Zanu, born Janardan Prabhudev Parikar, in the small but picturesque village of Shigra, was a long way from home. Having lost his mother when he was only four to tuberculosis and his father to alcoholism years earlier, he had had a difficult childhood. His two elder sisters took care of him till he was eight but when they got married he was left alone at the mercy of his abusive and perpetually drunk father. It wasn’t just the relentless and unprovoked beatings, but the loneliness and the abject hopelessness of his situation that compelled him to leave home one night and walk the twelve kilometers to Murud. Arriving at the bus station, tired and hungry and with not enough money to buy a ticket, he collapsed on a bench and passed out. When he woke up hours later, he found a man in a crumpled blue suit and thick, black rimmed glasses hovering over him. “What’s your name boy? Where are you from? Where are you going?” he heard the man ask. Pushing him away, he started to run, but didn’t get far before collapsing in a heap, too exhausted and dehydrated to remain conscious. When he woke up again, he found himself lying on a mattress in a dark, warm room with a glass of coconut water by his side. Drinking the water in big gulps, he slowly lifted himself up and pushing the door of the room open, walked out into bright sunlight.
Almost nine years later, he was now a part of the family. The boys, although lazy and mischievous, were fun to be around. The girls, who he adored, reminded him of his sisters and Ma, despite being strict and demanding at times, was fair and kind and paid him a reasonable and regular salary. He had his own room in the servant quarters, helped with cooking and cleaning, went to the market to buy groceries, tended to the animals and in the evenings climbed up the coconut trees to watch the sun dip into the dark waters of the Arabian sea.
That was Murud, but this was Bombay. He didn’t like the big city. The cramped kitchen on which he had to sleep with its cold, hard, tiled floor was a far cry from the warmth and sponginess of the dung floor he was used to. The rats and cockroaches scurrying around at night, and the variety of snoring that echoed through the apartment didn’t help with his sleep either. The obnoxious man sleeping next to him; the additional help, that was brought from Murud, made it almost impossible. When he was not rolling all over him or kicking him or drooling like a leaky faucet, he would bellow and grunt and whistle, occasionally all at the same time. And he had worked with buffaloes that had less body odor.
“Oye, Ali, wake up. Ma wants tea.”
“Ali, wake up. It’s your turn today.”
Ali, slept like a baby. Claiming royal ancestry, from the Siddi’s who ruled over Murud Janjira until 1947, he did not consider himself a servant, but an unfortunate nobleman born a few decades too late. He also considered himself to be smarter than he really was: lecturing people on religion, advising mothers on child care, arguing with strangers for no particular reason and always ready to show off the four or five English words he knew: yes, no, thank you and his favorite, yecamanigut, which most probably meant yes, c’mon, good.
Zanu, poked him in the belly again, and after letting out a short yelp and a loud snort, Ali rolled over and went right back to sleep. With a sigh of resignation, Zanu got up, pushed open the kitchen door and walked out to the open verandah that connected the rest of the apartment to the common toilets. The sun was almost up now, and within the hour all the kids would be up and ready for school. He had attempted school once, but being the oldest in his class by several years and still several levels below the rest of his classmates, he had not enjoyed the experience. Education was not for him; his kids, if he had any, maybe, but definitely not for him.
Picking up a jug of water, he splashed some on his face, brushed his teeth vigorously with black toothpaste powder, gargled and spat the black paste out into the toilet. He soaped his armpits, brushed his hair back with some coconut oil and put on his shirt that was drying on the clothesline. Walking back into the kitchen he picked up another jug of water and dumped it on the still sleeping Ali. With Ali sputtering and muttering abuses in the background, Zanu with a wry smile, turned on the kerosene stove and put on a fresh pot of tea.