Such a Long Journey

  ‘He went out just two minutes ago.’ Her resolve to chasten him with a cold shoulder and sharp tongue weakened somewhat.

  ‘Out?’ He looked as if he would burst into tears. ‘Ohhhh. Now what will I do?’ He began to twist and tug at one of his shirt buttons. ‘It’s very, very important.’

  That melted Dilnavaz’s remaining resistance. ‘Come in,’ she said, ‘if he is still at the bus stop I’ll call him back.’

  ‘No, no, no. How can I give so much trouble?’

  ‘It’s OK, bus stop is just outside the compound. Just come in and sit, baba.’

  As if threatened by her note of impatience, he immediately made his way to the sofa. ‘Thank you, thank you. Sorry for the trouble, please forgive.’ The teapoy caught him on the knee as he stumbled past, making him wince. He lifted his trouser leg to examine the spot while Dilnavaz called Tehmul.

  ‘HowareyouIamfinehowareyouthankyoupleaseveryverytastyjuice.’

  ‘Quick, go to the bus stop. If Gustad is there ask him to come back. Tell him very important. Quickly.’ Leaving the door open, she went inside to sit with Dinshawji.

  But Dinshawji was no longer alone. His timid whispers had reached into the back room and awakened Roshan to the visitor’s presence, the visitor who had once made her laugh, made her birthday glow with merriment for a while, before everything became noise and quarrel and unhappiness. Now, with her doll, she waited on the sofa beside Dinshawji and hoped he would soon start being funny again.

  ‘Will you drink something?’ Dilnavaz asked him.

  ‘No, no. Enough trouble I have given you.’ She brought the glass of water that Gustad had refused a few minutes ago.

  Tehmul appeared in the doorway. ‘GonegoneGustadgone. Bus-goneGustadgone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Dinshawji repeated helplessly.

  ‘Gonegonegonegone.’

  ‘It is very, very important to talk to him,’ he said, rolling the newspaper desperately, tighter and tighter. His distress was acute; Dilnavaz could not let him leave.

  ‘He went to the doctor for Roshan. It won’t take long.’

  ‘So much trouble I am giving,’ he said timorously, but was relieved at being allowed to stay.

  Tehmul dragged his bad leg slowly into the room. His shining eyes were fixed on the doll. ‘Pleasepleaseplease. Letmetouch-please. Pleaseonceonlypleasepleaseplease.’

  ‘No!’ Roshan clutched the doll about the waist.

  Dinshawji smiled. ‘Such a small girl and such a big voice.’

  ‘Tehmul,’ said Dilnavaz sternly. ‘Go play in the compound.’

  He stopped his forward movement, his lower jaw working as though in search of words to protest. But there were no words, and no one to complain to. He left. A leaf fell from the neem tree, gracefully sailing earthwards on the breeze. He followed the leaf. It floated to the left, turned to the right, then spun with the current. He stumbled, tripped, and fell. Dilnavaz sighed and shut the door.

  ‘Your voice is not sick,’ said Dinshawji to Roshan. ‘Nice and strong it came out just now, didn’t it?’

  ‘Touch wood,’ said Dilnavaz, reaching for the teapoy with one hand and guiding Roshan’s with the other. Dinshawji obligingly followed their example.

  ‘Come on, Roshan,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear your voice again.’ She smiled, embarrassed, and fussed with the doll’s veil. ‘How about a little song? They must be teaching you songs in school. Come on, no, please,’ he cajoled.

  She hesitated, then said, to Dilnavaz’s surprise, ‘We sing “Two Little Eyes” for assembly every morning.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I would love to hear that. Do it just like in school.’

  ‘OK.’ She sang softly:

  Two little eyes to look unto God,

  Two little ears to hear His words,

  Two little hands to work every day,

  Two little feet to walk in His way,

  performing each line with all the actions taught by her teacher – pointing to eyes and ears, holding out her hands, indicating the feet.

  Dinshawji clapped. ‘Very good, very good. What else does the assembly sing?’

  She stood and clasped her hands, bowing in each direction as she sang:

  Good morning to you! Good morning to you!

  Whatever the weather, we’ll make it together!

  In work and in play, a beautiful day!

  ‘Bravo, bravo,’ said Dinshawji, holding the doll’s hands and bringing them together in a clapping motion.

  ‘Enough singing,’ said Dilnavaz, ‘or you will get tired.’ She went to the kitchen to check if the potatoes were done. When she returned, they were playing games with their hands spread flat on the teapoy. Dinshawji was counting out the fingers for Arrung-Darrung. As he reached the end, Roshan joined in with ‘Bhum dai nay bhooski!’ That was the cue to raise their hands and slam them down, pretending to collapse where they sat.

  ‘You are too old for that game now, Roshan,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘We used to play it when you were four or five.’ She detected some slight envy in herself.

  ‘She played it for my sake,’ said Dinshawji. ‘I am still young enough for it. Now we will play Kaakerya Kumar.’ They stacked their fists upon the teapoy, Dinshawji’s at the bottom, then Roshan’s then his again, with Roshan at the top. They went through the questions and answers: ‘Kaakerya Kumar, ketlo bhaar?’ ‘Munno bhaar.’ ‘Ek utari nay bagalma maar,’ taking turns and coercing each other with dire threats to retract the fist and stick it in an armpit. Imaginary chairs, cupboards, beds, cars, lorries were hurled at each other, till the imaginary pain was so much that someone capitulated. The denouement came when Dinshawji’s final fist resisted all threats, including the wrathful flames of Small God, until Roshan hurled the all-consuming fire of Big God. Dinshawji removed his fist amidst howls of pain: ‘O, I’m burning! I’m burning! Burning in the fire of Motta Dadaji!’

  Even Dilnavaz laughed at his antics. Then she insisted that Roshan really must lie down again. ‘One more game, please Mummy, before I go.’ She got her pack of cards and played Ekka-Per-Chaar, in which she was trouncing Dinshawji, till she got sleepy and abandoned the game. She went to bed smiling, leaving the doll on the sofa.

  Dinshawji’s anxiety and nervousness returned once she left. He began toying with his newspaper again, rolling and unrolling it. Its edges were in tatters, his clammy hands covered in black smudges.

  iii

  Gustad insisted that the compounder deliver his message immediately to Dr Paymaster: it was an emergency. He waited by the tiny cubicle in the little storage space, amid medicine bottles of green glass, foul-smelling powders, and boxes containing pharmacological paraphernalia. Everything covered with dust. Unused for God knows how long. Why does he bother to store all this? Always prescribing his same standard four-five remedies. And calls himself a doctor. God knows why we keep coming to him.

  The patient inside emerged, and through the ground glass the doctor’s figure could be seen walking towards the cubicle. An ill humour had settled upon Dr Paymaster after a day of dealing with fools and misguided militants. All morning, he had spent his energies convincing his neighbours that the way to make the municipality repair and improve things was through the democratic process, through petitions, through the ballot box, or the judiciary. Just because the gutters stank was no reason for them to sink to the gutter-level rowdyism of the ruling party, or take out a big morcha to threaten the municipality. Finally, they agreed to try his way. But after they left, he had to argue for an hour with the gas company, to get a replacement cylinder – explaining to the idiots that if he could not light his burner and sterilize his equipment, the clinic would shut down. But the idiots would not understand. How was the country going to fight a war at this rate, he wondered.

  He was not in a pleasant mood as he listened to Gustad. ‘Hope you followed my instructions properly. Or did you modify the prescription? Any more Entero-Vioform? Sulpha-Guanidine? I know how much you like those.’ His grouchiness surprised the comp
ounder too. ‘But you know what the biggest problem is? Everybody wants to be a doctor. Worse, everybody thinks he is a doctor.’

  Shortly after, Gustad left with a new list of pills. How dare he say such things! Taking advantage, just because he knows me for so many years. What does he think of himself? First virus, now colitis. Easy to keep throwing out new names. Doctors think everyone else is stupid.

  By the time he passed the House of Cages, he was yawing wildly, battling to stay afloat in the storm of Dr Paymaster’s making. There was a temporary lull at the House. Here, as in any business, things were wont to happen in spurts and starts. Peerbhoy Paan walla waited idly for the next round of customers, arranging and rearranging his trays and tins. When Gustad hurried by with a leg that seemed lame, he could not resist calling out, ‘Arre, gentleman, hallo, how are you!’

  Gustad thought he was being solicited by one of the many pimps who lurked in these doorways. Peerbhoy had used the favourite greeting of the pencil-thin moustachioed, oily-haired, gaudy-neckerchiefed individuals with ingratiating smiles, who sidled up at the least opportunity. Doubtless Peerbhoy had picked up the line from them. Gustad turned, saw him wave, and realized his error.

  ‘Hallo, gentleman! You did not come back for Mr Mohammed?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. That problem is OK now.’ What else to say about that rascal? And bloody Bilimoria.

  ‘Just this morning Ghulambhai was here,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘He was looking very worried, very upset. I asked him what was wrong, but he would not say anything. Do you know what happened?’ Gustad shook his head and started off.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘I will make a paan for your leg. Make your bones strong. No more lameness.’

  ‘No need. It’s fine.’

  ‘No, huzoor, it’s not,’ he insisted. ‘Just now you were swaying so badly. Up and down, and side to side. Like a launch at Apollo Bunder in the monsoon sea.’

  Gustad trimmed his sail, straightened the rudder, and demonstrated with a few steps. ‘See? It’s OK.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I can see it is OK now. Means the trouble is in the head. And for that, also, I have a paan.’ Without waiting for consent, his hands began to whizz around, opening cans, trimming a leaf, crushing a nut.

  Why not, thought Gustad. ‘OK. But not too expensive.’

  ‘All my paans are reasonably priced. All except one. That one you need only if you are going to the House.’

  ‘You still make the palung-tode?’

  ‘While there are men, there will be palung-tode.’

  How old he has grown, thought Gustad. The large hands had lost none of their skill or dexterity, but his fingers were gnarled, the nails yellowing like old newsprint. ‘I remember you selling paan here since I was a child.’

  ‘Oh yes. A very long time.’

  ‘May I ask how old you are?’

  Peerbhoy laughed. ‘If you can count all my years to the day of my death, and subtract the number left from now till then, you will have my present age.’ He folded the betel leaf and tucked in the corner. ‘Eat that and tell me.’

  Gustad opened wide, pushed it in. His mouth could barely contain the paan. ‘Very nice,’ he mumbled indistinctly. ‘How much?’

  ‘Only one rupee.’

  Before getting on the bus, Gustad spat out half. The taste was a mixture of sweet and sour. Slightly pungent. Also tart and bitter. And mouth starting to feel funny.

  Outside Khodadad Building, he jettisoned the rest. By now, the numbness had spread to his mind, which was not unpleasant, but made it difficult to think about Dr Paymaster’s advice. He opened the door with his key. ‘Dinshawji? What brings you here?’

  ‘Forgive the trouble,’ he murmured. ‘It’s very important.’

  Dilnavaz saw the red on Gustad’s lips and got a whiff of the bitter-sweet odour. She was disgusted. ‘You smell horrible! Behaving like a mia-laanda!’

  ‘Sorry, Dilnoo-darling,’ he said feebly, and went to the bathroom, gargled, used toothpaste. That got rid of some of the smell and colour. But the numbness continued to clutch at his mind as he returned to the front room.

  ‘What did doctor say?’ she asked. ‘And whatever made you eat a paan?’

  ‘Peerbhoy Paanwalla said it would be good for my leg.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘A cup of tea, please?’

  ‘Like children, you men are. Doing stupid things.’ She remembered the tea he had poured down the drain. ‘You are sure this time you want one?’ But he was too far gone to catch the sarcasm, and nodded meekly.

  ‘What about doctor?’

  ‘Saying idiotic-lunatic things. That we are not giving proper rest and diet. Blaming us! Wants to put Roshan in hospital. Everyone knows what happens in hospital. Blunders and botches, wrong injections, medicine mix-ups.’

  Dinshawji nodded in agreement. ‘Go to a hospital when you are ready to die, is what I always say.’

  ‘Absolutely correct,’ said Gustad. ‘Bas, with doctors, any time they don’t know what to do – throw the patient in hospital. Who is there in the world that can take better care of my Roshan than I, I would like to know. He made the blood in my brain start to boil!’

  ‘Few months ago,’ said Dinshawji, ‘my doctor wanted to admit me to Parsi General. I said to him, General is no, and Field Marshal is also no. Then my Alamai took his side, so what to do? I had to go.’

  ‘Would have been hundred times better to rest at home.’

  Dilnavaz set out three cups. Dinshawji waited, rolling and unrolling the newspaper. The edges were peeling in thin strips.

  Gustad gulped his tea scalding hot, soon as it was poured. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ cautioned Dilnavaz. ‘It will burn up your blood.’ She appealed to Dinshawji: ‘Won’t listen to me when I say it’s not good to drink it so hot and so black. Blood burning is not the only problem. It can also cause stomach cancer.’ Dinshawji shuddered when she said this. He sipped his tea slowly, the cup trembling at his lips.

  ‘My sister-in-law’s father had the same habit,’ she continued. ‘Drank the tea soon as it was poured, boiling from the stove. By the time he was fifty, the whole lining of his stomach was completely gone. They had to feed him through a tube in his arm. Luckily, poor man did not suffer very long.’

  Gustad asked for a second cup. She said, ‘Dinshawji is waiting, he has something very important to say.’

  ‘Say it, Dinshawji. I am ready.’

  Dinshawji’s hands shook as he opened the newspaper. He folded it and gave it to Gustad, along with the bulky white envelope. Gustad recognized it and flared up. ‘Are you crazy? You did not deposit?’

  ‘Please read,’ he implored, close to tears. ‘You will understand.’ The piece was fairly short, titled ‘CORRUPTION RIPE IN RAW’, which made Gustad snort:

  Acting jointly on the basis of an anonymous tip, the CBI and city police yesterday arrested in the nation’s capital an officer of the Research and Analysis Wing, Jimmy Bilimoria, on charges of fraud and extortion.

  He turned disbelievingly to Dinshawji, feeling as if the paan’s numbness was returning to lay its icy fingers on his brain. ‘Impossible! What kind of rubbish is this?’

  ‘Please read,’ he pleaded again, but Gustad had already lowered his eyes:

  The police report stated that, based on the accused’s confession, the facts were as follows. Some months ago in New Delhi, Mr Bilimoria, impersonating the Prime Minister’s voice, telephoned the State Bank of India and identified himself as Indira Gandhi. He instructed the Chief Cashier to withdraw sixty lakh rupees from the bank’s reserves for delivery to a man who would identify himself as the Bangladeshi Babu. The next day, Mr Bilimoria, this time in the persona of the Bangladeshi Babu, met the Chief Cashier and took delivery of the sixty lakh rupees.

  The police report goes on to state that Mr Bilimoria has admitted he perpetrated the fraud in order to expedite aid to the guerrillas in East Pakistan. ‘The Mukti Bahini are brave and courageous fighters,’ the RAW officer is said to have written in his confession, ?
??and I was growing tired of watching the bureaucrats drag their feet.’ He claims the idea was entirely his own, and his zealousness in helping the Mukti Bahini is to blame.

  A Footnote: While the alleged facts of this case are certainly unique, what strikes this reporter as even more unusual are the circumstances surrounding this highly imaginative crime. For example, assuming that Mr Bilimoria has the talent of voice impersonation, is it routine for our national banks to hand over vast sums of money if the Prime Minister telephones? How high up does one have to be in the government or the Congress Party to be able to make such a call? And was the Chief Cashier so familiar with Mrs Gandhi’s voice that he accepted the instructions without any verification whatsoever? If yes, does that mean that Mrs Gandhi has done this sort of thing frequently? These questions cry out for answers, and till the answers are heard, clearly and completely, the public’s already eroded confidence in our leaders cannot be restored.

  Dilnavaz handed Gustad the second cup of tea as he finished reading. It slipped through his fingers to the floor. The cup shattered, the hot liquid splashing his right foot and ankle.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?’ She felt his forehead in alarm, thinking it was the paan.

  ‘Of course I am all right,’ he said irritatedly, ‘you are the one who dropped the cup.’ He made no attempt to pick up the broken pieces or wipe his foot. ‘Jimmy has been arrested.’

  ‘What?’ She took the paper and sat beside Dinshawji who was much calmer now. Gustad wondered what he was thinking. ‘Believe me, Dinshu, I had no idea, or I would never have done it. I would never have asked you –’

  ‘Where is the question of that?’ said Dinshawji gently. ‘There is no doubt in my mind about you at all.’

  ‘He lied. Major Bilimoria lied from the beginning. About everything! To me!’