Stories of Ourselves: "Of White Hairs and Cricket" by Rohinton Mistry

It danced over the cherubic features of the Murphy Baby, in step with the tweezers’ progress on Daddy’s scalp.

It was impossible to clean perfectly because of the floral design embossed upon its surface.

One morning when we had come home after cricket, he told Mummy and Mamaiji, ‘Today my son did a brave thing, as I would have done. A powerful shot was going to the boundary, like a cannonball, and he blocked it with his bare shin.’

By angling the tweezers I could aim the bulb’s light upon various spots on the Murphy Radio calendar: the edges of the picture, worn and turned inward; the threadbare loop of braid sharing the colour of rust with the rusty nail it hung by; a corroded staple clutching twelve thin strips – the perforated residue of months ripped summarily over a decade ago when their days and weeks were played out.

Seated, there was no trace of the infirmity that caused her to walk doubled over.

Doctors said it was due to a weak spine that could not erect against the now inordinate weight of her stomach.

From photographs of Mummy’s childhood, I knew Mamaiji had been a big handsome woman, with a majestic countenance.

She opened her bag of spinning things, although she had been told to rest her eyes after the recent cataract operation.

She spoke under her breath, arranging her spindle and wool; she was not looking for a direct confrontation.

The kustis were woven by a professional, who always praised the fine quality of the thread; and even at the fire-temple, where we untied and tied them during prayers, they earned the covetous glances of other Parsis.

I beheld the spindle and Mamaiji’s co-ordinated feats of dexterity with admiration.

There was one I was particularly fond of: its round label was the most ethereal blue I ever saw.

There was no real enmity between Daddy and Mamaiji, I think they even liked each other.

Housebound as she was, the only food accessible to her was the stuff sold by door-to-door vendors, which I adored but was strictly forbidden: samosa, bhajia, sevganthia; or the dinners she cooked for herself, separately, because she said that Mummy’s cooking was insipidity itself: ‘Tasteless as spit, refuses to go down my throat.’

But the clandestine repasts were invariably uncovered, and the price was paid in harsh and unpleasant words.

But the clandestine repasts were invariably uncovered, and the price was paid in harsh and unpleasant words.

For though I was an eager partner in the conspiracy with Mamaiji, and acquiesced to the necessity for secrecy, very often I spilled the beans – quite literally – with diarrhoea and vomiting, which Mamaiji upheld as undeniable proof that lack of proper regular nourishment had enfeebled my bowels.

In the throes of these bouts of effluence, I promised Mummy and Daddy never again to eat what Mamaiji offered, and confessed all my past sins.

In Mamaiji's eyes I was a traitor, but sometimes it was also fun to listen to her scatological reproaches...

Mummy came in from the kitchen with a plateful of toast fresh off the Criterion: unevenly browned, and charred in spots by the vagaries of its kerosene wick.

Mummy listened to such advertisements week after week: harbingers of hope that ended in disappointment and frustration.

I liked the kerosene stoves and the formidable fifteen-gallon storage drum that replenished them.

Nariman Hansotia would be aligning, on the parapet of his ground floor veranda, his razor and shaving brush and mirror beside two steaming cups, one of boiling water and the other of tea...

...and the old spinster Tehmina, still waiting for her cataracts to ripen, would be saying her prayers facing the rising sun, with her duster-coat hoisted up and slung over the left shoulder...

If she happened to cross Tehmina’s line of vision, all the boys were sure to have a fine time, because Tehmina, though blurry with cataracts, would recognise the kuchrawalli and let loose at her with a stream of curses fouler than any filth in the garbage basket, for committing the unspeakable crime of passing in front of her, thereby polluting her prayers and vitiating their efficacy.

Even Daddy laughed, but he hurried us along as we lingered there to follow the ensuing dialogue.

Avoiding his eye, I said stolidly, ‘I’m going to read the comics,’ and walked out to the compound steps.

Something – remorse, maybe just pity – stirred inside, but I quashed it without finding out.

His house and dispensary were within walking distance of Firozsha Baag, even a sick person’s walking distance; he was a steadfast Parsi, seen often at fire-temples; and he always drove over for his house-calls.

Dr Sidhwa heaved out, he was a portly man, and reached in for his bag.

Besides, the uneven ground made the ball bounce and rear erratically.

Shrewd fellow, he knew the things to do to make grown-ups approve of him, and was always welcome at all the homes in Firozsha Baag.

I spoke again, in that easygoing debonair style which all of us tried to perfect, right arm akimbo and head tilted ever so slightly, ‘Come on yaar, what are your plans for today?’

I spoke again, in that easygoing debonair style which all of us tried to perfect, right arm akimbo and head tilted ever so slightly, ‘Come on yaar, what are your plans for today?’

Supine, his rotundity had spread into a flatness denying the huge bulk.

Supine, his rotundity had spread into a flatness denying the huge bulk.

Daddy was slim and wiry, although there were the beginnings of a small pot, as Mummy called it.

I glanced at his face discreetly, from the corner of my eye.

I swore to myself that never again would I begrudge him my help; I would get all the white hairs, one by one, if he would only ask me; I would concentrate on the tweezers as never before, I would do it as if all our lives were riding on the efficacy of the tweezers, yes, I would continue to do it Sunday after Sunday, no matter how long it took.

I wanted to cry for the way I had treated Viraf, and for his sick father with the long, cold needle in his arm and his rasping breath; for Mamaiji and her tired, darkened eyes spinning thread for our kustis, and for Mummy growing old in the dingy kitchen smelling of kerosene, where the Primus roared and her dreams were extinguished...