He watched the toast change color and become moist as it soaked up the tea, and just before it turned into a sloshy mess, he deftly pulled it out from the cup and slipped it into his mouth. He enjoyed these simple pleasures: the warmth of the tea, the little crunch still left in the toast and the repetitive nature of the exercise. Sitting on the porch of his house on Dabar Road in Murud, he admired the view: the white waves crashing into the black sandy beach, the fishing boats in the distance with their colorful sails fluttering in the wind. The shadows cast by the tall palm trees danced on the narrow road that separated his house from the beach. Looming on the horizon, in the middle of the sea was the Kasa fort, once strong and powerful, now a heap of ruins, battered by relentless, raging waves. A few miles south was the much larger and majestic Janjira fort, the unconquered bastion of the Siddis for almost six centuries.
It had been a few years since he had been to Janjira, but he still had fond memories of the place. The large mosque to the right of the Nawab’s mansion, where his forefathers had led prayers for generations and provided religious and moral guidance to the soldiers and inhabitants of the fort. The small house next to it, the Imam’s quarters, where he was born, and where he had spent his early childhood, spoiled by the many servants who served at the pleasure of his influential father. The many, many books that his father had collected over the years. He read the religious ones because he had to, but it was the English novels by Dickens and Hardy and Stevenson that intrigued him. The adventures, the tragedies, the complex and flawed characters, their experiences so different from his own privileged and sheltered life. However it was the legal drama and courtroom battles of Gardner’s Perry Mason that he loved. He imagined walking through the towering arches of Murud’s courthouse, dressed in a flowing black robe, a white wig on his head and legal briefs tucked under his arm, solving crimes and saving the lives of innocents, wrongly accused. Breaking from years of family tradition, drawing the ire of his parents and ridicule of his extended family, he travelled far, studied hard, and doggedly pursued his dream. Now, more than fifteen years since getting his license to practice law from the Bombay Bar Association, his dream was in tatters. The few cases that he got, had to do with small claims that paid very little, and land disputes that never seemed to end. His principled, straight forward approach was no match for the cut throat, no holds barred practice that his peers had adopted. With the Tenancy Act of 1948, taking away most of his ancestral land and the income from it, and very little money coming from his practice, his financial situation had become desperate.
“Vakil Saheb, it’s almost time,” he heard his farm hand, Govinda, shout out in the distance.
He looked at his watch. The bus would leave in less than thirty minutes. He needed to hurry. He went back into the house and started packing his briefcase: a night dress, a couple of shirts, his shaving kit. He opened up the dresser and pulled out two hundred rupees from an envelope hidden in an old Quran and tucked them into his wallet. He looked at his blue suit, old and wrinkled. He should have had Govinda press it, but there was no time now. He picked up a red tie and within a few minutes was ready to leave.
He looked around the house once more. He could almost hear the last argument he had had with his wife echoing through the empty house. How dare she ? What was she thinking ? How could she expect him to start a new life ? He was almost fifty. And the children ? He felt his emotions swing between loneliness to helplessness to unbridled rage.
He slammed the door shut, locked it and threw the keys to Govinda. His briefcase swinging by his side, he walked briskly along Darbar road to the bus stand. Heading to the ticket counter, he pushed two rupees into the cashier’s window.
“One ticket to Bombay,” he demanded.