On Thursday, the class lined up to go to the Visual Hall. Eric stood behind Jehangir to ensure their seats would be together.
When the room was dark he put his hand on Jehangir’s thigh and began caressing it. He took Jehangir’s hand and placed it on his crotch. It lay there inert. Impatient, he whispered, “Do it, man, c’mon!” But Jehangir’s lacklustre stroking was highly unsatisfactory. Eric arrested the hand, reached inside his pants and said, “OK, hold it tight and rub it like this.” He encircled Jehangir’s hand with his to show him how. When Jehangir had attained the right pressure and speed he released his own hand to lean back and sigh contentedly. Shortly Jehangir felt a warm stickiness fill his palm and fingers, and the hardness he held in his hand grew flaccid.
Eric shook off the hand. Jehangir wiped his palm with his hanky. Eric borrowed the hanky to wipe himself. “Want me to do it for you?” he asked. But Jehangir declined. He was thinking of his hanky. The odour was interesting, not unpleasant at all, but he would have to find some way of cleaning it before his mother found it.
The following day, Eric presented him with more stamps. Next Thursday’s assignation was also fixed.
And on Sunday Jehangir went to see Dr. Mody at ten o’clock. The wife let him in, muttering something under her breath about being bothered by inconsiderate people on the one day that the family could be together.
Dr. Mody’s delight at the new stamps fulfilled Jehangir’s every expectation: “Wonderful, wonderful! Where did you get them all? No, no, forget it, don’t tell me. You will think I’m trying to learn your tricks. I already have enough stamps to keep me busy in my retirement. Ha! ha!”
After the new stamps had been examined and sorted Dr. Mody said, “Today, as a reward for your enterprise, I’m going to show you a stamp you’ve never seen before.” From the cupboard of biscuit and sweet tins he took a small satin-covered box of the type in which rings or bracelets are kept. He opened it and, without removing the stamp from inside, placed it on the desk.
The stamp said España Correos at the bottom and its denomination was noted in the top left corner: 3 PTAS. The face of the stamp featured a flamenco dancer in the most exquisite detail and colour. But it was something in the woman’s countenance, a look, an ineffable sparkle he saw in her eyes, which so captivated Jehangir.
Wordlessly, he studied the stamp. Dr. Mody waited restlessly as the seconds ticked by. He kept fidgeting till the little satin-covered box was shut and back in his hands, then said, “So you like the Spanish dancing-lady. Everyone who sees it likes it. Even my wife who is not interested in stamp-collecting thought it was beautiful. When I retire I can spend more time with the Spanish dancing-lady. And all my other stamps.” He relaxed once the stamp was locked again in the cupboard.
Jehangir left, carrying that vision of the Spanish dancer in his head. He tried to imagine the stamp inhabiting the pages of his album, to greet him every time he opened it, with the wonderful sparkle in her eyes. He shut the door behind him and immediately, as though to obliterate his covetous fantasy, loud voices rose inside the flat.
He heard Mrs. Mody’s, shrill in argument, and the doctor’s, beseeching her not to yell lest the neighbours would hear. Pesi’s name was mentioned several times in the quarrel that ensued, and accusations of neglect, and something about the terrible affliction on a son of an unloving father. The voices followed Jehangir as he hurried past the inquiring eyes of his mother, till he reached the bedroom at the other end of the flat and shut the door.
When the school week started, Jehangir found himself looking forward to Thursday. His pulse was racing with excitement when visual period came. To save his hanky this time he kept some paper at hand.
Eric did not have to provide much guidance. Jehangir discovered he could control Eric’s reactions with variations in speed, pressure, and grip. When it was over and Eric offered to do it to him, he did not refuse.
The weeks sped by and Jehangir’s collection continued to grow, visual period by visual period. Eric’s and his masturbatory partnership was whispered about in class, earning the pair the title of moothya-maroo. He accompanied Eric on the flicking forays, helping to swell the milling crowd and add to the browsing hands. Then he grew bolder, studied Eric’s methods, and flicked a few stamps himself.
But this smooth course of stamp-collecting was about to end. Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu broke their long tradition of silence and complained to the school. Unlike marbles and supari, it was not a question of a few paise a day. When Eric and Jehangir struck, their haul could be totalled in rupees reaching double digits; the loss was serious enough to make the Babus worry about their survival.
The school assigned the case to the head prefect to investigate. He was an ambitious boy, always snooping around, and was also a member of the school debating team and the Road Safety Patrol. Shortly after the complaint was made he marched into Jehangir’s class one afternoon just after lunch break, before the teacher returned, and made what sounded very much like one of his debating speeches: “Two boys in this class have been stealing stamps from Patla Babu and Jhaaria Babu for the past several weeks. You may ask: who are those boys? No need for names. They know who they are and I know who they are, and I am asking them to return the stamps to me tomorrow. There will be no punishment if this is done. The Babus just want their stamps back. But if the missing stamps are not returned, the names will be reported to the principal and to the police. It is up to the two boys.”
Jehangir tried hard to appear normal. He was racked with trepidation, and looked to the unperturbed Eric for guidance. But Eric ignored him. The head prefect left amidst mock applause from the class.
After school, Eric turned surly. Gone was the tender, cajoling manner he reserved for Jehangir, and he said nastily: “You better bring back all those fucking stamps tomorrow.” Jehangir, of course, agreed. There was no trouble with the prefect or the school after the stamps were returned.
But Jehangir’s collection shrunk pitiably overnight. He slept badly the entire week, worried about explaining to Burjor Uncle the sudden disappearance of the bulk of his collection. His mother assumed the dark rings around his eyes were due to too much reading and not enough fresh air. The thought of stamps or of Patla Babu or Jhaaria Babu brought an emptiness to his stomach and a bitter taste to his mouth. A general sense of ill-being took possession of him.
He went to see Burjor Uncle on Sunday, leaving behind his stamp album. Mrs. Mody opened the door and turned away silently. She appeared to be in a black rage, which exacerbated Jehangir’s own feelings of guilt and shame.
He explained to Burjor Uncle that he had not bothered to bring his album because he had acquired no new stamps since last Sunday, and also, he was not well and would not stay for long.
Dr. Mody was concerned about the boy, so nervous and uneasy; he put it down to his feeling unwell. They looked at some stamps Dr. Mody had received last week from his colleagues abroad. Then Jehangir said he’d better leave.
“But you must see the Spanish dancing-lady before you go. Maybe she will help you feel better. Ha! ha!” and Dr. Mody rose to go to the cupboard for the stamp. Its viewing at the end of each Sunday’s session had acquired the significance of an esoteric ritual.
From the next room Mrs. Mody screeched: “Burjorji! Come here at once!” He made a wry face at Jehangir and hurried out.
In the next room, all the vehemence of Mrs. Mody’s black rage of that morning poured out upon Dr. Mody: “It has reached the limit now! No time for your own son and Sunday after Sunday sitting with some stranger! What does he have that your own son does not? Are you a baap or what? No wonder Pesi has become this way! How can I blame the boy when his own baap takes no interest…”