In the Shadow of a Dream (7 page)

Bal stared at him with eyes full of excitement and wonder. ‘What is
chaat
?’

‘Oh, brother. Tasty food. Hot, sweet, sour. You can get
chaat
in Biwara. Many times now, I tasted
chaat
in Biwara. And I dream of it.’

‘But
Halwai
Mangal Singh makes tasty food.’

‘Sometimes only. Like for
Holi
and
Divali.
When Motilal and Murari spend money. Here in Fatehpur people eat at home. No one spends money. And Mangal only makes
puris, katchoris and samosas
. But
I have had soft lentil balls soaked in yoghurt and sweet tamarin sauce, with salt, chilli and ground cumin.’ Asif brushed his mouth with the back of his hand and made a lip-smacking sound.

‘And you. Have you seen Bombay?’

Asif shook his head.

‘Then how do you know about Bombay?’

‘As I said, I’ve been to Biwara. The butcher took me one day. There I met Yosef. We became friends. We went to the cinema house. We had no money to buy a ticket, but we climbed up to the roof and looked through a hole in the wall. He told me about Bombay. How he worked as a shoe-shine boy. Sitting on streets outside hotels and cinemas, listening to songs on the radio. Bombay streets are full of music… and you don’t have to sleep. Just walk the streets. There always something to see and do and even to eat…you can steal bananas and
chikoos
and guavas from fruit carts left overnight under sheet covers. Of course you can sleep if you want to…just curl up on pavements…Bombay has broad payments, Yosef said, and many railway stations giving you cover from the rain…also small jobs to do…and you can beg from the people who get off the trains…chase after them till they give you something.’

‘And the music? Is it like our village priests beating drums?’

‘No, donkey. Loud cinema music. Singing, dancing…pretty girls. I saw them that day in the cinema…’ Asif hummed a tune. He danced; swinging his hips and waving his hands. ‘And the girls shaking their big round…things.’ He pointed to his chest. A shout from a distance put an end to his antics.

‘Stop that at once or I’ll give you a thrashing to remember! You’re supposed to be teaching that boy herding. Get on with it.’

‘
Arrey baba
, that is what I’m teaching him. Herding, I’m telling him it is not fun or games or like dancing. It’s hard work. He must be ready to run with goats and the bulls and chase after them with a stick.’

Jaswant grunted, sat on his haunches, lit a
bidi
and inhaled deeply.

Bal nudged Asif. He was trembling. ‘Will I really have to chase the bulls?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I’m afraid of the bulls.’

The older boy waved his arm in a gesture of dismissal. Then with a sudden jerk, he pulled the boy down and pinched his cheeks affectionately. ‘Come to Bombay with me. We’ll get rich in the big city. We’ll find jobs. Work for ourselves.’

‘What job can I do?’

‘You can be a tea boy. Stop shaking. Listen, when I’m gone you’ll be alone in the village. Nobody wants you. I know that.’

‘But Daadi…’

‘Do you really like her?’

‘Yes. She’s black and ugly; and she has only one tooth.’

‘Does she beat you?’

Bal shook his head.

After a moment’s thought, Asif said. ‘Anyway, she’s not your mother. You don’t have a mother; and many in the village believe you’re a half caste. There, put your arm next to mine. Look, see, your skin is different. Lighter colour. That’s why other children call you
gulabi
, “pinky”.’

‘But I’m not pink. My skin colour is not so different from yours.’

Asif shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Is
Daadi
good to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She is paid to look after you. But you can do better. We can do better.’

‘How?’

‘If we run away, we’ll be together. No grown-up to push us around.’ Asif boxed Bal’s arm affectionately. They giggled and wrestled together. Then Asif pressed Bal down flat on his back and kissed him hard on his cheek. Bal pushed him away.

‘I let you do that because you’re not-not
gandoo
,’ Bal said sullenly.

Asif laughed. ‘You learn fast.’ They sat facing each other, silent for a while. ‘Bal,
Daadi
is not going to live long. When she goes, no one will care about you.’

‘Stop fooling around!
Kaam chor
! Lazy, time-wasting thieves!’ The boys started and turned round to find Jaswant glaring down at them. ‘Come here! You!’

‘No!’ cried Asif, defiantly.

‘What! You dare answer me back? You’ll feel the back of my hand in a minute.’

Jaswant and Asif glared each other. Jaswant blinked. He was still groggy from the effects of the drug he had taken. ‘You’ll do as you’re told. Now, leave the boy here with me, while you start rounding up the cattle.’

‘Okay. But I’ll take Bal with me. He has to learn.’

‘You heard what I said.’

Asif stood where he was and the look on his face was one of uneasy desperation. ‘You touch the boy and I’ll tell the whole village.’ Asif warned, wagging a finger. ‘You know I will.’

‘
Arrey, g
o, go!’ shouted Jaswant. ‘All right, let the boy choose. Does he want to stay with me or…Bal? Come on, choose.’

The little boy was tearful. ‘Asif,’ he said. ‘I go with Asif.’

Jaswant smiled at the boy. ‘Stay here, and I’ll give you some fresh milk to drink.’

Asif saw Bal hesitate. ‘Here, take my stick,’ he said, and taking hold of Bal’s arm, led the boy away. As they left, Jaswant gave Asif a swift kick on his backside, and as the boy turned to face him, slapped the back of his head. ‘Why?’ Asif screamed. ‘I won’t work for you anymore. I’m going to Bombay. Just you see. Yes.’

Jaswant laughed. ‘Idiot! The guard will catch you. You’ll go to prison. I told you before. You need ticket. Ticket means money. Where will you get six rupees?’

Asif shrugged. ‘Come, Bal.’ When they were out of hearing, he said, ‘don’t you worry, the guard won’t catch us. If he does, he can’t get money out of us. What can he do? A slap or two? Make us get off at the next stop? Yosef told me how he got on and off, changing trains and hiding every time he saw the guard. Easy. He said that Third Class is so full of people, there’s no room to move. Guards, ticket collectors… they give up, or wait till people get off. But they can’t run as fast as we can.’

‘Why didn’t you let me stay with Jaswant? He was smiling at me.’

‘Fool!’ Asif looked over his shoulder. Jaswant was adjusting his turban. ‘A pretty boy needs to be smart. When men smile like that, that’s when to keep away from them. Don’t worry about Bombay. We’ll get there, soon.’ Again Asif glanced back. Jaswant, now with staff in hand, began making a series of calls and cattle noises. ‘Hush! C
hup
! Listen!’ And as they watched, the countryside was filled with mooing, bleating and the dull sound of hooves pounding the dusty scrub land. Jaswant’s calls orchestrated the animal responses till they grew increasingly musical and prolonged.

‘What do we do, now?’

‘I can make sounds too. I’ll teach you how to click your tongue and to whistle. But now we must go right up to the railway bank and shoo the cattle that have wandered away from the herd. Come. Just remember that Jaswant baba’s okay, but learn when to fear him and when to defy him. He can’t run and he soon forgets. As for Bombay, we’ll pick the right time, when no one suspects. I’m making plans with Yosef. He’ll come too.’

‘But now you’ve told Baba! They will know we have gone to Bombay!’

‘Bombay is very big. They’ll never find us. Oh! Look. See, that moving cloud? There, up in the sky. It’s Abdul’s pigeons. Abdul, the butcher, keeps pigeons.’

Chapter Three
 

B
oman Irani’s grandfather had left Persia to find his fortune in Bombay. He set up a stall selling hot sweet tea, spiced with cardamon, mint and lemon grass, and, for an extra
paisa,
a hard rusk for dunking. The rusks, and later, teacakes, shortbread and biscuits, were supplied by a local bakery. In less than ten years he bought the bakery and when he died, left a small fortune, enabling his son to buy a Queensway corner shop in Bombay’s Churchgate area. Boman’s father simply called it Irani Restaurant, but in 1942, when Boman took over the business, he renamed it
The Light of Asia
, extended the kitchen, employed two cooks, and served full meals. Boman himself stood behind a long, highly polished teak wood counter on which were a line of large transparent glass jars filled with peanut brittle, mint toffees, fairy cakes, biscuits and boiled sweets. From the counter he would shout the customer’s order at the kitchen behind him and wait for one of the two cooks to echo the order in acknowledgement. In front of him was a large, shining brass samovar, which he alone handled and from its tap poured boiling hot water into pots of tea.

Boman’s restaurant remained open, Monday to Saturday, from six in the morning to eleven at night but, like other traders in the neighbourhood, it closed on Sundays, a day when he regularly made a trip to the Haji Ali mosque on the Mahim causeway. There he prayed and made offerings for Katija, his wife, who had died giving birth to their still-born daughter, leaving him, two years ago, at the age of forty-one, to bring up his nine-year old son.

Boman Irani, a tall, loose limbed man, wore his thick black, heavily pomaded hair, neatly parted in the middle. His long Byzantine face seldom broke into a smile, but when it did, the warmth of his good nature came through and inspired his happy clientele to recommend to their friends his restaurant for its reasonably priced fare and friendly service.

It was a Saturday when he saw three boys waiting outside his restaurant, just as he was about to open for the day. Two of them, each about 14 years old, were neatly dressed in blue shirts and shorts, clearly a uniform of sorts. But the third boy, not more than eight, was a sad sight. He was clad in a filthy, near threadbare cotton tunic and white pyjamas that hung precariously from his skinny waist and barely reached his ankles. With a slight shudder Boman regarded the waif’s cracked feet. ‘Oi, boys! Move on!’ he said in English and Hindustani. Then he relented and with a gesture invited them to draw nearer. He remembered that his father had taught him never to be unkind to beggars. He told him how his own father had to beg when, a stowaway, he set foot on Bombay’s Mazagon docks. ‘Where have you come from? You’re not local boys, I can see that. And why are you here?’

Yosef, almost a head taller than Asif, stared uneasily at Boman. The other boys watched him. In the four weeks they had been in Bombay, they had begun to pick up Bombay’s patois of a mixture of Hindi, Gujarati and Marathi, punctuated liberally with some English words. Yosef’s uncle, Abdul Raman, a projectionist at Rex Cinema in Bombay’s Fort area, had managed to employ him and Asif as cinema ushers, but as he had nothing to offer Bal, he suggested the little boy should find work as a tea boy in a restaurant or hotel. He had given them the address of Boman’s restaurant. Sadly, though Yosef had rehearsed what to say, he found himself tongue-tied.

‘Come on, boy, speak up!’

‘Abdul Rehman…you know Abdul Rehman?’

‘Yes, yes. From Rex Cinema.’

Yosef stammered then blurted out. ‘He’s my uncle. Um…Abdul Rehman of Rex Cinema sent me …um…and these two boys are from Fatehpur.’

Asif nudged him sharply and whispered. ‘Don’t say Fatehpur! He’ll report us.’

‘Fatehpur,’ Boman said, ‘never heard of it. But you look and sound Marwari.’

‘Yes, but Muslim.’ Suddenly Yosef’s nerves disappeared. ‘I’m from Biwara.’

‘I know a Biwara. Beyond Baroda? That’s far from Bombay. You idiots! You never learn. Bombay’s streets are not paved with gold.’ He took a deep breath and sighed shaking his head reprovingly. ‘So, you boys are runaways.’

Yosef smiled sheepishly. ‘I have my uncle here. But these two have no one.’

‘There’s nothing here for you. Any of you.’

‘
Bhai sahib
,’ Yosef said with folded hands. ‘Maybe you can do with a tea-boy?’

‘I don’t need a tea boy. Anyway, I can see that you and this boy…have jobs. So it is for this little one?’

Yosef rolled his head. ‘Hah, yes, we have jobs. Me and this one. His name Asif. I am Yosef. This is our Rex Cinema uniform. My uncle, he Cinema
chalu.
’

‘Cinema
chalu
?’ Boman laughed. ‘What’s that?’

‘He fillums starting, cinema showing,’ the little boy piped in, gazing up at Boman with large, melting brown eyes. ‘He projection man.’

Boman gazed at the boy with amazement. ‘He speaks English?’

‘He clever boy.’ Yosef said in Hindi. ‘More clever than me. Listen once only and never forgetting. He likes to English speak. From cinema watching and he learning.’

‘Yes,’ Boman said in Hindi. ‘But the bloody English have gone. Last week, only. Big show at Gateway of India. Goodbye Raj!’ He laughed but almost at once froze as he saw the three boys stared at him solemnly. He sighed. ‘Well, the boy looks bright. And he’ll look a lot brighter after a good wash. Take him to dhobi ghats. Give him good wash. Now off with the lot of you, I’m busy.’ As he turned a key in the door padlock, he dug into his trouser pocket. ‘Here, one rupee and eight annas. Get him a new pair of pyjamas.’ He unlocked the door and pulled the bolt. ‘Wait. I can give him a pair of shoes, also. My son’s about his size. Go to the back and wait. No-no, not that way. This way. Round the back…and wait there. I’ll see you soon.’