Tales From Firozsha Baag Read Free Page B

the officiating priest could enter, to tend to the sacred fire burning in the huge, shining silver
afargaan
on its marble pedestal. She felt she could sit for hours outside the sanctuary, watching the flames in their dance of life, seeing the sparks fly up the enormous dark dome resembling the sky. It was her own private key to the universe, somehow making less frightening the notions of eternity and infinity.
    In high school she would visit the fire-temple before exam week. Her offering of a sandalwood stick would be deposited in the silver tray at the door of the inner sanctuary, and she would reverently smear her forehead and throat with the grey ash left in the tray for this purpose.
Dustoor
Dhunjisha, in his flowing white robe, would always be there to greet her with a hug, always addressing her as his dear daughter. The smell of his robe would remind her of mother’s sari fragrant with sandalwood. Serene and fortified, she would go to write her exam.
    Dustoor
Dhunjisha was now almost seventy-five, and was not always around when Mehroo went to the fire-temple. Some days, when he did not feel well, he stayed in his room and let a younger priest look after the business of prayer and worship. But today she hoped he would be present; she wanted to see that gentle face from her childhood, the long white beard, the reassuring paunch.
    After marrying Rustomji and moving into Firozsha Baag, Mehroo had continued to go to
Dustoor
Dhunjisha for all ceremonies. In this, she risked the ire of the
dustoorji
who lived in their own block on the second floor. The latter believed that he had first claim to the business of Firozsha Baag tenants, that they should all patronize his nearby
agyaari
as long as he could accommodate them. But Mehroo persisted in her loyalty to Dhunjisha. She paid no attention to the high dudgeon the A Block priest directed at her, or to Rustomji’s charges.
    Under the priestly garb of Dhunjisha, protested Rustomji, lurked a salacious old man taking advantage of his venerable image: “Loves to touch and feel women, the old goat – the younger and fleshier, themore fun he has hugging and squeezing them.” Mehroo did not believe it for a moment. She was always pleading with him not to say nasty things about such a holy figure.
    But this was not all. Rustomji swore that Dhunjisha and his ilk had been known to exchange lewd remarks between lines of prayer, to slip them in amidst scripture recitals, especially on days of ceremony when sleek nubile women in their colourful finery attended in large numbers. The oft-repeated
Ashem Vahoo
was his favourite example:
    Ashem Vahoo
,
See the tits on that chickie-boo …
    This version was a popular joke among the less religious, and Mehroo dismissed it as more of Rustomji’s irreverence. He assured her they did it very skilfully and thus went undetected. Besides, the white kerchief all
dustoors
were required to wear over the nose and mouth, like masked bandits, to keep their breath from polluting the sacred fire, made it difficult to hear their muttering in the first place. Rustomji claimed it took a trained ear to sift through their mumbles and separate the prayers from the obscenities.
    The H route bus stopped at Marine Lines. Mehroo alighted and walked down Princess Street, wondering about the heavy traffic. Cars and buses were backed up all the way on the flyover from Princess Street to Marine Drive.
    She neared the fire-temple and saw parked outside its locked gates two police cars and a police van. Her step quickened. The last time the gates had been closed, as far as she knew, was during the Hindu-Muslim riots following partition; she was afraid to think what calamity had now come to pass. Parsis and non-Parsis were craning and peering through the bars of the gates; the same human curiosity had touched them all. A policeman was trying to persuade them to disperse.
    Mehroo lingered on the periphery of the crowd, irresolute, then plunged into it. She saw
Dustoor
Kotwal