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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 05/24/2012
![Mangoes for Mr. Rustom](/storage/story/8747120529091223-image(380x285-crop).jpg)
MANGOES FOR MR. RUSTOM - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED by Rohit Ullal
Lucky opened his eyes lazily and blinked. He sat up on the thick mattress that was his bed, groggy eyed, and stretched his back and arms. As he was popping his fingers, a slow realization crept up on him. He had gotten up late because the sun had entered the room and was inching slowly to his bed. He turned his head to look at the clock on the wall behind him. Five minutes to seven. Rustomji was already up; he could hear faint noises from his bedroom. And he would soon ask for tea and the newspaper. Lucky got up quickly and hurried into the kitchen.
Mr. Rustom Fariwala, or Rustomji, as Lucky and everyone else who knew him called him, lived in Flat No. 23, fourth floor, Flora Apartments in Colaba’s Navy Nagar. His manservant, Lucky, short for Lucky, was born in a dusty village called Prahara, a hundred kilometers north of Patna and had been working for him for the last four years.
There are some people who avoid company like the plague. That is the only way they like it. Rustomji was one of them. His neighbors left him alone. Who wanted to be punched on the head by an eccentric, crazy old man for an innocent, 'How are you doing today, Rustomji?'?. It was best to leave him alone.
This infamy Rustomji had acquired, or intentionally cultivated, was not without reason. He rarely left his flat, and the few times he did he did it uneasily, snapping at anyone who spoke to him. The few times the residents of the building saw him was on the seventh of every new month, when he walked to the State Bank on the corner to collect his pension. Or on the rare Sunday, when he would go to the Gateway of India with Lucky in tow, on the waterfront in old Apollo Bunder in his old rickety Fiat, to look at the sea, the grand Taj Mahal Hotel and the numerous ferries that took excited children and their bored parents to Elephanta Island, home to feral monkeys, roasted corn and 5th century rock carvings.
He had retired 5 years back as an Inspector of the Customs Dept. Mrs. Perizad Rustom, his wife of 40 years, had been dead 5 years, to this date.
On that fateful night, the Fiat was doing fine, hurtling along at a good pace, when suddenly a woman and a child she was carrying in her arms, tried to cross the road and came into their path. His driver swerved wildly to save them. Mother and child were saved, but the fiat crashed into the curb on a busy stretch of the Queen’s Necklace, Marine Drive, crumpling like an empty soft drink tin. Perizad was dead before she knew what hit them and the driver drowned in his blood on the way to the hospital. As for Mr. Rustom, when he woke up in the hospital, he was conscious of a searing pain from broken ribs and a cracked skull. He had been in a coma for a month.
As Fate would have it, Mr. Rustom couldn't see Perizad one last time. His son Farzad and the family had taken care of that, consigning her body to the Tower of Silence near Malabar Hill, where the Zoroastrian priests left the body to vultures and crows.
He went into a shell. avoiding acquaintances and friends, who drifted away and went on with their lives. The Fiat was repaired and he kept it for sentimental reasons. All he had left of Perizad were a few color photographs he kept under lock in his cupboard.
Farzad lived in the suburbs, Anderi. He was a doctor and he ran a thriving practise. (He had brought Lucky to the house). When he did come to see Mr. Rustom, he didn’t stay long. Not that Rustomji minded.
Rustomji belonged to a old fraternity, a dying breed of citizens who liked the old Bombay better than the new Mumbai. He rued the changes that had crept up on South Bombay. Slowly and steadily, swanky showrooms had replaced tranquil Irani restaurants. High rise malls had come up where there had been quaint old colonial cinemas. Rustomji didn’t like it, not one bit.
Lucky was in the kitchen making breakfast, when the door bell rang. He opened it and was greeted by the Doodhwala who greeted him with a mocking salaam. He had half a liter of milk in his other hand.
Before the Doodhwala could extend his hand to give the milk, Lucky said, ‘We don’t want milk today, we have some left over from yesterday’.
The Doodhwala insisted. ‘Oye! I’ve got it now, take it,’ and then added, ‘Did you speak to him about my money?’
‘We don’t want milk today and you will get your money soon’, Lucky said and shut the door on the doodwala's face. The Doodhwala grumbled silently and went away.
By this time the morning sun had lit the living room heating the air inside considerably. Rustomji was in the gallery, spreading grain on the floor and talking to the pigeons as he was wont to do. But it began to rain suddenly (as the rain is inclined to do in India) and Rustomji hurried inside, a little wet. The pigeons had flown away to find shelter and the rain washed the wet grain into the drain.
Mr. Rustom liked a clean house and insisted that the house be cleaned twice everyday. Lucky was dusting the showcases when he came in. He was in a Bermuda and a thin white vest. His right hand still held some grains. He put it into a pail near the door and wiped his hand on his vest. Then he dried himself with a towel he got from the bedroom, 'I was going to take a bath anyway', he replied to Lucky's glance.
‘Lucky, I was thinking...Could you go to Crawford Market and get me some Dasheri mangoes?’ He loved Dasheri mangoes. In Mango season, fruit sellers, who normally sell Bananas, Chickoos and other fruits, stocked up mangoes by the crates. No other fruit managed to work up such a frenzy. There were several varieties on sale. Dassheris, Alphonsos, Totapuris, Mundappas. Also on the menu was Mango curry, Mango Shrikand, a kind of sweet mango puree with milk, Mango pickles, Mango syrup, Mango everything. Even Farzad took advantage of his father's weakness for mangoes to visit him, bringing in his tow a crate of the finest Mangoes. Now after two months of Mango fervor in the city, the weather was beginning to change, which meant that the yellow fruit was in short supply and Rustomji couldn’t eat mangoes as frequently as he would have liked to. So Lucky wasn’t surprised when he was asked to visit Crawford, the only place in the vicinity of South Mumbai where mangoes could be found now at a reasonable price.
Mr. Rustom went into the bedroom and returned a while later with two hundred rupees. He had a fourth note in his hand which he gave to Lucky separately. ‘Two hundred for the mangoes and a hundred for you.’ Lucky was surprised and his face showed it. Rustomji noticed and assured him with a pat on the back and a smile. He said, 'you can spend it on anything. Anything you want. And this is above your usual salary.
Lucky didn’t know his employer very well, even though he had lived with him for over 4 years. He was not a man to give himself away easily. Lucky hadn't the slightest idea that the mangoes were only a ruse to get him out of the house. Mr. Rustom had decided to kill himself on his wife's 5th anniversary.
Lucky was happily walking down the stairs when he met Jai kishanji on the second floor. Jai kishanji looked older than his forty five years; with his heavy paunch, short height and bald head. Lucky smiled at him.
Jai kishanji enquired, pointing at Lucky’s bag, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Crawford market.’
‘Going to look for Mangoes?’ Jai kishanji probed. He knew Mr. Rustom loved Mangoes. Lucky replied in the affirmative.
‘Well, good luck then.’
When Lucky exited the building, he looked up at the sky. It was overcast. ‘I should have got an umbrella’, he thought, but felt lazy to go back upstairs. He walked to the bus stop, a stone’s throw away from his building and was waiting for a bus to take him to Victoria Terminus when he saw Jai kishanji exiting the gate. Jai kishanji seemed to be looking for someone or something. When he saw Lucky at the bus stop, he walked down to him briskly and said, ‘I thought I had missed you’, and he came to his point, ‘If you find mangoes, could you get some for us?’
Lucky said, ‘No problem’. Jaikishanji thanked Lucky and put a few notes into Lucky’s pocket and later shook Lucky’s hand with his sweaty palms. After he was out of sight, Lucky took the money out and counted it.
‘Wants Mangoes for 50 rupees, the miser!’, he said under his breath and shook his head.
In a minute, a bus arrived and he climbed it. The bus was nearly empty. Lucky took a window seat. The conductor came down and sat in the seat next to him and said, ‘So, where do you want to go?’
‘One ticket to the last stop, please’. Lucky paid the conductor six rupees in change. The conductor smiled.
‘Ah, this is what I like, when people give change without me asking them. I hate to ask everyone for change all the time. Just the other day, a fellow gave me 500 rupees for a five rupee ticket. I kicked him off the bus.’ Lucky was thinking of something else. He hardly heard the conductor.
When the bus zoomed past Flora Fountain, he turned his head to look at the book sellers at the corner. It was like a makeshift library, abet on the sidewalk. Some dealers were haggling with book buyers. Book lovers were loitering, sifting and searching through mounds of books. Some sellers, who an afternoon lunch had made sluggish and lazy, were pulling on beedies and chit chatting. Mr. Rustom had brought him here once, to buy a book.
‘How much for it?’ said Mr. Rustom as he gave the book a once over from cover to cover. The shopkeeper hesitated and said, ‘200 rupees’. He looked at the bookseller for a minute. ‘I won’t pay you a rupee over a hundred.’
The bookseller balked and smiled. ‘Are you joking, Sir’?
He gave the book seller a hard stare. ‘I am serious.’
When the bookseller realized the man before him wasn’t kidding, he said, ‘Why don’t you take it for free? Don’t pay me anything at all. Sorry Sir, no sale for a rupee less than 200’.
The words were barely out of his mouth when Mr. Rustom walked away. ‘Okay sir, for you only, 150 final’, the book seller called out after him, but he was already gone. Lucky had to run to catch up with him.
Lucky smiled when he thought of that incident. Rustomji could be watching T.V or he might be in the study. The gallery was also likely if it wasn't raining in Colaba.
But Mr. Rustom was in his bedroom. He opened his cupboard and took out a framed photograph, his wife's. A pretty girl in a green sari, with flowers in her hair, was smiling at the photographer. He looked at it, his eyes glistening, and after a while he closed the cupboard.
Mr. Rustom wanted to have a bath before he cut his wrists. He turned a knob in the bathroom and cold monsoon water fell from the shower, making him shiver. He stood there for five minutes, taking in the various sensations that invaded his body's senses. At the end of which he went into the bedroom and got dressed.
The bus reached Victoria Terminus and Lucky got down. He started walking to Crawford market which was a short distance away.
The J.J School of arts campus was decked up with murals, and banners. An exhibition was going on. Steady streams of people were going in and coming out. Golawalas, peanut sellers and bhelwalas had congregated at the gate to take advantage of the affair. The air was replete with their cries. Lucky felt like eating something. ‘I’ll eat after I’ve bought the mangoes,’ he thought.
He crossed the road in front of the Police Commissioners’ office. Some enterprising hawkers were selling mangoes on the road, in loud booming voices.
Mr. Rustom went into the kitchen and took a knife from the drawer. He put the knife to his wrist and pressed, wincing as the pain shot up. He was deliberating whether to slash his wrist or put the knife to his neck when a crow flew into the window. The crow tapped on the glass and cocked its head at Mr. Rustom. Mr. Rustom saw the crow in the eye. The crow cawed and cleaned its beak on the grill and ruffled its feather. It cawed again. Mr. Rustom smiled and put the knife back into the drawer.
Lucky reached the stall where his friend worked. He was looking for a discount. He had a ‘discount’ arrangement with the Grocer, the Doodhwala and the Phoolwala. (The Phoolwala sold them the flowers that they put on the door). He made a little money this way. With the money, he had the occasional beer and a plate of Biryani on the sly at Choksi’s, a cheap, dying joint in his neighborhood frequented by seedy folk. His salary from Rustomji he sent home to his mother, who lived in Bihar.
Lucky bought a dozen Alphonso Mangoes for Rustomji and three more for Mr. Jaikishan. He came out, crossed over to the other side of the road and walked down to J.J School of Arts, where he helped himself to a Bhelpuri and a Kalakhatta Gola. After he finished, he started walking to Victoria Terminus.
Soon enough he was on a bus back home. The journey back was uneventful. He passed the book sellers and other sights on the way but he wasn’t interested. He was thinking about the Mangoes, about having one for dinner when his stop came.
Just as he was going to get down, the bus started moving. Lucky jumped down with his bag hurriedly and the conductor laughed. Lucky gave him a cold hard stare. He walked to his building, entered the foyer and was walking up the stairs when Jaikishanji accosted him on the second floor. ‘Did you get my mangoes?’ he inquired. Lucky gave him the three mangoes. Jaikishanji looked disappointed. ‘You can keep the change’, he said. Lucky smiled at Mr. Jaikishen. It was just that there wasn’t any change for him to keep.
Lucky climbed the stairs. When he reached his floor, he rang the bell. He waited for a minute and rang it again. He could hear the T.V inside. Lucky had a spare set of keys. He selected the right key from a bunch and was about to put it into the lock and turn it, when the door was opened. Rustomji looked at the Mangoes in Lucky's hand.
‘So, you got the Mangoes! ’, he said and rubbed his hands like a child.
Mangoes for Mr. Rustom(Rohit Ullal)
MANGOES FOR MR. RUSTOM - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED by Rohit Ullal
Lucky opened his eyes lazily and blinked. He sat up on the thick mattress that was his bed, groggy eyed, and stretched his back and arms. As he was popping his fingers, a slow realization crept up on him. He had gotten up late because the sun had entered the room and was inching slowly to his bed. He turned his head to look at the clock on the wall behind him. Five minutes to seven. Rustomji was already up; he could hear faint noises from his bedroom. And he would soon ask for tea and the newspaper. Lucky got up quickly and hurried into the kitchen.
Mr. Rustom Fariwala, or Rustomji, as Lucky and everyone else who knew him called him, lived in Flat No. 23, fourth floor, Flora Apartments in Colaba’s Navy Nagar. His manservant, Lucky, short for Lucky, was born in a dusty village called Prahara, a hundred kilometers north of Patna and had been working for him for the last four years.
There are some people who avoid company like the plague. That is the only way they like it. Rustomji was one of them. His neighbors left him alone. Who wanted to be punched on the head by an eccentric, crazy old man for an innocent, 'How are you doing today, Rustomji?'?. It was best to leave him alone.
This infamy Rustomji had acquired, or intentionally cultivated, was not without reason. He rarely left his flat, and the few times he did he did it uneasily, snapping at anyone who spoke to him. The few times the residents of the building saw him was on the seventh of every new month, when he walked to the State Bank on the corner to collect his pension. Or on the rare Sunday, when he would go to the Gateway of India with Lucky in tow, on the waterfront in old Apollo Bunder in his old rickety Fiat, to look at the sea, the grand Taj Mahal Hotel and the numerous ferries that took excited children and their bored parents to Elephanta Island, home to feral monkeys, roasted corn and 5th century rock carvings.
He had retired 5 years back as an Inspector of the Customs Dept. Mrs. Perizad Rustom, his wife of 40 years, had been dead 5 years, to this date.
On that fateful night, the Fiat was doing fine, hurtling along at a good pace, when suddenly a woman and a child she was carrying in her arms, tried to cross the road and came into their path. His driver swerved wildly to save them. Mother and child were saved, but the fiat crashed into the curb on a busy stretch of the Queen’s Necklace, Marine Drive, crumpling like an empty soft drink tin. Perizad was dead before she knew what hit them and the driver drowned in his blood on the way to the hospital. As for Mr. Rustom, when he woke up in the hospital, he was conscious of a searing pain from broken ribs and a cracked skull. He had been in a coma for a month.
As Fate would have it, Mr. Rustom couldn't see Perizad one last time. His son Farzad and the family had taken care of that, consigning her body to the Tower of Silence near Malabar Hill, where the Zoroastrian priests left the body to vultures and crows.
He went into a shell. avoiding acquaintances and friends, who drifted away and went on with their lives. The Fiat was repaired and he kept it for sentimental reasons. All he had left of Perizad were a few color photographs he kept under lock in his cupboard.
Farzad lived in the suburbs, Anderi. He was a doctor and he ran a thriving practise. (He had brought Lucky to the house). When he did come to see Mr. Rustom, he didn’t stay long. Not that Rustomji minded.
Rustomji belonged to a old fraternity, a dying breed of citizens who liked the old Bombay better than the new Mumbai. He rued the changes that had crept up on South Bombay. Slowly and steadily, swanky showrooms had replaced tranquil Irani restaurants. High rise malls had come up where there had been quaint old colonial cinemas. Rustomji didn’t like it, not one bit.
Lucky was in the kitchen making breakfast, when the door bell rang. He opened it and was greeted by the Doodhwala who greeted him with a mocking salaam. He had half a liter of milk in his other hand.
Before the Doodhwala could extend his hand to give the milk, Lucky said, ‘We don’t want milk today, we have some left over from yesterday’.
The Doodhwala insisted. ‘Oye! I’ve got it now, take it,’ and then added, ‘Did you speak to him about my money?’
‘We don’t want milk today and you will get your money soon’, Lucky said and shut the door on the doodwala's face. The Doodhwala grumbled silently and went away.
By this time the morning sun had lit the living room heating the air inside considerably. Rustomji was in the gallery, spreading grain on the floor and talking to the pigeons as he was wont to do. But it began to rain suddenly (as the rain is inclined to do in India) and Rustomji hurried inside, a little wet. The pigeons had flown away to find shelter and the rain washed the wet grain into the drain.
Mr. Rustom liked a clean house and insisted that the house be cleaned twice everyday. Lucky was dusting the showcases when he came in. He was in a Bermuda and a thin white vest. His right hand still held some grains. He put it into a pail near the door and wiped his hand on his vest. Then he dried himself with a towel he got from the bedroom, 'I was going to take a bath anyway', he replied to Lucky's glance.
‘Lucky, I was thinking...Could you go to Crawford Market and get me some Dasheri mangoes?’ He loved Dasheri mangoes. In Mango season, fruit sellers, who normally sell Bananas, Chickoos and other fruits, stocked up mangoes by the crates. No other fruit managed to work up such a frenzy. There were several varieties on sale. Dassheris, Alphonsos, Totapuris, Mundappas. Also on the menu was Mango curry, Mango Shrikand, a kind of sweet mango puree with milk, Mango pickles, Mango syrup, Mango everything. Even Farzad took advantage of his father's weakness for mangoes to visit him, bringing in his tow a crate of the finest Mangoes. Now after two months of Mango fervor in the city, the weather was beginning to change, which meant that the yellow fruit was in short supply and Rustomji couldn’t eat mangoes as frequently as he would have liked to. So Lucky wasn’t surprised when he was asked to visit Crawford, the only place in the vicinity of South Mumbai where mangoes could be found now at a reasonable price.
Mr. Rustom went into the bedroom and returned a while later with two hundred rupees. He had a fourth note in his hand which he gave to Lucky separately. ‘Two hundred for the mangoes and a hundred for you.’ Lucky was surprised and his face showed it. Rustomji noticed and assured him with a pat on the back and a smile. He said, 'you can spend it on anything. Anything you want. And this is above your usual salary.
Lucky didn’t know his employer very well, even though he had lived with him for over 4 years. He was not a man to give himself away easily. Lucky hadn't the slightest idea that the mangoes were only a ruse to get him out of the house. Mr. Rustom had decided to kill himself on his wife's 5th anniversary.
Lucky was happily walking down the stairs when he met Jai kishanji on the second floor. Jai kishanji looked older than his forty five years; with his heavy paunch, short height and bald head. Lucky smiled at him.
Jai kishanji enquired, pointing at Lucky’s bag, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Crawford market.’
‘Going to look for Mangoes?’ Jai kishanji probed. He knew Mr. Rustom loved Mangoes. Lucky replied in the affirmative.
‘Well, good luck then.’
When Lucky exited the building, he looked up at the sky. It was overcast. ‘I should have got an umbrella’, he thought, but felt lazy to go back upstairs. He walked to the bus stop, a stone’s throw away from his building and was waiting for a bus to take him to Victoria Terminus when he saw Jai kishanji exiting the gate. Jai kishanji seemed to be looking for someone or something. When he saw Lucky at the bus stop, he walked down to him briskly and said, ‘I thought I had missed you’, and he came to his point, ‘If you find mangoes, could you get some for us?’
Lucky said, ‘No problem’. Jaikishanji thanked Lucky and put a few notes into Lucky’s pocket and later shook Lucky’s hand with his sweaty palms. After he was out of sight, Lucky took the money out and counted it.
‘Wants Mangoes for 50 rupees, the miser!’, he said under his breath and shook his head.
In a minute, a bus arrived and he climbed it. The bus was nearly empty. Lucky took a window seat. The conductor came down and sat in the seat next to him and said, ‘So, where do you want to go?’
‘One ticket to the last stop, please’. Lucky paid the conductor six rupees in change. The conductor smiled.
‘Ah, this is what I like, when people give change without me asking them. I hate to ask everyone for change all the time. Just the other day, a fellow gave me 500 rupees for a five rupee ticket. I kicked him off the bus.’ Lucky was thinking of something else. He hardly heard the conductor.
When the bus zoomed past Flora Fountain, he turned his head to look at the book sellers at the corner. It was like a makeshift library, abet on the sidewalk. Some dealers were haggling with book buyers. Book lovers were loitering, sifting and searching through mounds of books. Some sellers, who an afternoon lunch had made sluggish and lazy, were pulling on beedies and chit chatting. Mr. Rustom had brought him here once, to buy a book.
‘How much for it?’ said Mr. Rustom as he gave the book a once over from cover to cover. The shopkeeper hesitated and said, ‘200 rupees’. He looked at the bookseller for a minute. ‘I won’t pay you a rupee over a hundred.’
The bookseller balked and smiled. ‘Are you joking, Sir’?
He gave the book seller a hard stare. ‘I am serious.’
When the bookseller realized the man before him wasn’t kidding, he said, ‘Why don’t you take it for free? Don’t pay me anything at all. Sorry Sir, no sale for a rupee less than 200’.
The words were barely out of his mouth when Mr. Rustom walked away. ‘Okay sir, for you only, 150 final’, the book seller called out after him, but he was already gone. Lucky had to run to catch up with him.
Lucky smiled when he thought of that incident. Rustomji could be watching T.V or he might be in the study. The gallery was also likely if it wasn't raining in Colaba.
But Mr. Rustom was in his bedroom. He opened his cupboard and took out a framed photograph, his wife's. A pretty girl in a green sari, with flowers in her hair, was smiling at the photographer. He looked at it, his eyes glistening, and after a while he closed the cupboard.
Mr. Rustom wanted to have a bath before he cut his wrists. He turned a knob in the bathroom and cold monsoon water fell from the shower, making him shiver. He stood there for five minutes, taking in the various sensations that invaded his body's senses. At the end of which he went into the bedroom and got dressed.
The bus reached Victoria Terminus and Lucky got down. He started walking to Crawford market which was a short distance away.
The J.J School of arts campus was decked up with murals, and banners. An exhibition was going on. Steady streams of people were going in and coming out. Golawalas, peanut sellers and bhelwalas had congregated at the gate to take advantage of the affair. The air was replete with their cries. Lucky felt like eating something. ‘I’ll eat after I’ve bought the mangoes,’ he thought.
He crossed the road in front of the Police Commissioners’ office. Some enterprising hawkers were selling mangoes on the road, in loud booming voices.
Mr. Rustom went into the kitchen and took a knife from the drawer. He put the knife to his wrist and pressed, wincing as the pain shot up. He was deliberating whether to slash his wrist or put the knife to his neck when a crow flew into the window. The crow tapped on the glass and cocked its head at Mr. Rustom. Mr. Rustom saw the crow in the eye. The crow cawed and cleaned its beak on the grill and ruffled its feather. It cawed again. Mr. Rustom smiled and put the knife back into the drawer.
Lucky reached the stall where his friend worked. He was looking for a discount. He had a ‘discount’ arrangement with the Grocer, the Doodhwala and the Phoolwala. (The Phoolwala sold them the flowers that they put on the door). He made a little money this way. With the money, he had the occasional beer and a plate of Biryani on the sly at Choksi’s, a cheap, dying joint in his neighborhood frequented by seedy folk. His salary from Rustomji he sent home to his mother, who lived in Bihar.
Lucky bought a dozen Alphonso Mangoes for Rustomji and three more for Mr. Jaikishan. He came out, crossed over to the other side of the road and walked down to J.J School of Arts, where he helped himself to a Bhelpuri and a Kalakhatta Gola. After he finished, he started walking to Victoria Terminus.
Soon enough he was on a bus back home. The journey back was uneventful. He passed the book sellers and other sights on the way but he wasn’t interested. He was thinking about the Mangoes, about having one for dinner when his stop came.
Just as he was going to get down, the bus started moving. Lucky jumped down with his bag hurriedly and the conductor laughed. Lucky gave him a cold hard stare. He walked to his building, entered the foyer and was walking up the stairs when Jaikishanji accosted him on the second floor. ‘Did you get my mangoes?’ he inquired. Lucky gave him the three mangoes. Jaikishanji looked disappointed. ‘You can keep the change’, he said. Lucky smiled at Mr. Jaikishen. It was just that there wasn’t any change for him to keep.
Lucky climbed the stairs. When he reached his floor, he rang the bell. He waited for a minute and rang it again. He could hear the T.V inside. Lucky had a spare set of keys. He selected the right key from a bunch and was about to put it into the lock and turn it, when the door was opened. Rustomji looked at the Mangoes in Lucky's hand.
‘So, you got the Mangoes! ’, he said and rubbed his hands like a child.
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