Yezad kept an eye on them so they wouldn’t skip any part of the sequence. From the corners of their eyes they watched their father, fascinated by his new skill with the nine-foot kusti. It was so elegant in his fingers, so graceful, the way he tied the knots, even the blind ones behind his back.
Leaving their shoes beneath the bench, they went inside, into the tranquil hush, where the fire was a glow of embers. Yezad knelt at the sanctum, and the boys followed. From his shirt pocket he drew out the sandalwood, hesitated, took Murad’s hand and put it on the offering, reached for Jehangir’s and did the same. Three hands placed it in the silver tray.
Still kneeling, he gathered a pinch of ash, smeared some on their foreheads and the rest on his own. Holding their shoulders, he pressed down. They understood they must bow to the fire, and bent till their brows touched the marble threshold.
Between them, he lowered his own head … O Dada Ormuzd, bless my sons, keep them healthy and honest, look after all our family according to Your will, help me do what is Your will …
He rose, and the boys rose with him. They began backing away from the fire, but it became a race between the two to see who was faster in reverse. They almost slammed into a priest.
It was the old dustoorji, the tall, thin one with the long white beard, who had spoken to Yezad that first time. He took the boys’ hands into his and inquired with a twinkle in his eye, “Did you recite everything properly? No gaapcha in your prayers, hanh?”
They nodded shyly.
Laughing, the dustoorji said to Yezad, “It always makes me happy to see young people here.” He continued inside to fulfil his duties to the fire.
They returned to the veranda and retrieved their shoes, where Murad observed that if this dustoorji was fat and wore red robes, he could easily look like Santa Claus.
“And if Santa Claus lost some weight,” said Yezad, “and wore white clothes, he would look like the dustoorji.”
“You know what I was worried about, Daddy?”
“What, Jehangla?”
“That someone would steal our shoes while we were inside.”
Yezad said he didn’t think that was likely in a fire-temple. He asked if they had enjoyed the visit.
They answered yes. “But it would be more fun if we could enter where the big afargaan is, and put sandalwood ourselves on the fire,” said Murad.
“I used to think the same when I was your age.”
Butter, jam, biscuits, cheese, bottles of chutney and achaar, and two packets of sev-ganthia tumbled out of the large parcel of provisions. In a separate bag there were oranges and a bunch of green grapes. Murad and Jehangir unpacked it all eagerly, arraying the food on the dining table, their eyes glittering as they examined the labels.
Their pleasure fuelled Yezad’s unhappiness. He guessed Roxana had told Jal that Bombay Sporting no longer needed him. And here he was, come to spread his largesse. “We have not yet registered as a charity.”
Jal pressed his finger to his earpiece, and Roxana hoped he hadn’t heard.
But he had caught the last bit. “I brought it with love,” he protested, adjusting the setting. “If you use such a word for my gift, how harshly must you think about me and Coomy.”
Then he was penitent. “We deserve it. For shifting Pappa here.” He lowered his voice so Nariman wouldn’t overhear.
“Now that was a gift-and-a-half. The kind that changes people’s lives forever.”
“Please let’s not argue,” said Roxana, indicating the settee.
Jal sat still with his hands in his lap. “Your anger is justified. It was a terrible thing she – we did.”
“She: you were right the first time,” said Yezad.
“But I let her. I let her convince me. I should have stopped her.”
“Could you have?”
He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. She believed Pappa was responsible for …” He shook his head, reminding himself not to think of those unfortunate years. “How much better forgiveness would have been.”
“Poor Coomy,” said Roxana. “Too late for her.”
He nodded sadly. “You know, I was doing a little cleaning in the drawing-room yesterday, putting away some knick-knacks in the showcase. And it reminded me of Pappa’s birthday party. I thought to myself, that was the last time we were all in that room together.”
“It was a nice party,” said Yezad.
“I think Coomy also enjoyed herself,” said Jal.
They assured him she had. “Everyone had a good time. And such a tasty dinner she cooked.”
“Yes, she loved to cook. And I was thinking yesterday, Why couldn’t we have had more happy times together? It was possible to – it is possible, we don’t have to continue in the same way, believe me. And regarding Pappa, I …”
They remained silent till he started again. “Believe me, I’ll make things right between us. Please have patience a little longer. Two more weeks.”
Jal kept his promise, returning a fortnight later to announce he had good news. They watched as he tore open a fresh pack of Longlife Batteries and inserted the two cells in his hearing aid. Snapping the cover shut, he turned on the switch and adjusted the volume.
“Let me guess,” said Yezad. “You’ve found someone with a miracle cure for Nariman.”
The sarcasm bounced harmlessly off Jal, prompting only a little smile. “Sorry, Yezad, there isn’t a cure for Parkinson’s disease yet. My plan is entirely practical. Provided you both agree, and like it enough to cooperate.”
“You hear that, Roxie? Needs our cooperation.”
She pressed her lips together and wished Yezad would hear Jal out without baiting him.
But Jal’s composure was undisturbed. His voice stayed soft, so as not to disturb Nariman. “You remember I came here one day, fed up with Coomy? And you were so kind, you said if you had a big flat like Chateau Felicity, you would let me live with you?”
Yezad’s heart sank. Surely Jal didn’t want to — ! He waited tensely, nodding, yes, he remembered the evening.
“That’s what gave me the idea. Suddenly I realized – I have a big flat! This one is too small for you, even if Pappa were not here. And that one is huge for me alone.”
Yezad nodded again, guardedly.
The solution, said Jal, was for the whole family, along with Pappa, to move into Chateau Felicity. It would be the best thing for all of them. Also a way to honour Coomy’s memory – something good at last after years of unhappiness. From up there, he said, possessed of the knowledge and wisdom that came with dying, Coomy would surely approve.
“Didn’t I tell you?” said Yezad. “Didn’t I say we could rely on Jal? Happily ever after – inside a ruin.”
Jal laughed, refusing to take offence. Of course the flat was in terrible shape, unmaintained for decades. And neither he nor they had the money to fix it up.
“Glad you realize it,” said Yezad.
“But that’s where this flat comes in. Small though it is, it’s worth a lot because of the location. We can get at least forty lakhs.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“No, it’s the going rate. I’ve checked with some brokers.”
“Without a word to me, you get my flat appraised?”
“Sorry, Yezad, I had to, to make sure my plan would work. I didn’t want to come with half-baked ideas.”
Yezad abandoned his pique. “Forty lakhs is a serious figure?”
“Minimum.”
“Almost ten times what Pappa paid,” said Roxana in awe.
Some of that money, explained Jal, could be used to repair Chateau Felicity, the rest could be invested. “Even in fixed deposits, the interest will be enough for you, and enough for Pappa’s expenses – nurse, medicine, proper hospital-type bed. I don’t need a single paisa from it. All I want is you to come and make your home there.”
“Castles in the air. Talking like our problems will disappear tomorrow. Even if we want to move, finding a serious buyer will take mont
hs.”
Jal coughed. “Actually, I’ve got someone.”
This time Yezad was genuinely outraged. “I don’t believe this fellow! Getting an appraisal is one thing, but to line up a buyer without asking us? Have you also hired a moving company? Maybe the lorry is waiting outside for our furniture.”
Roxana hushed him, that Pappa would hear. Jal said please not to be upset, one of the brokers he’d met at the share bazaar just happened to mention the buyer when he was making inquiries.
After a few moments of sulking, Yezad asked, feigning indifference, “Who’s this buyer?”
“A diamond merchant from Surat. His son is getting married.”
Yezad mulled over the idea and came up with his next objection: “Let’s suppose your diamond merchant is serious. This will be a black-money deal, correct? So how can we trust him to give us the cash? And where will we live while the repairs are done to the big flat?”
Once again, Jal had the answers. “The system is: half in advance, half when you vacate. You’ll get twenty lakhs first, then we have a month for repairs, after which you move.”
Yezad smiled. “You know the biggest flaw in your plan? The repairs. They will cost so much, there’ll be nothing left to invest. We’ll be exactly where we started, no money for Pappa, me without a job. In fact it will be worse, we’ll have that huge flat to take care of.”
Jal got up to reach inside his trouser pocket. He extracted an envelope folded in half and handed it to Yezad.
On three typewritten pages was a detailed estimate and work order, binding for sixty days, written up by the very reputable firm of Hafiz Lakdavala & Sons. It was a list of all repairs necessary to make the Chateau Felicity flat a comfortable home.
As Yezad read, with Roxana looking over his shoulder, he realized Jal was right, the numbers could hardly be disputed. But he went through the pages, item by item: new toilets, new bathrooms, hot-water geysers, tiles, faucets, electrical work, painting, kitchen flooring and cabinets, replacement of broken windows, etc., etc.…
He disputed whatever he could. Even when he knew the answers, he raised his queries. Jal patiently explained away the doubts. “So you see, roughly ten lakhs will take care of renovations. Thirty lakhs to invest.”
Yezad arrived at the final item, and thought he was on to something; here was a figure that threw into question the reliability of the entire estimate.
“This is nonsense, even a layman like me knows it. How can they repair such serious damage for so little? With the beam rotten and everything?”
Jal got up to read the line where Yezad’s finger was pointing. “You mean the ceiling. It’s the easiest of the jobs. Just surface plastering.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, you sound like poor Edul. Have you taken over his handyman mania?”
Jal looked at his stepfather on the settee, then stared into his lap and squared his shoulders. “I know it because I’m responsible for it.”
“Listen, Jal,” said Yezad wearily. “You must stop blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens.”
“I was the one,” Jal repeated. “I borrowed Edul’s hammer, climbed on a stool, and broke the plaster.”
Roxana and Yezad gaped. But Jal kept nodding, saying yes, that was exactly what he’d done.
“Coomy’s idea, wasn’t it,” said Yezad dully.
Jal ignored the comment, reiterating that he was the one who had climbed up and wielded the hammer.
“But why did she want to do that?” asked Roxana, desperate to hear some reason less vindictive than the truth.
“To avoid looking after Pappa.” The answer’s blunt honesty left them mute for what felt like minutes, until Jal spoke again. “Now at least you understand the ceiling is solid, Edul was mistaken, the beam isn’t rotting.”
After such a confession, there was not much left to say. He prepared to leave. “Whatever you decide, I’m glad I had a chance … to tell you.”
They walked him to the door, uttering their goodbyes in a daze. They shut the door and went inside.
But within moments the bell rang again. It was Jal again.
“Sorry. I forgot a very important fact you should know: if you agree to the plan, we’ll go to the landlord and add your names to the flat. I want you to feel completely secure, not feel you are just guests in Chateau Felicity.”
The offer moved Yezad as profoundly as the confession had stunned. He muttered something about taking a couple of days to think, to talk it over.
“Take long as you like. If the diamond merchant goes elsewhere, there’ll be other buyers. A location like Pleasant Villa is in high demand.”
Shaking their hands, he said good night once more.
Yezad put the grate on the stove and arranged three lumps of coal on it. When they were red hot he transferred them with tongs into the small round bowl of Coomy’s afargaan.
Roxana’s heart was light as she took dinner plates to the table. The day she had brought the afargaan home, she had polished it with Silvo and left it on the shelf outside the kitchen where he would see it. Now the fragrance of frankincense would soon fill the rooms, she thought, the smoke would carry the grace of God …
As she returned with four glasses, she could hear her father trying to speak. In the sounds he made she heard her name.
“Yes, Pappa?” She bent closer.
Do not, my child. Do not do not do not.
“What, Pappa? Do not what?”
Inasmuch as. Inasmuch. Do not.
He kept clamouring for her attention. She felt it best to not make too much of it. But he got louder, his appeals more frantic.
She went to his side again and stroked his hand to soothe him. “Come here, Jehangoo, sit with Grandpa for a few minutes.”
Jehangir began reading to him from his history text: “ ‘Shivaji was born in 1627, and was the founder of the Maratha kingdom. He respected the beliefs of all communities, and protected their places of worship. In a time of religious savagery, Shivaji practised true religious tolerance.’ ”
Nariman would not be calmed. Jehangir leaned over and held his stubbled chin. Instead of chortling as usual, his grandfather got annoyed.
“Try something else,” said Roxana.
“Okay, okay,” said Jehangir. He stroked his grandfather’s head and sang, “ ‘I am a teapot, short and stout.’ ” He put his thumbs to his mouth to hoot like an owl.
“Nothing works,” he said to his mother, getting frustrated. “And you always call me, you never tell Murad to do anything.”
“Because Grandpa enjoys your company.”
“It’s all right, Jehangla,” said his father, entering with the afargaan and incense packet. “After my kusti, I’ll do loban and pray. That will calm his spirit, get rid of whatever bad thoughts are plaguing him.”
Roxana was a little doubtful, reminding Yezad that Pappa had never been one for prayer, he had abandoned even the perfunctory observations because of the way his parents had treated Lucy. “He used to call it the religion of bigots. He hasn’t stepped inside a fire-temple in forty years.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s never too late – look at my example. Besides, belief is not essential. The prayer sound itself will bring him peace and tranquility.”
She withdrew, reluctant to discourage him any further. She did not want to jeopardize the faith in prayer that had descended like a blessing upon him and their house.
Standing at the foot of the settee, Yezad started his kusti. Instead of the usual silent recitation, he chanted aloud, “Kem na mazda! Mavaite payum dadat, hyat ma dregvao!”
By the time he finished the segment, Nariman seemed quieter. Giving Roxana a triumphant glance, he picked up the afargaan, dipped his hand in the incense packet, and gathered a little in his fingers before proceeding to the front door.
She hurried ahead of him to open it. His fingers released a trace of the gritty powder onto the coals, and at once, with a crackle, a cloud of white fragrant smoke filled the doorway. He lifted the a
fargaan high, gliding it around in an arc, the way he remembered his father doing.
Next, he presented the afargaan to Roxana. Covering her head, she passed her fingers through the smoke, fanning it gently to bathe her face. She stroked the sides of the afargaan and clasped her hands together.
“It’s like angels and fareshtas floating through our house,” she murmured happily.
He carried the afargaan to the balcony for Jehangir and Murad. They looked up with a blank smile. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t break his thread of prayer, but made sounds through clenched teeth that made them laugh. He got annoyed. Their mother showed them the proper way to respect the fire.
Then he went into the front room, visiting every corner and circling around the settee. The incense made Nariman uncomfortable; he coughed and his hands seemed to want to push the smoke away from him.
Yezad scattered a final pinch of loban and pulled up a chair beside the settee to recite the Sarosh Baaj. “Khshnaothra Ahurahe Mazdao! Ashem vohu vahishtem asti,” he began, searching for the right pitch.
Nariman responded with a whimpering sound. Roxana watched as the tremble in his hands grew a little. “Pappa doesn’t like it,” she mouthed to Yezad.
He gestured back to be patient. “Pa name Yazdan Ahuramazda Khodai!” he sang. “Awazuni gorje khoreh awazayad!”
But the longer he prayed, trying to imitate the sonorous cantillation of dustoorjis he heard in the fire-temple, the greater became the agitation on the settee. Nariman continued with his same indistinct words, over and over.
“I wish Pappa would calm down,” said Roxana, appealing to Yezad again. “Can’t you see it’s bothering him? Be a little softer!”
“Shushum-hmm-quiesh-hmm-hmm!” he answered, admonishing her interruptions through clenched teeth. Behind their father’s chair, the boys grinned at the sounds, not daring to laugh aloud.
“Fravarane Mazdayasno Zarathushtrish!”
No no no! pleaded Nariman.
Roxana couldn’t bear it any longer. She put the pot back on the stove and asked Jehangir to go and get Daisy. He said he didn’t want to go anywhere. Not to Daisy Aunty, and not to Jal Uncle’s house either, it was always so sad and gloomy there.