conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Tales from Firozsha Baag about Bombay, Canada, Journey with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author was born in Bombay in 1952 and has lived in Canada since 1975. He is also the author of two novels, 'Such a Long Journey' and 'A Fine Balance'.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Tales from Firozsha Baag
  I paused in my search. Daddy had found something in the classifieds and did not notice. By angling the tweezers I could aim the bulb's light upon various spots on the Murphy Radio calendar: the edges of the picture, worn and turned inward; the threadbare loop of braid sharing the colour of rust with the rusty nail it hung by; a corroded staple clutching twelve thin strips – the perforated residue of months ripped summarily over a decade ago when their days and weeks were played out. The baby's smile, posed with finger to chin, was all that had fully endured the years. 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.
  Mummy came in from the kitchen with a plateful of toast fresh off the Criterion: unevenly browned, and charred in spots by the vagaries of its kerosene wick. She cleared the comics to one side and set the plate down.
  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. So her silence was surprising.
  Daddy reached for a toast and dipped it in the tea, wrinkling his nose. "Smells of kerosene again. When I get this job, first thing will be a proper toaster. No more making burnt toast on top of the Criterion."
  He finished chewing and turned to me. "And one day, you must go, too, to America. No future here." His eyes fixed mine, urgently. "Somehow we'll get the money to send you. I'll find a way."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Our parents were disappointed. They had been so happy that the whole family would be together again for a while. And now this. They could not understand why Percy did not like Jamshed any more, and I'm sure at the back of their minds they thought their son envied his friend because of the fine success he'd made of himself in America. But who was I to explain things, and would they understand even if I tried? They truly believed that Jamshed was the smart young fellow, and Percy the idealist who forgot that charity begins at home.
  This trip was not turning out to be anything I'd hoped it would. Jamshed was coming and Percy wasn't, our parents were disappointed with Percy, I was disappointed with them, and in a week I would be flying out of Bombay, confused and miserable. I could feel it already.
  Without any destination in mind I left the house and took the first empty bus to come along. It went to Flora Fountain. The offices were now closing for the day. The dirty, yellow-grey buildings would soon spill out typists and clerks and peons into a swelling stream surging towards bus-stops and train stations.
  The pavement across the road was the domain of the smugglers with their stalls of foreign goods. But they did not interest me, I stayed where I was. One man was peddling an assortment of toys. He demonstrated them all in turn, calling out, "Baba play and baby play! Daddy play and Mummy play!" Another, with fiendish vigour, was throwing glass bowls to the ground, yelling: "Un-ber-rakable! Un-ber-rakable!"
  Sunlight began to fade as I listened to the hawkers singing their tunes. Kerosene lamps were lit in some of the stalls, punctuating at random the rows on both sides of the street.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs? Start with the sentence 'The spring session for adult non-swimmers will begin in a few days at the high school'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The spring session for adult non-swimmers will begin in a few days at the high school. I must not forget the registration date.
  When I return to the building, I wipe my feet energetically on the mat because some people are entering behind me, and I want to set a good example. Then I go to the board with its little plastic letters and numbers. The old man's apartment is the one on the corner by the stairway, that makes it number 201.1 run down the list, come to 201, but there are no little white plastic letters beside it. Just the empty black rectangle with holes where the letters would be squeezed in. That's strange. Well, I can introduce myself to him, then ask his name.
  However, the lobby is empty. I take the elevator, exit at the second floor, wait for the gutang-khutang. It does not come: the door closes noiselessly, smoothly. Berthe has been at work, or has made sure someone else has PW'S cue has been lubricated out of existence.
  But she must have the ears of a cockroach. She is waiting for me. I whistle my way down the corridor. She fixes me with an accusing look. She waits till I stop whistling, then says: "You know the old man died last night."
  I cease groping for my key. She turns to go and I take a step towards her, my hand still in my trouser pocket. "Did you know his name?" I ask, but she leaves without answering.