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
