And what about black money and tax evasion, was there a saying for that, he felt like asking.
“Last night I counted the suitcase. And here is the problem. There’s thirty-five thousand less than there should be.”
So that’s where this pleasant chat was leading, the smiling spider trying to weave a web for him. “Didn’t Mr. Kapur tell you?” he asked politely.
“Tell me what?”
“About Shiv Sena. You know how they go to businesses, demanding their so-called donations for —”
“They’ve never bothered us,” she interrupted sharply.
“They did this time.” He told her of the Mumbai name-tax that Mr. Kapur had agreed to, to keep Bombay in his shop sign. “Which is why he took thirty-five thousand from the suitcase.”
“I see. And did they provide a receipt for the payment?”
“That was the whole confusion on Christmas Day – two other fellows came, saying no exemption allowed. The first two never returned for the payment.”
“Oh, I see, never returned. And what happened to the money?”
“It’s still in my desk.” He gestured behind him, towards the shop. “Unless the thieves stole it on Christmas Day.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Nothing was touched, Mr. Chenoy, the thieves ran off when Husain screamed. By the way, I couldn’t find the duplicate keys to your desk. Shall we look?”
He groped for the key ring in his pocket and they left the office. His hand was shaking as he unlocked his desk. He pulled open the drawer slowly, thinking of his father, of the clock in the kitchen, the question of honour and good name …
Without emotion he handed her the envelope. She bent down to peer, to see what else might be in the drawer.
“Better count it, Mrs. Kapur. Accounts must be correct to the last paisa, as you said.”
“I still don’t understand.” Her tone was nakedly suspicious now, the hostility palpable. “Why was the money in your desk?”
“Mr. Kapur wanted me to deal with it. He said it made him sick to talk with the crooks.”
“This whole business is very strange. Why did Vikram want an exemption instead of just changing the name? A new sign would have cost much less than thirty-five thousand.”
“Mr. Kapur didn’t calculate everything in terms of money,” said Yezad, struggling to keep a level tone. “As you know, the name meant a lot to him. Bombay was the world to him.”
She shook her head. “My Vikram was not so sentimental. Anyway, you should take your personal items from the desk, so you don’t have to come again.”
How little she knew her husband, he thought, as he opened the drawers, one by one, and sifted through the contents. There was not much of his in them. A few magazines, letters of appreciation from clients, Divali and New Year cards from business associates over the years.
Mrs. Kapur stood beside him to supervise, scrutinizing each article that went into his briefcase. She craned and shifted to keep things in view at all times.
Yezad did not rush, pretending to examine his files carefully, as though she weren’t looking over his shoulder. But his mind was playing host to a childhood memory, come unbidden, of a servant, suspected of stealing … Henry, about fifteen, three or four years older than he, dismissed for some trivial reason. And Henry’s father, full of shame, had come to take his son away. The boy’s small trunk, rusting and dented, was ready by the back door, along with his skinny roll of bedding. But before they could leave, Henry had to empty the trunk and unroll the frayed, patched-up bedding for his employers, demonstrate that nothing was being smuggled out, while Henry’s father, mortified, looked on …
And Yezad wondered if his own father was now watching his son’s humiliation. He finished, pushed in the drawers, gave her the key.
“Thank you, Mr. Chenoy. On Vikram’s behalf also I thank you. Now. Is there anything in the shop you would like to have for a souvenir? Something small, to keep in Vikram’s memory?”
Perhaps she was trying to atone for her suspicions, he thought. He was about to refuse the offer, when he remembered.
“Actually, Mr. Kapur gave me a Christmas gift. I forgot to take it that day, in all the Shiv Sena commotion. Three photos of Hughes Road – he must have put them back in his desk for me.”
“Oh, I know where they are, Mr. Chenoy. But those are very valuable.”
He looked in her eyes. “Mr. Kapur gifted them to me,” he repeated, keeping his voice steady. “On Christmas morning.”
“I don’t think it’s possible. They are part of Vikram’s collection. One of his hobbies. But I’ll have to sell it – as a widow I have to be careful with money. Is there something else you’d like? Maybe that Santa Claus? Or a football?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Okay, bye-bye then.”
Yezad’s mind was blank as he left the shop. He touched the entrance keys in his pocket – she’d forgotten to take them back. He glanced behind him as he shut the door: no, she hadn’t – both locks had been changed.
Walking along the kerb, he reached into his pocket again, fished out the keys, and dropped them in the gutter. Fifteen years. He heard the tinkle as they landed.
A scavenger sifting garbage nearby saw the keys fall, and dived to retrieve them. Scooping them out of the muck, he added them to a sack containing his metal collection.
Past the Jai Hind Book Mart, Yezad could hear his name being called. He pretended not to have heard, and kept walking. He did not stop till he reached Wadiaji fire-temple.
He went through the old handbag with the broken zip in which Roxana kept important documents, receipts, medical information, the children’s report cards. His high-school certificate, B.A. degree, sales and management diploma, and a fifteen-year-old version of his résumé were in there too.
He spread everything out on the dining table. He updated the résumé and made a handwritten copy. Roxana looked on encouragingly, admiring his penmanship.
“Lovely as ever, Yezdaa, your pearls on paper. With writing like yours, it’s an advantage not to have it typed.”
He smiled.
“I think you’ll easily find a new job. Better than the old one.” She kissed the top of his head and withdrew.
He finished the résumé and organized his briefcase, including in it the clients’ letters of appreciation that he had brought back from Bombay Sporting. Then he went to the corner shop to get photocopies.
For three days he made the rounds of the major sports equipment outlets in the city. The managers and owners, aware of the misfortune befallen his previous place of employment, took his application sympathetically, promising to let him know if an opening came up. But Yezad couldn’t help noticing their discomfort. They shook hands gingerly, as though they would prefer not to have contact with one so closely connected with a murder.
On the fourth day, he left in the morning at the usual time and walked to the fire-temple. His train pass had expired. He prayed for over two hours, then walked home. It was only one o’clock when he let himself in.
“Yezdaa? Back so soon?”
“There aren’t any sports shops left to visit.”
“Won’t you look in other places?”
“What are you suggesting? That I’m lazy because I came home early today?”
“I was only wondering what your plan was.”
“Don’t wonder. All these people I’ve been to, they need time to offer me something. God will decide when it’s my turn.”
She left him alone, but later that afternoon asked if it would be all right for her to go out for a while, if he was staying in. “Jal wants me to sort out Coomy’s clothes and shoes and things. He wants to donate them to the old people’s home and the widows’ chawl.”
“Sure. Sooner the better – poor people can make use of it.”
Before leaving, she gave her father the urinal without being asked. Her hissing told him what was required. He obliged by dribbling a few drops into it.
“Is that all,
Pappa? Try again, so you won’t need it till I get back.”
Nariman groaned, tried again, managed a bit more. She drained it into the toilet and washed out the urinal. Reassuring Yezad that Pappa had been having a nice quiet day, she left.
Yezad paused for a while in the front room. He watched Nariman’s fluttering hands, and his eyes, restless under closed lids. But it was his silence, grown almost complete in recent weeks, that saddened Yezad the most.
He went out to the balcony to lean at the railing, remembering his childish resentment of Nariman when he first came here four months ago. He thought about the times he had enjoyed with Nariman, his wit, his conversational vigour, ranging from a few telling words to a torrent of persuasion. All down to a barely noticeable trickle. Like the fan of multiple speeds in the back room, down to just a slow swishing … In itself, that too was worth savouring, except that it foreshadowed the approaching stasis. End of all movement, all words …
He put the kettle on when the boys returned from school. He could tell that they enjoyed the novelty of their father being home at this odd hour, making their tea when he normally would be at work. He stayed with them while they drank it.
“Now to your books.”
They went to the little desk in the back room, and he sat on the bed. The boys’ foreheads shone with sweat. Not even the end of January, he thought, and the weather turning already. He asked what homework they had.
“I’ve got this French traduction,” said Murad.
“I remember some of my French, if you need help.”
“Merci, Pappa.”
“What about Jehangla?”
“Arithmetic. But the sums are so stupid. This one says Mrs. Bolakani went to the market with Rs 100.00. She spent Rs 22.50 on eggs, Rs 14.00 on bread, Rs 36.75 on butter, and Rs 7.00 on onions. How many rupees were left when she came home?”
Yezad asked why it was stupid, and Jehangir said no one would buy so much butter all at once, Mrs. Bolakani did not have a good set of envelopes like Mummy’s.
They laughed, and he squeezed their shoulders affectionately. Murad asked if he could have the fan on.
Jehangir frowned at his brother. “Mummy told you the electricity bill is very high when you use the fan.”
“But I’m sweating so much, how can I remember all these French words?”
Yezad said they could have it on for ten minutes. He set the control to LOW, the only setting that worked, and the air came to life in the room.
By and by, Nariman’s indistinct speech could be heard from the front room, drawing Yezad to his side. “How are you, chief?” He felt silly even as he asked the question. “Roxie’s gone out, but we’re all here.”
Nariman’s vocal efforts persisted, and Yezad returned to the boys. “I think Grandpa wants to say something. See if you understand.”
The three lined up alongside the settee, and waited.
“Maybe he wants to do soo-soo?” suggested Yezad.
“No,” said Jehangir. “For soo-soo you can make out he is saying ‘bottle.’ I think he needs to do kakka.”
Yezad’s heart sank. “Are you sure?” Leaning towards the pillow, he inquired gently, “Number two?”
Nariman groaned, and his relieved tone indicated an affirmative.
“Shall I get Villie Aunty?” asked Murad.
His father took a deep breath. “No. We don’t need her.”
His response stunned the boys. All they could think of was the absolute prohibition against touching the bed utensils, the many fights between their parents. Then approval for his decision showed on their faces.
“But I don’t know how,” said Jehangir. “It’s more complicated than the bottle.”
Murad nodded, the same went for him.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Yezad. “Can’t be that difficult.”
He lifted the sheet and pushed it aside to keep it from being soiled. The stale odour surrounding Nariman intensified. And this despite Roxie’s never-ending efforts, he thought, to keep him fresh with sponge baths and talcum.
“Okay, Jehangla, when Murad and I raise Grandpa, you can slide in the bedpan. Ready?”
“Wait, I just remembered – Mummy always puts an extra plastic first.”
The folded plastic was at the foot of the settee, tucked under the mattress. Jehangir shook it out.
“Ready?” asked their father. “Get set, go.” Jehangir slipped the plastic quickly over the white sheet, then placed the bedpan under his grandfather.
“Excellent,” said Yezad, as he and Murad lowered him. “Feels all right, chief?”
Nariman acknowledged it with a sigh of relief, and they stood back.
How did Roxana do it by herself, wondered Yezad, the lifting, the plastic, the bedpan, day after day? And instead of praising her strength, what had he done but rage and complain. She had needed his help, and all he could spew were his pathetic harangues. The mornings, the evenings and nights, his bitter frustration countered by her patience …
Overcome with shame, he barely noticed the smell of the bedpan, his fastidious nose uncomplaining.
Jehangir’s hand crept into his father’s. “Daddy, will you find a job soon?”
“God is great. If He wants me to, I’m sure I will.”
The boys looked away shyly, not accustomed to this new way of talking. Moments passed in silence broken only by Nariman’s groans and sighs.
“I know what,” said Yezad. “Tomorrow is a holiday. Why don’t you both come with me to fire-temple in the morning? You can pray to God, ask Him to help us.”
They nodded, feeling a little embarrassed. Such words used to come from Coomy Aunty, never from their father.
“I think Grandpa has finished,” said Murad.
“Ya ya yes.”
They lifted him slightly while Jehangir withdrew the bedpan and put on the lid. From under the sofa he picked up a basket filled with small squares cut out of old sudras and pyjamas. “To wipe Grandpa’s bum – Mummy said paper rolls are too expensive.”
Yezad blenched but took the basket from him. Then the front door opened, and Roxana was home.
“Oh Pappa, no!” she cried from the hallway where the smell reached her. “Did you spoil the bed?”
She entered the front room, saw them around the settee, the rags in Yezad’s hand, and understood. “Thank you,” she whispered, relieving him of the basket. “I’ll do that.”
“Thank Jehangir and Murad. Without them I could have done nothing.”
She smiled, and her eyes struggled to keep back the tears.
“I don’t know how you manage alone,” said Yezad.
“It isn’t hard. With practice I’ve got used to it.”
Not practice, he thought, love and devotion. Must be some truth in the saying that love could move mountains, it certainly let Roxana lift her father.
“Open that parcel, Yezdaa, see what Jal sent for you.”
He unwrapped the newspapered package and found a small silver thurible. Its exquisite shape replicated the huge five-foot afargaan in Wadiaji fire-temple. The round plate on top, where incense had been burned, was charred by coals.
He hefted the little afargaan in his hand and looked questioningly at Roxana.
“Mamma’s,” she replied. “Don’t you recognize it? We used to see Coomy with it during her evening prayers, taking the loban through the house.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Jal thought you might like it. Look, he even sent this packet of loban.”
He opened the plastic bag and sniffed the frankincense. He liked the afargaan, the shape, its feel in his hand, its lustre.
Next morning, after breakfast Yezad reminded the boys about the fire-temple. Murad refused, saying it was not Navroze or Khordad Sal. “Feels funny, going just like that. It’s not even exam time.”
“You don’t need a special occasion. God is ready to listen three hundred and sixty-five days.”
“Three sixty-six in a leap year,” said Jehangir. It
had been a long time since he’d been out with his father, and he was eager to start. Reluctantly, Murad changed from his wear-at-home clothes into something better.
The streets were quiet as they walked to the fire-temple; shops and offices were closed for Republic Day. From time to time a car went by filled with people waving little paper flags. The boys said it would be nice to come out in the evening, after dusk, to see the illuminations.
Jehangir slipped his hand into his father’s and synchronized his stride to match. Every few steps, he took an extra skip to keep pace. Murad walked slightly ahead, independent for a while, before slowing down. When he drew alongside, his father took his hand as well and began to whistle.
Looking up, Jehangir wondered which song it would turn into, but his father kept whistling cheerful phrases, like a bird. Then he began a tune, the Laurel and Hardy theme, and Murad waddled podgily, with his stomach thrust out.
They soon reached the sandalwood shop, and the man, who knew Yezad as a regular now, said hello as he reached into the box of sticks: “Three today?”
Yezad shook his head, joking to cover his embarrassment, “One family, one sukhad.”
The man smiled. “Your sons?”
He nodded.
They put on their prayer caps and headed towards the veranda for ablutions. At the washing parapet Yezad opened the lid of the haando and lowered the silver karasio in it. Hitting the side accidentally, it rang like a bell. His arm disappeared to his shoulder before the karasio reached water. “Almost empty,” he whispered.
“This haando is so big, Jehangir could swim in it,” said Murad.
“As if I’m that short.”
He poured water over his sons’ hands, then washed his own. They shared his handkerchief to dry. “Once you start your kusti, no more chit-chat and jokes, okay?”
“Why not?” asked Murad.
“Because you’re talking to God when you pray. And it’s rude to interrupt.”
Murad made a face behind his father’s back to let Jehangir know he was only humouring Daddy, he didn’t believe any of this. They pulled out their shirts, tucked the tails under their chins, and began untying their kustis.