Tales From Firozsha Baag by Rohinton Mistry Read Free Book Online

Najamai. “But maybe we should call the police.”
    Tehmina, by this time, was muttering
non sequiturs
about ice-cubes and Scotch and soda. Kersi repeated: “I’m going to find him.”
    This time Silloo said, “Your brother must go with you. Alone you’ll be no match for that rascal. Percy! Bring the other bat and go with Kersi.”
    Obediently, Percy joined his brother and they set off in the direction of Tar Gully. Their mother shouted instructions after them: “Be careful for God’s sake! Stay together and don’t go too far if you cannot find him.”
    In Tar Gully the two drew a few curious glances as they strode along with cricket bats. But the hour was late and there were not many people around. Those who were, waited only for the final
Matka
draw to decide their financial destinies. Some of these men now hooted at Kersi and Percy. “Parsi
bawaji!
Cricket at night? Parsi
bawaji!
What will you hit, boundary or sixer?”
    “Just ignore the bloody
ghatis?
said Percy softly. It was good advice; the two walked on as if it were a well-rehearsed plan, Percy dragging his bat behind him. Kersi carried his over the right shoulder to keep the puddles created by the overflowing gutters of Tar Gully from wetting it.
    “It’s funny,” he thought, “just this morning I did not see any gutter spilling over when I went to the
bunya
for salt.” Now they were all in full spate. The gutters of Tar Gully were notorious for their erratic habits and their stench, although the latter was never noticed by the denizens.
    The
bunya’s
shop was closed for regular business but a small window was still open. The
bunya
, in his nocturnal role of bookie, was accepting last-minute
Matka
bets. Midnight was the deadline, when the winning numbers would be drawn from the earthen vessel that gave the game its name.
    There was still no sign of Francis. Kersi and Percy approached the first of the tenements, with the familiar cow tethered out in front – it was the only one in this neighbourhood. Each morning, accompanied by the owner’s comely daughter and a basket of cut green grass, it made the round of these streets. People would reverently feed the cow, buying grass at twenty-five paise a mouthful. When the basket was empty the cow would be led back to Tar Gully.
    Kersi remembered one early morning when the daughter was milking the cow and a young man was standing behind her seated figure. He was bending over the girl, squeezing her breasts with both hands, while she did her best to work the cow’s swollen udder. Neither of them had noticed Kersi as he’d hurried past. Now, as Kersi recalled the scene, he thought of Najamai’s daughters, the rat in the bedroom, Vera’s near-nude body, his dispossessed fantasy, and once again felt cheated, betrayed.
    It was Percy who first spotted Francis and pointed him out to Kersi. It was also Percy who yelled
“Chor! Chor!
Stop him!” and galvanized the waiting
Matka
patrons into action.
    Francis never had a chance. Three men in the distance heard the uproar and tripped him as he ran past. Without delay they started to punch him. One tried out a clumsy version of a dropkick but it did not work so well, and he diligently resumed with his fists. Then the others arrived and joined in the pounding.
    The ritualistic cry of
“Chor! Chor!”
had rendered Francis into fair game in Tar Gully. But Kersi was horrified. This was not the way he had wanted it to end when he’d emerged with his bat. He watched interror as Francis was slapped and kicked, had his arms twisted and his hair pulled, and was abused and spat upon. He looked away when their eyes met.
    Then Percy shouted: “Stop! No more beating! We must take the thief back to the
bat
from whom he stole. She will decide!”
    The notion of delivering the criminal to the scene of his crime and to his victim, like something out of a Hindi movie, appealed to this crowd. Kersi managed to shake off his numbness. Following Percy’s example, he grabbed