Of white hairs and cricket by rohinton mistry pdf
File Name: of white hairs and cricket by rohinton mistry .zip
- 1516 Short Story 6 - Of White Hairs and Cricket Students Version
- Construction of Home, Nation and Identity in Rohinton Mistry's Tales from Firozsha Baag
- Rohinton Mistry
1516 Short Story 6 - Of White Hairs and Cricket Students Version
I pulled it taut to see if it was gripped tightly, then plucked it. Engrossed in the classifieds, he barely looked my way. The naked bulb overhead glanced off the stainless steel tweezers, making a splotch of light dart across the Murphy Radio calendar. He sighed, turned a page, and went on scrutinizing the columns. Each Sunday, the elimination of white hairs took longer than the last time.
Percy was always excused from this task. Daddy relied on my nimble fourteen-year-old fingers to uproot the signposts of mortality sprouting week after week. It was unappetizing work, combing through his hair greasy with day-old pomade, isolating the white ones, or the ones just beginning to turn — half black and half white and somehow more repulsive. It was always difficult to decide The plastic cloth smelled stale and musty.
It was impossible to clean perfectly because of the floral design embossed upon its surface. The swirly grooves were ideal for trapping all kinds of dirt. Daddy reached up to scratch a spot on his scalp. His aaah surprised me. He had taught me to be tough, always. A powerful shot was going to the boundary, like a cannonball, and he blocked it with his bare shin. I wish Percy had not lost interest in cricket, and had been there. My best friend, Viraf from A Block, was immensely impressed.
But that was all a long time ago, many months ago, now Daddy did not take us for cricket on Sunday mornings. I paused in my search. Daddy had found something in the classifieds and did not notice. Mummy and Daddy called it so innocent and joyous. That baby would now be the same age as me. The ragged perimeter of the patch of crumbled wall it tried to hide strayed outward from behind, forming a kind of dark and jagged halo around the baby. The picture grew less adequate, daily, as the wall kept losing plaster and the edges continued to curl and tatter.
Other calendars in the room performed similar enshroudings: the Cement Corporation skyscraper; the Lifebuoy Soap towel-wrapped woman with long black hair; the Parsi calendar, pictureless but showing the English and Parsi names for the months, and the roje in Gujarati beside each date, which Mummy and Mamaiji consulted when reciting their prayers.
All these hung well past their designated time span in the world of months and years, covering up the broken promises of the Firozsha Baag building management. Seated, there was no trace of the infirmity that caused her to walk doubled over. Doctors said it was due to a weak spine that could not erect against the now inordinate weight of her stomach.
She opened her bag of spinning things, although she had been told to rest her eyes after the recent cataract operation. Then she spied me with the tweezers. It will only bring bad luck. But no one listens. Is this anything to make a child do, he should be out playing, or learning how to do bajaar, how to bargain with butcher and bunya. I resented her speaking against Daddy and calling me a child. She twirled the spindle, drawing fibres into thread from the scrap of wool in her left hand as the spindle descended.
I watched, expecting — even wishing — the thread to break. Sometimes it did, and then it seemed to me that Mamaiji was overcome with disbelief, shocked and pained that it could have happened, and I would feel sorry and rush to pick it up for her. The spindle spun to the floor this time without mishap, hanging by a fine, brand new thread. She hauled it up, winding the thread around the extended thumb and little finger of her left hand by waggling the wrist in little clockwise and counter-clockwise half-turns, while the index and middle fingers clamped tight the source: the shred of wool resembling a lock of her own hair, snow white and slightly tangled.
Mamaiji spun enough thread to keep us all in kustis. The kustis were woven by a professional, who always praised the fine quality of the thread; and even at the fire-temple, where we untied and tied them during prayers, they earned the covetous glances of other Parsis.
All spinning things entranced me. The descending spindle was like the bucket spinning down into the sacred Bhikha Behram Well to draw water for the I imagined myself clinging to the base of the spindle, sinking into the dark well, confident that Mamaiji would pull me up with her waggling hand before I drowned, and praying that the thread would not break.
I also liked to stare at records spinning on the old 78rpm gramophone. There was one I was particularly fond of: its round label was the most ethereal blue I ever saw. The lettering was gold. I played this record over and over, just to watch its wonderfully soothing blue and gold rotation, and the concentric rings of the shiny black shellac, whose grooves created a spiral effect if the light was right. It was so cosy and comforting. Like missing school because of a slight cold, staying in bed all day with a book, fussed over by Mummy, eating white rice and soup made specially for me.
Daddy finished cutting out and re-reading the classified advertisement. Sounds very promising. He was just disinclined towards living with his mother-in-law. They often had disagreements over me, and it was always Mamaiji versus Mummy and Daddy. Mamaiji firmly believed that I was Percy shared, too, if he was around; actually, his iron-clad stomach was much better suited to those flaming snacks.
But the clandestine repasts were invariably uncovered, and the price was paid in harsh and unpleasant words. Mamaiji was accused of trying to burn to a crisp my stomach and intestines with her fiery, ungodly curries, or of exposing me to dysentery and diphtheria: the cheap door-to-door foodstuff was allegedly cooked in filthy, rancid oil — even machine oil, unfit for human consumption, as was revealed recently by a government investigation.
Mamaiji retorted that if they did their duty as parents she would not have to resort to secrecy and chori-chhoopi; as it was, she had no choice, she could not stand by and see the child starve. All this bothered me much more than I let anyone know. When the arguments started I would say that all the shouting was giving me a headache, and stalk out to the steps of the compound.
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 Eating my food, then shitting and tattling all over the place. She cleared the comics to one side and set the plate down. Four-Figure Salary and Provident Fund. 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.
So her silence was surprising. Daddy reached for a toast and dipped it in the tea, wrinkling his nose. When I get this job, first thing will be a proper toaster. No more making burnt toast on top of the Criterion. The original Criterion ones from England used to be so good. One trim and you had a fine flame for months. The British left seventeen years ago, time for their stove to go as well. No future here.
I felt suddenly like hugging him, but we never did except on birthdays, and to get rid of the feeling I looked away and pretended to myself that he was saying it just to humour me, because he wanted me to finish pulling his white hairs. Fortunately, his jovial optimism returned. No more obligations, no more favours.
For his sake I hoped that Mummy would. I did not feel like mustering any enthusiasm. Nothing happens when you plan too much. Leave it in the hands of God. But he recovered as quickly, and made it into a joke.
He picked up the newspaper. The Criterion had a little round glass window in one corner of its black base, and I would peer into the murky depths, watching the level rise as kerosene poured through the funnel; it was very dark and Looking inside was like lying on Chaupatty beach at night and gazing at the stars, in the hot season, while we stayed out after dinner till the breeze could rise and cool off the walls baking all day in the sun.
The Primus stove was fun, too, pumped up hot and roaring, the kerosene emerging under pressure and igniting into sharp blue flames. Daddy was the only one who lit it; every year, many women died in their kitchens because of explosions, and Daddy said that though many of them were not accidents, especially the dowry cases, it was still a dangerous stove if handled improperly. Mummy went back to the kitchen. I did not mind the kerosene smell, and ate some toast, trying to imagine the kitchen without the stoves, with squat red gas cylinders sitting under the table instead.
I had seen them in shop windows, and I thought they were ugly. We would get used to them, though, like everything else. At night, I stood on the veranda sometimes to look at the stars. But it was not the same as going to Chaupatty and lying on the sand, quietly, with only the sound of the waves in the dark.
On Saturday nights, I would make sure that the stoves were filled, because Mummy made a very early breakfast for Daddy and me next morning. The milk and bread would be arriving in the predawn darkness while the kettle was boiling and we got ready for cricket with the boys of Firozsha Baag.
The rest of the building was just starting to wake up: Nariman Hansotia would be
Construction of Home, Nation and Identity in Rohinton Mistry's Tales from Firozsha Baag
In Of White Hairs and Cricket by Rohinton Mistry we have the theme of loyalty, connection, escape, freedom, guilt, fear, conflict and coming of age. Narrated in the first person by an unnamed fourteen year old boy the reader realises after reading the story that Mistry may be exploring the theme of loyalty. Though at times the narrator has disliked doing so he has never refused his father. Though this may not be something that the narrator is aware of due to the fact that he would much prefer to be doing other things. It is also noticeable that there is an element of conflict in the story. That they care for one another despite the fact that they may have disputes.
Embed Size px x x x x This story gives the reader an introduction to some of the inhabitants of the Firozsha Baag apartment complex, particularly Rustomji. You will take a look at the relationship between the couple, Mehroo and Rustomji.
The set of eleven stories titled Tales from Firozsha Baag [retitled Swimming Lessons and Other Stories from Firozsha Baag when it was published in in the United States] was well received by critics in both countries. As "Swimming Lessons" is positioned as the last story in the collection, it has prompted many reviewers to give it particular attention. An important feature of the story is that its setting moves with the narrator from Bombay to Toronto and allows Mistry to draw deft parallels between the lives of the residents of apartment complexes in both of these crowded, multicultural urban settings. It also gives him an opportunity to explore the writer's uses of memory and events of his past life using the commentary of the narrator's parents, who discuss the manuscript he sends them after living several years in Toronto. While the other stories in the collection focus on the lives, foibles, and crises of the Parsi community in the Bombay housing complex called Firozsha Baag, "Swimming Lessons" shifts the focus to issues of the loneliness, racism, and cultural adjustment of Mistry's Indian immigrant protagonist, a not so thinly veiled autobiographical character.
To form synergized and enlightened global citizens equipped to respond to the opportunities and challenges of the rapidly changing world.
Write a critical essay on theme of father son relationship. Rohinton mistry has not lived in his native india for many years. Learn vocabulary, terms, and more with flashcards, games, and other study tools. The author was born in bombay and earned a bachelors degree in mathematics and economics at the university of bombay. Rohinton mistry spent his first twentythree years in predominantly hindu bombay, where as a member of the parsi community, he was considered an outsider.
A feature of many of. In comm on with a number of stories about the supernatural, the narrator of this story is a. The signalman himself is a storyteller, and the difficulty. Dickens balances. Try some of the l on ger Dickens novels, perhaps starting with on e of the three listed.
After earning a degree in mathematics, he emigrated with his family to Canada where he completed a degree in English and Philosophy. He has won numerous prizes and has been shortlisted twice for the Booker Prize. Most of his stories are set in his home city of Mumbai India and focus on Indias working classes and diverse populations, including Hindus, Parsis and Catholics. Identify elements that contribute to the strong sense of place. The white hair was trapped in the tweezers.
Прошу прощения. - Шекспир, - уточнил Хейл. - Гамлет.