Tales From Firozsha Baag by Rohinton Mistry Read Free Book Online Page B

He sat on the bed and picked up his bat. He ripped off the rubber grip and slowly, meditatively, started to tear the freshly glued cord from around the handle, bit by bit, circle by circle.
    Soon, the cord lay on the floor in a black tangled heap, and the handle looked bald, exposed, defenceless. Never before had Kersi seen his cricket bat in this flayed and naked state. He stood up, grasped the handle with both hands, rested the blade at an angle to the floor, then smashed his foot down upon it. There was a loud crack as the handle snapped.

The Ghost of Firozsha Baag

    I always believed in ghosts. When I was little I saw them in my father’s small field in Goa. That was very long ago, before I came to Bombay to work as ayah.
    Father also saw them, mostly by the well, drawing water. He would come in and tell us, the
bhoot
is thirsty again. But it never scared us. Most people in our village had seen ghosts. Everyone believed in them.
    Not like in Firozsha Baag. First time I saw a ghost here and people found out, how much fun they made of me. Calling me crazy, saying it is time for old ayah to go back to Goa, back to her
muluk
, she is seeing things.
    Two years ago on Christmas Eve I first saw the
bhoot
. No, it was really Christmas Day. At ten o’clock on Christmas Eve I went to Cooperage Stadium for midnight mass. Every year all of us Catholic ayahs from Firozsha Baag go for mass. But this time I came home alone, the others went somewhere with their boyfriends. Must have been two o’clock in the morning. Lift in B Block was out of order, so I started up slowly. Thinking how easy to climb three floors when I was younger, even with a full bazaar-bag.
    After reaching first floor I stopped to rest. My breath was coming fast-fast. Fast-fast, like it does nowadays when I grind curry
masala
onthe stone. Jaakaylee, my
bai
calls out, Jaakaylee, is
masala
ready? Thinks a sixty-three-year-old ayah can make
masala
as quick as she used to when she was fifteen. Yes, fifteen. The day after my fourteenth birthday I came by bus from Goa to Bombay. All day and night I rode the bus. I still remember when my father took me to bus station in Panjim. Now it is called Panaji. Joseph Uncle, who was mechanic in Mazagaon, met me at Bombay Central Station. So crowded it was, people running all around, shouting, screaming, and coolies with big-big trunks on their heads. Never will I forget that first day in Bombay. I just stood in one place, not knowing what to do, till Joseph Uncle saw me. Now it has been forty-nine years in this house as ayah, believe or don’t believe. Forty-nine years in Firozsha Baag’s B Block and they still don’t say my name right. Is it so difficult to say Jacqueline? But they always say Jaakaylee. Or worse, Jaakayl.
    All the fault is of old
bai
who died ten years ago. She was in charge till her son brought a wife, the new
bai
of the house. Old
bai
took English words and made them Parsi words. Easy chair was
igeechur
, French beans
was ferach beech
, and Jacqueline became Jaakaylee. Later I found out that all old Parsis did this, it was like they made their own private language.
    So then new
bai
called me Jaakaylee also, and children do the same. I don’t care about it now. If someone asks my name I say Jaakaylee. And I talk Parsi-Gujarati all the time instead of Konkani, even with other ayahs. Sometimes also little bits of English.
    But I was saying. My breath was fast-fast when I reached first floor and stopped for rest. And then I noticed someone, looked like in a white gown. Like a man, but I could not see the face, just body shape.
Kaun hai?
I asked in Hindi. Believe or don’t believe, he vanished. Completely! I shook my head and started for second floor. Carefully, holding the railing, because the steps are so old, all slanting and crooked.
    Then same thing happened. At the top of second floor he was waiting. And when I said,
kya hai?
believe or don’t believe, he vanished again! Now I knew it must be a
bhoot
. I