Tales From Firozsha Baag Read Free

Bombay and return to the village she had left so long ago, to end her days with her sister’s family there. Mehroo was happy for her. Rustomji heaved a sigh of relief. He had no objections when Mehroo gave her generous gifts at the time of parting. He even suggested getting her a new pair of spectacles. But Tanoo declined the offer, saying she would not have much use for them in the village, with no china plates and saucers to wash.
    And so, Tanoo departed and Gajra arrived: young and luscious, and notorious for tardiness.
    Coconut hair oil was the only thing Gajra had in common with Tanoo. She was, despite her plumpness, quite pretty; she was, Rustomji secretly thought, voluptuous. And he did not tire of going into the kitchen while Gajra was washing dishes, crouched on her haunches within the parapet of the
mori
. When still a young boy, Rustomji had heard that most
gungas
had no use for underwear – neither brassiere or knickers. He had confirmed this several times through observation as a lad in his father’s house. Gajra provided further proof, proof which popped out from beneath her short blouse during the exertionof sweeping or washing. With a deft movement she would tuck back the ample bosom into her
choli
, unabashed, but not before Rustomji had gazed his fill. Like two prime Ratnagiri mangoes they were, he felt, juicy and golden smooth.
    “Her cups runneth over,” he would then gleefully think, remembering time and time again the little joke from his beloved school days at St. Xavier’s. Though not given to proselytizing, the school had a custom of acquainting all its students, Catholic or otherwise, with the Lord’s Prayer and the more popular Psalms.
    Rustomji’s one fervent wish was that some day Gajra’s breasts should slip out far enough from under her
choli
to reveal her nipples.
“Dada Ormuzd
, just once let me see them, only once,” he would yearn in his depths, trying to picture the nipples: now dark brown and the size of a gram but with the hidden power to swell; now uncontrollably aroused and black, large and pointed.
    While waiting for his wish to come true, Rustomji enjoyed watching Gajra modify her sari each morning before she started work: she hauled it up between her thighs and tucked it in around the waist so it would not get wet in the
mori
. When altered like this, the layers produced a very large, very masculine lump over the crotch. But her movements while she, steatopygic, completed her daily transformation – bending her knees, thighs apart, patting her behind to smooth down the fabric – were extremely erotic for Rustomji.
    Mehroo was usually present when this went on, so he would have to pretend to read the
Times of India
, looking surreptitiously from behind or over or under and taking his chances. Sometimes, he remembered a little Marathi rhyme he had picked up as a boy. It formed part of a song which was sung at every boisterous, rollicking party his father used to give for his Parsi colleagues from Central Bank. At that time, little Rustom had not understood the meaning, but it went:
    Sakubai la zaoli

Dadra chi khalti…
    After many years and many parties, as Rustom grew up, he was allowed to sit with the guests instead of being sent out to play in thecompound. The day came when he was allowed his first sip of Scotch and soda from his father’s glass. Mother had protested that he was too young, but father had said, “What is there in one sip, you think he will become a drunkard?” Rustom had enjoyed that first sip and had wanted more, to the delight of the guests. “Takes after his father, really likes his peg!” they had guffawed.
    It was also around this time that Rustom started to understand the meaning of the rhyme and the song: it was about the encounter of a Parsi gentleman with a
gunga
he caught napping under a dark stairwell – he seduces her quite easily, then goes his merry way. Later, Rustom had sung it to his friends in St. Xavier’s, the song which he