"See you tomorrow, then," Zubin said, his voice a low counterpoint to the city’s roar. He stood before Auxilium House, the facade of the old residential building a familiar canvas of faded yellow paint and dark green railings. A few feet away, a double-decker bus, its red paint peeling in protest of the tropical sun, rumbled past, a fleeting glimpse of faces pressed against its windows.
Joseph leaned against the gate, a sudden sense of finality settling on his shoulders. The walk was over. The grand, sprawling ideas had to be shelved for another day. “So you’re going all the way there for her?” he asked, a hint of something he couldn't name—envy, perhaps, or just plain curiosity—in his voice. “To the BPT Polyclinic? Isn't it a long way?”
Zubin shrugged, a casual gesture that made his backpack shift on his shoulders. “It’s not so bad. Besides, my parents… they don’t like her to be out there alone late. It’s better this way.” His sister, Farida, was 20, a figure of distant, adult authority in Joseph’s mind. The BPT Polyclinic, with its sprawling, almost campus-like feel, was a world away from their usual haunts. It was a place of serious work and serious people, not teenage dreams and philosophical ramblings.
“Okay, then. Take care,” Joseph said, pushing off the gate.
“You too. And don’t dream about becoming a pilot. Not yet.” Zubin grinned, a quick flash of his usual dry wit, and then turned, his figure a solitary point in the river of people flowing towards the main road.
Joseph watched him go, a sense of quiet descending as Zubin's familiar form merged with the crowd. He pushed the heavy gate of Auxilium House open, the sound of the hinges a rusty groan he’d known all his life. He stepped into the building’s cool, dim entryway, the smells of the building hitting him like a soft wave. There was a constant, low murmur of a thousand lives lived behind the closed doors, a mix of cooking smells, stale air, and the faint, ever-present scent of old wood and worn tiles.
The staircase was a familiar climb. Joseph took the steps two at a time, his feet instinctively knowing the rhythm of the ascent. As he passed the second-floor landing, his nose twitched. Sonny Aruja’s house. Sonny, who was a Keralite Roman Catholic and had a booming voice, was a man of large appetites, and his cooking was never subtle. Today, the scent was a heady, complex mix of fish curry and red boiled rice, a perfume so rich and deep that it seemed to hang in the air, a thick, palpable presence. Joseph felt a pang of hunger, a visceral, animal desire for a plate of that food. It smelled of spices and promises, of a life lived with a certain confident gusto.
He reached his own door and pushed it open, the gentle squeak of the hinges a familiar sound of homecoming. The first thing he saw was his father, Robert D’Costa, or 'Bobby' as he was known to his friends. His father was a man of habit and quiet contemplation. He sat in his favorite armchair, its faded floral pattern a testament to years of service. He was angled towards the window, the soft evening light illuminating the lines on his face and the silver in his hair. His eyes were fixed on the main street, a living canvas of human drama, while his hands held a copy of The Times of India, the rustle of its pages a constant, gentle sound.
A glass, its bottom half filled with a pale amber liquid and a few cubes of ice, sat on the small side table beside him. Joseph knew, instinctively, that this was either the second or third "large" glass of whisky. Robert D’Costa, a foreman at the Hume Pipe Factory in Antop Hill, worked shifts, a rhythm that had governed their family life for as long as Joseph could remember. When he was home in the afternoon, this ritual was as constant as the coming of night. The Goan Roman Catholics of this city, Joseph mused, never bothered with the proper measure of a "chota" or "large" peg. For them, a glass was a glass, filled to a point that felt right, a personal measure of the day’s work and a quiet moment of peace before the next shift began.
Joseph padded softly into the house, his presence unnoticed. He heard the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen and knew his mother was at work. Cynthia D’Costa, a woman with a quick, sharp tongue and a heart of fierce love, was a source of both warmth and a certain kind of domestic drama. She hailed from Chiplun, a small town near Ratnagiri, and her family had carried a slice of that Konkan life with them to Mumbai.
He wandered into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. He took in the scene with a quick glance. A pot of what looked like watery chicken stew simmered on the stove. A plate of rice sat beside it, looking tired and uninspired. And on the counter were the sad, leftover bread slices from the morning. Joseph’s face fell, the hunger that had flared just moments before deflating into a familiar disappointment.
Cynthia, her back to him as she stirred the pot, didn't even turn. She sensed his presence, or perhaps, she had already anticipated his reaction. “Don’t look at me like that, Joseph,” she said, her voice a low grumble that had a certain theatrical quality to it. “You want better food? Who is going to go to the market? Your father? Or maybe your sister, Wilma, will come down from her room and magically bring fresh fish and new vegetables?”
Joseph felt a familiar pang of guilt and a slight sense of irritation. He knew this litany by heart. The complaint was not meant for him. It was a soliloquy, a carefully crafted piece of domestic dialogue designed for an audience of one. His father, sitting just a room away, with his back to the drama, was the intended listener. Cynthia’s voice was loud enough, her frustration pitched at just the right level to carry through the thin walls. She was not angry with Joseph. She was speaking to the universe, to the unhelpful men in her life, and most pointedly, to the one who sat in his armchair, lost in his newspaper and his whisky.
Without a word, Joseph retreated from the kitchen, the sound of his mother’s low-pitched complaints following him. He felt the weight of his own helplessness. He couldn't go to the market now. He had just come home. The day’s events had been a long, rambling journey of mind and body, and now, all he wanted was to find a quiet corner and wait for dinner. The air in the apartment felt thick with the unspoken, the small domestic frustrations that made up the backdrop of his family life. He moved past his father, who remained a statue of quiet contemplation, and headed for the bedroom, the memory of Sonny Aruja’s fish curry a cruel and delicious taunt.
Bharat Bhushan
21 August 2025
