With a final, decisive movement, Joseph D’Costa folded his textbooks and notebooks, the flimsy pages falling into a neat stack. The small, cheap blue ballpoint pen was tucked into the spiral of the notebook. He placed the stack into his schoolbag and, with a heave, tucked it neatly below the old steel almirah in the corner. The almirah had stood there since before he was born, a silent, grey sentinel with its rusted corners and a persistent musty scent of old paper and clothes. Its presence was as much a part of the house as the perpetually open windows and the distant traffic drone. A faint sense of relief washed over him as the schoolbag was out of sight, the burden of homework temporarily lifted.
He picked up the stainless-steel vessel with the chicken curry, its metal still warm from his mother's hands, and walked out of the house. The sound of his chappals slapping against the cool, tiled stairs was a rhythmic, liberating sound. Each step down was a step away from the tense, quiet atmosphere of the apartment. He descended from the second floor to the first, the air growing slightly cooler, a welcome contrast to the humid stillness of his home.
Mr. Fernando’s apartment door was just like all the others in the building: a heavy, dark wood with a brass nameplate that read “John Michael Fernando.” Joseph hesitated for a moment, the vessel feeling heavy in his hands. He pushed the bell, the shrill, electrical chime echoing inside the apartment. The door was opened by a housemaid, a woman he recognized from passing her on the stairs, her name he recalled was something like Pushpa. She was a small, wiry woman with quick eyes and a permanent air of harried purpose. She looked at him, her face a blank slate of inquiry, and he mumbled, “Is Lizzy Aunty there?”
“Pushpa, who is it?” a voice called from within, and a moment later, Elizabeth, or Mrs. Fernando, or ‘Lizzy Aunty’ as the building knew her, came into view. She was a woman of generous proportions, her body spilling out of a large, faded nightgown. Her thick eyeglasses, perched on her nose, magnified her eyes, giving her a perpetually surprised look. She pushed Pushpa aside with a gentle but firm motion. “Joseph, beta! Come in, come in.”
Joseph, used to a quick-handoff-and-go from his mother’s errands, remained planted in the doorway. He held out the vessel. “Mama sent this, Lizzy Aunty. Some chicken curry.”
Lizzy Aunty’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile. “Oh, bless her heart! How kind of your mother! Please tell her thank you, and come in for a little bit. Your uncle is not returned from school, but you can sit.”
Joseph, feeling the urge to flee the moment he had completed his errand, politely shook his head. “No, no, thank you, Aunty. I have to… I have to go somewhere.”
“Ah, of course, of course. Young boys always have somewhere to go. Well, thank you again. This is so thoughtful.” She took the vessel from him, her hands warm and soft against the cool steel. She held it for a moment, as if savouring the weight of the gift. “You can tell your Mama I will send the vessel back after dinner. Maybe you can come down later to collect it? We will have some sweets for you, no?”
“Yes, Aunty. I will tell her,” Joseph said, and with a final, hurried nod, he was gone. He walked briskly down the last flight of stairs, his heart pounding with a strange mix of accomplishment and relief. He had escaped.
The street felt different from the quiet, contained world of the apartment. It was loud and alive with the smells of drying laundry, burning garbage from the nearby dump, and the occasional burst of spice from a passing food stall. He saw Melwyn Aruja sitting on the steps of the tailoring shop, which was now shuttered for the evening. The shop’s steps were a tiered concrete bench that served as a communal gathering spot for the boys of the building. It was the perfect place to sit and be seen, but not too seen. From here, you could see the comings and goings of the main gate, but you were far enough away from the direct sightline of most of the apartment windows. Melwyn, at 14, was a year older than Joseph and in the same class, a curious fact of their school’s age-based promotions. He was a quiet, intense boy, known for his singular focus. He wasn’t a loner in the traditional sense, but he chose his friends with a certain precision, mostly from his hockey team and the special Maths classes he attended at King’s Circle, a place that sounded to Joseph like a mythical land of academic wizards.
“Hey,” Joseph said, plopping down on a step below Melwyn.
“Hey,” Melwyn replied, not looking up from a small, well-worn book he was holding. He was sketching something in it, his pencil moving with a practiced, fluid motion.
“What were you doing?” Joseph asked.
“Homework. The algebra homework from Syed Sir and some extra problems. My extra Maths coaching Sir said it’s good practice for the scholarship exams.” Melwyn said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. He was an only child, and his brother Sunny Aruja, had grand plans for him, all of which seemed to revolve around numbers and the pursuit of academic excellence. “He says if you don’t practice, you lose your touch. Like a cricket bowler who stops training.”
Joseph sighed. “I tried to do my homework. From Mr. Syed. It was Algebra. It was a headache.” He didn't want to admit to Melwyn, of all people, that his father had pestered him about his grades. Melwyn’s brother would have had a much more structured, and probably funny and interesting conversation with him.
“Algebra is easy,” Melwyn said, his pencil still moving across the page. “It’s just about finding the pattern. It’s like a puzzle. Once you see the pattern, you can solve anything. It’s the Geometry that’s a bit tricky. The theorems and all.”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Fernando is here only, no? On the first floor. He teaches Geometry. Papa just told me that.” Joseph said, a little defensively.
Melwyn chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Yeah, I know. My brother warned me about it, and that’s why he paid for my special classes. Mr. Fernando is a good teacher. He gives a lot of homework, but he is a good teacher.” He paused, and then added, “My brother, Sunny, was telling me that Mr. Fernando is a very good man. That he gave his cousin private tuition for free, so that he could pass his Maths exam. He said that a lot of people in the building would talk to him, on the stairs and all. I just nod and move along. I don’t like to talk to teachers outside of school.”
A moment of silence passed between them, filled with the distant hum of traffic and the chirping of a few sparrows. It was then that Melwyn’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, is your sister Wilma hiding somewhere?”
Joseph looked at him, surprised. “Why? You know she is. She’s probably waiting for Papa to leave. She doesn’t like it when he drinks in the living room and makes all those sounds.”
“Yes, I know that. My brother told me too. But I think she has another watcher. I think she is waiting for him to leave, but she is being helped too.” Melwyn’s eyes, usually so focused and intense, now had a mischievous glint. “I think the lady from the vegetable shop, Sindhutai, is watching for her. Her daughter, Sunita, is Wilma’s friend, no?”
Joseph nodded slowly. “Yes, they are in the same class. They are good friends.”
“I think they are sitting inside the shop, where nobody can see them,” Melwyn said, a small smile playing on his lips. “But they can see us. They can see the main gate. They are probably talking about us now, and our families, and our clothes, and our friends, and everybody. Wilma is waiting for your father, and Sunita is helping Wilma.”
The thought of his sister and her friend, a part of a complex web of observation and communication that he wasn't privy to, made Joseph feel both amused and slightly excluded. He imagined Wilma and Sunita, their heads bent in quiet conversation behind the curtain of vegetables and onions, their eyes trained on the front gate of the Auxilium House. He knew Wilma's routine well. Once their father, Robert, had left for his night shift at the Hume Pipe Factory, she would come home. She would then join their mother, Cynthia, on their nightly pilgrimage to the Fernando apartment.
“They will go down to the Fernando flat to watch TV, no?” Joseph said, a note of envy in his voice. He had been down there a few times, and the sight of the small black-and-white television set, a glowing rectangle of light in a dark room, felt like a window to another world. The single Doordarshan channel, with its limited programming and its jerky, grainy pictures, was a marvel of modern technology. He had seen the news anchor’s serious face, the grainy images of cricket matches, and the occasional Bollywood movie.
Melwyn nodded. “My sister-in-law watches TV there too. Your mother and my sister-in-law and Lizzy Aunty, they all watch TV together. They all gossip about the neighbours. They all talk about their sons and daughters and their husbands and their lives. They all say that Lizzy Aunty is a lucky woman, because Mr. Fernando is a teacher, and he is a good man, and he doesn’t drink at home.”
The mention of his father’s drinking brought a familiar knot of discomfort to Joseph’s stomach. He knew Wilma’s aversion to it. He knew it was a point of contention between his parents, a quiet, simmering resentment that had no voice. He looked down the street, feeling a sudden restlessness. The streetlights were beginning to glow sharply, and the sky was a canvas of bruised oranges and deep purples. He knew that the 7 pm bus to Dadar would be arriving soon, and he knew that waiting for it, would be Zubin Bhatena and his sister, Farida.
“I have to go,” Joseph said, standing up.
Melwyn looked up from whatever he was doing, tinkering with the laces of his sports shoes, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Why? What happened? Are you going somewhere?”
“I have to go to the bus stop. I have to see Zubin and Farida. They must be on their way to the bus stop now. They must have come from the BPT polyclinic. I want to meet them. I want to talk to them.” Joseph said, a sudden, fierce purpose in his voice. He had not seen Farida since two days now, since she had gone to their grandmother’s place in Bandra. Zubin was his best friend in the whole world, and he missed him.
Melwyn’s expression softened. “Ah, the Parsi boy. Yes, he is your best friend, no?”
“Yes, he is. I have to go now. I have to meet them,” Joseph said, and with that, he took off. He walked quickly down the street, his heart filled with a newfound purpose. He had to see his friend. He had to escape the quiet, tense world of his family and enter the loud, bustling world of the street, where his friends were waiting for him.
Bharat Bhushan
21 August 2025
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