Joseph and Melwyn Aruja chat about their lives - Wadala Wagrants - Episode 05

 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

Cynthia explains that Mr. Fernando had complained - Wadala Wagrants - Episode 04 -

 Just then, a different sound punctuated the quiet of the room. A metallic clatter from the kitchen, and then the familiar, singsong voice of his mother. Cynthia D’Costa emerged from the passage, carrying a large, steel vessel in her hands. She moved with a purpose, her voice a little louder now, meant to cut through the quiet and command attention. “Robert, Joseph, dinner is ready. The chicken curry is ready. You can eat it with the rice, or with the leftover chapatis from the morning, or with the bread slices.” She set the large vessel on the dining table with a solid thud, the sound of metal on wood a statement of finality.

She then reached for a smaller, a more battered stainless-steel vessel with a tight-fitting lid. She began to ladle the chicken curry into it, the aroma of spices and coconut milk filling the air, mingling with the older, headier scent of Sonny Aruja’s fish curry that still seemed to cling to the walls. She carefully placed a few pieces of chicken into the vessel, her movements precise and deliberate. She secured the lid with a practiced hand and turned to Joseph.

“Joseph,” she said, her tone a mix of command and affection. “Take this. This is for Lizzy Aunty. I promised her I would give her some of the chicken curry when it was ready. Go to the first floor and give it to her. And don’t you worry, Mr. Fernando will not be there, so you won’t have to talk to your teacher at home.” She said the last part with a small, knowing smile, as if sharing a private joke with him.

Robert, from behind his newspaper, chuckled, a dry, low sound. He lowered the paper a fraction, just enough to reveal his eyes and a corner of his mouth. “That’s right, Joey. You don’t have to worry. Mr. Fernando won’t be home. You can just hand it to Lizzy Aunty and run.” He then raised the newspaper again, as if the brief interlude was over. “I was just worried, you know. Mr. Fernando told me yesterday that you weren’t doing so well in the Maths class. He said you have to try harder.” The words were spoken casually, almost as an afterthought, but they landed on Joseph with the weight of a heavy stone.

Joseph’s hand froze over his Algebra notebook. A cold knot formed in his stomach. He looked up, his face a mask of sudden anxiety. “He said that? When? When did he say that, Mama?” His voice was sharp, a sudden break in the rambling rhythm of the afternoon. The thought of Mr. Fernando, a figure of authority in the strict confines of school, passing a judgment on him to his father, was a violation of the natural order of things.

Cynthia, her hands still on the small vessel, sighed, a long, exasperated sound that was part of her daily repertoire. “Yesterday. What else? As we were all walking up the stairs. Your father, he couldn’t stop himself. He kept on asking about you and your studies, and your school. Mr. Fernando, I don’t think he was even listening properly. He just said something to make your father stop asking questions.” She said the last part with a wave of her hand, a gesture of dismissal, as if to say that the entire exchange was a piece of inconsequential nonsense. “Don’t you worry, beta. He was just talking nonsense. You know how people are. They just say things to be polite.”

Her words, meant to soothe, had the opposite effect. Joseph felt a jolt of alarm. His father, the quiet, distant observer of his life, had been prying, inquiring. The thought of his father, standing on the staircase, making small talk with a teacher about his performance in a subject, was deeply unsettling. He was not a failure. He was just a boy, doing his homework. He looked at the Algebra page, the symbols now a hostile, impenetrable code. The thought of Mr. Fernando's casual, offhand remark, and his mother's quick, dismissive interpretation, seemed to hang in the air between them, a silent judgment that no one wanted to own.

A wave of silent anger, hot and unexpected, rose within him. He was not just a student; he was a person. He felt a deep sense of betrayal. The line between school and home was supposed to be a solid one, a boundary that protected his two separate lives. But Mr. Fernando, simply because they lived in the same building, had erased that line. He imagined the scene: his father, a man who rarely spoke about anything but work, cornering his teacher on the stairs, and Mr. Fernando, a man who seemed so serious and distant in the classroom, giving away a confidential, private matter like his grades. It felt like a small, petty kind of gossip, an intimate detail revealed to a stranger, or worse, to a family member he didn't want to know.

Joseph’s worry now wasn’t just about his grades, but about the integrity of his world. What else had Mr. Fernando told his father? Had he mentioned the time he’d forgotten his homework? Or the day he’d been scolded for talking in class? The thought of these small, insignificant moments being replayed and discussed by the adults in his life filled him with a quiet dread. He felt a newfound trepidation about passing Mr. Fernando on the stairs, knowing that the polite nods and small smiles they exchanged now hid a secret, a shared knowledge that he had not consented to.

He felt a sudden, fierce desire to finish the homework, to prove them all wrong, to show them that he was capable of doing it on his own. He picked up the vessel of chicken curry, its metal still warm from the stove, and stood up, ready to go on his errand. It was a good excuse to escape the quiet, tense atmosphere of the room.

Bharat Bhushan

21 August 2025

Joseph works on Algebra homework - Wadala Wagrants Episode 3

The rexine of the old sofa sighed under Joseph’s weight as he slumped into it, the worn material giving a low, leathery groan of protest. He settled in the space nearer to his father, the familiar scent of old newspaper and stale tobacco a constant perfume in the room. His father, Robert D’Costa, was a man who inhabited his own world. He sat, a figure of serene concentration, in his favorite armchair, the large pages of The Times of India held up like a shield against the world. The house itself seemed to breathe around them, with the low creaks of settling wood and the distant rumble of traffic from the main street.

Joseph’s mind drifted for a moment to the morning ritual, the sharp clink of the newspaper hitting their door with a satisfying thud, a sound that meant the day had officially begun. He wondered if the newspaper boy, with his small satchel and perpetual hurried look, ever paused to think about all the lives contained within the pages he delivered. Or the milkman, whose bike bell rang at an ungodly hour, a shrill and cheerful sound in the pre-dawn darkness. Robert's legs, clad only in a rumpled lungi, were splayed out, his calloused feet resting on the cool tiled floor. He was a man of the factory floor, and even in the quiet of his home, he carried the silent weight of that world with him.

Joseph reached for his school bag, its canvas worn thin at the corners and stained with the accumulated history of a school year. He unzipped it, the brass zipper giving a sharp, metallic rattle that seemed to echo in the quiet room. He pulled out his textbooks, the thin, cheap paper of the Algebra textbook a crisp contrast to the well-thumbed notebook with its dog-eared pages and ink-blotted exercises. He flipped to the correct page, the scratch of his nails on the paper a small, insignificant sound in the grand, silent rhythm of the room. He picked up his pen, a cheap blue ballpoint, and stared at the lines of numbers and letters, an alien language that demanded logic and reason.

Joseph stared at the equation on the page, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. The numbers and variables swam before his eyes, a tangled mess of unknown values. He chewed on the end of his pen, the cheap plastic taste a familiar comfort, and then scribbled a line of calculation. It looked wrong. He sighed, a gust of frustrated air, and dug the eraser into the paper, the gray dust smudging the page. He knew the concepts, but putting them into practice felt like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. The afternoon quiet felt oppressive, the weight of the unsolved problem a heavy burden on his young shoulders.

From behind the newspaper, Robert shifted, a faint rustle of paper and a low grunt escaping his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, the sound of the ice cubes clinking a quiet punctuation in the room. His eyes peered over the top of the paper, watching Joseph in a way that wasn't judgmental, but rather... observant. He wasn't offering help, but he was there, a silent, disapproving presence. He cleared his throat loudly, a grumpy noise that was meant to be heard. “This new generation,” he muttered, his voice a low grumble. “All this homework at home. What is all this?”

Robert D'Costa at his armchair with 

The Times of India and his whisky

He took another sip of his whisky, the amber liquid a golden glow in the dim light. “In my time, we did our work in school only. Our teachers, they made sure of it. Or if not, we did it early, early in the morning. When the mind is fresh, before all the nonsense fills your head for the day.” He didn’t look at Joseph, speaking more to himself than to his son, as if reciting an ancient, half-forgotten wisdom. The idea of doing homework at home, after a long day of school, was a foreign concept to him, a symptom of a world that had become too complicated, too soft.

He was deep in thought, his brow furrowed in concentration, when his father’s voice, a low rumble that seemed to come from far away, broke the silence. Robert didn’t lower his newspaper. His voice simply rose from behind the pages, a disembodied question. “Joey,” he began, using the old nickname that still made Joseph feel like a little boy. “You’re working on the Maths, no? Is it too difficult? You know Mr. Fernando is here, no? On the first floor. He’s teaching in your same school, no?” The questions came in a slow, almost lazy cadence, each one a separate, gentle inquiry.

Joseph looked up, surprised. It wasn't often that his father showed such an interest in his homework. He glanced over at the armchair, seeing only the top of his father’s head and the edge of the newspaper. “Yes, Papa,” he said, his voice a little tentative. “It’s Maths. But it’s okay. I’m just doing the Algebra homework. From Mr. Syed.” He paused, then added, “Mr. Fernando teaches Geometry, no? And then there’s Father John Samala for Modern Mathematics.” He said the names with a certain reverence, as if each teacher and each subject existed in its own distinct, unbreachable kingdom. “This is Algebra. I can do it. I think. I know how to do it.” He said the last sentence with a little more conviction, a quiet attempt to reassure his father, and perhaps, himself. He picked up his pen and returned his attention to the page, the lines of numbers and letters seeming to swim before his eyes.

In the small, crowded kitchen, Cynthia moved with a weary efficiency born of years of habit. The clatter of her utensils—the sharp clang of a ladle against a pot, the low scrape of a spatula on the bottom of a frying pan—were the soundtrack to her daily life. She could, without looking, reach for the exact spice, the right jar, the perfect bowl. Her eyes, though, were often on the passage, peering into the living room where her husband and son sat in their separate, silent worlds. She saw Robert, the newspaper a familiar fortress, his glass a steady companion. She saw Joseph, hunched over his book, a mirror of every student who had ever wrestled with numbers.

A flicker of a smile touched her lips, a brief, private moment of pleasure. She was pleased to see them together, even if their interaction was brief and their conversation punctuated by Robert’s grumpy, nostalgic pronouncements. It was a rare enough sight. More often, the two of them moved through the apartment like ships in the night, their orbits only intersecting for a quick word or a shared meal.

A flash of irritation followed the pleasure. Why couldn’t Robert just ask Joseph directly about his homework? Why the pretense, the silent observation? And why was he so quick to believe Mr. Fernando, a man who probably didn’t even remember the conversation a minute after it happened? Her hands, busy with the ladle, moved with a sudden, jerky motion as she imagined the scene on the stairs, her husband cornering a tired teacher with questions that were probably better left unasked. But then, the feeling softened. It was Robert’s way, a clumsy attempt to connect, to show that he cared. He didn’t know how to ask, so he resorted to what he knew: observation, complaint, and a quiet, indirect concern.

Bharat Bhushan

21 August 2025