Chapter Twelve

That was no empty threat from Bruno and Oswald. Early in January 1982, about eight years prior to Shirlen’s disastrous marriage, when I had just turned ten, shocked disbelief hit the good God-fearing Catholics in Bombay. It would not be exaggerating to add horror and fear to the emotions felt upon hearing that Fr. Justin D’Mello, the parish priest at a small church in Igatpuri, a small town on the outskirts of Bombay was found murdered, his head battered, left to die in the aisle of the church. It hit the headlines, and all Catholics, hardly believing any crime could happen to, or be committed by, them, talked of nothing else: “Can you imagine, men…Catholics?” “…that, too, a Catholic priest, men...” “The world is not safe anymore, men...” Men being used in the same way man is used in colloquial English spoken in some of the colonies.

Investigations led to the sacristan, who had disappeared with the box of offerings and some of the artefacts of the church. The police traced most of the artefacts: the monstrance was discovered in a house down Nesbit Road and the chalice in the Marchon household. Oswald and Bruno were taken into custody one night as the building slept. Despite the thin walls that separated the rooms, nobody heard the proceedings. Mr. Fernandes showed Isabel the report the next morning in the Times of India. Buried inside the paper on page five, a two-inch column gave the barest details of the arrest. Isabel already knew of this, of course, from Dad. So now she nodded her head too and fro and made pretence of hearing it for the first time. “Yes, Mr. Fernandes?” “Oh my God, Mr. Fernandes!” She even giggled at the revelation that she was living next door to all the action… Mother’s sense of humour triumphed over her conscience. She hmm, hmmed and ah, ah, ahed as he spoke. A chalice in the House of Sin…maybe they will be converted…or they will offer curry instead of wine—she continued to giggle, quite amused by her own joke, till Mr. Fernandes, who had been looking self-righteous as he showed her the paper, soon saw the humour in the situation, too.

Of course, with the typical cruelty of children, “So where is Oswald?” we asked Miriam when she came to play with us that day. “He’s gone abroad,” she promptly replied. Talented! Yes, talented actors they were, the Marchons. We sniggered when they were not with us, and I suppose they knew. But they had developed a coat that was impenetrable, knowing that this was their lot.

Oswald and Bruno were released with a light sentence for robbery, while the sacristan was given life imprisonment. The Marchon boys remained undeterred, but they grew more careful and more polished as they continued their life of petty crime.

Chickpea—as Joe lovingly called his wife, Mili—only stepped out of the apartment once a week, when the light was low and no one could see her; then, she stood leaning on the railing looking across the expanse of the compound at the road. She was taller and much larger than Joe and, apparently, had been the beauty about town before she married Joe. In the words of Mr. Fernandes, she was “a Queen Bee, surrounded by all these drones hanging around, languishing, waiting for her. They buzzed around her,” Mr. Fernandes added and gave a short laugh, satisfied he had said something quite witty.

Mili was ahead of her time. She dared. She dared to raise a bold eye at the young men in Mazagaon…She dared to look good, though she was not a classical beauty. She dared to flirt, when women were demure. She dared to walk unchaperoned…she dared everything. She was available—that certainly was her greatest attraction. Young men hung around the corner of the street at 7.00 each morning waiting for her to pass, wondering who she would look at that day. Who would she favour, they wondered, as they adjusted their bow ties, and carefully patted the stiff, coiffed puff in their hair.

Her life as a young girl seemed no different from Shirlen’s or Miriam’s. I suppose those girls never had a chance, born to Mili, who never knew any different; their destinies were defined far before they were born. Mill’s upbringing with a single mother of very modest means combined her attractions with pragmatism. Alighting on a plastic flower and dipping into its depths to extract honey she eventually married Joe, who, much like Shirlen’s erstwhile beau, when faced with competition wasted no time merely dating, and instead proposed marriage to her.

Watching Mili wordlessly look out into the night, I sometimes wondered about her. Did she deliberately avoid company? What did she think of, as she looked out into the silence? Was she unhappy, did she want a different life? Did she consider that her life could have been very different if she had not married Joe? Did she long for the days when men danced around her, or had she found her home with Joe? These were all unanswered questions, because she never confided in anyone—at least no one we knew But one has to say that she ruled that household. Joe and the children never dared to cross her. It is difficult to know what hold she had over them—perhaps just being mother was powerful enough.

That was all we knew of Mli except for one very intimate detail. One summer afternoon on a Sunday, like every Sunday after a heavy lunch, our parents ordered us outside the house: “It is the only day in the week we can have a siesta, so don’t disturb us.” We, as usual, met in the passage near the stairs. Carlton, the youngest Marchon, joined us with little pieces of coloured paper cut out of old greeting cards and magazine covers; he sold them as tickets for twenty-five paise to any kid who had saved or could produce the fere. He escorted the ticket holders into his house one by one, to see Joe and Chickpea snoring in bed, with Joe’s hand inside her dress, cupping her breast.