. Pleasepleaseplease. Onlyonceonly.’
Gustad raised his arm and waved it vaguely. He drew the curtain, having no time or compassion to spare tonight. There was the sound of sniffling outside, and a sob; then the sound of footsteps: a light step first, then heavy and dragging, alternating till they faded.
Chapter Fourteen
i
Nearing the crossroads, Gustad saw the cinema billboard lights blaze in the dusking sky. Synchronized bulbs flashed around gigantic cut-outs of hero and heroine, guardians of the city’s evening chaos; behind them loomed a bearded villain, nastily twisting his villainous lips.
Outside the Aarey Colony milk booth, three boys in tattered vests and a little girl in scavenged ankle-length blouse scrambled round the wire racks, examining the used bottles. The booth attendant bellowed to leave the bottles alone. Bad for business, he said, nuisances staring with big-big eyes as if they never saw milk in their lives.
The children waited till he was absorbed in his work, then sneaked up again. The attendant heard the tinkling of bottles. He silently opened the door at the rear of the booth and leaped out as Gustad reached the corner.
The three boys escaped. The little girl was caught by the sleeve of her blouse-frock. ‘Budtameez!’ said the man, and whacked her over the head. ‘Won’t listen when I tell you nicely!’ Whack, again. The child squealed and struggled. The boys watched helplessly. The man lifted his hand for the third blow, which never landed.
Gustad grabbed his collar from behind and the shock made him lose his grip. The boys clapped, and the girl quickly ran to a safe distance. Gustad spun the man around. ‘You have no sharam, a big donkey beating a tiny girl?’
‘All day they make nuisance,’ he whined. ‘Harassing my customers, grabbing their bottles before they even put them down.’ Gustad released the man’s collar. The little girl watched gratefully from her place of safety. She wiped her runny nose on a sleeve. How thin she is. Even skinnier than Roshan. ‘People don’t like to stop where there are beggars,’ the attendant continued. ‘If I don’t sell my quota, this booth will shut down. Then what will I do?’
‘Give me one bottle,’ snapped Gustad, taking out his wallet.
‘What kind? Chocolate, mango, pista, plain?’
Gustad beckoned to the little girl. ‘Come, baby. What milk you like?’ She made a shy movement with her head and shoulders. He insisted she choose.
‘Plain white,’ she said timidly. The attendant grudgingly placed a bottle before her and inserted the straw. After a few sips she called the boys, holding out the bottle towards them.
‘Wait wait, what is this?’ said Gustad. ‘Milk is for you.’
‘My brothers. They also like milk,’ she said shyly, looking down and tracing a design in the dust with her toe.
‘Oh,’ considered Gustad. ‘What kind they like?’
‘Chocolate!’
‘Chocolate!’
‘Chocolate!’ came the replies in quick succession, and then, in unison, ‘But any kind is OK.’
‘Three chocolate,’ he told the attendant. He waited while they drank, not willing to trust the fellow alone with them. When the straws gurgled emptily, he left. They tagged behind for a little distance, skipping along, pushing one another, bursting into film songs now and again, not quite certain how to show their gratitude. Eventually, they disappeared in the rush of movie-goers.
Past the cinema junction, the crowds thinned. The Wheeler-Dealer Tyre Mart was taking in its display from the pavement. The car mechanics (All Makes-Local & Foren) collected their tools and spare parts from the curb and locked the cars. Near the House of Cages were the usual loiterers, come to gaze at the exotic birds in their skimpy, colourful plumage. The genuine customers entered and emerged without dilly-dallying.
‘Hallo, gentleman!’ said Peerbhoy. ‘Leg is fine today?’
‘Yes, yes, very fine,’ he replied, pre-empting offers of another paan. ‘Is Ghulam Mohammed coming today?’
‘Already he is inside.’
‘And I can go in? They won’t mind?’
‘The women? Arré, they like it if a man comes. Ghulambhai is on top floor, exactly opposite the staircase.’
A radio or record-player somewhere was playing an old film song: ‘Dil deke dekho, dil deke dekho, dil deke dekhoji…’ Try giving your heart away, give your heart away and see, exhorted the singer. Gustad entered the place hesitantly. Down the passage, into the cheap perfume smells and nauseating attar mingled with body odours. The women waiting for customers. Bosoms thrusting. One dropped a hand to the hem of her skirt and raised it so the thigh was exposed. Gustad glanced quickly: hairy. He climbed the stairs. At the next landing, the exhibition repeated. Cleavages and navels framed in doorways. One in shorts (Hot Pants, said the print on the back), turned sideways, showing squeezed-out half-moons. He looked without staring, hoping his face showed a blank disinterest. Have to be desperate to…that one needing a good shave. Elongated baatli mangoes. Wheeler-Dealer tyres. This place looking better from outside than in. But they say at Colaba, beautiful high-class whores. Colaba call-girls, making lots of money with Middle East tourists, Arbaas, fond of AC-DC, both ways…
The rooms he could peek into were sordid. Bed, thin lumpy mattress, no sheet, ceiling fan, chair, table. In one corner, a basin and small mirror. Where were the scented silk sheets, the air-conditioned rooms, drinks, refreshments? The luxuries that they talked of in their stories of this place? Where were the dancing-girls, the skilled practitioners of the art said to possess secrets that could drive a man insane with pleasure? The way these women moved and displayed themselves, there was as much chance of going insane with pleasure as recovering from heart surgery performed by a beef-carving Crawford Market goaswalla. He climbed the third and final floor. It’s always the same. Always, things look wonderful from afar. When the moment arrives, only disappointment.
The music ended, then the same song started again. ‘Dil deke dekho, dil deke dekho, dil deke dekhoji’…must be someone’s favourite record. He knocked on the door opposite the stairs. It opened a crack. He did not recognize the man with a full beard who peered out. Then the man spoke and let the door open wide: ‘Mr. Noble. Please come in.’ The voice was familiar. In the months since Chor Bazaar, Ghulam Mohammed had lost his bandage and gained a beard.
Gustad entered cautiously. The room was like the others he had glimpsed, down to the wash-basin, but instead of a bed there was a desk. Framed pictures of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru hung on the wall behind the desk.
‘Please have a seat. I was expecting you. Thanks for coming so promptly.’ Polite and courteous as ever, thought Gustad. As though nothing had happened. ‘You read it in the newspaper?’
‘Yesterday,’ said Gustad.
‘You must be wondering what’s going on.’ He swivelled from side to side in his chair, then became very still. ‘It’s true. Our dear friend is really in jail. But the rest is lies. Dirty lies. You know everything that appears in newspapers is not the truth.’