Joseph meets Zubin and Farida at the bus-stop - Wadala Wagrants - Chapter 2 Episode 1

 Joseph D’Costa took off like a shot, his chappals slapping against the cracked pavement. He crossed the road with a practiced dart-and-weave, narrowly missing a rickshaw that honked angrily at him. He didn’t care. His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only: finding Zubin. And there they were, just as he had imagined, walking along the footpath. Zubin Bhathena, his best friend, and his sister, Farida. They were coming from the direction of the BPT polyclinic, and Joseph met them just as they were passing Sindhutai’s vegetable stall.

“Zubin!” Joseph called out, a wide smile spreading across his face.

Zubin’s face lit up in a grin, and he quickened his pace to meet Joseph. “Joseph! Hey, man! I thought you were still doing homework.”

“I have not even started,” Joseph said, a note of disgust in his voice. He glanced inside the vegetable shop, and sure enough, there was Wilma, sitting with her friend Sunita, their heads bent in quiet conversation. He waved to her, and she waved back. “Hey, Wilma! I am with Zubin at the bus stop. Let me know if Papa leaves, okay?”

Wilma, a flash of surprise on her face, nodded and gave a quick wave to Zubin and Farida. “I will! Don’t you worry!” she called back.

Farida, a year older than the boys and a perpetual observer, raised a quizzical eyebrow. She was a quiet girl, with a keen, almost imperceptible sense of humor. “Why is your sister hiding in a vegetable shop?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

“Different story,” Joseph said, shrugging. He didn’t want to get into the intricacies of his family life. He fell into step beside Zubin, and Farida followed.

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the sound of their feet on the pavement, the low murmur of conversation from the street, and the distant hum of traffic the only sounds. Zubin, ever the practical one, was the first to break the silence. “So, why did you not finish that Maths homework from Syed Sir? Did you have any trouble with it?”

“Oh, don’t even ask,” Joseph grumbled. “I’m so upset. I just want to… I don’t know. I’m just upset.”

Farida, ever the concerned one, joined the conversation. “What happened, Joseph? Is it serious? Did Mr. Syed scold you?”

Zubin, who knew Joseph better than anyone, laughed. “Oh, it’s not that. He’s just having one of his moments. He must have discovered a new ambition to work in later life. That’s what always happens when he gets upset.”

Joseph turned crimson. “Zubin, don’t!”

But Farida was intrigued. “No, no, tell me. I want to know. What did he want to be? A scientist? An astronaut?”

Zubin laughed again. “He wanted to be a professional football player, like the Brazilians, remember? He used to talk about it all the time. He even tried to get a football from his father for his birthday, remember that? And then, a today evening, later, he wanted to be a helicopter pilot, because he said he wanted to fly over the city and see everything. He said he would take us on a ride. And then, immediately, he wanted to be a taxi driver, because he said that taxi drivers know everything about the city, and they meet all sorts of people. He said he would take us to all the best places to eat, and he promised me.”

Farida laughed, a low, delightful sound that made Joseph’s heart swell. He was so embarrassed, but her laugh was so infectious, he couldn’t help but smile. “So, Joseph,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “What is it now? What new profession have you discovered?”

Joseph, flustered and embarrassed, blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “I will open a vegetable stall. Right there,” he said, pointing to the spot on the pavement right next to Sindhutai’s shop. I will just have to walk across from Auxilium House and back for the rest of my life. My mother will also not have anything to complain about because she can get all the vegetables and all the spices she wants right there.”

Zubin and Farida burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the twilight. “A vegetable stall owner! That is the best one yet!” Zubin said, his voice filled with mirth. “You will become the king of vegetables! You will be rich!”

Just then, a BEST bus, its red body a familiar sight, pulled up to the bus stop. It was the 7 pm bus to Dadar. Zubin and Farida, still laughing, boarded the bus. Zubin turned to wave to Joseph as the bus pulled away, the familiar red vehicle crossing the railway lines and turning left to go on towards Five Gardens. Joseph waved back, his heart filled with a strange mixture of relief and camaraderie.

Inside the bus, Zubin, still chuckling, reached for his wallet to pay for the tickets. Farida, her laughter subsiding, looked at him with a serious expression. “So, you came to the polyclinic straight from school?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

“Yes. I did not go home. I did not change into my clothes to come here,” Zubin said, his voice flat.

Farida raised an eyebrow. “Big trouble. You still have your school bag with you. You have not changed. You are still in your school uniform. You just told Joseph that you were there the whole evening waiting for me.”

Zubin looked at her, and a small, mischievous smile played on his lips. “Okay, okay, you got me. I didn’t go home. I came here straight from school. But I had Joseph for company. And I thought I would come early and work on my homework.”

Farida looked at him, thinking of ‘Armin’, their mother, and she shook her head. “You know that Mama will be upset. She always says that you have to come home first, change into your clothes, and then go out. She says that it’s not right to be in your school uniform outside of school. She says it’s a sign of a bad boy.”

Zubin laughed, the sound echoing in the bus. He handed the bus conductor the money for the tickets and took the tickets from him. “I know. I know. But I have a plan. I will blame you. I will say that you called me and you told me to come early, and I was so worried about you, that I came here straight from school.”

Farida smiled. “And you think Mama will believe you? You know she’s smarter than that, Zubin. She will ask me. And I will tell her the truth. I will tell her that I didn’t know that you were coming. I will tell her that I was surprised to see you.”

Zubin sighed, thinking of 'Mehernosh’, their father, a long, drawn-out sound of mock defeat. “Okay, okay, I will blame Papa. I will say that Papa told me to come and get you. He was worried that you would be alone. And it is quite possible that he may not remember exactly what and if he had said something like that and so it would be ok.”

Farida looked at him, and she laughed again, a soft, low sound. “That is a good plan. Papa is very forgetful, especially when he is working on his accounts. You can just tell him that he told you that, and he will just say ‘oh, yes, I must have forgotten. Thank you, Zubin, for being a good son.’ And then he will forget all about it.”

Zubin smiled, a triumphant expression on his face. “See? I told you. I have a plan. I am very smart. I am going to be a genius one day, you know. I will make a lot of money and I will buy you a beautiful house, and a beautiful car, and a beautiful watch, and a beautiful… everything.”

Farida looked at her brother and smiled. “You are a good boy, Zubin. But you are not a genius. You are just a good boy. And you are a good friend. You are a good brother. You are a good son. And that is all that matters. Now, tell me, did you do your homework? Or did you just sit at the OPD room and chat with the nurses?”

Zubin grinned. “I did my homework. I finished it while waiting for you. I am a very good boy, you know. I am a very good son. And I am a very good brother.”

Farida shook her head and smiled. The bus rumbled on, the windows filled with the lights of the city. They were on their way home, to their world of quiet conversations, and to the love of their parents, and to the small, intimate world of their family.

Bharat Bhushan

23 August 2025

Cynthia D'Costa is upset with her family - Episode 2 - Wadala Wagrant Stories

 "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.

Robert or Bobby D'Costa at his armchair with Cynthia at the Kitchen

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