Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer (21 page)

Imagine the poor girl’s indignation and embarrassment when early one morning, on reporting to work as usual, she wasn’t permitted by the watchman—I repeat, the
watchman
—to gain entry into the office. He was apologetic, but firm: ‘saheb’s orders’. Instead of taking her usual seat at the typists and secretaries pool, she was kept waiting on the pavement until the accountant came out and handed her an envelope containing one month’s salary to cover her notice period, and a pre-dated letter of dismissal. No reason or explanation was provided in the letter. She was sent packing home that very morning.

Vera had always suspected that Shapoor lacked the gumption to stand up to his father, if ever it came to defending his choice of betrothed. Sure enough, the boy didn’t even make any attempt to contact Vera again, presumably in accordance with his father’s wishes. Or perhaps he wanted to, but didn’t dare incur his wrath.

I heard all this later, from Rustom, who was completely distraught by the turn of events that had overtaken his daughter’s life. He had always taken great pride in her achievements, her strength of character, and the rapidly escalating graph of her career. Why, only recently when she had told them that Shapoor Limbuwala had asked for her hand in marriage, he and Aimai, his mother, had been ecstatic. . . Finally, a narrow exit from the stifling subjugation of their lives—this was nothing short of deliverance—if not for him and his mother, at least for his daughter. And now suddenly this: in retrospect, he told me, the thought
had
occurred to him it was just too good to be true.

He said to Vera that he would resign his job and move out of Doongerwaadi, if that would make her more acceptable to her prospective in-laws, but Vera wouldn’t hear of it.

At first she laughed bitterly, Rusi said, and then when he persisted in his offer, and wanted her to at least communicate it to Shapoor, she became angry.

‘What do you think, Daddy? That I have no pride or self-respect?’ Vera had flared up. ‘Am I now supposed to start feeling ashamed and furtive about how my father has spent the last twenty-eight years of his life?’

‘I don’t matter in this,’ Rustom had argued. ‘You don’t understand, Vera. This is your one chance to escape forever from this trap I put all of you in.’

‘It’s your life, Daddy,’ Vera had replied. ‘Our life. And you had no choice when you were orphaned at a young age, and your uncle cheated you and turned you out. You should be proud of what you achieved despite the odds.’

‘All that’s past history,’ Rustom had replied, ‘I’m talking about now. About your life. . .’

Never once in all the years of our friendship had Rusi talked to me about how he came to be a corpse bearer. I could hardly ask him to disclose details now.

‘And how do you think I will feel every time Shapoor touches me.’ Vera had continued, unable to accept her father’s viewpoint. ‘Knowing what he’s thinking? And when we have children—if we do have children—am I supposed to hide from them who their grandfather was? Just because those puffed-up pot-bellied moneybags hold corpses in such revulsion? Thanks, but no thanks!’

‘She refused to discuss the matter any further,’ Rusi said to me, taking off his spectacles, and wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. I suspect he was crying not because he was sorry for his daughter, but because he was proud of her. This had been a terrible blow to him. And he’s nobody’s fool not to realize why it had happened.

‘My poor girl has been sitting home for the last two weeks, moping. I think she had really come to love that boy. . . Now, who could have done this, I ask you? I’m sure the Limbuwalas didn’t find out just by accident. They must have received a phone call telling them what their son’s fiancée’s father’s profession is. . .’

I knew he felt the needle of suspicion pointed to Buchia, who was the only person capable of such deliberate meanness. And ever since his inept handling of the khandhias’ strike, and his consequent embarrassment before Coyaji, and Coyaji’s own discomposure before the other trustees, Buchia’s stock had gone down considerably; as also his unconditional authority within his sprawling, herbaceous fiefdom. And Buchia knew very well that apart from me, Rustom had been a guiding force behind the strike.

‘It could just as well be anyone else,’ I said to him, not because I believed it but just for the sake of argument.

‘But what could anyone else’s motive for such a dastardly act be?’ Rustom asked me, genuinely bewildered.

(ii)

But I hadn’t had the courage to disclose even to my closest friend events that had occurred just a few months after the strike was over. It was all just a bit too complicated and convoluted, and finally, too distasteful a story for me to even attempt to narrate. Years had passed but I hadn’t breathed a word about it to a soul.

He sent a message to me through Daamji, one of the gardeners, summoning me to his office. Buchia’s living quarters and office are contiguous. It was already about seven in the evening, which should have made me smell a rat. I went up to his office, but he wasn’t behind his desk; the door was open, and a lit table lamp glowed on his desk.

‘Is that you, Phiroze?’

The shrilly nasal voice from the adjacent room, unmistakably Buchia’s, seemed to be in some state of tremulous excitement. Presently, he emerged, knotting the drawstring on his striped pajamas; his broad hairy chest was visible from behind the loose, diaphanous sudrah he wore.

‘
Baes, baes
. . .’ he gestured at a chair. ‘You do remember what day it is tomorrow, Piloo. . .’

‘What day. . .’ I repeated after him blankly, wondering if there was something I had promised to do, but forgotten.

Rather solemnly, Buchia went on:

‘Tomorrow is 28th February, my dear Piloo. That is, the day on which your probation period finally ends. . .’

I was mystified.

‘What probation?’ I laughed. ‘That’s an old story.’

After the strike, my own reinstatement, along with all the other gains we had achieved, was never in question.

‘Yes,’ said Buchia. ‘But like the allotment of casual leave, the regulating of working hours and payment of overtime, this is one matter you and your desperados didn’t demand in writing. So, you see, there’s no record of it; as far as we are concerned, the probation period still holds, even if we have revoked the dismissal.’

‘What!’ I asked, alarmed. ‘It was fully agreed upon and accepted that I would be reinstated! This is nonsense!’

‘Yes, but my dear Piloo, you didn’t take it in writing. . . Reinstated yes, but still on probation. Tomorrow morning, in fact, it has been suggested to me, I could send you a letter stating that your probation period has ended, and that, alas, I am not happy with your work. So. . .’ he shrugged.

I was silent, but my hands and feet had turned cold. Jobless and without a place to stay, where would I go with Farida. . .? His face was expressionless as a mask. But as I stared into it I imagined I glimpsed a wicked grin lurking behind those stern thickly compressed lips, those deadpan eyes.

I shouted at him in exasperation nevertheless, even now unsure if he was serious, or playing some kind of trick on me.

‘What! Is this a joke, saheb?’

‘No, no, I’ll simply have to say your work isn’t satisfactory. What will you do then, Piloo, what will you do, tell me? Will you call another strike?’

‘Why do you want to say such mad things, saheb. . . You know very well,
I
didn’t call the strike, it was everyone together. . . And I don’t think this is fair at all. . .’

He had remained completely earnest through the preceding rigmarole. If anything, there was an aggrieved accusatory ring to his voice as if it was
we
strikers who had betrayed his kindness; but below the affected tone of hurt, I was sure I could detect the low whirring whetstone of Buchia’s characteristic malevolence.

He was sharpening his knives, reminding me with barely concealed glee that
he
knew as well as I did: all thirteen of the remaining corpse bearers, quite satiated by the gains they had all collectively made, were not likely to go on strike a second time just to demand my renewed reinstatement—if it should come to that. Nor had we made any progress with formally registering our trade union of corpse bearers with the Labour Board (though the process had been initiated). It was true. Buchia and the rest of the blessed trustees—if they were in the know of this at all—could actually get away with such an incredible piece of calumny.

‘Oh, don’t look so sad, bawa,’ Buchia said.

There was a complete transformation now in his tone and manner. Even his high-pitched voice seemed to drop a few tones, becoming soft, almost syrupy and unctuous.

‘I would never, never do anything like that to you, my friend. . .’ he said.

‘For a moment, I almost believed it. . .’ I said despite myself, terribly relieved.

‘Never, I could never do such a thing. . .and you—with your little one. . .
enu naam su
?—’

‘Farida. . .’

‘Farida. . . Where would you both go to? What would you do? Never, never. I could never do such a thing to you,’ he reiterated. ‘I’m not a monster. . .I’m there for you, Piloo. I promised you once, and I meant it. I will never let you get hurt, Piloo. . .I’m your friend. . .I was only pulling your leg just now.’

I laughed with Buchia, who was chuckling aloud at having successfully duped me.

‘You were frightened for a moment, weren’t you? Tell me honestly?’

I nodded sheepishly, while continuing to smirk and giggle, and sportingly share in his amusement; but also embarrassed. . . I suppose I knew where all this was leading.

Without warning, Buchia embraced me, and a tearful emotiveness crept into his voice. His shiny pate was right under my nose now, smelling of pomade. Until just a moment ago he had kept up a rather formal, avuncular manner; now suddenly, I found him sobbing in my arms, trembling like a wet, bristly puppy, and holding on to me as tightly as he could.

‘Why, why do you hate me so, Piloo? Don’t you like me at all. . .? Accept me as I am. We could be so happy together. . .so happy. . . Let me, let me just touch you. . .I can give you so much pleasure, so much pleasure, you have no idea. . .’

And his hand moved to my crotch. He began rubbing it and squeezing it. I didn’t react, I confess. I didn’t brush it off. I suppose that makes me something of a whore. But the truth is only a minute ago he had given me a real scare, reminding me of his own potential viciousness. And besides, I didn’t have the heart to compound the contempt I suspected he must already feel for himself.

I had always been aware of his perverse interest in me even before this evening’s melodrama was enacted; but this time he was begging of me, rather pathetically, to show some lenity. I didn’t react at all; just stood there frozen like a statue in some children’s game and let him have his way. The whole physical encounter didn’t last longer than a few minutes. I was wondering what I should do next to bring his sentimental incontinence to an end. As he was fiddling with the buttons on my fly, he experienced a seizure of sorts that left him gasping; and me breathless, for he had tightened his embrace on me into a fierce, vice-like grip. Then very slowly, he released me, and tenderly kissed my lips.

‘Come. Please come by any time at all,’ he said, ‘in the evening preferably, when we have both finished our day’s work. . . If you’re ever feeling lonely or bored, don’t hesitate to stop by. We can pass the time together. . .I can give you so much pleasure, believe me, Piloo, a-ha-ha-ha-ha, I’ll make you so happy, so happy. . .’ And for a moment Buchia embraced me again, gratefully.

I hadn’t told anyone about this meeting with Buchia. I suppose I had preferred to forget the whole incident. I could have said something about it to Rustom now. Instead, I continued to address his rhetorical question.

‘Pure malice.’

‘Nonsense. I can’t think of anyone else but Buchia who would stoop so low.’

‘In a dog-eat-dog situation, nobody likes to see one team member make a clean exit. . . They’ll pull him down. . . And besides, the parents of the boy would have found out eventually, anyway.’