The Mountain Shadow

‘No, no, it’s a joke. I grew up in the Jewish part of my town, Little Israel. And, you know, it’s a joke everybody tells, because Jewish people are supposed to offer you chicken soup, no matter what’s wrong with you. You’ve got an upset stomach, have a little chicken soup. You’ve got a headache, have a little chicken soup. You’ve just been shot, have a little chicken soup. And in India, tea is like chicken soup for Jewish people, see? No matter what’s wrong, a strong glass of chai will fix you up. Geddit?’

His puzzled frown cleared in a half-smile.

‘There’s a Jewish person not far from here,’ he said. ‘He stays in the Parsi colony at Cuffe Parade, even though he’s not a Parsi. His name is Isaac, I believe. Shall I bring him here?’

‘Yes!’ I replied excitedly. ‘Get the Jewish person, and bring him here!’

Johnny rose from his stool.

‘You’ll wait for me here?’ he asked, preparing to leave.

‘No!’ I said, exasperated. ‘I was joking, Johnny. It was a joke! Of course I don’t want you to bring the Jewish person here.’

‘It’s really no trouble,’ he said.

He stared at me, bewildered, trapped a half-step away, uncertain whether he should fetch Isaac-the-Jewish-person or not.

‘So . . . ’ I said at last, looking at the sky for an escape from the conversational cul-de-sac, ‘when do you think?’

He relaxed, and scanned the clouds churning in from the sea.

‘I thought it would be today,’ he replied. ‘I was sure.’

‘Well,’ I sighed, ‘if not today, tomorrow. Okay, can we do this now, Johnny?’

‘Jarur,’ he replied, moving toward the low doorway of his hut.

I joined him inside, closing the flimsy plywood door behind me. The hut, made of thin, tatami-style matting strung to bare bamboo poles, was paved on the bare earth with extravagantly detailed and coloured tiles. They formed a mosaic image of a peacock, with its tail fanned out against a background of trees and flowers.

The cupboards were filled with food. The large, metal, rat-proof wardrobe was an expensive and much-prized item of furniture in the slum. A battery-powered music system occupied a corner of a metal dresser. Pride of place went to a three-dimensional illustration of the flogged and crucified Christ. New floral-print mattresses were rolled up in a corner.

The traces of relative luxury attested to Johnny’s status and commercial success. I’d given him the money as a wedding present, to buy a small, legal apartment in the neighbouring Navy Nagar district. The gift was intended to allow him to escape the uncertainty and hardship of life in the illegal slum.

Aided by the enterprising spirit of his wife Sita, the daughter of a prosperous chai shop owner, Johnny used the apartment as collateral for a loan, and then rented it out at a premium. He used the loan to buy three slum huts, rented the three illegal huts at market rates, and was living in exactly the same slum lane where I’d first met him.

Moving a few things aside, Johnny made a place for me to sit. I stopped him.

‘Thanks, brother. Thanks. I don’t have time. I have to find Lisa. I’ve been one step behind her all day long.’

‘Lin brother, you’ll always be one step behind that girl.’

‘I think you’re right. Here, take this.’

I gave him the bag of medicines that Lisa had given me, and pulled a wad of money bound with tight elastic bands from my pocket. It was enough to pay two months’ wages for the two young men who worked as first aid attendants in the free clinic. There was also a surplus to cover the purchase of new bandages and medicines.

‘Is there anything special?’

‘Well . . . ’ he said, reluctantly.

‘Tell me.’

‘Anjali – Bhagat’s daughter – she went for the exams.’

‘How’d she do?’

‘She came top. And not just top of her class, mind you, but top of the whole Maharashtra State.’

‘Smart kid.’

I remembered the little girl she was, years ago, when she’d helped me from time to time in the free clinic. The twelve-year-old kept the names of all the patients in the slum in her head, hundreds of names, and became a friend to every one of them. In visits to the clinic in the years since, I’d watched her learn and grow.

‘But smart is not enough in this, our India,’ Johnny sighed. ‘The Registrar of the university, he is demanding a baksheesh of twenty thousand rupees.’

He said it flatly, without rancour. It was a fact of life, like the diminishing numbers of fish in fishermen’s nets, and the daily increase of cars, trucks and motorcycles on the roads of the once genteel Island City.

‘How much have you got?’

‘Fifteen thousand,’ he replied. ‘We collected the money from everyone here, from all castes and religions. I put in five thousand myself.’

It was a significant commitment. I knew Johnny wouldn’t see that money repaid in anything less than three years.