 Okay, thank you very much for organizing this. I'll just give a brief background to the play that you are, Puja and I are going to read out. The name of the play is Teen Sakina Manzil. It's very unlike the two plays you're studying. One is the, I think, Oedipus Rex is the play and Cherry Orchard, so it's very, very different from that kind of writing. This was a play which was written in 2004 and then it premiered at the Prithvi Festival around that time. The play is partially documented and partial fiction. So it's what we call meta-fiction, which was a new form of theater which some of us were trying to explore in India. The play is based on a historic incident which transpired on April 14th, 1944, about which we'll come through. So on April 14th, 1944, basically what happened was there was a huge dock explosion. There was a ship called the SS Tychin which was parked in the docks and that particular ship, because of a variety of reasons, it blew up and while it blew up, a whole lot of things just sort of poured into the city. The reason it became very important is because of the content of that particular ship. There are certain things which I will not disclose or it takes the fun out of the play. The second thing was the time in which this explosion took place. So 1942, as you know, we had the Quit India movement in India, after which most of the Congress leadership, the higher leadership were rounded up and put into prison and simultaneously it was the fag end of World War II and the Japanese, I mean if you recall, some of your World War II history, the Japanese had come almost all the way up to Burma and there was a likelihood that they would make inroads into India. So there was a combination of three factors and therefore this particular incident was something that was never known to the public. The British government made it a point to try to camouflage it as much as possible. So that was the starting point for a research and since it was 1944, which was relatively recent history, during 2003, 2004, one spent a lot of time with another friend and guru of mine who's a city historian, a film theoretician and also had an avid amount of knowledge about this particular thing. We met some of the survivors of the 1944, April 14 and their stories and their memoirs and this would be something that we would have interviews with them, go meet them and they would share their experiences with us. So that was the work that we did and then a lot of documentation because some of it was there in passing in a few of the important Gujarati, Marathi and English newspapers. So we would go through some of the old archives and so on and then that's how this particular play and the characters were created. Teen Sakina Manzil is a building in that part of Bombay which is that entire Paidoni area. So you will get a sense of that Bombay and the characters are of course borrowed from, a lot of it is borrowed from the conversations that I had with some of the people I had met. So that's broadly it. The two characters that we play are both fictional, however. The building does not exist. It's obviously an imagination of the writer and so this is the backdrop against which the scenario of the play is. The second thing that you should know is that the play will go back and forth into time. So it'll happen in 1994 and then it'll keep going back into 1940s, that period. So there'll be two sort of stories going on simultaneously and fortunately or unfortunately it's just the two of us who will be reading it. You have to try to enjoy it. Imagine that I am Nasir and she is Nasiruddin Shah and she is Meryl Streep and enjoy it as much. We try to do and give it our best shot. The stage for this particular play was staged by a group called Working Title and they did about 50 odd shows. They traveled in India and extensive number of shows traveled to Europe and performed there as well. And interestingly enough, this is one of the few plays that I've written which has actually got translated and got translated into Dutch and it got performed in Dutch and again that was an interesting new thing for this play. So the setting is fairly simple. It's not as complicated as Sahire, Sahi or any of the other plays you see. There's just two chairs as you see now and that's how the play starts. So, Teen Sakina Manzil and an empty stage, two elegant chairs, a woman. 17, today. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to you. Getting older and older. But look here, still beautiful. A Husan's queen. Sound as a bell. Except for some respiratory trouble. But I'm covered, medically that is. All those years as a nurse has benefited. Look here, let me show you. Pinkish purple pill for katars. Henna green pill for painful urination. Amethyst blue pill for stirroses of the joints. Carbon black pill for vertigo. Battleship grey pill for apoplexy. Arctic red pill for catechia. And mint white pill for cataract. All these I swallow and this one I have to chew. It's easy. Look, not a single false tooth. Tip top condition. She gulps the medicines. I told the doctor Sahab, he's a solid looking parsi boy. It is geriatrics. But he continued to prod my torso with his tethoscope. Hmm. The thing with medical science is that it has not come to terms with old age. And my problem is old age. Nothing else. So at that moment there's a burst of music. She has a walking stick in her hand. She takes that and she thumbs on the floor. The music stops. Neighbours have to keep reminding them that there are others who live in Teen Sakina Manzil. That Teen Sakina Manzil is not their whole soul property. It has a sense of history, of tradition. It cannot be contaminated with modern music. See, I have nothing personal against modern music. Like everyone else, I hope that someday it will turn into melody. Sargam. But does it happen? No, never. No Mukhra, no Antara, but sure. Again there's a burst of music. Again she takes her walking stick and thumbs the floor. The music stops. Hey, if I had the will, I would pour water on them from my balcony. Water with ice cubes. That would show them. The gods must let ordinary people like us select our neighbours. If that's not possible, we should be able to alter their music sense. If I had it in my bus, I would have everyone in one line and I would play music to them. That would be great. There was this film called Chalchal Ray Nojavan whose dialogues were written by that chap who used to come to Baba's shop. What was his name? Yes, Satyath Hasan Manto. There was a very lovely, communal harmony song. Say it, Mahadev. Allah Akbar. At this point, she swallows the medicines. When I told my plan to that solid looking Parsi doctor boy, he laughed. What would he do? He was a kid. He was very nervous. He hadn't diagnosed old age either and he had no sense of history or else he would have known about the bearing of old age on women. He touched my feet when I paid him his full fee in crisp one rupee notes. No longer printed but available if you need to offer them to the deity at Boleswara temple. I told him not to worry. No tension. They tell me the Parsi boy is related to Barjorji, Kuvarji, Motiwala who used to live at Kukana house in Dhobitalaw and Girgam. That guy is from a family. Barjorji, Kuvarji, Motiwala had returned the gold bar which fell through his building roof to the authorities for which an award of 999 rupees was given to him. Barjorji, Kuvarji, Motiwala promptly donated this sum for relief work. That was in 1944. Ages ago. She again thumps the wall with her walking stick on the floor. That's not for the music. That's to scare away the rats. There are three of them. I've classified them. The Chachundar is Robert Clive. He's so cute. The Bandicoot is General Dwaya. Very Khadoos. The female rat is Mrs. Lord Mountbatten. She is the most dangerous because she can breed 100 million Mountbatten. At the moment, General Dwaya and Robert Clive are both trying to woo her. But Mrs. Lord Mountbatten is not interested. Thank God. Again, she thumps with the walking stick on the floor. See, this walking stick is useful. Three in one. It can stop the music, scare the rats and one other thing which I cannot recollect. Again, a burst of music. Again, she thumps the walking stick on the floor. The music seizes. Vapas music. Oof. That's from the east side. MTV. Northeast is Hindi film. Vahase remix. Over there, it's classical. Ustaraf par Purane Frey Road se Shor aur Ravaaz. And beyond that, the dockyard. There was a time I could see the far the most boat in the horizon. Not anymore. The solid looking Parsi Doctor Boy says it's pressed by opium. But what does the young man know? I can spot, even today, Elephanta caves, the north star in the dusky sky, the mixture of water and milk by the Doodhwala Bhaiya whose family had been providing milk to three Sakina Menzel for three generations. With a bit of effort, I can see all. That way, I'm okay. The brain's consumption of oxygen has not diminished. The thoracic cage is solid. The motor nerves are tipped up. Perhaps an outer fatigue has set in. Disregarding all that, I pick myself up and go to the ophthalmologist clinic. I have an appointment with Dr Bhavnaparek. I had an appointment with Dr Bhavnaparek, cataract operation, on 14th April 1994. It was 14th April 1994. My cataract had humble beginnings, a painless blurring of vision, then there was glare or light sensitivity, compounded by poor night vision and double vision in one eye. Now, I have all of it. I recall reading about cataract at the Asiatic Library. Dharamsipa recommended an excellent book to me. The book said, most common type of cataract is related to aging of the eye. The book diagnosed the cause of my cataract. So when I met the doctor, I was prepared. She asked, family history? I said yes. Medical problems such as diabetes? I said yes. Injury to the eye? I said yes. A jackfruit fell off the tree, bounced on a concrete and rebounded into my eye once. Medications, especially steroids? I said no. Long-term unprotected exposure to sunlight? I said yes. I could not afford sunglasses. Previous eye surgery? I said no. The doctor was pleased. You know, that way books are wonderful. I mean, life is beautiful but books are wonderful. I prefer books to lives when in doubt I recommend books. You cannot always trust life. Anything happens. Hi, Toba. Usually the clinic is overcrowded but today there's one solitary old man all wrapped up. I have been waiting for 47 minutes and a lady enters huffing and puffing. She looks 100 years old but she's behaving five times her age. Suddenly I feel so old, ancient. Keeping pace with the changing world is taking its toll. Today I paid 65 rupees for the taxi. 62 rupees actually but the cab driver had no change. Another 50 rupees to return home. 50 years ago with a salary of 50 to 100 rupees a month a family lived royally. Shuddh ghee, shuddh, tail, sab kuch shuddh aur sachcha tha bhaiya. As a kachchi business people used to say ke pachchi e baddi parikata thu nauti parikata parikata ane share ne parikata. I am sitting quietly minding my business when I hiccup. The old man who is all wrapped up hiccups. Why am I hiccuping? The old man hiccups again. Stop it, behave yourself. Look, that's why I don't like to take you out. You're so embarrassing. Shup, behave yourself. Just then the sweet girl at the reception says next, I stood up. The old woman stood up. Now, now act like a gentleman and give the lady a chance. Aap jaye, ladies first. The old man lets me go. Maybe he is scared of doctors. Maybe he is a flirt. Maybe he thinks I am as gorgeous as Devi Karani. I let the old woman go before me. I say ladies first. She smiles. Now, where had I seen such a smile? I smile. This calls for celebrations. Half a kilo of garma garam jalebees. You know, these days I rarely smile. The old woman is gone. I look out of the doctor's dispensary and see the railway station through which I entered the city in the winter of 1940. Things were brewing. I had come to Bombay during the riots. Kaka, who had a small factory in Bhavnagar, said riots in Bombay were bad for Danda. In our village in Saurashtra, we had a rating system for riots. Bombay, Amdabad, Dhaka, which city had the most brutal riot. So Kaka had jotted down all the riots in a little black book. You see, he was an amateur riotologist and Bombay was famous for its riots. Hindu, Muslim, Parsi, Hindu, Shia Sunni, Mumbai Car Outsider, Dalit Brahman, Sikh Hindu. The point is I was entering the city during a riot. History moves in cycles, no. As a rule, riots don't need any validation. But this riot could be traced to Lahore. The Muslim League at its annual convention in 1940 had passed a resolution which came to be known as the Pakistan Resolution. That was the first time we heard of Pakistan. No one took it seriously. After all, we had a phenomenon called Bapu on our side. So as I got down from the train, I took the name of God and Bapu to save me from the madness of the mob. He cups again. Kaka said he had heard good reports about a new college in Bombay. When I attended the first day of college, I realized I was the only male. My Kaka had admitted me in the newly inaugurated All-Girls Sofia College. I wandered along the back bay area which was opened up for residential sites. I used to walk around Marine Drive from Churchgate Reclamation to Chow Party, where uniforms similar looking buildings, housing, residential flats had come up. Everyone said they were fashionable. But Bhaiya, I thought they looked like matchboxes. The city was overcrowded, 15 lakh people. Everyone who was, anyone who was complaining about the influx of refugees, the slums, the sickening smell of decay, the beggars rummaging for food in the drains and dustbins. That was 50 years ago. Nothing has changed, no? The old woman returns. She hobbles. The old man is waiting. He has stopped hiccuping. Just then I hear a melody. So a song comes through. That song, it sounds familiar. Hi, Rabba. They're playing my song, my theme song. When and where did I hear this song? Ah, I recall. I was out of work after the Fiasco at Sofia College. I had got admitted to Elphinston College. I needed some extra money to support my studies. So Kaka told me to meet Gala Seth who owned three provisioned stores. The address he gave me was Team Sakina Manzil. I adore the song. In fact, every time the song was played, I used to pull out my ribbons. I love ribbons. My golden life is to have the biggest collection of ribbons. Here, see, all kinds of ribbons. Each and every color. Navras, navbhav, navratna. Every single emotion and mood. You know, just as every word was once a poem, every ribbon has a story to tell. Like this ribbon. This is a ribbon about my ancestral home. A village called Gulagipur in a district called Lalpur in Pakistan. They call it Faisla Badna. I don't know why. When I ask mother about those days, she replies, Comrade Beta, the past is a foreign country. Things are different there. My mother calls everyone Comrade. Comrade Baba, Comrade Dudwala, Comrade Banwala, Comrade Viceroy, Comrade Governor-General, Comrade Nehru, Comrade Jinnah, Comrade Bapu, and even Comrade God. It had something to do with her father and his father. All communists. Baba used to tease mother. He would say, bye, mood. 1, 2, 3, 4. Communism is the opium of the asses. Mother would say Comrade Baba would never understand. He was so used to exploiting the weak that he could never be sympathetic to the exploitation of the weak by the strong. To which Baba would counter that mother's communist father was a Zamindar. The only good thing he did was to educate his seven daughters, all of whom married into rich families. Mother Puput Baba. She said he was oversimplifying things. A lion is not a male lion. He is made up of the goats he digests. They would trade proverbs till the middle of night. Savaal Jawaab. I don't know how mother and Baba met. A traditional illiterate, kachchi businessman marrying a communist girl with an independent point of view on every subject on earth. It was unheard of. When I used to pester them, Baba would say, nothing much to it. Kachchi ne bachchi se shadi kar liya. That was that. It was a typical rainy day in Bombay. I reached teen Sakina Manzil. Gala said it was not in the shop. So I was directed by an assistant to a young woman who was embroidering a ribbon. The ribbon was pretty. The girl was prettier. Which thread should I use? Which opening line should I use? What should I embroider on the ribbon? How should I attract the attention of this pretty girl? What is my violin teacher, Penny Satankar, who lives down the lane, tell me whenever I make a mistake? A man is not old until his regrets take the place of his dreams. Apparently it's a well-known Yiddish proverb. My heart is thumping. Oh, who is this medium-built, so-so-looking, unintelligent sort of man? I am being drawn to her. Why is my heart thumping? She blushes, she flutters her eyelashes, her cheeks are pink and rosy. Hi, Rabba. I'm being attracted to him, perhaps. I think it's love at first sight. Am I falling in love at first sight? I'm a great advocate of love at first sight. You know, I think it's a great time-saving, labour-saving device. Maybe I should ask this medium-built, so-so-unintelligent sort of man. As they say, every man is a volume if you know how to read him. But why isn't he saying a thing? Uh, oh, eh. I must wait for him to make the first move. Or else he'll perceive me to be forward-looking, a wench. I'm trying to speak, but all my efforts result in his uh, oh, eh. Come on, mouth, don't let me down. This is important for you, important for me. You've been doing this sort of things for years. Bagged me a runner's-up prize in the debating society. Speak up, man, speak up. The mouth is responding. It says, if a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts. But if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties. What? What? What? Mouth, don't do this to me. The pretty girl is staring at me. I have to say something, anything. But the mouth has other ideas. It informs me love is like a game of chess. No one ever won a game of chess by betting on each move. Sometimes they have to move backward to get a step forward. What? What? What? The mouth concludes the argument with love is like music. It cannot be translated into words. The mouth shuts up and all I'm left with is uh, oh, eh. I never heard a finer rendition of uh, oh, eh. Uh, oh, eh. Such eloquence, such oratory. Wah, kya baat hai, irshad, irshad. Really? Uh, oh, eh. You've obviously done super specialization in uh, oh, eh. Which university? I was about to say uh, oh, eh, but I pinched myself, stop it. I was making a fool of myself, so I took a deep breath to clear my mind. My kaka has told me to meet Gala said. The pretty girl says oh, I see. You see, I want a job with a salary because a salary is very important. And everyone who has a job draws a salary. In fact, according to the Rangekar board of conciliation, wages must register a rise because of BA being linked to the cost of living index. What? What am I talking? According to my mouth, which has taken control over all the words pouring out of my mouth, the period, 1934 to 1937, witnessed a cut in wages from rupees 34.56 to rupees 27.25. Now due to the World War II, for which I am not responsible, the wages are what Gala said deems fit. So I would want a salary and a DA and a bonus, and, and, and a glass of water. Yes. My mouth was passed. What did I said? I preferred as I was about to give him a glass of water. I asked him, are you an economist? You know, like Adam Smith? Even as I was thankfully gulping my glass of water, I heard the song and the song comes again. Yes, or a glass. Sure. So she gives me a glass. I gulp it again. Or a glass. Sure. She again hands a glass again. I gulp it. Or a glass. Sure. Or a glass. Have you come from dry grass fields? I returned the glass of water. I had never drunk so much water in my entire life. Shaili, I asked her her name. Bashfili, I asked him his name. What a coincidence. We shared the same name. Shashi. Although technically I was Shashi Kumar, popularly known as Shashi. I prefer Shashi to Shashi Kumar. Look, Baba has come. Just then Gala said entered. He knew Kaka from the good old days. The terms and conditions of my contract were discussed. Gala said owned three shops. One in three Sakina Manzil and two more in Musafir Khana and Krabot Mansion. Recently I'd opened a new store in the police barracks. He needed me because I was educated and could speak English. The thing is Gala said had British customers and it was important to speak to them in the King's language. I thought the job was simple. Until Gala said gave me a long list of items I had to find English counterparts for Indian names. Gala said explained. Shashi saab, you know, Dood is equal to milk. Dahi is equal to curd. Malai is equal to cream. Ghee is equal to clarified butter. Just then there was a burst of laughter. Mrs. Gala said asked what on earth is clarified butter? If my Dadi offered me clarified butter on my roti, I would never eat it. Gala said told her to be silent when she goofed on hearing that Khoya Mawa was called solidified milk. For some reason Mrs. Gala said called everyone comrade and so I became comrade Shashi. Comrade Shashi is so cute. He was so dazed. Especially when mother goofed on and gave him a whack on his back. I took their leave and went to my Wadi in Girgaon. For some reason my back was hurting. You know, in all these years no man has ever said, oh, air to me. It was the middle of night. I returned to my Kohli for which I was paying rupees six a month. This included five chapatis, Dahis, two Badams, chai every morning. See, I wanted to make a good impression on Gala said and his daughter. So I started working on the translation. Badam equal almond, saunf equal aniseed, hing equal asafeteria, tulsi equal basil, elai chi equal cardamom, dalchini equal cinnamon. Shashi equal Shashi. What must she be doing now? Aing and oing and aing. Long equal clav, dhania equal coriander seeds, jeera equal cumin seeds. I wonder what is the English equivalent of a-o-a. I met comrade Shashi the next day. I met Shashi ji the next day. She was all dressed up. I was well dressed. I was going to the theatre. The theatre? Don't you think the theatre is such a gross waste of time? It's just a way of fooling the people with false pretenses. A place where bad ideas go when they die. I was not going to have the theatre be little. So I retorted. My dear comrade Shashi, the dramas, laws its patrons give. In other words, a play is only as good or bad as the intellect and taste of the people of the land. Shashi ji, you know Gandhi ji does not have a high opinion about the theatre. It's considered a distraction from the activity of nation-building. But he saw Harish Chandra. Ah, he must have gone to hear the story. You know, Gandhi ji is a great admirer of truth. He probably sat through the play with his eyes shut. That's the point, isn't it? One glance at a play and you hear the voice of another person. Perhaps someone dead for a thousand years to see a play is to voice through time, no? No, no Shashi ji, you're being charitable to the uncharitable. The theatre is an insidious beast like Medusa which freezes its audience to stone every night, staring fixedly. It's like the siren which sings and promises so much and ultimately leads people to their doom. Say what you want. Today I'm going to the Baliwala Grand Theatre Playhouse. The locals call it Pila House. It's so exciting. The way a play opens. A loud bang of exploding anar. The curtain is raised. Hush in the auditorium. The occasional shouts from the vendors. Pista, Badam, Chopri, Pankha, Udhav Jaldi. The incessant extolling of the ticket seller. Khe labhi chalu hua. You know, last week I saw a play. It was a big bore. But something exciting happened. As you know, the drama companies bring their own curtain. This curtain has eight heavy stones to weigh it down. This whole contraption is operated by two masdoors. Usually the curtain pulling masdoors does off. So the cue to bring down the curtain is a shrill blast of a whistle. During last week's show, the doddering king played by a particularly ghastly ham died. The corpse was lying on the floor but the curtain pullers were asleep. They were awakened by a shrill whistle and so they hurriedly brought down the curtain in the middle of the scene. When the dead king saw the eight heavy stones rushing towards his head, he got up and ran for his life. Later, it was found out that the whistle was not blown by the promter but by a tram traffic conductor on the street. Oh, how I miss the glamour and spectacle of the older dramas. Hmm, well. Now, what is that supposed to mean? Well, I should have shut up. But my mouth began again without taking any cognizance of poor me. My mouth was at its bombastic best. Everyone can act. It's easy. We do it in real life all the time. By the same quantum everyone can eat but do we watch someone eating with pleasure? No. When I'm hungry, I may do so but that's because I wish I were eating. That's savoury. But people don't climb onto the opera house stage, grab a fork and spoon, start eating and then charge tickets. Do they? We don't put a fork on a wall on an art gallery and call it art or we don't make noises with the cling-clank of spoons and call it music. No, no, no. On cue, I put my fist in my mouth to prevent my mouth from speaking. Comrade Shashi, you're an orange sebi. My fist was still in my mouth. I extracted my fist from my mouth since it is improper to talk to a lady and a mighty fine one at that with one fist in one's mouth. Promptly the words poured out. Do you know Raksha Kaki? She is the woman who serves lunch and dinner to 30-35 people daily at our Khana Val. Khana Val is like Raksha Kaki have no holidays ever except on Ekadashi. She makes beautiful rangolis in seven colours to welcome us. She says that a rangoli is true people's art. Rich and poor, Brahmin, Harijan, man or woman. Everyone does it. Not like your theatre, which is a pursuit of the wealthy and the squanderer, eyebrow stuff. A place where they find out what you don't like and give you plenty of it. Get it? Get it? Comrade Shashi, you know nothing about life in Bombay. I've seen mehdani, kheel, dashaftar, naman, tamasha, laser competitions, bharud, the great Shahirs, kushsi, bullfights, jatras. Ask your Raksha Kaki about it. There is nothing high-brow about the real Bombay, my sweet man. I've attended a double bari by a bhajan mandali in which the two competitors sang insulting things about one another, like we are doing right now. I attended a show in which they sang a gun to Bhimra Ambedkar instead of the traditional invocation to Lord Ganesh. What do you have to say to that? I refuse to extricate my fist from my mouth. My mouth was bound to get me into serious trouble. Comrade Shashi, remove your fist from your mouth. It's bad manners. No. Why? I'm training to be a nurse and in my short medical life I've never come across anything like this. Now how? I could not explain to her that my mouth was a proponent of free speech and democracy and like all such proponents, completely irresponsible. I've heard a foot in the mouth, but this... Just then Gala Seth entered. Baba came in with a letter. And that was the first time I heard about Yaju Vendra. I was engaged to Yaju Vendra, a childhood communion. Yaju Vendra's father and Baba had common roots in Bhoj. Baba had done it secretly. Mother was in Lahore in those days. When she returned, she did not speak to Baba for three weeks. Yaju Vendra was the only person in the world mother did not call Comrade. Yaju Vendra was out there somewhere fighting for a brave new world. I had not met him for ages. Just the occasional telegram or letter. After I heard about Yaju Vendra and Shashi Ji being engaged, I understood why the great thinkers frittered away such a lot of their energy and time on love. A complex kind of warfare, love. Comrade Shashi looked pale. I suppose it has something to do with putting his fist into his mouth. Ah, love. A book of which the first chapter is written in poetry and the rest in prose. It was time to go out. Should I say Pundalik the play or Pundalik the film which is based on Pundalik the play? So heartbroken, I immersed myself in work. All the food supply was measured in khandi. My mantra was one khandi is equal to 40 pounds and 40 tolas is one pound. Now Gala said was a fine employer. Like all kachi businessmen, he was thrifty, commonsensical, resourceful. One day I heard him speak kachi to a kachi tradesman from Mandvi. And I was struck by the multiple kachi dialects being used in the radius of the port area in Bombay. Bhatia kachi, Memini kachi, Khoja kachi, Lohana kachi, Baniya kachi. Each with regional variations and then there were the maplas, the Jews, the Nagoris, the Marathas, the Mahars, the Matadis, the Kunbis, so much of plurality. The way people talk, walk, eat. You know, I met a Vadiya from Madurai and saw him drinking his kapi from a tumbler without touching the edge of the tumbler to his mouth. He told me, it's the one true test for a person from Tamil Nadu. No one in the world drinks kapi in such a manner. What sculpture is to a block of marble? Education is to the human soul. Areeva, I must jot this down. I didn't see much of Comrade Shashi. It was all Baba's fault. Barging in with that stupid letter from Yajwendra. And Comrade Shashi appears to be one of those oversensitive types. A bit like Prithviraj Kapoor in New Theatre's film Manzil. Oh, imagine Comrade Shashi is Prithviraj and me, Kanan Devi. And PC Barua is directing us. Gala Seth had a nose for dhanda. Let me give you an example. A new product had entered the market. It was called Ace Lime Juice. It was nothing but cordial concentrate of sun ripened limes prepared and packed in the factory in an actual orchid. I told Gala Seth, Ace Lime Juice will be a flop because every Indian housewife worth her salt made Nibbupani at home. In principle, Gala Seth agreed with me, but he said, high theory does not translate into good business practice. So we sold Ace Lime Juice, chewing gum, which was, which is some kind of dentilly improper sort of thing. Vinolea, white rose soap, which is supposed to keep you cool, fresh, exhilarated and a noisy gadget called radio. It was on such a radio that I heard that the government had increased milk prices by two anas per seer, from 12 anas to 14 anas a seer. There was an uproar. Gala Seth was unperturbed by the potential loss of business. In fact, he saw an opportunity in it. He purchased milk from the black market and used it for the preparation of ice cream and kulfi. It was irresistible, a roaring success. The outbreak of war and the extension of hostilities by the Japanese in December 1941 created problems, bloodshed, lots, lots of lives. That was the time I decided to become a nurse. Men are so juvenile. Don't they understand war is a racket? It has never determined who's right, just who's left. Yajubendra was part of this madness, silly goose. He was obsessed with the thought of getting little badges and medals stuck on his shirt front. The war caused problems. But it did not deter the hajis and their travel plans. Gala Seth used to arrange a 15-day ration for them. The Ghanis would be delivered on a hardgadi to a steamer at Zibbuti Bandar, special rates. A small Ghani that is 70 kilos of rice for Rs. 6 and a big Ghani of 100 kilos for Rs. 650 only. The hajis preferred rice from Burma, pulses, sugar, coconuts and so on. Once at December, everything was loaded onto camels and they began their trek to Mecca or Medina. One morning when I was cycling back from the barracks, I met Shashi Ji. Shashi Ji had lost weight and the luster on her face. She wanted to visit a ship and see how the hajis cook food in their makeshift kitchen in the bottom of the hull. I wanted to see the kitchen in the ship. Also, I wanted to meet Comrade Shashi. Somehow I missed him. Gala Seth was a worried man. There were indirect requests to export OPM to Hong Kong and China. He had refused. Baba was under stress. Due to World War II, there were huge withdrawals from the banks due to panic. It was understandable. Mother used to mention how the People's Bank of Lahore and the Credit Bank of Bombay were all liquidated during World War I. There were rumors of how bank officials were resorting to malpractice like creating fictitious debtors and indulging in cotton share speculation. We travelled in a bus. Due to rationing of petrol and car tyres during the war period, many car owners used to travel by bus. Comrade Shashi was as quiet as a mouse. I tickled his ribs and I said, Comrade Shashi, I prefer a tram to bus. Trams are too slow. Why should things be speedy? What's the hurry? Trams don't exceed five miles an hour. I like the two-story trams. They are sort of cute. The BST has introduced double-decker buses since 1937. They are sort of cute too. That's different. Tram is cheaper than a bus. Okay, perhaps you're right. A tram is better than a bus. The conversation came to a grinding halt. We visited the dock. Comrade Shashi introduced me to Mr. Kanwar, a pilot and examination service officer. For some reason, Mr. Kanwar took it upon himself to explain port rules and dock pilots to me. He wanted to impress me. Shashi Ji was getting impressed by Kanwar. We walked to the ways I had in for jam, toast and coffee. Mr. Kanwar accompanied us. I walked behind Shashi Ji and Kanwar. When we sat down, Kanwar told Shashi Ji that we were sitting on the same table on which Karanjiya and his friends had decided to launch the anti-fascist newspaper, The Blitz, in 1939. Shashi Ji was thrilled. She fluttered her eyelashes and exalted. How charming! So fascinating! Mr. Kanwar was a big bore. I had to look interested. I kept fluttering my eyelashes and said, how very charming and so, so fascinating! Justin Keshav Ji Nayak entered. Kanwar went to his table to pay salams. We got rid of Mr. Kanwar. Touch wood. Comrade Shashi, isn't that Keshav Ji Nayak, one of the biggest cotton merchants in the city? They say he's bankrupt. Shhh! Don't say that loudly. Somebody may hear you. Comrade Shashi clasped his hand over my mouth. In any case, his bankruptcy is just a rumor spread by Nayak's business rivals. You know what Nayak did to counter it? He promised to repay each and every debtor. So the next morning, he assembled bullock carts from one end of Chinch Bandar to the other. Each and every cart was stacked with gunny sacks filled with coins. It was a massive show of strength. No one has doubted Nayak after that. Isn't the water fountain in our gully built by him? I've seen workers washing in it when they come out of the docks. They sing. There's this one chap who sings Kundanal Sehgal songs. What was it? Do Naina Matware. She hummed the song. The song filled the room. We sipped our coffees in silence. I wanted to say something to Comrade Shashi. I had 101 questions to ask her. And today seemed like an opportune moment. Comrade Shashi? Shashi Ji? On cue, Mr. Kanwar had returned. He riddled, what is a restaurant? His reply, a place where one goes to rest and rant. Then he laughed at his own joke. Ah well, how it ends and life goes on. I didn't meet Shashi Ji for a long time. It seems her mother was unwell. Mother was unwell? How hard and painful are the final days on an aged woman? She grows weaker day after day. Eyes dim, ears go deaf, strength fades. Heart no longer peaceful. Or to have seen parents being reduced to ill health. Or to have witnessed parents being reduced to living skeletons. Or to fight with unknown diseases. When I tried to give mother medicine, she would say, he is the best physician who knows the wordlessness of most medicines. It was 1942. Yusuf Meherali presented Gandhi Ji a bow bearing the inscription, quit India. That became our slogan for independence. The AICC session was held at Goliathankmadan on 7th August. Sadova Kandova Patil, the uncrowned union bachhaw of Bombay made arrangements for the sessions. Gala set new Patil Sahib. So we got an opportunity to render services for a great cause. That's how I got to see the VIPs, the hundreds of Indian and foreign correspondents, an audience of 20,000. I heard Abul Kalam Azar's opening address. Then I heard Nehru's historic resolution, drafted by Gandhi Ji, of course, which sought the end of British rule in India. And then Gandhi Ji spoke for two hours. He was abulantly witty, effective. He culminated his talk with a simple cry, do or die. Fractally speaking, mother didn't believe in the idea of a free India. She said it was going to be a mere transfer of power. Instead of being fleeced by the British bureaucrats and government, we would be deceived by our own people, a thing which would be much more heartbreaking. Mother felt Gandhi Ji would not be able to prevent the partition. First, it would be a partition among Hindu Muslim, then class, then caste. Hopefully, if good sense prevailed, there would be a partition on gender basis. That is, men and women inhabiting different nations. It would be the best thing to happen to women in India. The British government had declared all Congress committees unlawful. It gagged the press, and yet the news reached us. A desse vika scribbled messages on our road. The Congresswalas had turned the city into a riot zone. It was madness. Naik pai naik bhai. No one gained a thing. No one was concerned about the Germans or the Japanese. For me, that was the bigger threat. They had bombed Kokonada and Vishakapatnam. There was first-hand information that the Japanese were planning a Pearl Harbor-type bombing in Madras or Bombay. I heard about the Japanese threat. Shashi Ji's Yaju Vendra was fighting the Japanese onslaught in Burma. Where was he? Where was Comrade Shashi? Gala Saheb told me Shashi Ji was nursing her mother. Mother was my first and toughest patient. In spite of her ill health, she would sing in front of the mill gates. She and her friends, Ahilya Rangnekar, Durga Bhagavar, Nudula Sarabhai, would giggle like little girls. They demanded equal wages for women. One of them exhorted me to gather girls and protest. I did so and got rusticated from college. I was arrested on 26 January, 1943. And placed in Arthur Road jail. I was a prisoner in a class 2 jail. I had committed the crime of getting caught. I courted arrest on 26 January, 1943. Instead of Baikal, I was taken to BDD Chal, which had been converted into a makeshift prison for political prisoners. I was so impressed with myself. You know, I was a political prisoner. When I was released, I learned mother had passed away. The day I was released was an anti-climax. The movement had lost its fizz. The others were gaining strength. Ambedkar, Danghe, Randiwe, Raja Ji, Jinha, Savarkar. I was busy at hospital. One late night in the early months of 1944, I heard a hiccup. It was Comrade Shashi. I was returning from Gangeru. Nine of us were selected for a mission. It was supposed to be a sabotage of a truck carrying ammunition and military cargo. So we walked 19 kilometers to our destination, guided by torches, covered with handkerchiefs. We reached the truck. The driver and his helper saw us and ran away. So we opened the fuel tank and tried to set the truck ablaze, but we failed. We tried to topple the truck we failed. Then we tried to deflate the tires we failed. Just then we saw a searchlight. The driver and the helper returning with military support. We fled into the night and escaped. May I ask what you are doing here at this unearthly hour? Are you wooing a pretty maiden, sweeping her off her feet? I am... What's in your hand? Well, it's just a cyclostyle sheet of paper. What's this? Congress Patrika, how interesting! I have unearthed an underground movement. Yoo-hoo! Hey, don't you who? You will attract attention. Who gave it to you? Himmat, my college friend. You know, many of our students are involved. I'm not a student, but I want to get involved. I can distribute it to patients in the hospital. Some light reading. Don't mock. This is an underground newspaper. It is circulated in defiance of the British. If you are caught with this, you will be given a death sentence. I'm a woman, no one will suspect me. Can I write? I have some drawn-breaking ideas about self-determination and sovereignty. I don't know. I'll have to ask you. Whom will you ask? Who's the editor? I don't know. No one knows who the editor is. In fact, I don't know where it gets printed. Every issue, they shift the venue. All I know is the Congress Patrika disseminates news about the freedom movement and sets guidelines for Indian citizens. Most of the newspapers support us and carry our news, except for the evening news and Times of India. They are anti-national. You know, I suggest you stop reading the Times of India. Okay, bye. Where do you think you're going? Don't you know it's unsafe outside? I intend to distribute the Congress Patrika in Sapthia Manzil and Lucky Mansion and later the Charles at Kalba Devi. There's heavy patrolling. You'll be caught, red-handed. So what? I'm willing to do or die. You cannot even hold your hiccup. Then how can you do or die? The only thing that can save you and your cause is the theatre. The theatre, but there's a role of drama, some fun and frolic. It's showtime, folks. The ceremony is about to begin. An actor is born. Let the coronation begin. Meaning? We change your appearance. Look here. This monkey cap will make you resemble a monkey when you go to Javeri Bajar, a parsi topi and a chota beard when you go to Dawa Bajar, or Dhanapandar, a little medical gauze around your head and a bandaid when you visit Vijay T.I. or Khalsa College, a man of many parts, a man who changes faces in order to live. So that's how it was, exhilarating, invigorating, stimulating, breathtaking. With my many disguises, I got associated with 42.34 meters, that is, Congress Radio. The transmitter was located in Ajit Villa, somewhere in the middle of Bombay. The main brain of the radio broadcast was Usha Desai, Achutrao Patwardhan, Chandrakant Babu Bai, Zaveri. The broadcast used to start with the word, this is Congress Radio, calling on 42.34 meters. We educated the people about the modus operandi of our revolution. We provided graphic accounts of revolutionary activities in the Northwestern province and Pihar. Listeners were informed about the red shirts and the Khudai Khidmatgars. We included pre-recorded messages and talks by leaders of the national movement. It was Congress Radio which broke the news of the collapse of the German defenses and the Japanese bombing of Chittagong and East Assam. I heard about the Japanese bombing on Congress Radio. Yajwendra was in the line of fire. Weeks ago, he had written a letter from Kohima. The Japanese were in Burma. They had surrounded Vishenpur Shikhar. Kohima was the main target of their operation. I was in a quandary. Baba was in touch to settle some family property dispute. I sent a message to Congress session. That night, I returned home. I recall the day. All of us were still moaning Kasturba is passing away in Agakhan Palace in February. I had attended a Shog Sabha which was actually a secret political meeting. I hadn't eaten a thing. But my disposition received a cheery boost on seeing a note. It was from Shashi Ji. It said, Meet me at 5 p.m. Atteen Sakina Manzil on 14th April 1944. Urgent. There's an interval here where I'll have a sip of water.