Mamaiji Character Analysis

His aaah surprised me. He had taught me to be tough, always. One morning when we had come home after cricket, he told Mummy and Mamaiji, ‘Today my son did a brave thing, as I would have done. A powerful shot was going to the boundary, like a cannonball, and he blocked it with his bare shin.’ Those were his exact words. The ball’s shiny red fury, and the audible crack—at least, I think it was audible—had sent pain racing through me that nearly made my eyes overflow. Daddy had clapped and said, ‘Well-fielded, sir, well-fielded.’ So I waited to rub the agonised bone until attention was no longer upon me.

Daddy finished cutting out and re-reading the classified advertisement. ‘Yes, this is a good one. Sounds very promising.’ He picked up the newspaper again, then remembered what Mamaiji had muttered, and said softly to me, 'If it is so duleendar and will bring bad luck, how is it I found this? These old people’ and gave a sigh of mild exasperation. Then briskly: ‘Don't stop now, this week is very important.’ He continued, slapping the table merrily at each word: ‘Every-single-white-hair-out.’

My guilty conscience, squirming uncontrollably, could not witness the quarrels. For though I was an eager partner in the conspiracy with Mamaiji, and acquiesced to the necessity for secrecy, very often I spilled the beans—quite literally—with diarrhoea and vomiting, which Mamaiji upheld as undeniable proof that lack of proper regular nourishment had enfeebled my bowels. In the throes of these bouts of effluence, I promised Mummy and Daddy never again to eat what Mamaiji offered, and confessed all my past sins. In Mamaiji’s eyes I was a traitor, but sometimes it was also fun to listen to her scatological reproaches: ‘Mua ugheeparoo! Eating my food, then shitting and tattling all over the place. Next time I’ll cork you up with a big bootch before feeding you.’

‘Listen to this,’ Daddy said to her, ‘just found it in the paper: “A Growing Concern Seeks Dynamic Young Account Executive, Self-Motivated. Four-Figure Salary and Provident Fund.” I think it’s perfect.’ He waited for Mummy’s reaction. Then: ‘If I can get it, all our troubles will be over.’ Mummy listened to such advertisements week after week: harbingers of hope that ended in disappointment and frustration. But she always allowed the initial wave of optimism to lift her, riding it with Daddy and me, higher and higher, making plans and dreaming, until it crashed and left us stranded, awaiting the next advertisement and the next wave.

‘Puppa is very sick,’ whispered Viraf, as we passed the sickroom. I stopped and looked inside. It was dark. The smell of sickness and medicines made it stink like the waiting room of Dr Sidhwa’s dispensary. Viraf’s father was in bed, lying on his back, with a tube through his nose. There was a long needle stuck into his right arm, and it glinted cruelly in a thin shaft of sunlight that had suddenly slunk inside the darkened room. I shivered. The needle was connected by a tube to a large bottle which hung upside down from a dark metal stand towering over the bed.

I felt like crying, and buried my face in the pillow. I wanted to cry for the way I had treated Viraf, and for his sick father with the long, cold needle in his arm and his rasping breath; for Mamaiji and her tired, darkened eyes spinning thread for our kustis, and for Mummy growing old in the dingy kitchen smelling of kerosene, where the Primus roared and her dreams were extinguished; I wanted to weep for myself, for not being able to hug Daddy when I wanted to, and for not ever saying thank you for cricket in the morning, and pigeons and bicycles and dreams; and for all the white hairs that I was powerless to stop.

His aaah surprised me. He had taught me to be tough, always. One morning when we had come home after cricket, he told Mummy and Mamaiji, ‘Today my son did a brave thing, as I would have done. A powerful shot was going to the boundary, like a cannonball, and he blocked it with his bare shin.’ Those were his exact words. The ball’s shiny red fury, and the audible crack—at least, I think it was audible—had sent pain racing through me that nearly made my eyes overflow. Daddy had clapped and said, ‘Well-fielded, sir, well-fielded.’ So I waited to rub the agonised bone until attention was no longer upon me.

Daddy finished cutting out and re-reading the classified advertisement. ‘Yes, this is a good one. Sounds very promising.’ He picked up the newspaper again, then remembered what Mamaiji had muttered, and said softly to me, 'If it is so duleendar and will bring bad luck, how is it I found this? These old people’ and gave a sigh of mild exasperation. Then briskly: ‘Don't stop now, this week is very important.’ He continued, slapping the table merrily at each word: ‘Every-single-white-hair-out.’

My guilty conscience, squirming uncontrollably, could not witness the quarrels. For though I was an eager partner in the conspiracy with Mamaiji, and acquiesced to the necessity for secrecy, very often I spilled the beans—quite literally—with diarrhoea and vomiting, which Mamaiji upheld as undeniable proof that lack of proper regular nourishment had enfeebled my bowels. In the throes of these bouts of effluence, I promised Mummy and Daddy never again to eat what Mamaiji offered, and confessed all my past sins. In Mamaiji’s eyes I was a traitor, but sometimes it was also fun to listen to her scatological reproaches: ‘Mua ugheeparoo! Eating my food, then shitting and tattling all over the place. Next time I’ll cork you up with a big bootch before feeding you.’

‘Listen to this,’ Daddy said to her, ‘just found it in the paper: “A Growing Concern Seeks Dynamic Young Account Executive, Self-Motivated. Four-Figure Salary and Provident Fund.” I think it’s perfect.’ He waited for Mummy’s reaction. Then: ‘If I can get it, all our troubles will be over.’ Mummy listened to such advertisements week after week: harbingers of hope that ended in disappointment and frustration. But she always allowed the initial wave of optimism to lift her, riding it with Daddy and me, higher and higher, making plans and dreaming, until it crashed and left us stranded, awaiting the next advertisement and the next wave.

‘Puppa is very sick,’ whispered Viraf, as we passed the sickroom. I stopped and looked inside. It was dark. The smell of sickness and medicines made it stink like the waiting room of Dr Sidhwa’s dispensary. Viraf’s father was in bed, lying on his back, with a tube through his nose. There was a long needle stuck into his right arm, and it glinted cruelly in a thin shaft of sunlight that had suddenly slunk inside the darkened room. I shivered. The needle was connected by a tube to a large bottle which hung upside down from a dark metal stand towering over the bed.

I felt like crying, and buried my face in the pillow. I wanted to cry for the way I had treated Viraf, and for his sick father with the long, cold needle in his arm and his rasping breath; for Mamaiji and her tired, darkened eyes spinning thread for our kustis, and for Mummy growing old in the dingy kitchen smelling of kerosene, where the Primus roared and her dreams were extinguished; I wanted to weep for myself, for not being able to hug Daddy when I wanted to, and for not ever saying thank you for cricket in the morning, and pigeons and bicycles and dreams; and for all the white hairs that I was powerless to stop.