Mr. J. Pardiwalla [WIP]

You knew it was a Saturday morning if Mr. J. Pardiwalla was at the club.

The man was colonial residue through-and-through. Sophistication could not help but seep through his being. His voice was firm, clear, and laced with an accent that intimidated anybody who did not have it. His presence was not of the imposing nature, but it could not be disputed that he invited awe.

When Mr. J. Pardiwalla visited the club, he would wear a polo shirt, trousers, and shiny black shoes that would walk him to the poolside patio. There, the waiter would guide him to his favourite table – the one propped against the wall. Its appeal lay both in its privacy and its exposure, a delicate balance that a mind like his appreciated. He would then be handed a menu.

There was no need for it. Mr. J. Pardiwalla’s order was always the same: one fresh-lime soda, one chicken club sandwich with wafers on the side, and one caramel custard.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

Even the conversation never changed.

Many people knew Mr. J. Pardiwalla. You don’t get as far as he did in life without knowing people and being known by people. Often, a familiar face would pass by, and Mr. J. Pardiwalla – a victim to his manners – would excuse himself from his peace and proceed with the necessary formalities.

For ten years, this had been a routine practice. The role of the observer was one he took on gladly. Now a man of eighty (“but seventy in spirit!”), Mr. J. Pardiwalla seemed to value these little outings more than ever. With each weekly visit, his smile became wider, his eyes became softer, and his temperament, gentler.

On Saturday mornings, the club would conduct swimming lessons for little children. These children would swim, yes, but they would also laugh – and their laughter was the raw, unseasoned sort of laughter that had not yet encountered the troubles of life. It fell upon the ears like a blessing.

Among these children was Sarita.