Family Matters

  Months passed under Mahesh’s care. Grandpa continued to shrink. And when Dr. Tarapore told us the inevitable was perhaps a day away, two at best, I remembered the promise.

  I reminded my parents. Mummy couldn’t concentrate on what I was trying to say. She appreciated the doctor’s well-meaning attempt to prepare her, but now that the end was approaching, she was too distressed to listen to me. “Please, Jehangoo, ask Daddy, I don’t know what to do.”

  My father’s opinion was that the promise wasn’t a serious one, more like a joke between Grandpa and the violinist, and it wouldn’t be fair to expect Daisy to keep it. Jal Uncle felt the same way.

  “I think Grandpa was very serious,” I said. “So was Daisy Aunty. They even shook hands to make the promise.”

  “But, Jehangla, look at Grandpa – he’s almost unconscious. How will it help, whether she comes or not?”

  I kept pestering my father all day because I felt it was extremely important. In the evening he got fed up with me. “Fine,” he said. “You go and tell her if you want to. I can’t leave Mummy and Grandpa alone at a time like this.”

  I walked to Pleasant Villa. It was faster than waiting for a bus, as they would be packed at this hour and the driver wouldn’t have stopped.

  This was my first visit to Pleasant Villa since we’d moved. The entrance steps seemed smaller. I remember the sadness that came over me as I went in, thinking about our old flat upstairs, how it might look now, what kind of furniture Mr. Hiralal had put in the rooms. I knocked on Daisy Aunty’s door.

  There was no sound of practising inside. I knocked several times, and just when I was giving up, Villie Aunty climbed the three steps and entered the building with her shopping basket.

  “Hello, Jehangirji! What are you doing here?”

  “I came for Daisy Aunty.”

  I could see her wondering why, but instead of inquiring she asked, “How is everyone?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said quickly, knocking again.

  “She went out with her violin,” Villie Aunty volunteered. “I met her as I was going to the market.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Max Mueller Bhavan is what she said, for rehearsal.”

  I knew where that was: near Regal cinema. Should I go? Daddy had given me permission only as far as Pleasant Villa. But waiting till next day could mean Grandpa dying without the promise being kept.

  This time I took the bus, the distance was too much to walk. I pushed myself onto the 123 bus. A half-hour later I got off where it turned the traffic circle past the museum.

  Crossing the road took a long time, the cars kept coming, no one was obeying the traffic signals. When there was a jam I managed to run through to Max Mueller Bhavan.

  Inside the building I wondered where to go. The office was empty, everyone had left because it was after six. But I heard music, many violins playing together, and I followed the sound.

  It led me to where they were practising. I opened the door and peeked. The hall was dark and empty though the stage was lit, and Daisy Aunty was sitting in the first chair on the stage, next to the conductor. The music went on and on, no one could see me. I was not sure what I should do.

  I waited. At one point all the instruments became silent except for the two cellos. The music was so sad, I felt my heart would break.

  Suddenly, the conductor waved his baton from side to side like a windshield wiper, as though it was saying, Stop that! Cancel that! Everyone went quiet. He began to discuss something. Daisy Aunty pointed to the page on her music stand. Checking in his own book, the conductor hummed and moved his hands funnily. “Molto sostenuto,” he said, and the orchestra nodded.

  This was my chance, before they restarted. As I hurried towards the front I stumbled into a chair. It fell over. The entire stage looked startled, and the conductor said, “Yes? What is it?”

  Then Daisy Aunty, who was peering into the darkness like everyone else, rose and came to the edge of the stage. “Jehangir? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Aunty,” I answered softly.

  “Come closer. Are you crying?”

  I hadn’t realized I was. It must have begun while I was waiting in the dark. I quickly wiped my eyes. She got down on her haunches so her face came closer to mine – I was still quite short then, though now I’ve grown taller than her. She held the violin and bow together in her left hand and grasped my shoulder with the right. I liked her hand, her strong fingers made me feel better.

  “What’s wrong, Jehangir? Your parents know you’re here?”

  I shook my head and told her why I’d gone to Pleasant Villa. Her face became sad as I repeated Dr. Tarapore’s words about Grandpa.

  “To be honest, I had completely forgotten the promise.”

  I started to turn away.

  “Wait, I’m glad you came. Give me a minute.”

  She spoke to the conductor and vanished to the side of the stage, then reappeared with the case for her violin and bow. I wondered if she was going to leap down from the stage. It was so high, and she was wearing high heels. But she went to one corner where there were steps I hadn’t seen. She descended into the hall, waving to the conductor: “See you tomorrow, everybody.”

  She walked very fast. I half-ran to keep up. She called a taxi, and since I only had bus fare, I let her know. She smiled, telling me there was enough in her purse, and gave the driver the address for Pleasant Villa.

  “But, Aunty, we don’t live there any more!” I assumed she had forgotten in a moment of absentmindedness.

  “I know. But I’ve to change my clothes first.”

  My eyes discreetly scrutinized her outfit: a pair of light brown pants and a pale yellow blouse with long sleeves that she had rolled up to her elbows. Worried about not getting to Grandpa quickly, I assured her that her clothes looked very nice, there was no need to change.

  “Thank you. But they are not suitable for the occasion.”

  She asked the driver to wait, and we went inside. I sat in the front room while she disappeared to the back. There were lots of music books in the room, three music stands at different heights, two extra violins. It was an untidy room, but I felt comforted in it.

  In a few minutes, I heard the sound of Daisy Aunty’s heels approaching, tick-tocking like a very loud clock, and I turned to look. I will never forget what she was wearing: a long black skirt, very beautiful, and a black long-sleeved blouse with something in the cloth that made it twinkle like stars. Her shoes were black too. A string of pearls clung to her neck.

  I recognized these clothes, she would dress in them for the big important concerts of the Bombay Symphony Orchestra. I used to see her from our old balcony upstairs, when she would step outside with her violin case and call a taxi. I always thought she looked gorgeous, like a picture in a magazine.

  And now she had dressed the same way for Grandpa. She was the most wonderful lady I’d ever met. My throat felt like it was choking. We got back in the taxi, and she told the driver to take us fast to Chateau Felicity.

  The door opened with a frown, Daddy was looking quite upset. “Where have you been? At a time like this, making us worry.”

  Then he saw Daisy Aunty standing to the side. Her lovely clothes had a calming effect on him, and he asked her to please come in. “I’m so sorry. Has he dragged you away from an important performance?”

  “But this is the performance,” she said. “Shall we go inside?”

  We went to Grandpa’s room, where everyone was gathered. Mummy sat by the bed, holding his hand. It barely shook now. Jal Uncle and Murad were standing behind her chair. Mahesh waited in the corner on his stool, fidgeting, wishing there was some work he could do for his patient.

  Mummy looked over her shoulder and, seeing Daisy Aunty, began to apologize like Daddy for my inconsiderateness.

  “Please, I promised,” was all she said.

  “Oh Daisy! Poor Pappa – I don’t think he can even see you.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Whi
le she moved to the side and tuned the violin softly, I could see Jal Uncle looking at her, wanting to go up to her but feeling awkward.

  Then she approached the foot of the white hospital bed, glittering in her black clothes. I remember that she bowed solemnly to Grandpa before starting. Mahesh watched with great interest; he must never have had a patient for whom a splendidly dressed woman had played the violin. Daddy said in my ear it was the Serenade by Schubert. I knew that; she had played it before, many times, for Grandpa. Her eyes were closed. I kept mine open, I wanted to see and hear everything around me.

  Maybe it was the mood in the room, but I don’t think she’d ever played more beautifully in front of us. I looked at Grandpa, and felt he could hear the music, because his face had a contented expression.

  Then Daisy Aunty began the Brahms “Lullaby,” which Grandpa loved so much. Daddy whispered that he used to sing this tune for Murad and me when we were babies, he said it was also a Bing Crosby song that his father would sing to him. He hummed the words under his breath, “ ‘Lullaby and good night …’ ”

  Daisy Aunty heard it, and turned sharply. I thought she would be annoyed, but she said, “Sing it louder.”

  And Daddy stood up and sang it, and I saw tears running down his cheeks too, like Mummy’s. “Excuse me,” he said at the end of the piece, and took out his handkerchief.

  Daisy Aunty played for over an hour, till Dr. Tarapore arrived, as he had promised that morning. She ended with Grandpa’s favourite song, “One Day When We Were Young.” When she finished she stood quietly for a moment, bowed again, then put away her violin.

  There was a hush in the room. It lasted till Doctor said he wanted to check Grandpa, see if there was anything more he could do to make him comfortable. He took the blood pressure, as though, like Mahesh in the corner, he too needed something to occupy him. The wrap around Grandpa’s arm puffed up as the rubber bulb was pumped. The column of mercury rose, dancing up and down. Then the air was let out, and Doctor murmured to Mummy that the professor was resting quite peacefully.

  He sat with us for a few minutes, speaking some words to Jal Uncle and Daddy, patting Murad and me on the back, giving us cheerful smiles. Then he packed his bag and shook hands with everyone, including Mahesh in the corner. The last thing he did was to take Grandpa’s hand in both of his and whisper, “Good night, Professor.”

  After Daddy had seen him to the door, Daisy Aunty said she had a bit of good news to share. She spoke as though she was addressing Grandpa and he was listening. He was right, she said, she was going to get her wish, and would be performing the Beethoven concerto with the BSO later that year, at the NCPA.

  My parents congratulated her. Jal Uncle edged forward as though he would shake her hand, then held back shyly.

  She told us the date and took out some passes from her purse. Looking around to count us, she separated five from the wad. Now Jal Uncle went closer, to receive them from her hand. He said he would attend, definitely, and put the passes safely in his pocket.

  Daisy Aunty clicked her purse shut, kissed Grandpa’s cheek, and left.

  Very early the next morning, Daddy came to wake me. Grandpa had died a short while ago. “Come,” he said.

  The sun was just rising as we passed the window. I slowed down to see the colour of the dawn sky. Not yet cerulean, I thought. Daddy’s hand on my shoulder drew me along. Murad was up already, he was with Mummy in Grandpa’s room.

  The clock in the passageway struck six. I stood at the foot of the bed and looked at Grandpa. A small oil lamp had been lit on the table beside his head. It was strange to see his hands and feet absolutely still. For as long as I could remember, they had always trembled.

  “Come,” said Daddy again, and led me next to the pillow.

  I kept moving my eyes away from Grandpa’s face. On the other side of the bed sat Mummy, crying silently with her hands joined as though she was praying. Murad and Jal Uncle left the room now, and Daddy told me to give Grandpa a kiss, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch him later, after the prayer ceremonies began. I asked if Murad had kissed him.

  Mummy nodded from across the bed to encourage me. I leaned forward, a little scared, and, without putting my arms around him as I used to, kissed him quickly. It did not feel like I was kissing Grandpa.

  And suddenly I understood what dying meant. Nothing would ever be the same, Grandpa was gone forever. I began to cry.

  Daddy held my arm and led me away from the bed. I squirmed in his grasp as though to escape, but I didn’t know where else I wanted to be. Mummy held out her hand and I ran into her arms. She said that Grandpa was happy now, no more pain or sickness for him.

  Her crying made her choke on the words, and Daddy gently patted her back. He lifted my face from where it was buried in her shoulder, and hugged us both together, Mummy and me.

  He led me closer again, right next to Grandpa. He told me to look at the face, see how serene was the expression on it.

  I looked. I wasn’t sure what I saw. A little later, the hearse arrived from the Tower of Silence.

  After the funeral and four days of ceremonies, after Mummy finished the vigil and came home from Doongerwadi, she no longer cried – as though it didn’t matter to her any more that Grandpa was dead. I remember how much I resented that.

  Then the rented hospital bed was sent back, the urinal and bedpan scrubbed and put away in storage. Bit by bit, all signs of Grandpa began to vanish.

  Mummy told me I, too, should stop crying now, or it would make Grandpa’s soul unhappy. “Think of the good memories, Jehangoo. Remember the first day when Grandpa came to us by ambulance?”

  I nodded.

  “And you fed him lunch, doing aeroplanes with the spoon?”

  I tried my best to smile.

  “He used to have so much fun playing with you, no? How he laughed at your aeroplane noises.”

  “I spilled some food on his shirt. You scolded me.”

  “Yes, I had to, I’m your mother. But it was beautiful to see you feeding Grandpa. And how you and Murad used to stroke his bald head and squeeze his chin.”

  My fingers still remember the feel of Grandpa’s jujube chin. It was such a unique sensation, the combination of tiny stubble and rubbery skin.

  Mummy kept trying to cheer me up, and I kept nodding. But next day, while I was growing used to the absence of the white bed in Grandpa’s room, all his medicine bottles were taken away from his dressing table, for donation to the charity hospital.

  “Why can’t you leave Grandpa’s things alone?” I protested.

  “Grandpa is in heaven, Jehangla,” said Daddy. “He doesn’t need them any more. Dada Ormuzd is providing for him now. Clothes, ice cream, pudding, everything.” And Mummy smiled, agreeing with this jolly idea of God’s tailoring and catering services.

  I think I scowled back at them. I knew they were trying to be humorous to make me feel better, but I wasn’t in the mood for it.

  Grandpa’s smell stayed in his room though his things were gone. I went there often. After a few days even that disappeared.

  When Jal Uncle reminded us of Daisy Aunty’s concert with the Bombay Symphony Orchestra, Mummy said it was only three months since Grandpa’s funeral and she did not feel right about going. Daddy said he felt the same way.

  I disagreed, saying they had encouraged me to think happy thoughts, and here was something nice we could enjoy, the music that Grandpa liked the most. What sense did it make to waste the passes Daisy Aunty had given us?

  They tried to explain the convention of mourning, the observance of social proprieties, the expectations of the community. I refused to accept any of it.

  Eventually, Mummy said that she and Daddy weren’t going, that was final. And Jal Uncle and Murad and I could do as we wished.

  Now that the responsibility for the decision was on my shoulders, I no longer felt so confident. All through the week I kept agonizing over it, wondering what Grandpa would have wanted me to do.

  On Friday
morning, the day of the concert, I made up my mind. Before leaving for school I told Jal Uncle I wanted to go.

  So we went, just the two of us. That evening he wore his best suit and tie. I ironed a long-sleeved shirt and long pants for myself. It was an enormous auditorium, much bigger than Max Mueller Bhavan, where I had seen the orchestra practising. The sign told me what NCPA meant: National Centre for the Performing Arts. It seemed such an important place, I was almost reluctant to enter.

  The foyer was crowded with beautifully dressed people. Some women’s saris looked more expensive than Mummy’s wedding sari. I smelled perfume, and it reminded me of Miss Alvarez, though hers was much nicer, it didn’t feel like a headache the way this did. Jal Uncle and I were very alone in the excitement around us. Everyone except us seemed to know everybody else.

  But once the bell rang and we were in our seats, the lights dimmed and I didn’t care about other people because the orchestra came out to the stage, then Daisy Aunty came out with the conductor, and I knew her – the most important person there. She was wearing the beautiful black clothes she had worn for Grandpa.

  Taking her position to the left of the conductor, she put the violin under her chin and checked its tuning. The conductor signalled to the orchestra, and all the instruments played one note. He seemed satisfied with the sound. Raising his baton, he nodded at Daisy Aunty. The concert began.

  I felt a great surge of pride when her solo part entered the score. For me, that was the most thrilling moment of the concerto. I’m sure Jal Uncle and I clapped more loudly than anyone in the auditorium.

  At the end of the concert, after the encore, Jal Uncle suggested saying hello. We were swept up the aisle along with the rest of the audience, out into the foyer. There, we followed the corridor to get behind the stage.

  People had surrounded Daisy Aunty, saying congratulations, a magnificent interpretation, so fresh and energetic. Some of them gave her flowers. We stood back, and waited our turn.