According to Persis, Pestonjee’s wife—she had sown her ambitions in Pestonjee and reaped little more than weeds and their bitterness had permeated her daily life—there were several claimants to the post of a general manager at the British Chewing Gum Company. Pestonjee had seen the empty slot in the office’s organization chart. It was a location on the chessboard unavailable to Young, the consultant, the horse, too agile, too eager, too meddlesome; Banerjee, the accountant, the camel, too indirect; Thompson, the elephant, too secure, the position was beneath him. It was the right game with the wrong animals. Only a cow could checkmate the king. Only a cow, like Narasimha, could annihilate paan. He would deliver that cow.

‘What happened to your promotion Pesi?’ Persis had asked him the previous week.

‘This year Persis. Don’t be impatient.’

‘Impatient! Your one year passes in ten. Do you know what my family says about you?’

‘Your brother’s the talk of the town. Isn’t that enough for them.’

‘He’s running a successful trade in cotton. He’s ten years younger than you. Have you seen his house in Surat?’

‘I’m tired of your bickering, Persis. “Look at Ghadiali”, “look at Dhanji”, “look at my brother”. One day, I swear, I’ll kill myself. Then they will say, “Look at that pestering Persis. Drove him into his grave.” You will have to live with that guilt—’

‘Pesi, you don’t understand!’ Persis interrupted.

‘No! You don’t understand. Every day I walk along the docks and think to myself that I should jump, end it all, finish my chapter. What’s left anyway? Life is a shut shop. The end. Then I think what will happen to you when I am gone. I turn back. What’s the use? One day I will not return. Then you will realize your mistake.’

~