He heard bare feet approach the kitchen. Probably Roxana, to ask how he was feeling. The light went on. He shielded his eyes.
It was Murad, startled to find his father on the stool beside the stove. “Why are you sitting in the dark, Daddy?”
“The bulb is too bright.” Pointing to the glass of ginger, he added, “Gas,” and rubbed his chest. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve to put Jehangir’s Christmas gift in his stocking.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “How did you get the money for it?”
“By saving all my bus fare.”
Yezad started to ask another stern question, then understood. He continued gently, “You should have told Mummy you were walking home, she was so anxious about you coming back late every day from school.”
“I wanted to keep it secret. Surprise everyone on Christmas morning.”
Yezad smiled. “I won’t breathe a word.” He took a sip from his ginger. “You must have planned this months ago.”
Murad nodded. “Jehangir looks so sad all the time, worrying about everything. I wanted to cheer him up.”
Yezad put his glass down. He rose from the stool and squeezed his son’s shoulder.
Grinning, Murad opened the spice cabinet and reached behind the boxes and bottles to retrieve the hidden package. He sniffed the wrapping and made a face. “Smells like the Motilal masala shop.”
“So what did you buy for Jehangir?”
“Three books – Enid Blyton.” He shut the spice cabinet, and prepared to leave the kitchen. “Shall I keep the light on?”
“No.”
The kitchen went dark again, and Murad knocked into something. “Hard to see,” he whispered.
“Don’t walk till your eyes adjust. Banging around, you’ll wake up Jehangir and Grandpa.”
He could hear his son’s breathing, his eagerness to surprise his brother. Must have done something right, he felt, he and Roxana – but mostly Roxana – to have raised such a fine boy. Didn’t show affection outwardly, the way Jehangla did, though he cared just as much.
“I can see clearly now,” said Murad, and left the kitchen.
A few seconds later, Yezad followed his son. He did not want to miss the moment.
Noises by his bed told Jehangir his brother was approaching the stocking. Not really a stocking, just an old cloth shopping bag that Mummy had cut into the shape and put stitches around; the two handles were still attached. He wondered what was in his Christmas present.
He opened his eyes a sliver, waiting to catch Murad red-handed. He was moving very cautiously. Something rustled, Murad froze and looked directly at his pillow. Then Grandpa made a sound, and Murad almost fled to the balcony. But after murmuring a few words about Mr. Braganza, Grandpa was quiet, and Murad tried again to tuck the gift into the stocking.
Jehangir got ready to pounce. Now? He hesitated. He could see Murad’s expression, the little smile that flickered. There was tenderness on his brother’s face.
Suddenly he understood why Murad wanted him to believe in Santa Claus: not to make a fool of him, but because he wanted him to enjoy the story.
In a way, thought Jehangir, the Santa Claus story was like the Famous Five books. You knew none of it was real, but it let you imagine there was a better world somewhere. You could dream of a place where there was lots to eat, where children could have a midnight feast and raid the larder that was always full of sumptuous delicacies. A place where they organized picnics to the countryside and had adventures, where even the smugglers and thieves they caught were not too dangerous, just “nasty customers” who were “up to no good,” as the kindly police inspector explained at the end of each book. A place where there were no beggars, no sickness, and no one died of starvation. And once a year a jolly fat man brought gifts for good children.
All this was what Murad wanted for him. To jump up in bed and say, I caught you, you can’t trick me, would be so mean.
He shut his eyes tight, not moving a muscle. The package was stuffed into the stocking, and Murad tiptoed away to his balcony bed.
In the dark kitchen Yezad picked up his glass of ginger again, wishing Roxana had been with him to see their sons. He was certain Jehangir had observed Murad, he knew from the way he’d relaxed and turned onto his back the moment Murad left the room. For days Jehangla had rejected the notion of Santa Claus. All he had had to do tonight was sit up in bed to prove his point. Instead he had let Murad stay and work the surprise.
He wanted to hug him, hug them both, tell them he loved them beyond measure, tell them how fortunate he was to have them for his sons, and how blessed they were to be brothers who cared about each other, and he wished their caring would never end, they would look out for each other all their lives. He wanted to wake Roxana, wake the chief, proclaim to everyone how he felt …
He drank some of the tepid ginger remaining in the glass, unable to reconcile this precious moment with the torment he had created for himself. The kitchen clock sounded once. Was it twelve-thirty, or one o’clock?
He strained to make out the position of the hands: one-thirty – and stared at the octagonal face, the glass door in its frame of dark polished wood, the brass pendulum catching just a gleam of light. He gazed at it, the clock that used to hang in the kitchen in Jehangir Mansion, the one remembrance of his childhood home, of his father …
As he looked, the clock swallowed up time. And he was back in that ground-floor flat, watching his father with the big chrome key in his hand, inserting it on the left, winding clockwise, then on the right, anticlockwise. His father moving the hands through the hours, waiting for the bongs, setting the precise time, closing the glass door with a click after giving it a wipe. And the little boy that Yezad used to be was asking again to hear the story behind the engraving: In gratitude for an exemplary display of courage and honesty in the course of duty, the story of his father stranded in an exploding city with a fortune in cash …
The clock struck two, returning Yezad to the kitchen in Pleasant Villa. How comforting its ticking, reassuring, like a steady hand guiding the affairs of the universe. Like his father’s hand that held his when he was little, leading him through the world of wonder and upheaval. And his father’s words, always at the end of the story, Remember your kusti prayers: manashni, gavashni, kunashni – good thoughts, good words, good deeds …
He heard them in the ticking of the clock, and felt his heart constrict. His gaze followed the gleam of the pendulum for a few more moments. Then he closed his eyes, and decided: he would drop in at the shop in the morning.
Yes, he would wish Mr. Kapur a merry Christmas, and while Mr. Kapur was giving out sweets by the door he would replace the envelope in the drawer. Or he could go early, before anyone arrived.
He threw away the remaining ginger, ready to return to bed. He paused under the clock, running his hand over its face and patting the glass door.
The tightness in his chest had almost disappeared. He heard Nariman calling out in his sleep, and wished him good night in his thoughts. The bed creaked as he lay down.
“Yezdaa? How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Go to sleep now.” He kissed her gently on the back.
Up on one elbow, Jehangir listened to Grandpa having that same dream about Lucy singing their favourite song. Now he was asking her to step down, it was dangerous to stand up there. But he could only catch bits of Grandpa’s dream. Like Daddy’s badly working radio, where the sound came and went.
He turned the phrases over in his mind, storing them away with the other fragments he was saving. Some day, it would all fit together, and he would make sense of Grandpa’s words, he was certain.
There was a commotion in the building – the ayah is singing on the terrace again! shouted someone. Looks like she is going to jump this time! – and Nariman froze with fear. Then he was possessed by a rage against Mr. Arjani, against himself, against Lucy, for subjecting herself and him to such misery.
He took a deep breath, tried to stay c
alm, as once more Mr. Arjani humbled himself by pleading for his assistance. And once more, for Lucy’s sake, he agreed.
Yasmin was furious; he had expected she would be. But her anger, hurled at him like never before – like a fist, he felt – took him by surprise. Almost two months since the first drama on the terrace, she said. Two months the Arjanis had had, to send the crazy woman to a place where she would be safe without ruining the lives of other people. She forbade him to go to the rescue, it was none of his business.
But he climbed the stairs to the terrace. From the landing below, Yasmin reminded him to spare a thought for his honour, if he had any, and for his family. He turned, looked at her sadly, and kept climbing.
On the rooftop, things seemed to him almost identical to the last time. There was Lucy on the parapet, singing happily. There too were Mr. Arjani and his son crouching behind the water tank, their relief at seeing him almost palpable. And their fervent thanks again, which he disdained. He ordered them to leave the terrace. Overcome by a feeling of utter weariness, he coaxed Lucy into stepping down, returned her to the Arjanis, and went home.
He was expecting a storm like never before. Instead, he saw Yasmin sitting at the table, the silver thurible ready with hot coals for the evening loban.
Good, he thought, she was preparing to start her evening prayers, perhaps there wouldn’t be another fight.
He noticed a stack of letters, cards, and photographs assembled next to the thurible and wondered what they were. Then he recognized them – Yasmin must have gone through his desk while he was on the terrace, ransacked the drawers.
“So you’re back?” she said. “Now you can tell me why you have been saving this trash.”
He remained silent.
“For all this time, you’ve said she is a nuisance, you’re doing your best to be rid of her, trying to convince her to go away So why keep all this? Were you lying to me? Answer me!”
His silence persisted.
“Be a man and admit it Admit that you still have feelings for her.”
“I no longer know what I have. Or for whom.”
“Then you won’t mind if I burn this.” She picked up a handful of papers and dropped them on the hot coals in the thurible.
He wanted to rush to the table, rescue the letters, but he willed himself to remain in his chair. The pages began to smoulder, then burst into flame. More was added from the stack, photographs of Lucy, birthday cards, cards written for no particular reason, the little notes Lucy used to send on a whim – he watched them, the mementos of their halcyon days, fed one by one to the burning coals, and he saw them become ashes.
Yasmin went through the lot without another word. The flames died down, and he turned away.
This gesture of his rekindled Yasmin’s earlier fury. “It’s all a hoax! Her trick to get you up there. To flirt with you because I stopped you running after her every morning with your bottom waggling. For her this is a competition. To show that she controls my husband, makes him dance whenever she wants.”
“Perhaps you are right. But what if you’re wrong, and she does jump on the day I don’t go?”
“Nonsense! People who really want to kill themselves never put on performances. There’s nothing the matter with her head – working too smartly for her own good.”
Then she lapsed into threats, swore she was leaving with all three children, he would never see his two-year-old daughter again. Rather than stay and be humiliated, she would starve to death with them before she suffered any more of his cruelty.
He could see that their mother’s wild fury scared the children. Jal and Coomy were used to the fights, but this time they both burst into tears, as though they knew now that their mother, whom they believed strong, was really weak, trapped by her marriage, with nowhere to go. And he could feel their hatred towards him growing by the minute.
“You’re a horrid man!” screamed Coomy. “Why are you treating Mamma so badly?”
Jal tried to quieten his sister, as she continued, “Just remember, God will punish you for what you’re doing!”
His heart ached, but there was nothing he could say to them, and he sat with his head in his hands. He watched the children go to their mother, hug her, and lead her to bed.
In desperation, he went to see Lucy’s family. It was Mrs. Braganza who came to the door, looked at him as though she’d met a ghost, and banged it shut. He kept ringing the bell. The door was opened again – by Mr. Braganza, who said he would call the police if he did not leave. Nariman began telling about Lucy, talking fast to describe the state she was in. He didn’t get far; the door slammed. He kept talking till he realized there was no one listening on the other side.
Could Mr. Braganza really not care about what happened to his own daughter? He tried to put himself and little Roxana in this situation, but found it impossible to imagine.
After a while people in Chateau Felicity paid almost no attention to Lucy. Hardly anyone gathered on the pavement or at their windows. He heard the talk in the building, that the occurrence was becoming routine: the ayah was a bit cracked, she liked to sing on the ledge once a week – and not even a different number each time, Khodai salaamat raakhay, but the same thing over and over – and then she came downstairs on Professor Vakeel’s arm, that was all. Nothingworth making a big fuss about.
Like the Arjanis, everyone now took it for granted he would continue to do his duty, restore Lucy safely to earth and into their flat. No longer did a sense of danger surround the occasion. And, gradually, he began to feel the same. To accept things as they were was perhaps the best way.
One evening, when the message came, summoning him to the terrace, Yasmin said it was she who was going up today. She would talk to the madwoman face to face, see how crazy she really was.
He begged her not to. He tried impressing upon her how terribly distraught Lucy was behind her singing and her docile demeanour. But Yasmin said she would straighten out the woman once and for all, and nothing he said could dissuade her.
“Be careful, Mamma,” cried Coomy. “The madwoman might hit you.”
“Dont worry, my darling, I can hit back.”
Nariman followed Yasmin up the stairs, keeping a few paces behind. When she got to the roof, he stopped in the shadow of the water tank.
Now what? He couldn’t think for fear.
Dusk was falling, the evening was warm, still, without a breeze. A funnel of noise – car horns, screeching brakes – reached the terrace like an intruder. In a dream, he watched Yasmin approach Lucy on the twilit parapet.
“Hey, ayah!” he heard her yell, her arms akimbo. “What’s this nonsense? Get down from there and go to your kitchen. At once. Arjani seth is waiting for dinner!”
Frozen to the spot, he saw Lucy glance at Yasmin over her shoulder. She seemed not to recognize the woman shouting so rudely.
On the roof of the building across the road, a neon sign flashed red and blue, alternating the image of shoes with the manufacturer’s slogan: Take the World in Your Stride.
He heard Yasmin speak again, and once more saw her met with a blank silence. He watched as though in a trance, while Yasmin gathered her skirt, stepped up on the parapet herself, and tapped Lucy roughly on the shoulder.
“Hey! Deaf or what?” she kept tapping the shoulder. “At least look at me when I speak to you.”
He shook himself out of his stupor and crept forward. How to counsel reason, how to deal with two women on the ledge? Neon light bathed them in alternating blue and red.
“ ‘We laughed then, we cried then,’ ” sang Lucy, brushing away the hand from her shoulder.
At last Yasmin had got some reaction. But this was not the kind she had sought. “Who do you think you are!” she yelled.
He watched in horror as she grabbed Lucy’s arm with both hands, Lucy pulling away, trying to shake off her grasp, and the two women swaying dangerously on the ledge.
He ran towards them, his hands flying out to steady them, to hold them back.
He did manage to take them both by their arms, but only for a second.
His grandfather screamed.
Jehangir sprang up on his elbow again, his heart pounding. He wondered what terror was stalking Grandpa in his dream. After a while he heard him sniffing. He got out of bed, careful about the noisy board, and asked in a whisper, “You need something, Grandpa?” He offered the spouted feeding cup. “Water?”
Grandpa shook his head, raising a hand to pat his face, and left it there. Jehangir felt it quiver against his cheek.
He clasped it with his own, and made a soft kissing sound. “I’ll hold your hand, Grandpa, go to sleep.”
How good the air felt this morning, thought Yezad, taking a deep breath as he reached Bombay Sporting and let himself in with his key. Must be the December temperature, the slight drop.
Neither Mr. Kapur nor Husain had arrived, it was just coming up to nine. He put the envelope back in the drawer where it belonged, and locked the desk.
Whistling “White Christmas,” he began turning on all the lights in the shop, including the one for the neon signboard. He brought the long handle from the back and stepped outside, enjoying the smoothness with which the shutters rose to let in the sunshine. Something special about this moment, the windows waking up, opening their big eyes. And how well-oiled Husain kept the gears.
As he finished and disengaged the handle, the peon arrived, salaamed, and waited morosely in the doorway. Yezad wondered if it was going to be one of his depression days. “Kapur sahab will soon come, he’ll need chai.”
“Why are you doing my job, sahab?” Husain asked with an injured air. “I can make chai and open the windows.”
“Just for today, to help you,” he placated him. “You will be very busy like yesterday, welcoming the children.”
The reminder about his special assignment pleased Husain. He hurried to light the stove. Yezad switched on the display and decided to reposition the reindeer. While he crouched in the window, his back to the road, a knock on the pane startled him.
“Ho-ho-ho!” bellowed Mr. Kapur through the glass, looking immensely pleased to see him there. “You naughty boy!” He entered the shop and joined him in the window. “I thought you’d be home with your family.”