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Second, I know that Whitey and Blackey did not
really belong to Roshan and me, that Babu was being generous when he
allowed us to claim ownership to two creatures who depended on him
for their survival. For the first time, I dimly understand the link
between love and responsibility. We are responsible for those we
love, I realize, and if we abdicate that responsibility, then we
cannot lay a claim to love.

And finally, I know that the world still belongs
to the adults and although, in their kindness and mercy they may
pretend to share it with us, ultimately it is still their world. It
is they who decide when we are old enough to stop playing with dolls,
when we should give away toys that they've decided we've
outgrown, and when they should get rid of pets that we believed
belonged to us.

So I join the rest of the family in consoling Babu
and agreeing that he did the best thing under the circumstances and
that the rabbits are better off living in Shantilal's home than
at the factory where they always had to worry about stray cats.

And I join the family in our conspiracy of
silence. We never mention Blackey and Whitey again, though sometimes
I see Babu standing at the balcony and staring at the spot that I
imagine is where the baby rabbit landed. The next time I visit the
factory, I notice that the pen has been dismantled. It is as if
Blackey and Whitey never existed.

I
T IS A NIGHT IN May and the excitement in
the house is fever-pitched. I am running around the house like a fire
engine, knowing I'm making a nuisance of myself but unable to
stop.

Part of my excitement is pure performance,
something to make Mehroo happy, to validate her own feelings of
anticipation.

Also, isn't this what daughters are supposed
to do when their fathers return after two months abroad? Isn't
this what the Von Trapp children were like, didn't they burst
into the room happily when their father returned from a trip?

For some reason, we don't go to the airport
to pick up my father as he returns home after spending two months in
Japan touring Expo '70. I have fallen into an exhausted sleep
when the doorbell finally rings at three a.m. but am awake and flying
out of bed before it can ring a second time. So that I am by the door
when someone opens it to reveal a tall, slim, serious-looking man in
a dark brown suit and narrow tie. But as his eyes focus on the
smiling faces of his relatives—Babu in his sadra and striped
pyjama bottoms, my mom and my aunts in their cotton duster coats, my
cousin Roshan in her sleeveless pyjamas and me in my blue satin
ones—his face lights up. For a second, he looks disoriented,
not knowing whom to kiss and hug first but then we are all on him and
spare him the decision, a multi-headed army of puckered lips and
engulfing arms.

‘Bhai, family kem che? How is everyone?'
he manages to splutter out to his brother.

I am sitting on my haunches and hugging his legs,
waiting for him to acknowledge me when the lights in the adjacent
apartment are turned on and the neighbour's door flies open.

Perviz aunty, the older lady who lives next door,
swiftly crosses the common passageway and stands at the threshold of
our apartment. ‘Come, come, Burjor,' she says, ‘too
many months you have been away. Welcome back to your loving family
and your good home.' Dad feels compelled to disentangle himself
from our arms and briefly put his arm around Perviz, in
acknowledgment of her greeting. I feel the adults around me tense at
this intrusion into our ranks, at this aborted homecoming, even while
their minds tell them to appreciate the fact that Perviz stayed awake
long enough to greet my father upon his return.

I am the lucky beneficiary of Perviz's
intrusion because the wave of adults has parted and finally dad can
spot me. He drops on his haunches, so that his warm, sparkling eyes
are level with mine. ‘Hello, Thrituma,' he says to me
softly. ‘I have missed you so much.' I am suddenly filled
with a terrible shyness, as if he is a stranger to me, so that when
he pulls me closer to his chest, I feel my body getting stiff and I
must resist the urge to pull away. But before he or any of the adults
can notice, we hear the heaving sounds of the men who are carrying my
dad's heavy suitcases up the two flights of wooden stairs.

The men are workers from my dad's factory
and Babu had asked them to come over for precisely this reason. The
arrival of the two large suitcases creates another round of
excitement.

I disentangle myself from my father's
embrace and follow the bags. The two grunting men have hoisted the
suitcases on their shoulders and Babu hurriedly directs them into the
living room, where they look as if they are about to drop them on the
floor with a thud. ‘Saala, idiots,' Babu scolds. ‘Bricks
instead of brains. What do you think is inside these bags, gold bars,
that you can just drop? Lower them gently, gently.' The two men

grin, familiar with my uncle's quick anger
but also with his soft heart. Pesi reaches into his pyjama pocket to
retrieve two notes, which he presses into the palms of each man.
‘Okay, go,' he says. ‘Buy yourself some mithai
tomorrow, to celebrate my brother's safe return.' The two
men leave, touching their foreheads in appreciation, nodding shyly to
my dad on their way out. ‘Factory all okay?' he says in
response and I am disappointed that this is all he has to say to
them.

At the front door, there is some movement. Mehroo,
noticing that Perviz is about to enter the apartment and make herself
at home, thinks quickly on her feet. Yawning in an exaggerated way,
she says, ‘Chalo, it's getting late. We can do the
opening-fopening of the bags tomorrow. My bhai is tired right now.

We should all go to bed.' I find my toes
curling in embarrassment over Mehroo's obvious ploy but if she
notices, Perviz aunty does not say. In response, she stretches her
arms and pretends to be sleepy herself. ‘Good idea,' she
says. ‘Bas, I wanted to stay up to look at my Burjor one time
only. Now I can sleep peacefully, knowing he is home safe and sound.'

Once inside, my uncle performs the nightly ritual
of applying the stopper and locking the front door. The adults look
as if they are about to act on Mehroo's words and leave the
suitcases unmolested until the next day. But I am sick with a feeling
of letdown because I had asked my dad for a walking-talking Japanese
doll and I want to know if he has remembered. None of his letters
home had mentioned the purchase of a doll. I know that I will never
fall asleep without knowing for sure.

I tug at his sleeve. ‘Please, daddy,'
I say. ‘I want to open the bags now only. Please. I cannot wait
till morning.'

When he first looks at me, his eyes seem tired and
sleepy.

But then he shakes his head once, as if to shake
off the cobwebs of sleep and he grins. ‘I also cannot wait till
morning,' he says, pulling a set of keys out of his suit
pocket.

‘You open the first bag.'

Carefully, proudly, as if I am carrying the flame
at the Olympics, I take the key and fumble with the small lock on the
largest suitcase. ‘To the right,' Babu advises. ‘Turn
the key to the right,' I tug the lock open, praying that this
is the bag that carries my doll.

At first, I do not see the doll because my dad's
shirts are neatly folded on top of the box. Also, there are scores of
gold coins the size of a man's fist, strewn all over the top of
the suitcase. ‘Oh, God,' dad mutters. ‘They must
have fallen out.'

He picks up one coin and hands it to me and I
realize it is chocolate wrapped in gold foil. The chocolate coin
feels soft and mushy in my hand. ‘It's all melted,'
I say and my mom bends to scoop them out one by one, before the
chocolate leaks into the suitcase.

I can barely contain my excitement now, hopping
from foot to foot. As always, the adults laugh and as always, I ham
it up even more to keep their laughter coming. I am almost nine years
old and already I am cast in the role of the family clown, the comic
relief. Getting carried away, I start pulling out dad's neatly
pressed shirts, tossing them out of the suitcase as if I am tossing
out dirt from a cave that I'm excavating, until Mehroo puts a
firm hand on me and stops me. ‘Behave yourself,' she says
to me firmly. ‘Act ladylike, now. Two more minutes will not
hurt you.'

But they do, they do. The minutes feel
excruciatingly long until we reach the bottom of the suitcase and
there, lying in a large pink and white box wrapped in transparent
cellophane paper, is my Japanese doll. I let out a yelp. He'd
remembered.

Somebody lifts the box gently and opens it. A
large, pinkish doll with an unblinking gaze is put in my hands. I am
disappointed that the doll is not wearing a kimono but my
disappointment vanishes when my dad pulls a round, white pendant at
the nape of the doll's neck and out pours a flurry of
high-pitched Japanese words, which my dad translates for me. I tug at
the string myself but impatience makes me pull too hard and the
string simply boomerangs back and my doll makes a choking sound. ‘No,
pull slowly, like this and release gently,' my dad coaches. A
torrent of words escape the doll's mouth again. I am totally
enamoured.

Somebody opens the second suitcase but I am no
longer interested. I keep pulling at the string, savouring the sound
of the incomprehensible words. A few other gifts land my way and I
give them a cursory glance. I notice the yards of dress material he
has brought for all the women, hear them fawning over them, but I am
not interested. But then, a kind of hush falls over the room,
followed by a rapid gasp from my mother and my aunts and this gets my
attention. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, my father pulls out a
large blue box from the second suitcase. ‘This is my pride and
joy,' he says. ‘It's the finest bone china, a
complete teaset.' He glances quickly at my mother and aunts and
continues: ‘Unfortunately, the set is not for the house. It's
a business gift for Thakoor. He's helped us a lot during the
bad times, as you all know.' My mother looks as if she is about
to argue but both my aunts are nodding in assent, swallowing their
obvious disappointment, and she feels compelled to nod too. Dad
smiles, a sudden, happy smile. ‘But if my collaboration with
the Japanese goes as planned, there will be many such sets for the
house, God willing.' The other adults smile their assent, used
as they are to making all kinds of sacrifices for the family
business. But I can hear the sighs that they are willing themselves
not to breathe. They are disappointed and trying their best not to
show it. My dad must've heard something too because he stares
at the box sadly for a minute and then sits upright as if he's
made a decision. ‘You should at least look at the pieces before
I give them away,' he says. ‘Mehroo can pack it all back
later.'

He opens the box as carefully as if it contains a
soufflé. Each cup and saucer is individually wrapped in soft,
white tissue paper and he uses his handkerchief to touch them and set
them carefully on the newspaper that Mehroo has spread on the floor.
Bewildered and excited by the reverent way in which the adults are
admiring the set, I put my doll down and rush to where my dad is
sitting. ‘Let me see, let me see,' I say, grabbing one of
the cups.

I'm not exactly sure what happens next. I
try to set the cup down and somehow it lands on the stone floor
harder than I'd anticipated and somehow it lands on its side,
so that I'm suddenly holding only the cup handle in my hand. I
stare at the handle in horror and my eyes are already welling up as I
see that horror mirrored on the faces of the adults around me. I
force myself to meet my father's gaze but his face is a mask.

Only the slightly parted lips convey his
disappointment.

I want to wail, sob, say I'm sorry, curse
myself for my ancient clumsiness, want to curl inside myself and
disappear but to do any of these things would be to shatter the
silence that has descended upon the room. It has all happened so
fast—the pride in my father's voice, his regret at having
to give the teaset away, his careful handling of his treasure and my
impulsive, thoughtless destruction of it—that no one quite
knows how to react. Finally, I see Mehroo and my mom both
simultaneously reach for my shoulders, as if to yank me up before I
do more damage. I tense up, waiting for the recriminations and
lamentations about my clumsiness and my impulsiveness that I know
must follow, when I hear my father speak.

‘It's okay,' he says. ‘It's
just a cup after all. Tomorrow, at the factory, I'll glue the
handle back in such a way that Thakoor will never even know it was
broken.'

All of us remain unconvinced. I still want to die.
Seeing this, he cups my face. ‘It's all right,' he
repeats, smiling this time.

‘Don't worry. I know you didn't
do it purposely. Now, come on, we have other gifts to open.'

I have already spent eight years of my life living
with my father. Although he has mostly been a shadowy presence in my
life, has not quite played the influential role that Mehroo has, has
not quite stood in sharp relief to the others in my life, I have
known for a long, long time that I love him. But today, for the first
time, hearing him say those words, watching him struggle to make the
lump in his throat disappear, I make an exciting and new discovery:
I
like
my dad. I like this tall, serious, kind man sitting in
front of me. I'd have liked him even if he didn't belong
to me.