Family Matters

  “For the last seven or eight years, I haven’t voted in any election – not local, not national. But for you, I will vote early, and I will vote often.”

  They laughed, and rose to lock up the shop.

  The boys had taken to spending some time each day after school at their grandfather’s bedside. Murad discovered that Grandpa in his youth used to make model aeroplanes. He began discussing biplanes and monoplanes from the First World War with him. They compared the Fokker D.VII and the Spad, the elegant Sopwith Camel, and the deadly Fokker Eindecker, while Jehangir listened.

  “I think the Camel is Biggles’s favourite,” said Murad. “But he also flies the Spitfire and Hurricane. Did you have them in your collection?”

  “No,” said Nariman. “They are Second World War. Unlike me, Biggies is ageless. By the time the balsa-wood models came on the market I was much older, there was no time for my hobby.”

  He shifted, trying to adjust his pillow, and the boys did it for him. “Thank you. Now, speaking of time, isn’t it time for your homework?”

  “You haven’t told me a story yet, Grandpa,” complained Jehangir. “You keep talking about aeroplanes with Murad.”

  So Nariman continued from the day before with tales about his childhood friend Nauzer, whose parents had had a veritable menagerie of birds and dogs. Though it was not a huge flat, just four rooms, they had been crazy about animals, and had a golden retriever, two Pomeranians, and three Sydney Silkies. Jehangir’s eyes shone as his imagination embraced such a lively household.

  “Then there was a big cage with lovebirds, and finches that sang,” said Nariman. “And a parrot named Tehmuras. But he had his own private cage, which he went into at night. During the day he roamed free.”

  “He didn’t try to fly away?”

  “Never, he loved it there, and the dogs loved him, especially the golden retriever, Cleopatra. She let Tehmuras walk all over her, perch on her back, even on her head. Sometimes he would sit between her paws and rest his beak next to her nose.”

  Jehangir sought details about the birds’ colouring, the dogs’ diets, and their sleeping arrangements. “Did Tehmuras talk?”

  “Tehmuras was an African grey parrot, he was brilliant. You see, Nauzer’s mother was very strict, she made him do his homework every evening. So the parrot learned to say, ‘Nauzer! Time for lessons, Nauzer!’ in the mother’s voice. As soon as my friend came home from school Tehmuras would start repeating that. And Nauzer threatened to make a special little muzzle, to silence Tehmuras.”

  Jehangir laughed anxiously. “Was he serious?”

  “It was a joke. Nauzer loved all living creatures, even the snails we found in the school garden in the monsoon.”

  “Did he have a cat?”

  “No. No cats. Parsi families never keep cats. They consider them bad luck, because cats hate water, they never take a bath.”

  “Sound familiar, Jehangoo?” said his mother as she came in from the kitchen. “Maybe you were a cat in a previous life.”

  “Cats stay clean by licking themselves,” said Jehangir. “I read it in a book, it’s very hygienic.”

  “Yes” said Nariman. “But beliefs are more powerful than facts. Like our belief in spiders and cocks.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Well, Parsis don’t kill spiders, and they only eat the female chicken, never a cock – you must know that, from the story of Zuhaak the Evil One.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Of course you do,” said his mother. “I told it to you when you were learning the prayers for your navjote. We read many stories from the Shah-Nama – about King Jamsheed, about Rustam and Sohrab. And the one about King Gustasp’s favourite horse becoming lame, how our prophet Zarathustra cured it by passing his hand over the hocks and fetlocks.”

  “I remember those, but not the one about Zuhaak.”

  “Pappa, I think he just wants to hear it from you.”

  “No, really, I don’t know that story.”

  “Well,” said Nariman, “a very long time ago, thousands of years ago, there lived an evil king whose name was Zuhaak. Out of Zuhaak’s shoulders grew two immense serpents, ugly and smelly, that had to be fed every morning with the brains of two young men. For more than nine hundred years Zuhaak ruled, and brought indescribable misery upon the people, devouring their sons day after day. The people prayed for deliverance; the centuries passed; and finally, the great hero Faridoon arrived to confront Zuhaak. This evil monster had murdered Faridoon’s father, and Faridoon was seeking vengeance. They met in hand-to-hand combat. It was a terrible fight, a fight that lasted days and weeks. Sometimes it seemed Faridoon was winning, sometimes Zuhaak. But in the end Faridoon overpowered him and tied him in huge chains. Unimaginably strong chains, that no file could cut or hammer smash. And when Zuhaak was rendered helpless, the good angel Sarosh instructed Faridoon to bury him deep inside Mount Damavand. Thus, the universe was saved.”

  “And the spider and the cock?”

  “They are the ones who protect us in Faridoon’s absence. The evil Zuhaak with his snake shoulders is still alive, and very strong. With his supernatural strength, he struggles and rages all night long in the bowels of Mount Damavand, trying to free himself. Early in the morning, while it is still dark and the sun has not yet risen, when Zuhaak has almost succeeded in bursting his chains, the cock crows and warns the world that the Evil One will be loose again in the universe. Then the good angel Sarosh at once sends out the spider to spin its web and mend the chains that Zuhaak is about to break. Thus the world is safe again. The cock and the spider keep it safe for us, one day at a time.”

  Jehangir nodded. “So if people ate up all the cocks and killed all the spiders, there would be no one to help us fight all the evil.”

  “Exactly. My friend Nauzer loved this story. He would sit for hours gazing at a spider spinning its web. Especially outdoors, in sunshine after rain, with drops like jewels caught in the gossamer.”

  Jehangir began scrutinizing the ceiling, walls, and corners of the room, looking for a web. He wanted to see for himself how beautiful it might be.

  Murad began to laugh. “My brother is a crackpot, Grandpa. Now he’ll worry about Zuhaak and start protecting spiders.”

  “I’m not a crackpot. I know there isn’t any Zuhaak. It’s just a story, like Santa Claus.”

  “They’re both real,” said Murad. “And Zuhaak will catch you if you sleep on the balcony.”

  “You’re saying that because you want to steal my turn tomorrow.”

  “I think you’re right, Jehangir,” chuckled his grandfather. “But even if Zuhaak were real, he wouldn’t bother you. He’d be busy with things like diseases and famines, wars and cyclones.”

  The room did not reveal any spiders. Jehangir made his mother promise: next time she found a web, she would let him look at it first.

  “And when your leg is all right, Grandpa, can we go to meet your friend’s dogs and birds?”

  “But that was a long time ago, Jehangir, those pets are” – he paused, making a sorrowful gesture with his hand – “are gone.”

  He saw Jehangir’s reluctance to accept that the pets were dead, and continued with more directness, “I remember when Cleopatra died. My ssc exams were only a week away. But I went with Nauzer and his parents to bury her. A friend of theirs who had a cottage in Bandra said they were welcome to use the back garden, so we went in a taxi. It was a rainy day. We had to try many taxis before one agreed, and even then, the driver refused to allow a dead dog on the seat. We put Cleopatra in the boot, wrapped in a sheet. Nauzer and I carried her. The sheet got wet and muddy. That was the first time I saw Nauzer crying.”

  The sorrow from sixty-two years ago, of the burial of a dog he’d never seen, arced across time and touched Jehangir. Aching with grief, he asked, “Did you and Nauzer dig the hole?”

  “No, the gardener had it ready. It was next to a lemon tree. Then Nauzer’s mother wanted to see Cleopatra one
more time, and Nauzer unfolded the wet sheet. I think that was a mistake. The beautiful golden-brown coat was dirty and yellow, the hair in knots and tangles. We quickly put back the sheet and buried her.”

  Elbows on his knees, face cupped in his hands, Jehangir sat gazing at the floor. He had run out of questions.

  “You see, having a dog is not easy,” said his mother. “It’s not just laughing and playing with the dog. You have to be prepared for the sadness when it dies.”

  “I know that.” He turned to his grandfather again. “But your friend might have new pets, we could go and see those.”

  Nariman shook his head. “My friend Nauzer – he died two years ago.”

  A cloud passed over Jehangir’s face. “How old was he?”

  “Seventy-six.”

  He counted: Grandpa was seventy-nine; if his friend was still alive, he would be seventy-eight. One year younger than Grandpa. And yet the friend was dead.

  He felt his hands go cold and tears start to stab his eyes. The arithmetic was threatening his grandfather’s life, he wished he could forget the cruel numbers. He rose abruptly and went to the balcony.

  Roxana mimed for her father, drawing a line with her finger from her eye down along her cheek. Murad pretended to be unaffected, more grown-up.

  Nariman waited for a while before calling, “Jehangir, do you know the story of Faridoon’s life after he defeated Zuhaak?”

  “No.”

  “It’s about Salim, Tur, and Iraj, the three sons of Faridoon. Don’t you want to hear the end?”

  “Yes,” he answered, but stayed on the balcony because his eyes were still wet. Gazing down at the blurred pavement, he saw his father appear in the lane, striding homewards.

  Yezad used his latchkey, disappointed that Jehangir was not at the door, and asked Roxana why her son was standing on the balcony. She hushed him, it would embarrass Jehangoo if he heard, he’d been crying because of a story Pappa had told, which had made him sad.

  “Jehangla! Come here, talk to me.”

  Jehangir gave a final wipe to his eyes and went in with a weak smile.

  Yezad took his hand. “Now what story is this, chief? Why are you making my son cry? When I tell stories, it makes everyone laugh.” He went on giving Nariman a mock scolding, but his annoyance tinged with jealousy was unmistakable.

  Jehangir wrenched his hand out of his father’s. “Don’t be angry with Grandpa,” he said, aware that the tears he had got rid of had returned to his eyes.

  “Okay, then I’ll be angry with you. Tears before I leave for work, tears when I come home!”

  Jehangir’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he went to the balcony again.

  Turning to enter the back room, Yezad walked into wet clothes on hangers suspended in the doorway. In a rage he tore the clammy shirts from his face and flung them aside. “Is this a place to dry the washing?”

  “There’s no space on the balcony because of the tent,” said Roxana softly, determined to stay calm. “Where can I dry them?”

  “Take them to Chateau Felicity. Your bloody brother and sister can dry them in their seven rooms.”

  She gathered up the clothes from the floor, shook them out, hung them up again. “Tea, Yezdaa?”

  He did not answer. She made it anyway, and asked him how it was at work.

  “How do you think? Look at this – grease on my shirt. I had to do the peon’s work, open the bloody shutters.”

  “I’ll wash it in Surf, the stain will disappear.”

  “And what about your father’s gloomy face? Now he’s making Jehangir gloomy as well. Doesn’t anybody know how to smile or laugh?”

  “Shh, Pappa will hear! You used to call it his philosopher’s face, now it’s gloomy just because he’s staying here?”

  In the front room, Murad asked his grandfather to start the next story, the one about Faridoon’s three sons. Nariman shook his head, afraid Yezad might take it as competition. “Later. Come, do your homework now.”

  Roxana brought the tea to the dining table and sent both boys to their desk. She gathered up the washing from the chairs, to spread out later, after Yezad went to bed.

  He saw her arms full of damp clothes. “Leave them, I only need one chair,” he tried to make amends.

  While he drank his tea she sat with him and chatted about how Villie Cardmaster had bought onions and salt for her this morning from the bunya. “You were right, she really is quite nice.”

  “Ask her for a Matka tip. If we win big, we can hire a hospital ayah.”

  “I will starve before I gamble, or let you gamble.”

  “Calm down, I wasn’t serious.” He watched his father-in-law’s hands trying to rest but thrashing about in the region of his chest, as though he were beating it.

  Murad came and sat with them. “You know, Grandpa,” he said, “you should play the bongoes.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The way your fingers move, you’ll be good at it.” He attempted his idea on a chair, making his fingers tremble like his grandfather’s to see if they could produce a thrum.

  “Don’t be a clown,” said Yezad. “It’s not funny.”

  He made him return to his lessons in the back room, told him to follow his younger brother’s example. Jehangir heard the peace-offering and smiled into his book.

  ANXIETY ABOUT THE impending verdict wakened Nariman with a jittery stomach. Three weeks had passed, and Dr. Tarapore was to visit today to pronounce upon the ankle.

  So far, Nariman had managed to hold off each morning till everyone finished tea and breakfast, and left for school and work. He took pride in sparing them his smell; but his bowels were letting him down this last day.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Roxana, “I don’t dare delay, or it will be a bigger mess.”

  “Don’t be silly, Pappa, if you need the bedpan you must have it.” She made sure its edges were dry, as he turned slightly to one side to let her position it.

  Yezad was silent until the smell began to fill the room. He felt his gorge rise. Pushing his plate from him, he fled into the back room, and she followed.

  “Such a stink with my breakfast,” he said, not caring to lower his voice. “You couldn’t wait a few more minutes.”

  “I could, but Pappa couldn’t. Haven’t you noticed, all these days, not once has he done number two till you left the house?”

  “Why not the same today? Or does he want to give me a sample before leaving?”

  “Stop being disgusting!” She walked away to the front room where the boys were teasing Nariman.

  “Chhee, Grandpa!” said Jehangir. “It’s an atom bomb!”

  Murad said more like a hydrogen bomb. Yezad shouted from the back room to get out, it was not hygienic to eat in there.

  “Millions of people live in the gutters of Bombay!” Roxana shouted back. “Eating and sleeping next to drains and ditches! This whole city stinks like a sewer! And you are worried about Pappa’s bedpan? How stupid can you be!”

  “See that, chief? She calls me stupid because of you. Is that fair?”

  “My daughter calls everyone stupid,” observed Nariman softly. “Including me.”

  Jehangir was scared that another fight was beginning, like the one about Grandpa’s soo-soo bottle a few days ago. “I have a new joke, Daddy,” he said. “Can I tell you?”

  “Later.”

  “Please, Daddy, it’s very funny.”

  “All right,” he said grouchily.

  “Once upon a time, some tourists were in Vienna, and they went to the Beethoven museum where —”

  “That’s a stale joke,” scoffed Murad. “Everyone knows about Beethoven’s last movement. I have a new one.”

  “I don’t want any filthy jokes,” warned his mother.

  “But mine isn’t filthy. Just listen to it: Some tourists were in Vienna in the Beethoven museum and —”

  “You’re copy-catting mine!” protested Jehangir.

  “Let me finish, it’s
completely different, okay? So the tourists went into a room where there was an open coffin with a body in it, all rotting and green, worms crawling out of it. The frowning face had a wide forehead and untidy hair, just like Beethoven’s. Next to the coffin was a music stand with the manuscript of the Fifth Symphony. The tourists were upset, they asked the guide what was going on. He told them to be patient and watch the exhibit carefully. So they waited. Soon, the corpse raised a hand out of the coffin and erased a bar of music. A few seconds later, the hand came up again and erased another bar. The tourists were shocked, they asked the guide, Isn’t this the body of Ludwig van Beethoven, why isn’t he buried in the ground? The guide said, Please be calm, mein damen und herren. Ja, this is Beethoven the composer, ja, he is dead. And now he is slowly de-composing.”

  Everyone laughed, and Roxana said she didn’t know where the boys picked up these things. Jehangir sensed he had been upstaged by Murad, but didn’t mind. Together they had averted a fight between Mummy-Daddy. Amid their clowning and teasing, she cleared away the bedpan.

  Before leaving for work, Yezad stopped beside Nariman’s bed. “Good luck, chief, when Dr. Tarapore comes.”

  “Thanks, Yezad.”

  Roxana waited at the door to kiss him. “Sorry I shouted,” he said in her ear. “You know how I am about smells.” She closed her eyes as his arm pressed her against him.

  “Can you do me a favour, Yezdaa? Ask the corner barber to come now for Pappa’s shave, before Doctor gets here.”

  “Sure.” He started down the stairs, then stopped. “If Jal and Coomy visit, don’t let them bully you in Doctor’s presence, don’t agree to anything.”

  “Knowing them, they’ve forgotten the check-up is today,” she said, reassuring him with a flying kiss.

  For Jal and Coomy, the three weeks were ending as they had begun, in squabble and confusion, fretting and arguing, feeling guilty about what they had done, lacking the strength to put it right. They were ashamed of visiting their sister, and not all their toys and knick-knacks in the showcase could distract them from their torment.

  More than the present, the future worried Coomy. Even if Pappa’s ankle mended, letting him move around a little, it wouldn’t be long before he was bedridden again. Dr. Tarapore had warned that Parkinson’s would incapacitate him. The kind of nursing it would require terrified her. She and Jal had really made a valiant effort, she felt – what was the use of denying your limitations? “And if Roxana had any decency, she would keep her father for longer.”