Such a Long Journey

‘Of course, bossie. More the merrier. A good mixture like this is a perfect example for our secular country. That’s the way it should be. The ghail chodias will complain even if God Himself comes down. Something they will find wrong with Him. That He is not handsome enough, or not fair enough, or not tall enough.’ Inspector Bamji waved and drove off. Gustad entered with his latchkey, laughing quietly to himself. Roshan was sobbing on the sofa.

  ‘She won’t stop,’ complained Dilnavaz. ‘Being so silly.’

  ‘Is it paining somewhere? What’s wrong?’ He rushed to the sofa and held her.

  ‘Nothing is paining. Her doll is lost, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you mean, lost? Such a big doll? It’s not a needle or button.’

  ‘We can’t find it anywhere in the house.’

  ‘Then say stolen. Lost!’ He wiped Roshan’s eyes. ‘Where was it left?’

  ‘On the sofa, for many days.’

  ‘Bas, you must have left the door open. So many times I have warned you. How long does it take for the fruitwalla or biscuitwalla or anyone to grab something and run?’

  ‘I never leave the door open,’ Dilnavaz stated emphatically, simultaneously remembering her frantic rushings to and from Miss Kutpitia’s.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he comforted Roshan. ‘We will find it.’ Where on earth, he wondered helplessly. A miracle would be required, like the wall. Why did miracles and misfortunes always come hand in hand?

  FIFTEEN

  i

  ‘The money is all here. You better count it.’

  Ghulam looked hurt. ‘Please don’t say that, Mr Noble. I trust you with my life. You are Bili Boy’s friend, and mine.’

  Bastard hypocrite, thought Gustad. Last time, menacing and vicious – like a cobra spreading its hood. Now all sweet and grateful. Bloody actor. ‘I hope the need to be your friend and the Major’s is ended.’

  Ghulam sighed and opened a newspaper. ‘You saw this report from Delhi today? About Bili Boy.’ Curiosity got the better of Gustad’s bitterness.

  ‘See?’ said Ghulam. ‘They are out to get him. Three different magistrates in three days, to dispose of Bili Boy’s case.’ He mauled the paper angrily. ‘People at the very top are involved, believe me.’

  The bastard is right. Something funny going on. ‘Major Bilimoria lied to me from the beginning. How can I believe or not believe? Who can I trust? You? The newspaper?’

  Ghulam looked pained again. ‘Please, Mr Noble, things are not what they seem. He is trapped by the ones at the top.’ Gustad’s face showed scorn for his words. ‘And what’s hurting him most in prison is not his enemies’ blows, but his friend thinking he has been betrayed. That’s why he wants to meet you and explain.’

  ‘What? But you said he is in prison.’

  ‘It can be arranged. If you will go to Delhi.’

  ‘Impossible. I have no leave, and my child is sick, besides, with-’

  Ghulam reached inside his jacket. ‘He has written to you. Please read.’ Gustad opened the envelope:

  My dear Gustad,

  Where shall I start? Things have gone wrong. So hopelessly wrong. And I almost got you into trouble. Can you forgive me?

  I have only one request to make now. Shameless of me to even mention the word request, but I want you to come to Delhi, so I can tell you what happened. It is a long complicated story, and you will not believe words on paper, because I sent you words on paper before and could not keep them from turning false. Please visit me. I want you to know and understand, hear from your own lips that you forgive me. Ghulam Mohammed will arrange everything. Please come.

  Your loving friend,

  Jimmy

  Gustad folded the note and slipped it in his pocket.

  ‘Will you go?’ asked Ghulam.

  ‘I was tricked by him once.’

  ‘You are making a mistake, he is really your friend. But not for long if his enemies finish him off.’

  ‘Come on, now.’ Bloody actor. Will say anything to convince me.

  ‘No, really. Not exaggerating. If you dealt with these people, you would know. Please go.’

  ‘OK, let me think about it,’ said Gustad, making the concession solely to get away from the persistent entreaties.

  The night air was thick. Stifling as that rascal’s presence was. Smelling like the black stone wall before the artist came. The gutters were overflowing again, the stench and noxious gases bubbled steadily. Gustad wondered if Dr Paymaster, the shopkeepers, whores and mechanics were getting results from their complaints to the municipality. He hurried along, holding his breath and, when he had to, inhaling as shallowly as possible.

  Tehmul was waiting in the compound when he got back. ‘GustadGustadveryveryimportantletter.’ It was from the landlord, thanking the tenants for signing the petition against road-widening. He promised to keep them informed about the lawsuit. Of the thirty copies, Gustad kept one and instructed Tehmul to deliver the rest. Way the courts work, we will all be old and dead. By the time there is a verdict. Thank God.

  ii

  Through the remaining days of October, Dinshawji’s condition did not improve. He seemed to shrink in his hospital bed. His arms, legs, neck, face – everything withered, except the lump in his stomach, that insidious mound under the sheet. And his size twelve feet, erect, like twin sentries at the foot of the bed.

  Gustad visited as often as he could, at least twice a week, and thought it curious that he never came across Dinshawji’s wife during the bedside hours. He brought Dinshawji up to date on bank news and personalities. To amuse him, he narrated Mr Madon’s row with an employee, or described what Laurie Coutino had worn to work. ‘Down to here, her blouse was today,’ he said, undoing the top three buttons of his shirt and tucking the fronts in sideways to make a deep plunging V.

  ‘Go, go! Couldn’t be,’ Dinshawji chuckled.

  ‘Swear,’ he said, pinching the skin under his Adam’s apple to validate the oath. ‘Down to here. Without exaggeration. When she walked, her boblaas shivered like mounds of Rex Jelly, I am telling you.’

  ‘Arré, stop torturing me, yaar. Please, I touch your feet!’

  ‘All day long, the fellows kept going to her desk with some excuse. Those buggers. Even Goover-Ni-Gaan Ratansa. You won’t believe it, finally old Bhimsen also, tottering and crawling. Mem-saab, he said, you want tea-coffee? Some cream-cracker biskoat? That was just too much.’

  Dinshawji shook with laughing. ‘What about Madon?’

  ‘He got his share in his private cabin. In the Officers’ Enclave. Said his own secretary was busy, so he wanted to give Miss Coutino some dictation.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dinshawji. ‘He must have given her the d-i-c and forgotten about the t-a-t-i-o-n after seeing her Rex Jelly.’

  The subject exhausted, Gustad told him the money had been returned to Ghulam Mohammed, and showed him the Major’s note. ‘So what do you think of that?’

  ‘Difficult to say,’ said Dinshawji, ‘but if I were in your place I would go.’

  ‘And if it is another trick?’

  Dinner arrived, and the bed-table was positioned over Dinshawji. The ward boy briskly served a bowl of soup and a covered platter, then wheeled the food trolley to the next bed. Dinshawji looked quite helpless, pinned under the trestle.

  ‘Shall I raise the head a little?’ asked Gustad. He wound the handle but the feet began to rise. He inserted the key in the next slot and tried again; the top half slowly elevated. ‘Comfortable?’

  There was a grateful nod, and he flipped the lever to lock the bed in place. Dinshawji dipped the spoon in the bowl and conveyed it to his mouth. But his hand shook wildly, the soup dribbled throat-wards down his chin. He smiled sheepishly, trying to wipe it with the back of his hand. Hesitantly, Gustad unfolded the napkin and cleaned him up. When Dinshawji let him do that without protest, he took the spoon and began feeding him. ‘A little bread with it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Gustad broke a slice into the soup. He sank the floating pieces
, then fished them out one by one.

  The covered dish held a mutton cutlet and a small helping of boiled vegetables. ‘Bas, I am full,’ said Dinshawji.

  ‘No, no, you must eat.’ Gustad divided the cutlet into manageable mouthfuls, forked a piece and held it to his mouth. ‘Come on, come on. Open up. It’s very tasty.’

  ‘Please yaar, the soup filled my stomach and my chest.’

  ‘Be a good boy, now, Dinshu.’

  ‘OK, on one condition – we eat half-half.’ Gustad agreed. Midway through the meal he tried to pass on an extra piece. ‘Cheating, cheating,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Your turn.’ After they had emptied the plate in this way, he drank a little water through the spout of his feeding cup. He watched Gustad put the tray aside for the ward boy and wind down the bed slightly. ‘Sorry for all this, Gustad.’

  ‘Rubbish. I got to enjoy your tasty cutlet,’ said Gustad. Unless he kept up the façade, he knew he would descend into gloom and sadness, which would not be good for Dinshawji.

  Later, as he was leaving, Dinshawji thanked him again. His voice was almost tearful. ‘Don’t know what I would do without your visits.’

  ‘Forget it, yaar. It’s nothing. Actually, helps to pass my time also.’ He straightened the pillow. ‘Chaalo, good-night. And don’t do any ghaylaa-chayraa with the night nurse.’

  ‘Have you seen her? Real futaakro. My Lady with the Lamp. She can borrow my candle any time her lamp is out of order.’

  Gustad walked down the cold, clattering corridor, wondering how Dinshawji managed when he did not come. Did the ward boy or nurse feed him, or was he left to spatter and spill? And where was the domestic vulture? He had wanted to ask, but it would have embarrassed Dinshawji.

  So all through the rest of October and the first half of November, he visited regularly. On Sundays, he spent the entire afternoon and evening with Dinshawji. Towards the middle of November, his condition worsened, and he was fed intravenously. Now Gustad could only sit, helpless, and watch as the bottles, hanging cold and spiritless from the rack, poured their indifferent fluids into his friend. He suddenly realized how much he had come to look forward to feeding Dinshawji. Now the transparent tubes and shiny needles had taken over.

  But he did not falter in his visits, especially the Sunday afternoon ones, which, for some reason, meant more to Dinshawji than all the weekday ones. Sundays had become extremely busy days for Gustad. Dr Paymaster’s new strict diet for Roshan forced him to resume his hated Sunday morning Crawford Market routine. She had to be fed a variety of boiled foods, not even a hint of spice. Also, coconut water every morning, chicken soup for lunch and dinner, the juice of three sweet lemons in the afternoon, and a drink of Bovril as and when desired in between.

  The money from the sale of Gustad’s camera was swallowed by the medicine bills. And the special diet was proving very expensive, especially the Bovril, which could be bought only on the black-market. He wondered whether to sell his watch or his gold wedding cuff-links next. But while he was at work one day, Dilnavaz got Mrs Pastakia to keep an eye on Roshan, and went to Jhaveri Bazaar. She checked at three different shops and accepted the best offer for her two gold wedding bangles.

  She gave the money to Gustad, and it was too late for his objections. She added, ‘For God’s sake, don’t bring home the chicken alive again.’

  If it had not been for his child’s sake, nothing could have induced Gustad to endure the sights and smells of Crawford Market; it still repulsed him as much as ever. Every Saturday night he went to bed with a trace of nausea that grew stronger towards dawn. But one morning, when he entered the great crowded hall and made his way towards the back where the chickens were, he was pleasantly surprised. The sharp, importunate smells of provisions and spice shops came first, then the fruit stalls, where a huge pile of discarded pineapples and oranges, on the verge of putrefaction, emitted a sickly sweet odour. In the open space near the egg shops, next to the poultry, a tall, lean man was approaching. He looked so familiar that Gustad stared, trying to place him. When their eyes met, the tall man had the same look of partial recognition on his face.

  ‘Oh my gosh!’ said the tall man. ‘It’s Gustad Noble, isn’t it?’

  ‘Malcolm! After how many years!’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Where have-!’

  They put down their shopping baskets and shook hands, all four of them, and laughed and hugged, and slapped each other’s backs. Then Malcolm placed his left hand on Gustad’s shoulder to squeeze it – he still had that habit – and shook hands all over again. Overcome by the chance meeting, it was a while before they could talk sensibly and exchange news, catch up in some meagre way on their decades of separation. Malcolm was still single, and had fulfilled his early ambition of earning his living by music. ‘But who can afford pianos and lessons these days? With the refugee tax and all? Remember, supply and demand – too many teachers around.’ Now he had barely enough pupils to keep him in sheet music and scores, and to pay the piano-tuner to come regularly. ‘Records also getting difficult to buy. Bloody smugglers charge more and more. Even at Stanley & Sons, the selection is hopeless now, and prices so high.’ In the end, he had had to take a job at the municipality, he confessed.

  ‘What a shame,’ said Gustad. ‘You have such a gift.’

  ‘Only ones who make money in music are those monkeys who play for recording studios. Rubbish like jingles or Hindi movie soundtracks. But I cannot sell my soul that way. Bloody ting-ting-ting-ting all day on the piano? After my years of classical training? Forget it.’

  Finally, the conversation came to the present. ‘So that’s great,’ said Malcolm. ‘You still come here for your beef.’

  ‘No, not really. We buy from the goaswalla. More convenient, comes to the building every day.’ He did not reveal his main reason for abandoning Crawford Market; it would sound silly, his fear of riots and bloodshed.

  But cliché or no cliché, thought Gustad, better to be safe than sorry where fanatics were concerned. Like all riots, it had started with a peaceful rally. A vast congregation of sadhus wielding staffs, tridents, and various other equally sanctified religious instruments, staged a demonstration outside Parliament House to protest against cow slaughter. Familiar with modern trends in political campaigning and public relations, they also brought along a herd of cows. Slogans were raised, banners unfurled, curses showered on government personnel; drums, bells, horns, cymbals added to the clamour; and the gentle creatures in their midst began lowing nervously. The wrath of the gods was invoked upon the murderers of sacred Gomata, and suddenly, quite inexplicably (some claimed it was the Hand of Providence), the gathering turned violent. The police opened fire. Cows and sadhus stampeded. Staffs and tridents, hooves and horns, bullets and truncheons, all took their toll. And there was also a political death: the Home Minister who sympathized with the sadhus and encouraged their demands had to hand in his resignation. Then the Registered Trade Union of Sadhus and Holy Men sanctioned country-wide agitation, and it was a long time before cow-slaughterers and beef-eaters could breathe freely again. Gustad stayed clear of Crawford Market; his beef-buying trips were never resumed.

  ‘Buying from goaswalla?’ said Malcolm. ‘Chut-chut, man, it’s just not the same thing. That goaswalla will never get you the neckie part. But then what brings you here today?’

  Gustad told him about Roshan’s illness. Despite the gap of thirty years, he felt as comfortable with Malcolm as he had during their college days. He also confided the disappointment about Sohrab, the heartache, the blighted future. Then the subject of Dinshawji came up: ‘It’s so sad, so painful, to see this wonderful character lying helpless. My one true friend ever since you and I lost touch.’ While Gustad said this, he was also thinking of Jimmy Bilimoria, but kept that story untold – the Major was to be expunged from his life.

  Malcolm was touched by his friend’s troubles. ‘There is a way to help your child,’ he said. ‘And your sick friend. Have you heard of Mount Mary???
?

  Gustad started. What a coincidence! ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘I don’t mean the joke we used to tell in college,’ Malcolm said laughingly. ‘You know, asking the girls the way to mount Mary. I am talking about the Church of Mount Mary.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what the joke meant. But yes, I know the church also. Just recently a pavement artist told me the miracle of Mount Mary.’

  Malcolm was impressed by Gustad’s account of the brilliant artist who had transformed the black stone wall. ‘But come with me to Mount Mary,’ he said. ‘Ask Mother Mary for help. She will cure Roshan and your friend. Miracles are happening every day, I have personally witnessed so many.’ He offered to help pick out a chicken first, and they started walking in that direction. Gustad learned more about the church, how it had a tradition of welcoming Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, regardless of caste or creed. Mother Mary helped everyone, She made no religious distinctions. And as they made their way through the chicken coops, Gustad felt it was like their college Sundays again, those long-ago mornings of church and beef and Christianity. He listened to his friend while examining the fowl the shopkeeper held out.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Malcolm interrupted, ‘see that?’ He pointed to a misshapen foot. ‘Must have had a fight. Never buy a chicken that’s been in a fight.’ He made the man put it back, admonishing him: ‘You think we are blind or what?’ He took over the selection process, and Gustad was glad. Malcolm reminded him of Pappa during the prosperous days – in his element at Crawford Market.

  ‘Damn good chicken,’ said Malcolm, finding one that pleased him. ‘Feel here. Under the feathers, man.’ Poking perfunctorily with one finger, Gustad agreed. The man took his knife and went to the back. Malcolm followed, beckoning to Gustad to come too. ‘Have to be very sharp with these buggers, or they exchange it.’ The man asked if they wanted the head. Gustad declined, and it was tossed into the gutter, to the waiting crows.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Malcolm, as they retraced their steps to the bus stop. ‘We can go to Mount Mary this afternoon.’