‘There goes your express train brain. No one is coming, he only wants me to pick up a parcel. In Chor Bazaar.’
‘Why Chor Bazaar? That’s not a nice place.’
‘Don’t be silly. Because the old name is still used doesn’t mean it’s full of thieves. Even foreign tourists go there nowadays.’
‘But why not just mail the parcel here?’
‘Take.’ He held out the letter. ‘Read for yourself.’ He wondered who the contact was that he was supposed to have met.
‘It all sounds very strange to me. This business of going to Chor Bazaar, and the Shakespeare book. And that, what was that name? Here it is – Research and Analysis Wing. I did not know Jimmy was also a scientist.’
He laughed. ‘RAW is the Indian secret service. Jimmy is no scientist, he is a double-o-seven.’
Through the window, she saw Sohrab approach, and opened the door in anticipation. He’s early today, she said to herself. Then to Gustad, ‘So you are going to do it?’
‘Yes, a friend cannot be let down, I am going to do it.’
‘Going to do what?’ asked Sohrab as he walked in.
Gustad ignored him, but she explained eagerly. ‘Major Uncle’s letter has come. Read, read, tell us what you think.’
‘No one needs your son’s advice,’ said Gustad.
Sohrab glanced quickly down the page. ‘I am surprised Major Uncle joined RAW.’
His words awakened his father’s irritation and bitterness. ‘Genius has spoken.’
Sohrab continued: ‘Our wonderful Prime Minister uses RAW like a private police force, to do all her dirty work.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish again! Jimmy is involved in something top-secret about East Pakistan. Just like that, you say dirty work! God knows what newspaper you have been reading!’ He switched on the light with vehemence. Dusk had a habit of descending swiftly on the paper-darkened room.
‘But it’s true. She sends men from RAW to spy on opposition parties, create trouble, start violence so the police can interfere. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘I read the papers and I know what goes on. Rumours and allegations all the time, and no proof!’ Like a malarial fever his irritation started to rise.
‘What about the chemical election? Only RAW could have done that. She made a real mockery of democracy.’
He snatched the letter from Sohrab’s hand. ‘Another rumour! What do you think, the election was a children’s magic show? All this nonsense about chemically treated ballots, and crosses appearing and disappearing automatically! Mockery of democracy is that people are willing to believe rumours. Without proper evidence.’
‘Lots of evidence was presented in court. Enough for the judges to send the case to trial. Why do you think she transferred them?’ Sohrab appealed to his mother in frustration.
She listened helplessly as Gustad said that the blood in his brain was boiling again. Now the boy was pretending to be an expert on law and politics and RAW. The enemy was at the border, that Pakistani drunkard Yahya was cooking something in partnership with China, and fools like her son went around saying rubbish about the Prime Minister. He lifted a finger and pointed. ‘Better that the genius shuts his mouth before I shut it for him. Before he falls off that high roof he has climbed.’
Sohrab rose in disgust to leave the room. ‘Wait,’ said Gustad, and asked Dilnavaz, ‘Where are those application forms?’
She handed him the lot, grieving. How silly to have hope in green limes. Unless. Unless, as Miss Kutpitia said, something stronger is needed. If the evil, the darkness, is more powerful than she estimated.
Gustad gave the forms to Sohrab, and told him to count the number of places he had been to for a worthless, ungrateful boy, the number of times he touched his forehead and folded his hands, and said ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ and ‘please’ and ‘thank you very much’. ‘Count the forms,’ he said, ‘then throw them away.’
‘OK.’ Sohrab took the forms and riffled them while walking down the narrow passage to the kitchen.
‘Shameless dog.’ Gritting his teeth, Gustad heard the rustle and soft slap of paper against the rusted rubbish-pail. Dilnavaz hurried to rescue the forms from the gloppy stuff at the bottom. She hid them in the arched recess, under the choolavati, where coal was stored in the old days before kerosene and gas. The green limes were also collecting there, waiting for a sea burial.
SEVEN
i
On Monday, after another torturous night of mosquitoes, Gustad left early for work. Morning was the best time to see the manager, who, according to the staff, was a very stiffly-starched fellow, and not merely because of the hard, unyielding collars he wore regardless of heat or humidity. But Mr Madon could stay cold and aloof, thought Gustad, and tie silly bows round his rigid neck, so long as he was impartial in matters regarding the bank. And if he wanted to keep his first name a secret, that, too, was Mr Madon’s own pompous business.
Twenty-four years ago, when Gustad had just joined the bank, Mr Madon was an assistant manager. It was rumoured that the then manager had found Mr Madon’s snuff habit quite abhorrent, and ordered him to stop, despite the fact that it was a twenty-two karat gold snuffbox into which Mr Madon dipped with the utmost style. One thing quickly led to another, and though no one knew exactly what happened, it was the manager who departed under a dark cloud. Mr Madon immediately ascended the coveted chair.
An old peon who now spent his time in an unhectic corner on a stool as rickety as his person, doing nothing more strenuous than drinking glasses of tea or fetching them for others, claimed to have once overheard the secret first name. The peon, Bhimsen, who never used his own surname (it was not certain if he even had one) would tell of the time when he had barged in accidentally while Mr Madon and the manager were locked in a pungent quarrel. Accidentally, for one of the two had slammed a ledger on the desk, triggering the bell that was Bhimsen’s summons. But the moment of eavesdropping had occurred so many years ago that though Bhimsen remembered the event, he had forgotten the name.
Mr Madon’s heart, however, was as kind as his habits were finicky. He was absurdly particular about the arrangement of things on his desk: the calendar, pen stand, paperweight, lamp, all had to be positioned just so. When old Bhimsen was low on funds, he would come to work early, unshaven, and displace things while dusting Mr Madon’s office. Then the manager would arrive, notice the misalignment, and ring for Bhimsen. Invariably, the perfunctory scolding was followed by a gift of fifty paise for a shave at the downstairs barber, which Bhimsen pocketed before proceeding to the bathroom where his razor was hidden.
‘Half-day off?’ said Mr Madon to Gustad. ‘This Friday?’ He leaned forward and looked at the desk calendar through gold-rimmed glasses. ‘Hmmm.’ He raised his eyes over the gold rims and tapped the snuffbox. ‘Why?’ The snappiness might have seemed rude to someone not familiar with his mannerisms.
Gustad tore his thoughts away from the rich, warm lustre of Mr Madon’s leather chair. He had envied the occupant while admiring the chair for twenty-four years, and for the first few, had even harboured an ambition to make it his own some day. Very soon, though, he realized there was no room for him in that seat, given the nepotic scheme of things everywhere and the ragged path his own life had taken. He had prepared his story for Mr Madon. ‘Have to go to doctor. This leg, giving trouble again.’
Last night in bed, while trying out the various offerable excuses for shape, size and credibility, his first plan was to say that his little girl had to be taken to the doctor. But he quickly abandoned that pretext in mid-creation. Fear of the Almighty’s wrath, or something like it, caused him to steer away from making imaginary illnesses befall his children. There was a heavenly host of angels, his grandmother had taught him long ago, who, from time to time, listened to the words and thoughts of mortals, and granted whatever was desired therein. Of course, this did not happen very often, she explained, because it was only a minor host, which was a blessing, considering how carelessly a
nd unthinkingly most people used words. All the same, it was of the utmost necessity to keep one’s thoughts good, lest, at the moment of a bad thought, an angel might listen and make it come to pass.
‘What happened to your leg?’ asked Mr Madon. The snuffbox was open now.
‘Nothing new, sir, just my accident from nine years ago.’ Rather me than my children. ‘It is causing –’
‘I remember your accident. You were on leave for fourteen weeks.’ He looked at the calendar again. ‘What time?’
‘One o’clock, please.’ Each time Mr Madon leaned forward, the collar cut deeply into his neck. How did he suffer that day after day? Starch was one thing, plywood another.
‘And you will come back to the office after your appointment?’ The snuffbox moved closer. His index finger and thumb, pinched together, hovered like an insect over the dark brown powder.
‘Yes, sir, if it is before six o’clock, definitely, sir.’
‘Fine,’ snapped Mr Madon, and was echoed by the calendar snapping shut. The audience was over. Then, quicker than Gustad’s eye could follow, a trace of snuff was lifted to the right nostril.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he said, and limped to the door. As he shut it behind him, the Officers’ Enclave resounded with a series of explosive sneezes. He walked down the corridor, remembering to limp pronouncedly.
Till Friday afternoon he would have to continue the exaggeration. But it was easier than pretending a sore throat or fever. The latter was the riskiest, for Mr Madon had been known to reach out and feel foreheads with the back of a slyly solicitous hand. If he suspected a blatant fraud, he led the wretch to his sanctuary where, swift as quicksilver, he whipped out a clinical thermometer from his desk drawer and tucked the bulb under the patient’s armpit. The seconds were counted off on his gold Rolex chronometer. Then he held the glistening glass stem for the anxious malingerer to peruse the glinting message. ‘Congratulations,’ Mr Madon would say, ‘fever all gone,’ and the patient, expressing his thanks to the mercurial miracle-worker, returned quite crushed to the teller’s cage.
Wending his way to his department, Gustad saw Dinshawji clowning around Laurie Coutino’s desk. In the last few weeks, Dinshawji had succeeded in getting acquainted with the new typist, and now visited her at least once a day. But it was not the Dinshawji of the canteen joke-sessions who performed before Laurie. Forsaking his natural flair for humour, he tried to be dashing and flamboyant, or swashbuckling and debonair. The result was a pitiful spectacle of cavorting and capering during which he looked so ludicrous that Gustad was embarrassed for his friend. He could not understand what had come over Dinshawji, making a kutchoomber of his self-respect. At times like these, he was glad that although the paths of their working day crisscrossed, Dinshawji did not officially come under the jurisdiction of the Savings Department. Or it would have fallen into Gustad’s greasy, overflowing dishpan of duties to say something about the inappropriate behaviour.
Laurie’s desk was underneath a framed public notice: Entry of Firearms or Other Articles Capable of Being Used as Weapons of Offence Inside the Bank Is Strictly Prohibited. Which made it worse, because Dinshawji’s antics were in full view of the customers. With Laurie’s stapler in his hand, he was prancing around, making swooping, coiling, writhing movements of his arm, darting at her with its metal jaws, then hissing and withdrawing. Gustad admired her patience and her svelte figure.
A fellow clerk pointed to the notice. ‘Hey, Dinshu! Your snake is a deadly weapon! Not allowed in the bank!’
‘Jealousy will get you nowhere!’ replied Dinshawji, and everyone laughed. He noticed Gustad watching. ‘Look, Gustad, look! Laurie is such a brave girl! Not scared of my big, naughty snake!’
She smiled politely. Beads of perspiration were visible on Dinshawji’s bald pate as the snake grew adventurous, moving with abandon into regions of daring proximity. Finally she said, ‘I have so much typing to do. This place is always very busy, no?’
Gustad took the opportunity to intervene. ‘Come on, Dinshu. Let Laurie do her work. Or she won’t get paid.’ It was done good-humouredly, and Dinshawji was willing to relinquish the stapler and go with him.
He noticed Gustad limping more than usual. ‘What happened to the leg?’
He welcomed the question. ‘Same old thing. That hip giving trouble again. Just now I was with Madon, asking him for Friday half-day to see doctor.’ When the castle was imaginary, a strong foundation was helpful. They were alone now. He said, ‘Careful, Dinshu. You never know, she might complain.’
‘Nonsense. She enjoys my jokes. Laugh and the world laughs with you.’
He tried a different tack. ‘This is a head office operation, you know, not a small branch. Maybe Mr Madon does not want the world to laugh in the office.’
Dinshawji became indignant. ‘Bodyline bowling? Watch it, Gustad!’ A foul whiff escaped his mouth, the familiar warning. Something was different this time, he was not just playing his usual Casanova role. Or perhaps he was playing it too well.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Gustad. ‘You know I am not a management chumcha. Only telling you what I think. This snake thing might be too non-veg for a shy girl like Laurie.’
Dinshawji laughed scornfully. ‘Arré, Gustad, these Catholic girls are all hot-hot things. Listen, my school was in Dhobitalao area, almost hundred per cent ma-ka-pao. The things I would see, my eyeballs would fall out. Not like our Parsi girls with all their don’t-touch-here and don’t-feel-there fussiness. Everything they would open up. In every gully-gootchy, yaar, in the dark, or under the stairs, what-what went on.’
Gustad listened sceptically. ‘Really?’
‘But I am telling you, no,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Swear,’ and he pinched the skin under his Adam’s apple between thumb and finger. Then he winked, nudging him with his elbow. ‘You clever bugger! I think I know the truth! Lining Laurie Coutino for yourself or what? Naughty boy!’ Gustad smiled and accepted the attempt at reconciliation.
ii
He needed to get his bearings in the maze of narrow lanes and byways that was Chor Bazaar. Where to begin? And so many people everywhere – locals, tourists, foreigners, treasure hunters, antique collectors, junk dealers, browsers. Away from the crowds’ swirls and eddies, he stopped by a little stall selling a variety of used sockets and rusty wrenches. There were other tools as well: pliers, hammers with rough wooden handles, screwdrivers, a planer, worn-out files. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ said the shopkeeper, picking up a hammer and swinging it demonstratively before offering it to Gustad who declined. The man gathered up a bunch of screwdrivers with multi-coloured wood and plastic handles. ‘All types and sizes,’ he said. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ and held them out like a posy.
Gustad shook his head. ‘Why so crowded today? What is happening?’
‘Bazaar is happening,’ said the tool-seller. ‘Friday is always the biggest bazaar day. After namaaz at the mosque.’
Then, among the tools, Gustad spied something familiar. Red, rectangular metal plates with holes along the borders. And green perforated strips. ‘Is that a complete Meccano set?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the man eagerly. In a trice he disentangled the pieces from the jumble of tools and placed them in Gustad’s hands.
And as Gustad felt the metal under his fingers, smelled the metallic smell of rust from the little wheels and rods and clamps, the years fell away. He saw a little boy holding his father’s hand and walking timidly down these lanes. His father talking enthusiastically about antiques and curios, pointing, describing, explaining. The shopkeepers calling, Mr Noble see this vase, you will like it, Mr Noble, very rare plate, saving it just for you, very cheap. And his father saying quietly in his ear, Listen to them, Gustad, listen to the thieves. And the little boy saying, Pappa, look, a Meccano set, such a big one. His father pleased, patting his head, saying, Yes, at least a number ten, sharp eyes you have, just like mine. Then his father bargaining, offering a preposterously low figure, haggling a
nd dickering, are you crazy, walking away, come back sir, come back, yes, walking back, no, go to hell, please take, honest price, in God’s name, don’t blaspheme, final figure, truthfully sahab, OK you thief – and thus, the bargain sealed.
They took the Meccano home wrapped in newspaper, where, under Grandpa’s supervision, Gustad made a wooden box for it, with sections to hold nuts and bolts, fishplates and right-angled brackets, discs and tyres, pulleys and flywheels, tie-rods and cranks, platforms and curved plates, all in their separate compartments. Afterwards, to the delight of the parents and grandparents, various models emerged from Gustad’s room: fire-engine, crane, racing car, steamboat, double-decker bus, clock tower. His greatest triumph was a drawbridge that could be raised and lowered. Every time he completed something, Pappa would say, this boy will make the name of Noble great.
‘Excuse me?’ said the stall owner. ‘You want to buy the Meccano?’ He touched Gustad’s shoulder.
‘Oh,’ said Gustad. ‘No, no. Just looking.’ He handed back the set, ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the series of lanes running perpendicular to the main road, all littered with a miscellany of goods, as though a convoy of lorries had symmetrically spilled their loads. Much of it was metal and glass, gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Worthless junk lay side by side with valuable objects: chipped cups and saucers, Meissen ware, Sheffield cutlery, vases, brass lamps, Limoges porcelain, solder-repaired cooking utensils, ewers, wind-up gramophones with shining conical horns, silver trays, walking-sticks, weights and measures, cricket balls in varying stages of wear, refurbished cricket bats, umbrellas, crystal wineglasses.
He picked a lane at random and entered. An earwax remover was busy at the corner, his customer wincing occasionally as the slender silver instrument entered, explored, and emerged. Gustad stepped carefully around them. What would happen, he wondered, if someone jostled the man’s arm while he was excavating? The thought made him shudder.