Zubin and Farida meet their family, especially, their grandmother - Wadala Wagrants - Ch02Ep02

 The BEST bus rumbled to a stop, its brakes hissing, and Zubin and Farida stepped off into the familiar, tree-lined quiet of Five Gardens. The air here was different from the dusty, chaotic breath of Wadala. It was cleaner, tinged with the scent of flowering frangipani and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery. They walked the short distance to their building, a sprawling, old-world Parsi Trust apartment that stood with a certain dignified grace. The building, with its wrought-iron balconies and high ceilings, was a fortress of quiet, middle-class comfort.

They took the wide, well-worn staircase to the second floor, their footsteps echoing softly in the cavernous stairwell. Zubin shifted his haversack on his back, the familiar weight a reminder of his transgression. He felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach. The smell of frying patrel and the subtle scent of sandalwood from a nearby cupboard greeted them as they opened the door.

Their father, Mehernosh Bhathena, was a man of routines. He was seated on his diwan-cum-single bed, a permanent fixture in the large living room. The bed was a fortress of comfort, with large bolster pillows and a dozen smaller ones supporting his back. He was a man who appreciated the simple pleasures of a good book and a comfortable seat. He was wearing his 'sedreh' or inner white muslin undershirt, over his loose-fitting white cotton 'pyjami'. The look was a uniform of leisure, a silent announcement that the workday was over and he was now in his own world. He held a copy of the day’s 'Bombay Samachar' or 'Mumbai Samachar', a Gujarati newspaper that he read with the same diligence and focus that he applied to his work as the Operating Manager at the Parsi Charity Hospital in Byculla.

Mehernosh looked up from his newspaper, his eyes twinkling. He noticed the slight tension in his children’s faces, the way Zubin’s shoulders were hunched, and the way Farida kept her eyes on the floor. He knew exactly what was on their minds. They were worried about how their mother, Armin, would react to Zubin's disobedience. He decided to give them a little breathing room.

“Hello, you two,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling sound. “Did you have a good day? Did you see that? That news item. About Farokh Engineer. The great Farokh Engineer. He’s agreed to play for the Parsi Gymkhana. Can you believe it? After all these years. And after that West Indies series. What a series that was, no? What a great team.” He was trying to draw Zubin into a conversation, to distract him from his impending doom.

He leaned forward, his eyes alight with the passion of a true cricket fan. “Farokh Engineer, my boy, he is one of our own. A true Parsi. He’s not like these other boys who play so safe, so properly. Our Engineer, he’s a bit of a maverick, no? With that swagger, those looks, and the way he bats without a helmet, showing the West Indies fast bowlers that he has no fear. He’s an inspiration, a man of daring. They used to call him ‘Daring Daring’ because he would go after the bowlers, no matter how fast they were. To see him play on our own ground, at the Parsi Gymkhana, it will be a sight to behold. A testament to our community’s spirit, a reminder that we can do anything we set our minds to.” His voice trailed off, a nostalgic look crossing his face as he remembered the glory days.

He then shifted to talk about the team as a whole, his voice now a more thoughtful hum. “And what a team we have. What a team! You have Gavaskar, the Little Master, so proper and correct with his technique. And then there is Vishwanath, with his beautiful batting, his shots so elegant, so poetic. We have the spinners, no? Prasanna, Chandrasekhar, Bedi, Venkataraghavan… what do they call them? The spin quartet! They are artists, my boy. They are not bowlers, they are artists. The way they turn the ball, the way they confuse the batsman, it’s like watching a dance. And to think that they will be playing in our very own city, in our very own country. It is a thing of beauty, a thing of pride. I think I will take a half-day from work to go and see the match, no?”

Zubin, a cricket fanatic, was about to take the bait. His eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth to speak. But Farida gave him a quick, sharp look, a silent warning. He shut his mouth and shook his head imperceptibly. He knew that this was a trap. A delicious, tempting trap, but a trap nonetheless. They still had to face their mother.

And as if on cue, Armin came out of the kitchen. She was a woman of quiet authority, with a graceful dignity that belied her small frame. She had a sharp mind and a keen eye for detail. She was accompanied by her mother, Zarine Sethna, a grand old lady of seventy with a thick, gravelly voice and an even thicker Parsi accent.

Zarine lived on the first floor of the same building, and she was a frequent visitor to their apartment. She was a woman of fierce independence, despite her age. Her son and his family had settled in London years ago, urging her to join them, but Zarine, with a stubbornness born of a lifetime in Bombay, had refused. Her world was here, in this sprawling apartment, in the narrow lanes of the Parsi Colony, and in the familiar rhythm of her life. Her days were structured around her work as a trustee in one of the oldest Parsi Trust-owned schools in the Five Gardens area. Her days were a blur of meetings, budget discussions, and, most importantly, the quiet, satisfying work of ensuring the school's legacy. It gave her a sense of purpose, a reason to get up every morning and to continue her life here.

“Ah, the children are here,” Zarine said, her voice a pronouncement. Her eyes, magnified by her thick spectacles, zeroed in on Zubin. “Zubin, what is this? You are in your school uniform? And with your bag? Did you not go home first? What did I tell you, Armin?”

Mehernosh kept his face buried in his newspaper, a convenient shield. He was an expert at diplomatic silence. Farida, meanwhile, busied herself with folding a pile of bedsheets that had been brought in from the wash dry line on the longish balcony. It was a perfect way to avoid eye contact and to look busy.

But to their surprise, Armin came to Zubin’s defense. “Mummy, don’t you worry. I know exactly what happened. He must have gone straight from school to the BPT polyclinic. He must have walked with his friend Joseph D’Costa or Melwyn Aruja who live on the other side of the railway line in Antop Hill. He must have walked there and waited for Farida to finish her shift before they could take the bus together back to Five Gardens.”

Zarine, however, was not convinced. “But why, Armin? Why did he not come home first? Why did he not change his clothes? You know what I always say. A clean body is a clean mind. A good boy always changes his clothes when he comes home from school.”

Armin, with a quiet strength that was unique to her, stood her ground. “Mummy, please. The child was with his sister. He was making sure that she was safe. What is more important than that? A clean uniform? Or a safe child? The uniform can be washed. The child’s safety cannot be.”

Zarine huffed, adjusting her thick spectacles on her nose. “Don’t give me this talk, Armin. I remember you, no? In your college days, with your messy hair and your loose shirts, coming home with all your books and notebooks, you would just throw them on the floor and go to the kitchen to eat something first. I would always tell you, 'First, you must put your things in the proper place, then you must wash your face and your hands, and then you can eat'. And what would you say? You would say, 'Mummy, I am hungry'. You see? You were also a naughty girl. You were also indisciplined. And look at you now, with two children of your own, you are defending your son’s bad habits.”

Armin's eyes softened at the memory. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Mummy, you know very well that I would always go back and put my things in the proper place. And I would always wash my hands. I would just eat a little something first, that’s all. I was just a hungry girl. And you would always let me. You see? You were also a naughty mother.” It was a light, good-natured jab, a subtle reminder that her mother, for all her strictness, had always been a softie at heart.

Zarine, for once, had nothing to say. She huffed a little and turned her attention to Farida, who was still folding the bedsheets. “And you, Farida. You should have told him to go home first. You should have told him that it is not right.”

Farida looked up from the bedsheets, a small, knowing smile on her face. “I did, Mummy. But he wouldn’t listen. He was so worried about me. He said he would not leave me alone at the polyclinic.”

Zubin looked at Farida, and a silent, grateful message passed between them. She had come to his rescue. He would not forget this. He would buy her a beautiful gift, a beautiful sari, a beautiful… something.

Zubin and Farida, both feeling a sudden rush of relief and gratitude, walked ever so casually to their study room. As they passed the living room, they saw their father, Mehernosh, smiling to himself, his face still covered with the newspaper. He had been a silent partner in their crime, a silent witness to their mother’s quiet act of rebellion. The Parsi world, they realized, was a world of unspoken rules and quiet understandings. And in that world, a mother’s love was a fortress, a bastion against all the noise and chaos of the outside world.

Bharat Bhushan

24 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

Football, helicopters and taxi drivers in Wadala

Mumbai hummed, a constant, shifting melody of horns and hurried feet. In this relentless rhythm, Joseph D’Costa, all of 14 years old, found his own erratic beat. He was a boy built of contradictions: a skinny frame that moved with the promise of future athleticism, and a mind that drifted across half-formed ambitions. Today, as he leaned against the sun-warmed wall of his Wadala school, he was a future football star.

“You’re mad,” Zubin Bhatena, his friend and occasional co-conspirator in adolescent mischief, said, his voice a dry counterpoint to Joseph’s grandiose proclamations. “A professional football player? Have you even kicked a ball that wasn’t a crumpled-up paper a**?”

Joseph pushed himself off the wall, a dramatic gesture. “The passion is what matters, Zubin. The josh! I feel it in my soul.” He mimed kicking a goal, a graceful, if slightly uncoordinated, sweep of his leg. “Besides, the Brazilians started on the streets. We’ve got the spirit.”

Zubin, with the quiet composure of a Parsi boy from Dadar’s Parsi Colony, adjusted the strap of his backpack. He was a year older than Joseph, and carried his 15 years with a preternatural wisdom that Joseph often mistook for cynicism. “The Brazilians also had a proper field, not a patch of broken pavement. And they didn’t have to deal with traffic that would make a saint curse.”

“Details, my friend, details,” Joseph said, a breezy wave of his hand dismissing the practicalities. “It’s about the dream. You wouldn't understand.”

“I understand that my dream is not to break my ankle on a pothole,” Zubin shot back.

The last of their classmates drifted away, their chatter fading into the urban white noise. Joseph and Zubin began their familiar walk, a meandering journey that took them from the relative quiet of their school to the vibrant chaos of the Wadala railway station. The air thickened with the smells of the city: exhaust fumes, frying snacks, the faint, sweet scent of jasmine from a vendor’s stall.

“Speaking of dreams,” Zubin said, stepping around a vendor arranging colourful plastic toys on a sheet, “did you tell your father about your new ambition?”

Joseph’s smile faltered. His father, a man of quiet, unwavering faith and meticulous habits, had very specific ideas about a son’s future. “Not exactly. I told him I’m thinking of becoming a pilot.”

Zubin stopped dead in his tracks, a look of genuine disbelief on his face. “A pilot? Joseph, you get dizzy on the top floor of our school building.”

“Not a pilot, a helicopter pilot,” Joseph clarified, as if this was a crucial distinction. “It’s different. They’re cooler. More… focused. And you get to see the city from the sky. No traffic.”

“So, you’ll trade potholes for power lines?” Zubin said, resuming his walk, a slight shake of his head. “And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Joseph, a helicopter pilot? We don’t even have a fan that works properly at home.’ It was a very short conversation,” Joseph admitted, a hint of dejection in his voice.

They crossed the bridge over the railway tracks, a vantage point from which they could watch the city’s lifeblood flow. The trains, packed to the doors, were iron serpents slithering into the heart of Mumbai. The platform below was a teeming mass of people, a beautiful, terrifying mosaic of humanity.

“Maybe I’ll just be a taxi driver,” Joseph mused, more to himself than to Zubin. “Easy, right? You just… drive. And you get to meet all sorts of people. And you get paid every day. A steady income. That’s what my dad wants.”

Zubin looked at him, his brow furrowed. “So, from professional footballer to helicopter pilot to… taxi driver. Joseph, are you a person or a multiple-choice question?”

“I’m eclectic!” Joseph declared, raising his hands in a gesture of triumph. “I contain multitudes, Zubin. It’s a very Mumbai thing. One day you’re a chaiwallah, the next you’re a movie star. The city lets you be anything.”

They navigated the crowded streets, their conversation a thread weaving through the tapestry of the city. They passed a bustling vegetable market, its colours a riot against the grey of the buildings. A man with a handcart piled high with bright, yellow coconuts called out to them, his voice a familiar part of the soundscape.

“You know, my dad says I should learn business,” Zubin said, his voice softer, more thoughtful. “Take over the family shop. We’ve been selling textiles for generations. He says there’s a certain honour in it.”

Joseph considered this. He knew Zubin’s father, a kind, well-dressed man who always gave Joseph a small bag of sweets when he visited. “Honour is good. It’s solid. Like a brick.”

“But it’s a brick that doesn’t fly, or score goals, or take you on an adventure,” Zubin said, a rare note of wistfulness in his voice.

They continued their walk, turning off the main road and heading towards Antop Hill, a quieter, more residential area. The air grew slightly cleaner, and the sounds of the city were muffled by the dense canopy of trees and the narrower lanes. They passed a small, brightly painted Catholic church, its bell tower a landmark against the afternoon sky.

“Maybe I’ll be an artist,” Joseph said, a sudden inspiration striking him. “A painter. Like Husain. Paint horses. No, not horses. Paint… the sea. The sea is always changing. Like me.”

“Joseph, you can’t draw a straight line with a ruler,” Zubin said, a tired sigh in his voice.

They reached the top of a small rise, a secluded spot with a bench overlooking a small, untended garden. They sat down, the quiet a welcome relief. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

“You know, I don’t think any of it matters,” Joseph said, his voice now stripped of its bravado. “The job, the money. It’s all just… stuff. I think what matters is the story. The one we tell ourselves.”

Zubin looked at his friend, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “So what’s your story, Joseph? The one you tell yourself when no one is listening?”

Joseph thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fading light. “My story… is that I’m a boy from Wadala who is going to find his way. And that I’m going to do it my way. And that it’s going to be a good story. A really good one. Even if it’s a bit messy and doesn’t make sense to anyone else.”

He turned to Zubin, a wide, genuine smile on his face. “And my story has you in it. And all of this. This city, this walk, this conversation. It’s all part of it.”

Zubin didn’t say anything. He just looked at his friend, and then at the city spread out below them, a city of a million stories, each one as rambling and wayward and serendipitous as the next. He knew, instinctively, that this was just the beginning. The story had no end, just a new page, a new day, and a new ambition for Joseph to chase, a new path for them to wander down.

As the first streetlights flickered on below, illuminating the city in a soft, golden glow, Zubin knew that his own story was a simple one. It was the story of a boy from Dadar who was happy to just walk alongside his friend, and watch. Because in a city as eclectic as Mumbai, sometimes, just being a witness was the most serendipitous adventure of all.

Bharat Bhushan 

21 August 2025 

Panduranga Vittala!!! - the stubborn old man who listened to his own heart

it is that time again, that month...

time to walk, million million steps,

unable, I wait here, for you, O Vittala!!!

They were all shocked. The old man was adamant. He had suddenly declared that he would go away to walk with the lakhs of warkaris on the palkhi from Dehu and Alandi via Pune to Pandharpur. Zubin was always like that. Deciding suddenly, and resisting all arguments and going by his own wish. Beheram, his son, tried to convince him that this was not the age to suddenly go ahead and do something that a 75 year old had not done earlier. Kerban, his daughter-in-law, nodded vigorously. She added, for good measure, "We are Parsis, and this is not in our culture. Why do you want to go walking to Pandharpur, all the way in rain, sun and with so many people, for heaven's sakes?"

Zubin and Beheram smiled at Kerban's arguments. Beheram knew that such arguments would not work with his father. Questioning him about religious or spiritual  thought would never work. It had never worked over these many years, and Beheram had gradually come around to accepting universal values while remaining a Parsi, in his inner core. Zubin was an explorer, as his mother had told him, bless her. Beheram's mother sat in front of the TV at their house in near the Five Gardens at Dadar Parsi Colony, Mumbai, and did not enter the arguments. She knew her Zubin, and she knew her Beheram. They would end up doing whatever Zubin wanted to do, and they would do it with enthusiasm and genuine spirit.

As expected, the next day, a too-good Sunday that should not be wasted on anything but cooking and eating and sleeping, Beheram drove his Bullet 350CC motorbike, with his father, Zubin, on the pillion, from Mumbai to Pune. His father was all packed up and eager to be on the palkhi and to walk the many days to Pandharpur. Beheram did not find it strange at all. He expected it to happen, going by the sudden bouts of discussion that his father had been having with his friends from Pune. They had planned it carefully, having done many such journeys together.

They met up with the group of friends at the exit of the highway from Mumbai, near Dehu. They had been waiting for them at the junction before the Dehu cantonment. The friends had hired an airconditioned bus for support and logistics during the palkhi and they had determined that they would stay about 5-10 kms behind the entire group. They would walk about, join in the activities, move ahead and back, and not be a burden on the several groups of warkaris in their dindis. All friends were new to the palkhi. They did not want anyone to be worried about them and have to take care of them.

The group had registered themselves with the various helplines and the police. With all required permissions obtained, they had also placed a banner over their bus, proclaiming that they were with the pilgrimage. The palkhi had just about started from Dehu, and Zubin was impatient to get on with it. Sensing it, Beheram gave him a hug and drove back on his bike to Mumbai.

Zubin was happy. He looked forward to any excuse to get out of his house. At 75, he needed to get away. Beheram's mother was very content to stay at home and be with her friends, her grandchildren and to retain control over the kitchen. His friends had planned this out over the past month, and they had been quite enterprising. They were friends for many years now, and the group had also acquired some younger ones, sons, brothers, neighbors and support guys. They were a mixed group, businessmen, teachers, corporate honchos, tradesmen, including a police officer and a police constable, a customs officer from the Mumbai airport and a canteen manager. They had come together over the years in treks, expeditions and journeys and continued to travel together.

Very soon, they were on the move. They had decided against following the palkhi while on the route from Dehu towards Pune city. They drove out of the main route and went out of the city through the bypass to Katraj and went back to Hadapsar and drove out to Dive Ghat. They were now ahead of the palkhi by two days. They could use these two days to organise, plan, purchase and stock up. One of the group, Chaitanya Reddy, had given instructions to his office staff to purchase vegetables and groceries at Hadapsar and bring it over at Dive Ghat. His office manager had scouted a good parking location, away from the road, with water supply nearby. They would camp here, and plan their itinerary with the palkhi among all the members of the group. The late joiners would also be able to meet up with the group at this location.

The group set up their camp by  rolling out a tarpaulin sheet with one end attached to the side of the bus. The other end was set up with tall bamboo poles. This provided a large tent-like space alongside the bus. They had hired a cook and a helper for this pilgrimage, and along with the driver, lunch had been prepared, with everyone helping out, and it was time to rest, and look forward to the long walk that was to come. Just after lunch, it started drizzling and the rain began pouring in, steadily. The group moved inside the bus to seek shelter and sleep through a siesta during the noon. But, it was not to be...

There was a series of knocks on the side of their bus and a police constable opened the door and entered along with an undertrial prisoner with his hands cuffed. The handcuffs were tied to a thick rope that was held by the constable to prevent the prisoner from being able to escape. Arvind Adarkar greeted the constable on behalf of the group, "Ya, Mauli! Come in. Take some shelter from the rain. Are you on your way to Pune or to Pandharpur? Do not tell us that you are going to walk all the way to Pandharpur with your prisoner!!!"

The constable and the prisoner laughed. The constable explained that they had taken a lift in a private car after their bus had broken down with a puncture after Saswad, and now, the car had gone off the road due to the heavy rains on the ghat, and they had been walking down. He had to take the prisoner to the courts in Pune for a hearing on the morrow, and return to Pandharpur Tahsil Jail immediately thereafter. How he would cross the palkhi, he did not know, and perhaps he would take the train to Solapur and get back to Pandharpur before the pilgrims could take over the roads. They had seen the bus and tent nearby and guessed that they could take some respite from the rains outside.

Adarkar asked the cook and his helpers to make a round of hot tea for everybody and gave some towels to the constable and the prisoner to dry themselves up. Reddy gave a pair of t-shirts and lungis to them so that they could get out of their damp clothes. Very soon, after a cup of hot tea, the pilgrims were watching an unusual sight, with both the constable and the pilgrim out of their uniforms, and wearing identical t-shirts and lungis and  with the thick rope tied to each others' wrists. They had scrubbed themselves dry and now, none of them could tell them apart. Which one was the policeman and which one was the prisoner?

Zubin started laughing and had a tough time holding on to his hot cup of tea. He pointed to the policeman and the prisoner, and said, "Look! This is magic. They are both the same now. The policeman could be the qaidi and the prisoner could be the policewallah. What if the prisoner took the policeman to the courts at Pune tomorrow?!!!" Everyone laughed, including the two visitors. The policeman replied, "O Bawa, do you know that you are correct? This prisoner was caught while helping some old ladies on the palkhi, at night, while they were shivering and cold, and may have perhaps died. This idiot was a vagrant warkari, without any dindi or any group. He went and broke into a clothes store after Renapur and took out some woollen blankets and gave them to the women. He was caught by the shopkeeper and a police complaint was filed. He has a better heart than most policemen that I know."

The entire group looked up at this story, after all, this undertrial was also a pilgrim, a fellow warkari, and he should have been appreciated for his deed. Zubin was angry. He asked, "Who was the idiot shopkeeper who filed the complaint? Did the local police not know about the reason?" The policeman replied, "Everyone knew. This chap had no money with him and the local people were very angry with the pilgrims. Each year they come to their town and disturb them. Some shopkeepers are upset while most of them are happy to welcome the palkhi. Perhaps this shopkeeper had a really bad experience. Who knows?"

Zubin asked, "Now, what will happen to him? Who is going to help him? Have the police helped him get a lawyer? Does he have money to defend himself?" While the rest of the group were not surprised, the policeman was puzzled at the anger. Yet, he replied calmly, "Bawaji, you know the system, don't you? Do you think he has any chance? He does not even have any money to purchase a cup of tea. He has no brains. If he had any sense, he would not have broken into the shop. Now, if the magistrate is kind, he will release him on first offence and intentions and maybe place him on watch and ask him to report to the police station for six months. If the magistrate goes by the rule, this idiot will be in for six months at least."

The entire group looked at Zubin. They knew him from many years. They knew the way he thought and acted, right out of his heart. They waited. Zubin did not disappoint them. He burst out in anger, "Nonsense. This cannot be allowed to happen. He has to have a lawyer, and he has to be released. I want him released tomorrow. He has to come on the palkhi with us, and I will take him to Pandharpur. Or, I will not go. Let Panduranga wait for me. I cannot go to Pandharpur without this foolish boy."

All his friends nodded with him. They were not shocked or upset. This was the right thing to do. Adarkar also said in support, "Zubin, my friend, I say, let Panduranga wait for all of us. Let us get this done tomorrow at the courts." The policeman looked at the prisoner, and said, "See... did I not tell you? Your actions were noble. You did it in the service of Vittala's devotees. So what if some policemen and some shopkeepers were strict about it. They did their job and now, we see the miracle of Panduranga."

Zubin spoke to Adarkar and Reddy, "I will call my daughter-in-law's friends here in Pune. They are all lawyers at the local courts. They are very good and efficient. Wait a moment." Saying thus, he called up Kerban, at Mumbai, "Maro Dikri, listen. Yes, yes... I know. When I call you as 'Maro Dikri', it usually means that I am pulling some stunt. Yes. But listen, this is for a good cause. I need you to talk to your friends in Pune, lawyers, and have them come and meet me below Dive Ghat in Hadapsar. I need legal help in getting an undertrial released tomorrow in a hearing at the Pune Sessions Court."

"Yes, Maro Dikri, help me now, please. Talk to your friends. I have promised that I will not go to Pandharpur until and unless I free him, and now, my entire group of friends have also promised that they will not go on the palkhi. Don't laugh, Kerban. And do not tell Beheram about this. He is an idiot. He will also come back from Mumbai and will get involved in this. This is an easy job. I just need a lawyer, a smart lawyer, tomorrow morning, and by afternoon, we can get this foolish chap released and we will be on our way, following the palkhi."

After a while, Zubin shut off his cellphone, and spoke to the policeman, "There, that is done. Tomorrow we will go to the court together. My daughter-in-law will get us some lawyers, and they will bring their vehicles, and we will get this idiot released immediately. I am sure that those lawyers will have a thousand reasons to give to prove that this fellow is innocent." The policeman replied, "Thank you. I was worried about this fellow. He seems really demented, going around helping people without any reason. What relation was he to those two women? Why did he have to help them? Nothing. None."

Zubin replied, "What do we know? We must be related. All of us. You also. Otherwise, why would you bring him here, today, in the rain? Why would your bus break down? Why would the car go off the road? Each and every problem that we face, daunting ones too, they lead us towards a solution, however miraculous it may be. Now, both of you stay in this bus. Do not go anywhere. We will go to the courts together, tomorrow."

Saying thus, Zubin turned to the prisoner and said, "Be careful. Keep a watch on the policeman. Do not let him get away. We have to take him to the courts together tomorrow. We will ask the courts to release the policeman from his job of escorting you. We will go to Pandharpur together, only if you are a free man. I am sure that Panduranga will wait for us to meet him, together, the two of us."


Glossary 
Ashaadhi = the Hindu Calendar month during June-July
ashtavinayaka = the pilgrimage to eight sacred destinations in western Maharashtra, with eight of the most well-known temples to Lord Ganesha.
atya = Aunt, usually, father's sister.
bawa, bawaji = an affectionate word to call out to a Parsi, usually for men. Only if you are a close friend.
beti = Daughter
bhagawantha = God.
chapati = cooked wheat flat cakes, like a roti. An Indian-style tortilla.
dada = elder brother
dhaba = roadside food place. With informal arrangements.
Dindis = the group-units of pilgrims participating in the wari.
Dnyanba = Sant Shri Dnyaneshwar of Alandi
lungi = a sarong-type of dress, worn below the waist, comfortably with an easy tuck-in.
Maro Dikri = 'my daughter' - a favoured term in Parsi and Gujarati lingo.
Mauli = Devotee of Panduranga. Also a form of greeting in recognition of the other person's faith in Panduranga Vittala.
paadukas = the sacred symbolic feet-impressions of deities or sages
palkhi = the pilgrimage from Dehu-Sant Tukaram temple and Alandi-Sant Dnyaneshwar temple via Pune to Pandharpur in Solapur District, Maharashtra
policewallah = policeman
prasad = sacred offerings presented to the deities. Some part of it is usually returned to the devotee.
qaidi = prisoner
rath = chariot, usually pulled by oxen during the palkhi from Dehu-Alandi-Pune to Pandharpur
tai = Sister
Tuka, Tuka says, Tukaram = Sant Tukaram of Dehu. His renditions in praise of Panduranga Vittala are the abhangs that are remembered through hundreds of years. They are popularly known as "Tuka says..."
vaikhunta = passed away. Gone ahead to the great heavens above.
veena = stringed instrument used by warkaris to strum and recite
wari = the annual June-July (ashaadhi) pilgrimage from Dehu-Alandi-Pune to Pandharpur.
warkaris =  traditional pilgrims - devotees of Panduranga Vittala, the deity at Pandharpur - who walk from Dehu-Alandi-Pune to Pandharpur, covering nearly 200 kms
Yaa = Come. A form of invitation in affection.