Bombay Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

India.”
    “Arre,
the British are not so crazy as to be returning to this wretched country,” Bomi replied. “You could beg them and shower them with rose petals, and still they would refuse to come back.”
    Sheroo frowned.
“Besharam.
Shameless, you are. Have some patriotic sense. You think things cost much only in India? Inflation is a fact of life worldwide.”
    Bomi Mistry’s eyes were already bloodshot, his face bearing the sentimental, puppy-dog expression that his friends knew so well. Bomi had already consumed four or five pegs, Rusi concluded. Four or five stiff ones, same amount of whiskey as water. “No country going to hell like this one,” Bomi replied. “I tell you, until Rusi arrived a few minutes back, my heart was going thump-thump. I was wondering whether some
mawali
had cut his throat and stolen all of Coomi’s jewelry or what.”
    Rusi laughed.
“Saala,
your imagination is as active as ever. No trouble with
mawalis.
After all, this is not New York or L.A. We were just—”
    “Imagination-fimagination, nothing,” said Bomi, interrupting angrily. “My dear fellow, where do you think you’re living, in Switzerland? You know Kashmira,
na,
my Sheroo’s brother’s wife’s niece? No? Anyway, she’s a nice sweet
chokri,
twenty-three or twenty-five years old. Fair-skinned, but not stuck-up like many of these modern girls today. Anyway, two, three weeks ago, she was at an office party at Cuffe Parade. Nice, posh area. Her boss, Mr. Gandhi, was giving a party for all employees.
    “Anyway, Kashmira and a coworker leave at about nine o’clock and get a taxi. Her friend is getting in first, then Kashmira. And while she’s giving the
taxiwalla
directions, you know what happens? A man leans into the window and puts a knife at Kashmira’s throat and demands her watch and gold earrings. The poor girl’s hands are shaking so badly, she can hardly get the watch out, staring at this knife at her throat. The
taxiwalla
is also shaking; if he tries to drive off, the knife will be inside Kashmira.
“Memsahib,”
the poor
taxiwalla
says. “Please to give him anything he asks for.”
    Bomi paused for dramatic effect. Slowly, he finished the rest of his whiskey. He knew he had a captive audience now. Many of those around him had stopped talking and were listening to the story. They were all of an age and a class where stories of attacks on middle-class people fascinated and chilled them. Such stories put into high relief their love-hate relationship with the city of their birth.
    Eyeing his audience, Bomi picked up the story. “So anyway, she gives him her watch—a gift from her dearly departed father, by the way—and then she’s fidgeting with her earrings. Kashmira’s friend helps her get the right one off. But while she is trying to get the left one, the
goonda
becomes nervous. She had on these dangling earrings, twenty-four-karat gold. He grabs at the earring, almost tearing the poor girl’s ear out, and runs away with all the loot. He’s gone, just like that. Disappears into the crowd before you could say one, two, three. And to top it off, he calls her a ‘fat bitch’ before running away— ladies, please to excuse my French. Now, if you knew Kashmira, you would know that whatever she is, she is not fat. Why, such a slim, good-looking girl you—”
    “Bomi,” someone hissed. “What happened to the girl?”
    “What happened?
Arre,
her poor ear was spurting blood like Flora Fountain used to spurt water in the days of the British. Now, of course, the good old Bombay Municipality cannot even afford to keep the fountain running. Bombay Loonycipality, I call it.” Bomi grinned at his own joke.
    “Did she—did she lose her ear?” a woman asked in a low voice.
    “No, luckily, the bastard had only ripped it badly. Took six to seven stitches, though. They took poor Kashmira back to the party, all bleeding and crying. Gandhi’s wife called their family doctor. And the next day, Kashmira was