A 55 and a short story…
Seed
She had always thought that it won’t happen to her, when it did. Eight months on… she was already far gone. Excited, she knew it was growing within her and wasn’t afraid… Not until, he said that it was her means to an end. That day, enveloped with nausea, she delivered her first short story.
Constant Companion
Life wasn’t the same anymore for Cowasjee. Waking up to see that vacant space across the bed, to not know how long the milk had been on the boil, to miss the 7 o’clock news… It was a week since he had slept soundly. Worse still, it was almost a month since he had been on his morning walk.
Nandu “Aarey” was among the first to notice his absence. Cowasjee would always shoot an encouraging smile as he walked past this doodhwallah’s stall. Nandu would continue unloading the plastic cartons from the tempo, content thinking at least one person in the city knew how much work went into delivering milk.
It was rare to come by people at 5 am, let alone those who would stop by and talk. And Cowasjee always did (as a rule: only after his first ten rounds of the park). Well, this was one among his many obsessive compulsions. And Nandu would know, what with this septuagenarian regaling him with comic stories everyday.
Once just as the doodh pau from Plot 795 on Jame Jamshed Road neared the stall on his morning jog, Cowasjee launched into his version of stand-up comedy. In a booming voice, he asked, “What do you call a Parsi test tube baby?” Stealing a glance at Nandu and not waiting long enough for a reply, he bellowed, “Batliboi!” The puny Parsi almost stopped in his tracks hearing his last name and needless to say, he had heard the question too. But, instead of picking a bone with him, he walked off in a huff. After all, a Batliboi was above all that. The fact that Cowasjee was three times his size of course didn’t have anything to do with this sixty-year-old’s hasty retreat!
Those who missed shows such as these in the morning caught Cowasjee’s act on Sunday evenings when his voice rose and fell among the trees at Five Gardens. He would say things genuine stand-up comedians wouldn’t dream of. For instance; he’d make jokes about how the Khada Parsi at Byculla Bridge earned his sobriquet and if aapro Nariman aaje hote to Superman chaddi ma sussi kare che and not surprisingly, Sanober’s gravity-defying bosom was the most popular among his radical gags. The fact that he peppered these jokes with one-liners like: “These are solely meant for those with no inner voices, principles and wives” only left the mostly male audience out of breath laughing.
Age clearly hadn’t bent the old fogey’s funny bone. Paeans about the wonder years when things were cheaper and life was better weren’t for him. He abhorred the erstwhile. Cowasjee was more likely to urge all to advocate perpetual procreation — the only answer to the receding Parsi population — and top it off by calling attention to how receding hemlines helped in the process.
As far as receding hairlines were concerned, they were off limits at his discourses. His maroon skull cap was as much a part of his personality, as was his pencil thin moustache. You’d expect someone as garrulous to have a thick, impenetrable moustache that would draw a curtain on the comic scenarios he spouted, when he’d end a story. Not him! Facial hair — whether side whiskers, beards, stubbles or those obnoxious strands originating from the nostrils, ears, nape of the neck — were religiously taken care of.
Naturally, Cowasjee couldn’t have pulled this chikna look if it wasn’t for Nusro. Now, if someone else would have asked Nusro to dedicate one whole afternoon to shaving off every such unwanted strand of hair, he would have rather shaved off his own head than give into such eccentricity. In any case, he was only moonlighting as a barber until he could find someone to takeover his father’s business so that he could carry on with his studies in Psychiatry. Except, an afternoon with Cowasjee meant escaping for a whole three hours from his senile old mother in her cotton dressing gown, ranting ceaselessly from upstairs about the leaking tap. The old man’s jokes always drowned the reality of her existence. Those fleeting afternoons, as he wiped off the scissor on his sadra and saw Cowasjee’s hair fall at his feet, were the only moments when Nusro never thought of killing his mother.
But Cowasjee had his share of ‘elderly eccentricities’ too. For instance, he didn’t believe in excesses. “Why buy another track suit when one would suffice for the whole week? Bubbly Binafer is still going to call me a dirty old man,” he’d say with an impish grin.
Third floorwalleh Maneckji always wondered how this old geezer made it in time for his walk every morning. He never saw a watch on the man’s wrist. Neither did he see him stop by and ask anyone for the time. It was only a year ago that he caught up with Cowasjee on a particularly foggy morning and asked him the secret behind his punctuality. The old man cheekily replied, “You haven’t seen Delnavaz’s derrière in motion have you? Just be in front of Anjuman Baug at 7.30 am. And don’t tell Ava… She still thinks I love her.” Next morning, Maneckji had found his punctuality muse.
Cowasjee’s clockwork orange walks hadn’t just set a precedent for the senior citizens at Dadar Parsi Colony, even the youngsters were intimidated by his briskness and gait. One time, in his serious best, he had announced to Behram Petit, the geriatric he often met at the fire temple, “Time is my constant companion!” Petit, in retort, had said, “So you are married to time too? Didn’t know us Parsis believed in polygamy as well.” The odd twosome had slapped each other’s back and carried on laughing.
But that had all changed. Concern turned to dismay when friends and neighbours found the one-man-show seeking refuge at home. In fact, he began doing the one thing he detested – suspending the basket from his second floor home so that the kiranewallah would fill it up with eggs, bread and the basic things he needed so that he won’t have to venture out. What had happened to his, “If I can’t move my limbs and go downstairs to get my breakfast, I’d rather hang myself by the balls,” wondered all.
There was a time when he gorged on marghi na farcha, dhan dal and fried bumla for lunch. Now, he ate little, nibbling on the food that he simply couldn’t find any flavour in. Old buddies stopped by for a game of chess but found little cheer in his lackluster moves. While most knew about his loss, they wanted him to move on.
Time had clearly stood still. But he refused to speak to anyone, except Persephone. This floppy-eared cocker spaniel owned by his neighbour was as much a stickler for time as Cowasjee. When he was just two years old, Perci would wait for the grandfather clock to strike five and then scamper out of the house to chase cats. Almost twelve years old now, the dog still retained its punctuality and went out to pee in the garden every afternoon at sharp 4.30. So it was no surprise that Perci and Cowas were an inseparable twosome. So much so, that at one point Cowasjee wanted to perform the navjote, the rites of admission into the religion, for the dog. He later abandoned the idea considering the owners wouldn’t have been too amused. But even Perci couldn’t fill the void that had been left behind.
Only Bakhtyar, his old servant, knew too well the extent of his bereavement. Dropping in from time to time, ‘Bhakti’ as Cowasjee called him, would cook and clean for his old master. The patriarch would let him do the needful, knowing very well that he wouldn’t accept a rupee for his efforts. So when one day Bhakti dropped by and struck up a conversation, the old man humoured him. “Isn’t it time you picked up the pieces of your life,” Bhakti asked his morose master. Cowasjee simply looked across the empty bed. Aware of the fact that there wasn’t much he could do, Bhakti merely said, “It is only a matter of time…” Breaking his silence, Cowasjee replied, “Time is the one thing I don’t have anymore.”
Several listless afternoons and longer evenings later, Cowasjee set out of his house for the first time in three weeks. This was one trip he had been dreading to make. Clad in his crisp best, he stopped by at Nusro’s for “the usual”. If this was it, he didn’t want to be caught dead with his scruffy face, a clumsy pair of trousers and a crumpled coat with an unclean sadra under it. He’d rather face the worst dressed in his best. So, a crisp black suit packed away in butter paper by none other than his beautiful Ava, was his pick for the day.
But when he walked out of the Rustomjee Watch Repair Co, established in 1934, with his trusted alarm clock clutched tightly in his hands, Cheherazad Cowasjee had only one thing to say, “My life’s back on track!”
She had always thought that it won’t happen to her, when it did. Eight months on… she was already far gone. Excited, she knew it was growing within her and wasn’t afraid… Not until, he said that it was her means to an end. That day, enveloped with nausea, she delivered her first short story.
Constant Companion
Life wasn’t the same anymore for Cowasjee. Waking up to see that vacant space across the bed, to not know how long the milk had been on the boil, to miss the 7 o’clock news… It was a week since he had slept soundly. Worse still, it was almost a month since he had been on his morning walk.
Nandu “Aarey” was among the first to notice his absence. Cowasjee would always shoot an encouraging smile as he walked past this doodhwallah’s stall. Nandu would continue unloading the plastic cartons from the tempo, content thinking at least one person in the city knew how much work went into delivering milk.
It was rare to come by people at 5 am, let alone those who would stop by and talk. And Cowasjee always did (as a rule: only after his first ten rounds of the park). Well, this was one among his many obsessive compulsions. And Nandu would know, what with this septuagenarian regaling him with comic stories everyday.
Once just as the doodh pau from Plot 795 on Jame Jamshed Road neared the stall on his morning jog, Cowasjee launched into his version of stand-up comedy. In a booming voice, he asked, “What do you call a Parsi test tube baby?” Stealing a glance at Nandu and not waiting long enough for a reply, he bellowed, “Batliboi!” The puny Parsi almost stopped in his tracks hearing his last name and needless to say, he had heard the question too. But, instead of picking a bone with him, he walked off in a huff. After all, a Batliboi was above all that. The fact that Cowasjee was three times his size of course didn’t have anything to do with this sixty-year-old’s hasty retreat!
Those who missed shows such as these in the morning caught Cowasjee’s act on Sunday evenings when his voice rose and fell among the trees at Five Gardens. He would say things genuine stand-up comedians wouldn’t dream of. For instance; he’d make jokes about how the Khada Parsi at Byculla Bridge earned his sobriquet and if aapro Nariman aaje hote to Superman chaddi ma sussi kare che and not surprisingly, Sanober’s gravity-defying bosom was the most popular among his radical gags. The fact that he peppered these jokes with one-liners like: “These are solely meant for those with no inner voices, principles and wives” only left the mostly male audience out of breath laughing.
Age clearly hadn’t bent the old fogey’s funny bone. Paeans about the wonder years when things were cheaper and life was better weren’t for him. He abhorred the erstwhile. Cowasjee was more likely to urge all to advocate perpetual procreation — the only answer to the receding Parsi population — and top it off by calling attention to how receding hemlines helped in the process.
As far as receding hairlines were concerned, they were off limits at his discourses. His maroon skull cap was as much a part of his personality, as was his pencil thin moustache. You’d expect someone as garrulous to have a thick, impenetrable moustache that would draw a curtain on the comic scenarios he spouted, when he’d end a story. Not him! Facial hair — whether side whiskers, beards, stubbles or those obnoxious strands originating from the nostrils, ears, nape of the neck — were religiously taken care of.
Naturally, Cowasjee couldn’t have pulled this chikna look if it wasn’t for Nusro. Now, if someone else would have asked Nusro to dedicate one whole afternoon to shaving off every such unwanted strand of hair, he would have rather shaved off his own head than give into such eccentricity. In any case, he was only moonlighting as a barber until he could find someone to takeover his father’s business so that he could carry on with his studies in Psychiatry. Except, an afternoon with Cowasjee meant escaping for a whole three hours from his senile old mother in her cotton dressing gown, ranting ceaselessly from upstairs about the leaking tap. The old man’s jokes always drowned the reality of her existence. Those fleeting afternoons, as he wiped off the scissor on his sadra and saw Cowasjee’s hair fall at his feet, were the only moments when Nusro never thought of killing his mother.
But Cowasjee had his share of ‘elderly eccentricities’ too. For instance, he didn’t believe in excesses. “Why buy another track suit when one would suffice for the whole week? Bubbly Binafer is still going to call me a dirty old man,” he’d say with an impish grin.
Third floorwalleh Maneckji always wondered how this old geezer made it in time for his walk every morning. He never saw a watch on the man’s wrist. Neither did he see him stop by and ask anyone for the time. It was only a year ago that he caught up with Cowasjee on a particularly foggy morning and asked him the secret behind his punctuality. The old man cheekily replied, “You haven’t seen Delnavaz’s derrière in motion have you? Just be in front of Anjuman Baug at 7.30 am. And don’t tell Ava… She still thinks I love her.” Next morning, Maneckji had found his punctuality muse.
Cowasjee’s clockwork orange walks hadn’t just set a precedent for the senior citizens at Dadar Parsi Colony, even the youngsters were intimidated by his briskness and gait. One time, in his serious best, he had announced to Behram Petit, the geriatric he often met at the fire temple, “Time is my constant companion!” Petit, in retort, had said, “So you are married to time too? Didn’t know us Parsis believed in polygamy as well.” The odd twosome had slapped each other’s back and carried on laughing.
But that had all changed. Concern turned to dismay when friends and neighbours found the one-man-show seeking refuge at home. In fact, he began doing the one thing he detested – suspending the basket from his second floor home so that the kiranewallah would fill it up with eggs, bread and the basic things he needed so that he won’t have to venture out. What had happened to his, “If I can’t move my limbs and go downstairs to get my breakfast, I’d rather hang myself by the balls,” wondered all.
There was a time when he gorged on marghi na farcha, dhan dal and fried bumla for lunch. Now, he ate little, nibbling on the food that he simply couldn’t find any flavour in. Old buddies stopped by for a game of chess but found little cheer in his lackluster moves. While most knew about his loss, they wanted him to move on.
Time had clearly stood still. But he refused to speak to anyone, except Persephone. This floppy-eared cocker spaniel owned by his neighbour was as much a stickler for time as Cowasjee. When he was just two years old, Perci would wait for the grandfather clock to strike five and then scamper out of the house to chase cats. Almost twelve years old now, the dog still retained its punctuality and went out to pee in the garden every afternoon at sharp 4.30. So it was no surprise that Perci and Cowas were an inseparable twosome. So much so, that at one point Cowasjee wanted to perform the navjote, the rites of admission into the religion, for the dog. He later abandoned the idea considering the owners wouldn’t have been too amused. But even Perci couldn’t fill the void that had been left behind.
Only Bakhtyar, his old servant, knew too well the extent of his bereavement. Dropping in from time to time, ‘Bhakti’ as Cowasjee called him, would cook and clean for his old master. The patriarch would let him do the needful, knowing very well that he wouldn’t accept a rupee for his efforts. So when one day Bhakti dropped by and struck up a conversation, the old man humoured him. “Isn’t it time you picked up the pieces of your life,” Bhakti asked his morose master. Cowasjee simply looked across the empty bed. Aware of the fact that there wasn’t much he could do, Bhakti merely said, “It is only a matter of time…” Breaking his silence, Cowasjee replied, “Time is the one thing I don’t have anymore.”
Several listless afternoons and longer evenings later, Cowasjee set out of his house for the first time in three weeks. This was one trip he had been dreading to make. Clad in his crisp best, he stopped by at Nusro’s for “the usual”. If this was it, he didn’t want to be caught dead with his scruffy face, a clumsy pair of trousers and a crumpled coat with an unclean sadra under it. He’d rather face the worst dressed in his best. So, a crisp black suit packed away in butter paper by none other than his beautiful Ava, was his pick for the day.
But when he walked out of the Rustomjee Watch Repair Co, established in 1934, with his trusted alarm clock clutched tightly in his hands, Cheherazad Cowasjee had only one thing to say, “My life’s back on track!”
posted by ironyofdparadox at 12:25 pm
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