Family Matters

  “Very bad of you, Murad, very bad,” she said, managing a spurious calm before the distress slipped out and made her shrill. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t touch the showcase!”

  “Put it back at once,” said his mother.

  Murad ignored the command and kept winding. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “You heard Mummy,” said Yezad.

  “Hand the monkey to Jal Uncle, you wicked boy!” said Coomy, frantic now. “He’ll work it for you.”

  “But I want to do it.”

  Yezad rose. Time to give in, decided Murad. Before he could relinquish the toy, however, Coomy slapped his cheek.

  For a moment it seemed to Roxana that Yezad would strike Murad and Coomy. She jumped off the sofa and dragged her son by his arm into a chair, then restrained her husband with a firm touch on his shoulder. To Coomy she said sharply that if any hitting was required, his parents were right there to complain to.

  “I have to complain? Here you are, watching the boy misbehave! If you did your duty, I wouldn’t need to raise my hand.”

  “That’s a joke-and-a-half,” said Yezad. “Children wanting to play with toys is not misbehaviour.”

  “Go ahead, defend him. That’s how children become bad.”

  “You see, Murad dikra,” said Jal, wincing, a finger to his ear, “the mechanism is delicate. One extra turn and the spring could break. Then my drummer would be silent, like my Elvis.”

  He finished winding and placed the monkey on the table. Its arms began moving up and down, the sticks striking the drum with a feeble tap each time. “Wonderful, isn’t it? I’ll start the other fellow as well.” And the monkey with the Booze bottle now raised it to his mouth, lowered it, repeated the sequence. “I tell you, these two are great. You never tire of watching them.”

  The boys took no interest. The pleasure of winding the toys, setting them in motion, was what they had sought.

  “Ungrateful children, turning their backs on the monkeys,” said Coomy.

  “Enough now, Coomy,” said Nariman. “Let’s forget it.”

  But a tide of grievance had risen in her veins. She said she would not forget it – maybe that was the way he dealt with problems. No wonder he had ruined his own life, and everyone else’s. No wonder he had carried on shamelessly with that Lucy Braganza, and destroyed Mamma’s life and …

  Nariman looked at the others, raising his hands in a helpless apology, and Roxana tried to stem the outburst. “From where to where are you jumping, Coomy? Why drag up all that? In front of the children? And what’s the connection with the monkeys?”

  “Don’t interfere between Pappa and me. If you want to see the connection, think a little.”

  Six lives he, a father in name only, had drenched with unhappiness, she continued, and she would never forgive that, especially his disgraceful behaviour with his mistress after marriage. What character of woman – not woman, witch – would do such things? And if she wanted to die in that manner, then why hadn’t she done them all a favour and —

  “Coomy, we must show Roxie the new doll you got,” interrupted Jal. “Look, it’s a Japanese doll, Roxie.”

  He was partly successful; Coomy lowered her voice, but kept muttering. Dutiful admiration from Roxana for the pretty kimono, the rich colours, and the pure gold threads in it, made her roll to a stop. She pointed out the little parasol, which was her favourite detail, even more than the sweet little slippers.

  Then the toys were shut away in the cabinet. Having made up for her children’s sins at the shrine, Roxana sat again beside her father, thankful that peace had been restored.

  Three Scotch and sodas, two Fantas, one rum with Thums-Up, and Coomy’s homemade sarbut were finally ready. They drank a toast to Nariman, after which he proposed they drink to the health of the four monkeys.

  “Four?” asked Jal.

  “Two of Coomy’s and two of Roxie’s.”

  They laughed, and Coomy smiled sportingly. Nariman asked the boys how things were shaping up at St. Xavier’s since the start of the new school year. “Do you like your new classes?”

  “They’re not new any more, Grandpa,” said Jehangir. “School reopened a long time ago: eleventh of June. Almost two months ago.”

  “That long?” smiled Nariman, remembering his own childhood when time behaved with the same good sense instead of tearing past insensitively as it did now, whole days and weeks gone in the blink of an eye. “And how are your teachers?”

  “Fine,” the two answered together.

  “Tell Grandpa what Teacher has made you,” Roxana prompted.

  “I’m a Homework Monitor,” said Jehangir, elaborating that there were three of them in the class and they had to check if the students had completed the previous day’s homework.

  “And what happens when someone hasn’t?” asked Nariman.

  “I have to tell Miss Alvarez, and the boy gets a zero.”

  “And do you?”

  “Of course,” said Jehangir, while his mother made a face to protest the question.

  “What if the boy is your friend? Do you still tell Teacher?”

  “My friends always do their homework.”

  “Smart answer,” said Jal.

  “Well, whose son?” asked Yezad, and they laughed.

  “Now if this Homework Monitoring system was a Government of India scheme,” said Jal, “rich boys wouldn’t do homework, and offer bribes to the teachers.”

  Yezad made a noise between laughing and snorting. “And the principal would threaten to sack the teachers unless he got a percentage.”

  “Stop corrupting the children,” said Roxana.

  “Corruption is in the air we breathe. This nation specializes in turning honest people into crooks. Right, chief?”

  “The answer, unfortunately, is yes.”

  “The country has gone to the dogs. And not well-bred dogs either, but pariahs.”

  “Maybe the BJP and Shiv Sena coalition will improve things,” said Jal. “We should give them a chance.”

  Yezad laughed. “If a poisonous snake was in front of you, would you give it a chance? Those two parties encouraged the Hindutva extremists to destroy the Babri Mosque.”

  “Yes, but that was—”

  “And what about all the hatred of minorities that Shiv Sena has spread for the last thirty years.” He paused to take a long swallow of his Scotch and soda.

  “Daddy, did you know, Shiv Sena is going to have a Michael Jackson concert,” said Murad.

  “That’s right,” said Jal. “I saw it in the newspaper. And Shiv Sena will pocket millions – they’ve obtained tax-free status by classifying it as a cultural event of national significance.”

  “Well,” said Yezad. “Michael Jackson’s crotch-clutching and his shiny codpiece must be vital to the nation. I’m surprised the Senapati doesn’t find him anti-anything, not even anti-good taste. Otherwise, the crackpot accuses people left and right of being anti-this or anti-that. South Indians are anti-Bombay, Valentine’s Day is anti-Hindustan, film stars born before 1947 in the Pakistani part of Punjab are traitors to the country.”

  “I suppose,” said Nariman, “if the Senapati gets gas after eating karela, the gourd will be declared an anti-Indian vegetable.”

  “Let’s hope his langoti doesn’t give him a groin rash,” said Jal. “Or all underwear might be banned.”

  They laughed, and Yezad made himself another Scotch and soda. “Frankly, I don’t care who the government is, and what they do. I’ve given up on a saviour. Always turns out to be a real saviour-and-a-half.”

  “Daddy, why do you say ‘and-a-half’ for everything?” asked Jehangir.

  “Because the half is the most important part.”

  Jehangir didn’t understand, but laughed anyway. He was happy to see his father holding forth.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” said Roxana. “Politics is very boring.”

  “You’re right,” said Yezad. “So, chief, what did you t
hink of the World Cup?”

  Nariman shook his head. “I don’t approve of these coloured uniforms they wear. Cricket is white flannels. Fixed overs and rushing to finish a match in one day is not cricket.”

  “The worst part is the fanaticism,” said Yezad. “Every time India and Pakistan play, it’s like another war in Kashmir.”

  “I thought you were going to stop talking politics.”

  “Sorry, Roxie. So, chief, when will you open your present?”

  “Right now.”

  The boys ran to the hall table for the gift. They laid the long, narrow package in Nariman’s lap, where it rocked to the palpitations of his legs.

  “Can you guess what it is, Grandpa?”

  “A rifle? A sword?”

  They shook their heads.

  “A long rolling pin, to make very big chapatis?”

  “Wrong again, Grandpa.”

  “I give up.”

  Roxana said to wait for Coomy, who called out from the dining room to go ahead and open it, she couldn’t stop what she was doing. To remind them she was in the background, getting things ready for dinner, she allowed plates and dishes to clatter from time to time.

  Roxana watched her father tackle the wrapping paper, and nudged Murad to help him. She asked if the new medicine was an improvement.

  “Much better, look,” Nariman held out a trembling hand. “Steady as a rock. Relatively speaking.” As the padding of crumpled paper fell away, a walking stick stood revealed. “It’s beautiful,” he said, running his fingers along the gleaming surface.

  “Pure walnut, chief.”

  “And look, Grandpa, we put this special rubber cap on the end, so it won’t slip.”

  “Perfect,” said Nariman. He passed the stick to Jal, who admired it, tapping the floor with a flourish.

  Coomy came in and, halfway into the room, stopped in her tracks. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

  “What is it, wrong colour?” asked Roxana, for her sister was superstitious about such things.

  “Think for a moment,” said Coomy. “What are you giving, and to whom? A walking stick. To Pappa.”

  “He likes to take walks,” said Yezad. “It’ll be useful.”

  “We don’t want him to take walks! He has osteoporosis, Parkinson’s disease, hypotension – a walking medical dictionary!”

  “And you want to install me on the bookshelf. But I won’t stay cooped indoors twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I agree with you, chief. A person could go crazy.”

  “Oh, you agree? And do you know what happened yesterday? I didn’t want to say it on Pappa’s birthday, but now I will. No, Jal will. Tell them, Jal.”

  He cleared his throat, adjusted his hearing aid, and said in a mild voice that the night before Pappa had had an accident.

  “Nonsense,” said Nariman. “I stumbled and twisted my foot, that’s all.” He pulled up his sleeve to show the band-aid. “This is the enormous wound they are worried about.”

  Yezad’s laughter and Roxana’s relieved smile made Coomy feel helpless. “Please listen to me,” she pleaded. “Next time Pappa might not be so lucky. It’s no joke at his age, going out alone.”

  “Maybe you should go together, a walk will be healthy for everyone,” said Roxana.

  “You want to injure all of us in one shot?” Coomy turned to her brother, “Again you’ve become quiet. Must I do the arguing and seem like the bad person always?”

  “It’s his hearing aid,” said Yezad. “Makes it difficult to participate. You know, Jal, nowadays with advanced technology, the new gadgets are very powerful. And so small, you hardly notice them.”

  “Forget it,” said Coomy. “If he can’t hear with this big one, how will he manage with a tiny one?”

  “The streets are a death trap,” began Jal. “Footpaths are dug up, pedestrians have to compete with traffic, dozens of fatalities daily. We told Pappa to stroll around the flat for exercise, it’s big enough. For fresh air he can use the balcony. Why risk life and limb on those murderous pavements?”

  “I think you are overreacting,” said Yezad. “I agree you have to walk cautiously, not rely on traffic signals. But it’s still a civilized city.”

  “Is that so?” said Coomy. “In that case, why were you trying to leave for Canada?”

  Yezad didn’t like being reminded of it. “That was years ago. And not just because of traffic and pavements.”

  Then Coomy said that since, in their opinion, there was nothing wrong with Pappa’s walks, she wouldn’t worry herself about it. But if, God forbid, something terrible happened, she and Jal would deliver him straightaway to the Chenoy residence.

  “The chief is welcome,” said Yezad. “Just make sure you bring us one of your extra rooms. We live in a two-room flat, not a seven-room palace like this one.”

  “Laugh all you like, but I am serious.” There would be no other choice, she declared – an ayah or nurse would be unaffordable, and a nursing home out of the question. “Jal will tell you how hopeless the share bazaar is, Mamma’s investments make barely enough to let us eat dar-chaaval. And you know better than anyone, Pappa used up all his money to pay for your flat.”

  “But this lovely place is for you,” said Roxana. “Why do you keep envying us?”

  “Lovely place? A haunted house, fallen to rack and ruin! Look at these walls, not a coat of whitewash in thirty years! What we will do if the roof leaks or the last remaining toilet breaks, I don’t know. To think we could all have lived happily together, right here, one family. But you insisted on leaving us.”

  “Now wait,” said Nariman, “don’t blame her. It was my decision.”

  “Why are we discussing ancient history?” asked Roxana. “All because you don’t like Pappa’s birthday gift?”

  “The walking stick is a sign of how inconsiderate you’ve become. Never were you like this, not till you got married and left. Now you have no concern for how we live or die. And that hurts me!”

  She turned away to dab at her eyes. Roxana watched for a few moments, feeling awful, then put her arm around her. “Come on, Coomy, don’t be silly. Every day I think of you and Jal and Pappa. Please stop crying.”

  She led her to the sofa, sitting her down between Yezad and herself. Sniffing, Coomy complained that she still hadn’t heard a word about the shirt she and Jal gave Pappa.

  “It’s a lovely shirt,” Roxana assured her.

  “They complimented me on it when they came,” her father covered for her. “You were still in the kitchen.”

  “Look, chief,” said Yezad. “How about a jigsaw puzzle instead of the walking stick? I’m sure Jehangir would be happy to give you one of his. Or some of his Famous Five books.”

  “On one condition,” said Nariman. “Every evening Coomy and Jal must read aloud to me about an adventure.”

  “You’ll be the Famous Three,” said Jehangir, at which everyone laughed, including Coomy.

  She called them to the table and offered the usual apology for its inadequacy: she’d done her best, but what with the shortages, and the prices in the market, and the good quality stuff being exported, it was so difficult to cook a decent dinner.

  “It smells fantastic,” said Yezad.

  “Yum-yum,” said Murad, as his aunt pointed him to one of the two chairs at the end. Jehangir tried to make a break for a place closer to their grandfather, but she thwarted him, putting him next to his brother.

  With everyone seated, Nariman inquired why the good dishes were not laid out. Coomy clutched her forehead.

  “Each year you ask the same question, Pappa. What if something breaks or chips?”

  “She’s right, Pappa,” said Roxana. “We don’t use them in our house either.”

  “Be that as it may, tonight I want the fine china.”

  Jehangir repeated the phrase softly to himself, be that as it may, relishing the combination of words. His father whispered that Grandpa’s English was the best in the family.

  “Don’
t be difficult, Pappa, please!” pleaded Coomy. “If something cracks, how will we ever replace it? The whole set will be spoiled.”

  “We’ll have to risk that. Life will go on. Locked away unused, eventually it will age and crack in the sideboard. What use is that? Better to enjoy it.”

  “Fine,” said Coomy. She unlocked the cabinet and took one dinner plate from the stack. “Happy? You eat from that.”

  “I want the full set. Dinner plates and side plates for everyone, the big rice platter, the serving bowls.”

  “But the food is already served. You want me to empty it? And wash twice? I’m sorry, I cannot do that.”

  “In that case, you’ll have to eat without me.”

  He tried to leave the table amid general protest, while Coomy, close to tears, appealed to the others. She said this kind of cranky behaviour was what she had to put up with all the time.

  “You know, chief, in my experience food tastes better in ordinary dishes,” said Yezad. “Good ones distract you with their elegance.”

  Jehangir and Murad said their plates were beautiful, and offered to exchange with Grandpa, holding them up to display the Peter Pan scenes painted on them. Jal mumbled something about eating from banana leaves and following the fine old traditions. Roxana promised to arrange another dinner for her father, served in the good dishes, if he started eating now. But Nariman could not be persuaded.

  “What’s the use,” said Coomy. “I surrender.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t take long,” whispered Roxana as they brought out the bone china. “And I’ll help you with washing.”

  Jal, Yezad, and the boys were shooed away from the table. The place settings were removed and replaced, the food transferred into the Royal Doulton, and everyone called back.

  “Thank you, Coomy,” said Nariman. “The table looks splendid.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, gritting her teeth and serving him first. He enjoyed fish heads, and she spent a moment to locate the two pomfret heads lurking in the paatiyo’s depths.

  As the dishes travelled around the table, if something clanged or was set down heavily, Coomy flinched. The journey of the large rice platter was the most trying. When the spoon slipped from Murad’s fingers, striking against the edge, she cried out, “Careful!”