The Roommate

Anuradha awoke. Suprisingly enough, she had slept rather well. She hadn't expected to. It was, after all, the first time she had stepped out of the protective confines of home and family.

She sat on the bed and stretched. The other bed in the room was occupied. It hadn't been, the previous night. Another young girl, roughly the same age as Anuradha, was lying on it. She was sleeping peacefully.


"Roommates": 20 color relief print on Rives BFK mould-made paper, 64 1/4 x 51 inches (Edition 40), copyright the Roy Lichtenstein estate

Anuradha debated whether she should wake up her room-mate or not. She was very eager to know this person who would be sharing her room with her for the duration of her term at the medical college. What was her name? Would they have anything in common? Would she be able to confide in her like a sister her anxieties of being alone in a new town?

Stopping her from jumping out of bed and shaking awake her new friend (for Anuradha had already decided that they would be friends) was the consideration that Shyamoli (Anuradha had also decided on her name; she looked like she would be a Shyamoli) would have reached rather late in the night, possibly even early morning, and needed her beauty sleep.

Anuradha got lost in her thoughts about Shyamoli. Certainly, they would have something in common. Both were new to this town. Maybe, it was Shyamoli's first time away from home too. And if it wasn't...well, then, Shyamoli's experience would at least be a reassurance and comfort to her. They would sneak out of the hostel late in the night, long after the gates had been shut, just like in the movies. They would light a cigarette between them and share their first puffs. They would...

Loud banging on the door stopped her mid-thought. "Yes?" she called out.

"The warden wants to see the two of you in her room right now," a girl's voice replied back.

"But...but...the other girl is still sleeping..." Anuradha answered helplessly.

"Well, wake her up then. It's past eight anyway," the voice shouted as it faded away along the corridor.

Anuradha moved over to the other bed. She shook its occupant gently. "Good morning," she sang out cheerfully.

Shyamoli didn't respond. Anuradha's shaking got more vigorous. "Come on, wake up. We have to go meet the warden."

A limp hand fell out from under the bedsheet. Anuradha froze. A scream started from somewhere in her throat, but it took a long while to escape from her mouth. She threw the door of her room open, and ran out of it. Her screams resounded throughout the long dimly-lit corridors and narrow winding stairways of the old hostel building.

Beneath the screams, if you listened attentively, you would have heard the smothered giggling of her fellow hostelites. As they'd have told you, you can always count on the morgue to throw up a thing or two to rag the freshers with.
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The Matrimonial Advertisement

It was another Sunday morning. P. Srinivasa Murthy sat down in his arm-chair by the window with The Times Of India. He read all the depressing front-page headlines. "17 gunned down in Kashmir." "Economic situation grim, says Finance Minister." "Zimbabwe trounce India by 8 wickets." For some comic relief, he turned to - not Garfield, Beetle Bailey, Hagar the Horrible and Co., but to - the matrimonial page.



PSM (as colleagues at the nationalised bank where he used to work uptil recently when he took up voluntary retirement preferred to abbreviate his name) had just discovered recently that the matrimonial columns could be a source of great amusement. He had always ignored them all these years, having had no use for them, happily married as he was to a girl of his parents' choice. But, of late, his daughter Sushma's disinclination to find a groom for herself despite her post-graduate degree in sociology and high-paying job as a market researcher had made him consider them with some interest.

He never got around to dashing off replies to box numbers, however. To put it very plainly, none of the advertisers was good enough for his darling daughter. "Having own business"? Must have certainly compromised on his principles. "Working abroad"? God only knows what kind of lifestyle he must be leading there. "Successful, dynamic, modest"? Hah, as if.

It was this last advertisement that made him change his motive for reading the columns from finding a son-in-law to finding a few laughs. He chortled uncontrollably the first time he read "innocent divorcee". "Advertisement for wider choice only" brought a broad grin to his face. And "widows/divorcees with one issue only may also apply" had him clutching his stomach.

"Appa, coffee." His daughter brought him his tumbler of piping hot filter coffee. Such a dear girl she was. With his wife away in Bangalore helping her sister to tide over her husband's death, Sushma had taken over all her domestic responsibilities without a murmur. This despite her own commitments at work. And what care she was taking of him. Calling up home from office to make sure he had had his lunch. Making tiffin for him, even after coming home tired from work. And here he was, scanning matrimonial ads, not for her sake, but for his.

PSM left his tumbler of coffee untouched by the armchair. With a sense of purpose that account-holders at his former bank would find hard to associate with him, he strode towards the antique writing-table, his pride of possession, an heirloom from a deceased uncle. Inspiration had seized him. He wasn't going to find her a jewel of a husband in those jokes that masqueraded as matrimonial ads. If he wanted one, he would have to put in an ad himself.

He took out his brand-new Parker pen, a farewell gift from colleagues at the bank, and filled it with ink. He carefully chose a fresh, unspoiled sheet from the note-pad. He chanted "Om Ganeshaya Namaha" and wrote the words on the top of the page. He thought for a while and then began writing.

It took him only a few moments to write it down. "Parents of young post-graduate girl, working in reputed company, beautiful looking, pleasing personality, proficient in housework, seeks suitable match." He put the pen down and gazed adoringly at the framed photographs of his daughter that adorned the shelves of his writing-table. He looked down again at what he had written. That described her, the apple of his eye? He shook his head at his feeble attempt. "Proficient in housework". That read like something he would get a get a few laughs out of, if somebody else had written it.

PSM tore the sheet away and crumpled it into a ball. He decided to start afresh. He began, "Our daughter Sushma is an angel in human form. Beautiful in every way, she has brought us immense joy all these years, but now it is time for her to brighten the life of some lucky man." His pen moved furiously, scratching a word here, adding a word there, never stopping till PSM was a hundred percent satisfied with his effort.

It's been more than six months now since that fateful Sunday. Sushma is still unmarried (hundreds of bachelors, widowers, divorcees, their parents and other family memers, even some married men willing to divorce their wives for Sushma, responded to the ad, but as usual, PSM found none of them good enough). Yet PSM today is a very contented man.

You'll find the reason on page 82 of the latest edition of the Limca Book of Records. There, under Arts>>Literature>>Miscellany, sandwiched between Most Murder Mysteries Written In An Indian Language (credited to one Shankar Dayal, 1182 in all, written in Hindi and published by Diamond Pocket Books) and World's Oldest Epic (the Ramayana, written c.400 BC), you'll read the following entry.

"World's Longest Matrimonial Advertisement. Written by P. Srinivasa Murthy of Chembur, Mumbai, for his daughter Sushma. Published on Sunday, June 17th, 2001, in The Times Of India, the ad consisted of 8,527 words, ran into a little over five columns and cost the advertiser Rs.2,80,750." Read more!

"Yes!"

"So...when do you propose to pop the question?" she asked in between sips of Marquis de Pompadour. "Before dessert or after?"

The hors d'oeuvre froze in motion in its path from the platter to the mouth. "Question? What question?" he blurted eventually.


"Candlelight Dinner", Jacqueline Ditt, 2003, (80 x 100 cm) Acrylic on fibreglass. All rights reserved, www.universal-arts.de

Her index finger lightly traced the outline of the glass flute's rim. "You've only brought me here once before, and that was on Valentine's Day. Now what other occasion could be as romantic?" She smiled knowingly at him.

He shrugged the suggestion away. "No occasion really. I just felt like taking you out to a nice place, that's all."

It's not often that the mouse gets to toy with the cat, and she wasn't prepared to let go. "If you say so. And I suppose that ring in your pocket is just a gift for your mum, right?"

He surrendered with good grace. "Damn, I've been too obvious, haven't I?" He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a small velvet-covered jewellery case. "Since you brought up the subject - I was planning to save it till just before dessert."

He clicked the case open. The solitary diamond on the ring sparkled in the candle-light.

He took her hand in his and looked deep into her eyes. "Will you marry me?" he asked, simply, softly, sincerely.

But her mood hadn't changed from playful to romantic just yet. She let her hand remain in his, but averted her eyes away, shyly, like a schoolgirl coming face-to-face with her secret crush. "You'll have to ask Papa first."

Playfulness was in the air, and it was catching too. He turned her face towards him, and questioned her with his eyes, "Is that so?"

Her eyes replied back, "Yes!"

Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled out his cell-phone and punched in her phone number. "Hello, Colonel Kaul? Good evening, Sir. This is Vikram Mehta. We've never met, but I'm in love with your daughter, and would like your permission to marry her. Do I have it, Sir?"

* * *

At 311, Race Course Road, Col. Kaul, three-quarters asleep, one quarter awake, mumbled "Yes" and put the phone down. He switched off the bedside lamp and prepared to return to dreamland. Mrs. Kaul, her slumber too rudely interrupted by the telephone call, enquired drowsily of her husband, "Who was that?" "Couldn't get his name," the Colonel answered back, "but I think he wanted to carry our water."
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"Dadar Hormazd, call me soon"

The phone hadn't rung for several months. Not since that Navroz day when both Maneck and Daisy had called from the States to wish him and had given him such glowing accounts of his grandchildren's achievements. Adil had been accepted at Harvard, and Anahita was going to gift him his first great-grandchild. Rustomji had kept replaying the phone conversations in his mind all these days, but they weren't working their magic any longer. That familiar empty feeling was gnawing at him again. "Dadar Hormazd, call me soon," he cried out loud.


A still from the short film "Dadar Ormaj, maney jaldi bolaavo". Cinematography: Rajesh Thanickan. Script & Direction: Kaevan Umrigar. (c) FTII, 2002-03

On the radio, an old film song had just played out and Vividh Bharati ceased its morning transmission for the day. Rustomji switched the radio off and prepared to bide his time till one, when transmission would recommence. He had a televison set too, but he dared not switch it on. Rustomji had caught himself talking to the pretty newsreader on Star News one day, and he was afraid he was going senile.

The doorbell rang. It was Bhola with his lunch-box. He stood at the doorway grinning, even after he'd delivered the food. Rustomji raised an arm to shoo him away. "What do you want?" "Yesterday's empty containers. Have you forgotten again, Bawaji?" Bhola laughed.

Rustomji returned the previous day's containers in a huff and banged the door after Bhola. A heady aroma of meat and spices wafted out from the piping-hot lunch-box. God bless Burjor, his late sister's son, for taking such good care of him, since Dadar Hormazd had taken away his Silloo more than ten years back. But even Burjor hadn't visited him for some weeks now. "Everyone's caught up with their own lives. No one has time for me any more," mused Rustomji. Suddenly it struck him, there didn't seem to be much to live for any longer.

Death seemed to be a good idea. The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. Rustomji's mind was made up. He got dressed in his Sunday best, a white cotton shirt and starched cotton trousers, both now considerably loose-fitting after the years of worry and disinterest. He knotted a moth-eaten thin black tie around his neck and put on a faded weather-beaten coat and the hat Maneck had gifted him on his last visit. From the bureau, he removed a decanter of whisky and poured himself a stiff drink - for courage. He braced himself, and drank it down all in one gulp.

Rustomji limped down the road, in the direction of the railway tracks. Life would still have been bearable, even without Silloo and the children, if not for that fall in the bathroom that broke his leg and forced him to spend six months recuperating at Parsee General Hospital. The steel rod now residing in his leg and the omnipresent walking stick had made it difficult for him to move around as freely as he used to, and this was the first time he'd stepped out of the house in a long time.

Out on the road he felt lonelier than ever. So many people, and yet not a face he recognized. An old Gujarati couple passed him from the opposite direction. Rustomji stared after them, long after they had passed out of range of his myopic vision. They were as old as him, probably older, but they still had each other. He looked down at his shadow. It was about the only thing that hadn't deserted him yet.

The walk was arduous on Rustomji's limp right leg, but the hoot and clatter of trains in the distance kept him going. He avoided the railway station, with its throng of people who might dissuade him from his desperate attempt, and selected a lonely spot a few hundred yards away. Through a hole in the fence made by tresspassers who couldn't be bothered to use the foot overbridge to cross the tracks, he squeezed himself in and sat down on a stone besides the tracks to recover his breath. Couple of trains passed by, but no one bothered about the elderly Parsee gentleman next to the tracks in his best suit.

Another train hooted as it left the station. Rustomji pulled himself up with the help of his walking-stick. The train picked up speed and drew nearer. Rustomji inched his way closer to the track. The train now loomed larger and larger. This was the moment, Rustomji decided. One...two...three...Now! The train hurtled away at top speed. But Rustomji remained transfixed just a step away. At that final moment, he had lost his nerve.

The train receded away into the horizon. Rustomji kept on staring at it, even after he could see it no more. He turned around, and slowly limped his way back home.

* * *

Rustomji did get his wish, and die. But that was fourteen months later, and of natural causes. Meanwhile, till his dying day, every morning, after Vividh Bharati had ceased its morning transmission and Bhola had delivered his lunch, Rustomji would change into his best clothes, brace himself with whiskey and limp to the railway track where he would try and gather the guts to stand up in front of the approaching train.
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The Bedpan

The last dying rays of the evening sun gently reflected off the dull enameled surface of the bedpan, as they silently stole away through the open window. In the air, the stale smell of disinfectant hung around. Earlier, in the morning, the bedpan had been vigorously washed with water and Dettol, and placed under the bed. It had not been disturbed since; the thin layer of dust covering the bedpan bore proof to that. It is one of the professional hazards of bedpannery to be splattered with excrement, and to remain dry and untainted through an entire working day, especially when you are the property of an eighty year old man with little control over his legs and even less over his bowels, is no mean achievement. If the bedpan were human, it would have basked contentedly in that dying evening light. If the bedpan were human, it would have also heard the ayah’s shrill voice having its say over the very same state of affairs.


A still from the short film "Bedpan". Cinematography: Paramvir Singh. Script & Direction: Kaevan Umrigar. (c) FTII, 2003-04

“He’s shit in his pajamas again. I can’t go through this any more. I’m quitting.” A tired voice tried its best to pacify her, “Now, now, Kamalabai, these things happen sometimes.” “Nothing doing. I’ve had enough. I’m quitting this instant.” “At least, give me a few days. I need time to find someone else, naa?” But the shrill voice was insistent, “That’s not my problem. Just pay me what’s due. I’m leaving.” A sigh escaped tired lips. A zip got pulled open. Pieces of paper rustled between thumb and forefinger. A door banged shut. Determined footsteps made their way across the room.

Two stout feet in white worn-out heels stopped in front of the bedpan. The hem of a bright blue pleated skirt hovered above at the calves. A large heavy hand, appearing even more so in relation to the dainty silver watch worn at the wrist, swooped down and gripped the bedpan, and thumped it down hard on the bed. Sharp angry spurts of breathing mixed with low grunts of pain and helplessness. Two fiery eyes glared through smudged mascara and large spectacles at the occupant of the bed. In reply, the old man smiled weakly in acknowledgement and apology.

A while later, Gladys Fonseca, personal secretary to the General Manager – Finance at Johnson & Johnson, received a call at her home from her friend and colleague, Mehroo Ghadially. “Oh, hi Mehroo…Sure, I’ll take over for you. How many days will you be away…Oh, that many, huh. What’s the problem, your father again…Ya, I can hear him calling out for you…No, men, I can’t think of any ayahs just like that…Ya, I’ll ask around…You take care, dear. Bye.”

An aluminium tumbler filled with water waited next to the phone. Coloured pills – white, pink, yellow – on a tiny aluminium lid lay atop it. Mehroo put the receiver down and picked the tumbler up. She strode purposefully towards her father’s room, her gait slow and heavy. The floral print nightie she was wearing rose over her knees, but she did not bother to smooth it down. One strap of her sadra slipped out from under the nightie’s small sleeves and fell off from her shoulder. Her rubber chappals clapped loudly against the floor. Her rage at her father, simmering in silence all this while, finally erupted. “Why can’t you ask for the bedpan? Where do I find new-new ayahs for you from, every day?”

The aluminium tumbler came down with a jolt on to the bedside table. Water trickled down from the sides and made a tiny pool around it. The pills teetered precariously at the rim of the lid. On the bed, the old man struggled to sit up. A hand reached out to help him. “Lift your head up. What more excuse do I give at work?” Even before he could lift his head up, the pillows had been yanked from underneath it and plonked against the frame of the bed. His head came down hard on the bed. It didn’t hurt, but he was unused to such rough treatment from his daughter.

“Every two-two days I have to stay at home. Come on, sit up straight.” She caught him by the shoulders and pulled him up against the pillows. This time, it hurt. He whimpered. She had never been so uncaring before. His eyes pleaded with her, “Aastey, Mehroo, aastey. It hurts.” But Mehroo was in no mood to be gentle. She picked up the lid off the tumbler and transferred the pills on to her palm. She forced the tumbler into her father’s hand, “Here, hold this.” The pills danced in her palm as she brought it close to her father’s mouth. “Open your mouth,” she commanded.

Her father turned away from her hard unflinching gaze. His head hung down, looking at nothing in particular. His fingers loosened their grip around the tumbler. A tear broke away from his eye and trickled down his cheek. Mehroo shook him by the shoulder, “Come on, open your mouth. I don’t have all day.”

The tumbler slipped away from her father’s grasp. On its journey to the floor, it wet the old man’s sadra, it wet the Bombay Dyeing bedsheet, it even wet a part of Mehroo’s floral print nightie. It made a small puddle on the floor, bouncing a couple of times before settling down to oscillate around the rim of its base, its side flat against the floor. The old man broke down, his soft sobs punctuated with the krrr-krrr of metal rolling on the floor.

Mehroo put the pills down. Her anger had completely dissipated away. Softness appeared in her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, at other places where it would have been hard to imagine it just a few moments back. Suddenly, she understood why she had done what she did. She sat down on the bed beside her father. She gently lifted his head and brought it to rest on her shoulder. She began to cry softly too. “Pappa, you have me to look after you. But me, who do I…?”

She took his left hand into her hands. Their fingers intertwined together. He gripped her hand tightly in comfort. Her fingers played around with his wedding ring. None adorned hers.
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Non-Parsi

Today is my daughter’s wedding day.

In my mind, I have been making plans for this day for a long time. The wedding would be at Colaba-ni-agiary. A December breeze blowing in from the sea, the sound of the waves breaking at the rocks near the boundary wall, and the sweet-spicy aroma of Godiwala’s sali-ma-marghi wafting in from the kitchen. My Anahita, resplendent in her shimmering white saree, smiling her shy smile. Goolu fussing about her. The guests murmuring to each other, ketli mitthi laagech. And as the band would strike up ‘Here comes the bride’, I would escort her down to the flower-decked stage, and laughingly remind her about the time she used to tell us how much she hated boys and that she was never ever going to marry one, never, never, never.


Adil Vania as Jehangoo in the short film 'Non-Parsi'. Cimenatography: Paramvir Singh. Screenplay and Direction: Kaevan Umrigar. (c) FTII, 2003-04

But today, how I wish that she had to stuck to those words she uttered in all her seven-year-old innocence. My Ana, you see, is getting married to a non-Parsi.

I have still not been able to forget the moment when she told me about it. It was a Monday morning. I was in the bathroom, shaving. In the mirror, I saw her approach hesitantly. She stood there at the bathroom door, and waited without a word. I thought she wanted money, the travel agency didn’t pay her as much as she deserved. Ketla paisa joiyech, I asked. No, it’s not about money, she said, I just wanted to talk to you. Tell me, I said, putting down the shaving brush and picking up the razor. I wiped away the shaving cream where it had covered the sideburns and positioned the razor at its edge. I’m…I’m planning to get married, she said. There and then, I knew the sentence that was going to follow, even before she said it. I couldn’t move the razor, it just stayed there at the edge of the sideburns. I stared at our reflections in the mirror. Ey non-Parsi chhe, the words finally came out of her mouth. She waited for my reaction. But I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t find the words to say anything. I was upset, disturbed. There was only one thing to do. I began to shave. I was rough with myself. I kept nicking myself. I scraped off skin. I drew blood. She stood there at the bathroom door throughout. I can’t say if she flinched or not, I was too upset to care.

I got ready for work. But I didn’t go. We sat on the sofa, Goolu and I. I was outraged. My thoughts finally formed into words, and they burst out –– When those two kids of Cyrus downstairs married parjaats, I should have suspected that our Ana too could… –– I thought she was sensible. Why is she doing this to me? –– Couldn’t she find a nice Parsi boy? There were so many in our colony –– ….

Goolu heard me out. She had been thinking too. And it was clear to her that Ana had already decided about it, that our no’s were not going to make a difference to her decision. She’s the only child we have, she told me, think about her happiness. But I just couldn’t accept the idea. Goolu made tea, but none of us touched it. We sat on the sofa, busy in our thoughts.

When Ana returned back home that evening, I still didn’t speak a word to her. Goolu didn’t too. Ana sat with us, not speaking, waiting for us to say something. Finally, Goolu broke the silence and asked to meet the boy.

He came on the weekend. His name was Vikas. I refused to see him. I sat with my thoughts in the bedroom. But I caught a glimpse of him. And their conversation traveled to my ears through the open door. He seemed a nice enough boy. A little too talkative, but I could see that was what drew my shy Anahita to him. He had a way of making her feel comfortable. Goolu seemed to have taken an instant liking to him. I heard her throaty laughter often during the time he was there. Maybe, he would make a fine husband. But he wasn’t Parsi, and that was that.

The next few days were very painful. I became an unwelcome presence in my own home. Often, I would find myself interrupting a sharing of confidences between mother and daughter. The easy banter I would hear from outside the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, wherever the two of them would be, would be replaced by an awkward silence the moment I entered. They would glance sideward at each other, shift uncomfortably in their places, and find some other work to do.

One evening, when this happened again, Ana drew herself away from Goolu and came towards me. I had settled myself into an armchair and was blankly switching channels with the TV remote. She took the remote from my hand and switched the TV off. She looked into my eyes and pleaded, Please, Daddy, I really love him a lot. Daddy, please. I was overcome. Vaaru, I consented. She buried her face in my lap, and held me tight.

The Sonawane family paid us a formal visit, once I had overruled my own objections to the marriage. I didn’t want to meet them – I had begun to regret I’d agreed, but I didn’t have the courage to take back my words and ruin my daughter’s happiness. I forced myself to go through it, but I hardly spoke a word, and listened to even less. In my thoughts, I couldn’t believe this was happening, and I didn’t know how to get out of it. I had trapped myself.

And so, now, today, it’s my daughter’s wedding day. The wedding is less than an hour away. It is going to be a simple registered ceremony, with just the two families present. Tomorrow evening, there will be a reception at Palamkote Hall. The wedding will take place here in our home. Rusi, my brother-in-law, has gone to fetch the man from the registry, and the Sonawanes must already be on their way here.

I should be getting dressed to welcome them, I should be helping out with the decorations and the refreshments, but instead I am sitting on the sofa in my sadra, wishing I hadn’t said yes. I would like to tell them at the door, sorry, there will be no wedding, go back home, but I know it is too late for that. I shouldn’t have relented. I should have put my foot down. I should have got her married to a nice Parsi boy when she turned 21.

“Jehangoo, why haven’t you got ready yet. They’ll be here any moment.” Goolu has come to shake me out of my thoughts. She helps me put on my dagli, giving me a comforting smile, everything will be all right, we are doing the right thing. She ties the bows neatly, and even before I can voice my doubts to her, she’s moved on to Ana, fussing about her, chiding her not to move about, to sit still in one place.

I am standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do. Goolu has moved to the kitchen to check if the champagne has chilled. Anahita is sitting by herself, smiling her shy smile at me. Her saree shimmers. I walk up to her and sit down next to her. I take her hand in mine. Ana…, I tell her, the words leaving my mouth the instant they form in my mind, Ana… Vikas is a fine boy…he comes from a fine family…see, I can’t tell you not to marry him, I know that…you marry him, don’t marry him, you’ll still be my daughter…but…but I can’t bear to see this wedding take place…I just can’t bear to see this wedding take place.

I leave her hand and walk away. Before she can get up and stop me, before she can call out to Goolu to stop me, I walk out of the door. I walk out of the colony gates, into the traffic of the city. I walk for one kilometer, then two, then more. Behind me, I don’t know if pens have scratched signatures on paper, if champagne corks have been popped, if Cliff Richard has sung Congratulations on the tape recorder.

In my mind, a multitude of thoughts, doubts, questions are jostling for space. I am unable to think clearly. I cannot concentrate on anything at all. And suddenly, a memory from long way back emerges with extreme clarity, pushing out everything else in my head.

When Anahita was seven or so, I showed her my wedding album. She recognized me and Goolu in the photographs, but she had one question, where was she? I laughed and told her, you weren’t there then, mahri jaan, you were born much later. She banged the album shut. You didn’t invite me to your wedding, she made a face and told me, I am not going to invite you to mine.
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