A small trickle relinquished the platforms; most stayed put with their luggage. Railway security guards were dispatched to herd them out. Rifle-bearing soldiers patrolled the yards, examining the tracks and signal boxes.
Gustad returned his empty cup to the counter and bought a newspaper. The headlines were about the strike; the Minister for Railways promised that essential services would be maintained by managerial staff and the army.
That means a Bombay-Delhi train will certainly run, thought Gustad. He lost himself in the paper, the first he had purchased since the quarrel with the dogwalla idiot, when the carefully balanced household budget had gone up in smoke.
*
There was an announcement: Platform seven now boarding – unreserved train leaving for New Delhi.
Gustad folded his newspaper and hurried to the bottleneck at the platform seven entrance. With his one small bag he had an advantage over families with trunks, beddings, stoves, cooking utensils, cradles, wooden crates, and fragile earthen pots of drinking water. The train was not yet at the platform. Red-shirted coolies were busy circulating among the crowds. ‘Risvard! Risvard seat! Ten rupees risvard!’ One of them approached Gustad. ‘Yes sahab, risvard seat?’
‘This is not a reserved train,’ said Gustad.
‘Yes, yes, but I will find you risvard seat. You pay ten rupees only if you are happy,’ said the coolie.
Gustad looked around him, and saw crowds thick enough to fill five trains. ‘OK,’ he said. The coolie led him down the platform and gave him a place to wait.
‘Your bogie will stop here,’ he said, ‘stand here only.’ He indicated his brass armband. ‘Remember – number three hundred and eighty-six.’ Then he was off towards the railway yard.
Shortly, the empty train backed in, each window framing a red shirt and white turban. People threw their belongings inside and jumped on before it was at a standstill. The red shirts took voice, ransoming off seats they had possessed in the yard. ‘Risvard seat! Ten rupees!’
Gustad’s porter waved and pointed to his armband. ‘Three eighty-six! Don’t worry, sahab, come slowly, your seat is ready.’
The compartment was already full. Three eighty-six took the bag and slipped it under the seat without getting up. Gustad took out his wallet and parted with the requisite note. The porter rose, Gustad sat.
‘We are at their mercy, no?’ said a voice from above. A well-dressed man in his thirties was stretched out on the overhead luggage rack. He laughed. ‘Coolies are controlling the whole show. Railway Ministry thinks it is in charge, strikers think they are in charge. But the coolies are the real bosses. I paid twenty rupees for this de-luxe sleeping-berth.’
Gustad smiled up at him between the slats and nodded politely. Half an hour later, when the whistle blew, the compartments, entrances, and aisles were crammed with luggage and humans. He wiped his perspiring face on a sleeve, his handkerchief being inaccessible. The luggage-rack man said, ‘Almost twenty-four hours to go. But it will definitely get better.’
And he was right. As time went by, the compartment no longer seemed so packed; the aggression to establish territorial rights had melted. Food packages were opened and lunch was eaten. People even managed to find a way to use the toilet; the men travelling in the water-closet were obliging enough to step out when it was needed for other functions.
‘First time to Delhi?’ the luggage-rack man asked Gustad.
‘Yes,’
‘Bad luck. With the strike and all. But sightseeing in Delhi will be good now, the weather will be pleasant.’
‘I am going for personal business,’ said Gustad.
‘Oh, but I am also going for personal business only.’ He found the coincidence funny. ‘My parents live there. They are saying at my age I should be married, and at their age, they could pass away without seeing their eldest son married, which would be cause of great sorrow. So I am going to select a wife,’ he revealed from his horizontal position.
‘I wish you good luck,’ said Gustad, not pleased to be the recipient of his confidences.
‘Thank you very-very much.’ He sat up and bumped his head.
For lunch Gustad bought a glass of tea through the window when the train stopped at a station. He opened Dilnavaz’s packet of sandwiches later, when it was almost seven o’clock. Omelette. Dinshawji’s favourite. How I used to tease him. Two sandwiches every day, for thirty years.
Twilight began to fade, the train sped northwards through darkness. Gustad chewed his sandwiches slowly, looking out at empty fields where a faint light glimmered here and there. Would this long journey be worth it? Was any journey ever worth the trouble?
Then his thoughts were of Dinshawji. Random thoughts, crossing decades of their lives. The new recruit, he used to call me. Would lift his arm and say, under my wing you will be safe – little smelly, but safe. Pointing out who could be trusted, who were tattletales, backstabbers, management chumchas. And his trick of leaving the jacket on the chair. How he made people laugh. At lunch and tea-breaks. Even during working hours, one-liners every now and then. Yes, to be able to make people laugh was a wonderful blessed thing. And what a long journey for Dinshawji too. But certainly worth it.
The train rocked through the night. It was much cooler now. He dozed, his head knocking against the window.
iii
In the wake of Gustad’s early-morning departure, one disaster after another had followed Dilnavaz. The milk boiled over, she burnt the rice, the kerosene overflowed the funnel when she filled the stove – the kitchen was a ghastly mess.
She was worried about Gustad, wished he had not decided to go to Delhi. But it’s the only way to find out the truth. Or he will never know peace. And to be honest, neither will I. All the same, the thought of Gustad entering a jail, even as a visitor, was frightening.
And besides, she had not yet done what Miss Kutpitia had prescribed for Roshan’s illness. Roshan was much better now, but Miss Kutpitia had repeated her warning: not to be lulled into a false sense of security, because that’s how the dark forces worked, lurking like poisonous snakes, striking when least expected. I did everything else her way, no sense stopping now.
But why for Sohrab does she always say patience, patience? What is that final remedy she is so reluctant to tell? I can take it no longer, lying awake all night worrying about Sohrab, and it’s affecting Gustad too, though he will admit nothing, keeps saying, I have only one son, with his pain showing in his eyes every time I look.
If Miss Kutpitia’s instructions were to be carried out, now was the time. And still she vacillated, till, later that evening, Mr Rabadi finished walking Dimple in the compound and rang the Nobles’s doorbell. The Pomeranian commenced with a series of shrill yips as Dilnavaz opened the door. ‘Choop ré, Dimple!’ scolded Mr Rabadi, ‘be nice to Noble Auntie.’ He was nervous. ‘Your husband is there?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,’ he said, at a loss, but also relieved. Just before ringing the doorbell, he had recited Dustoorji Baria’s latest Prayer to Strengthen the Righteous. ‘I can talk to you then?’
‘I am listening.’
Her curt response left him a little flustered. ‘See, fighting-bighting I am not interested in. We live in one building, and it’s not looking nice. I am talking straight, and I am hoping you will listen straight and stop your son.’ His confidence grew in proportion to the number of words he spoke.
Dilnavaz shifted her weight to the other foot. ‘Stop our son? From what?’
‘Please, khaali-pili don’t do acting. Your son holds the bicycle seat and runs after my daughter. The whole building is watching and that’s not looking nice.’
‘What idiotic-lunatic talk is this?’ Gustad’s favourite phrase fit quite precisely, she realized. ‘I don’t understand one word of your rubbish.’
‘Rubbish? Then ask your son only! I am a fool or what? He holds the seat, and whole building watches him run after my Jasmine with his hand touching her buttocks! That is not looking nice, l
et me tell you now only!’ He waggled a finger which upset Dimple; she started yapping again.
Darius emerged from the back room to see if his mother needed help. When Gustad had left early in the morning, he put his hand on Darius’s shoulder and said, half-joking and half-serious, ‘Listen, my Sandow. You are in charge, look after your mother and sister.’
‘There he is!’ yelled Mr Rabadi. ‘Ask him now only! Ask him if he put his hand on her buttocks or not! Now only, in front of me!’
Enough was enough, decided Dilnavaz. ‘If you ask me, you should leave now only. Too much nonsense we have heard from you.’ She tried to shut the door.
‘Khabardaar!’ protested Mr Rabadi, pushing against it. ‘Show respect for your neighbour! I have not finished talking and –’
Darius, taking his father’s trust very seriously, heaved the door shut. Outside, Mr Rabadi was hurled back, tripping over Dimple. He dusted himself off and threatened through the door to lodge two complaints at the police station: one for assault, the other for molesting his Jasmine. He also made a mental note to visit Dustoorji Baria at the first opportunity and narrate the contretemps.
‘You shouldn’t have shut it like that,’ said Dilnavaz, secretly quite proud. ‘But what is he saying about his jaari-padayri daughter?’
Darius looked a bit bashful: ‘She’s not really fat. She just needed help to learn bicycling. To balance while she pedalled. The other boys all got tired in only one round. No stamina, so she kept asking me.’
‘You know what Daddy told you. Rabadi is a crackpot and we don’t want trouble with him.’ More than a crackpot, she thought, capable of anything. ‘Promise me you will not go near her or her father. Especially her father.’ The way he had looked when Darius came to the door – my God. What a crazy look.
And now it made sense! Roshan had been getting thinner and thinner, and where was all her health and weight going if not to the dogwalla idiot’s daughter? Who got fatter and fatter, day by day! Miss Kutpitia was right, the alum pointed squarely at Rabadi!
The needle of suspicion had sewn up the case to Dilnavaz’s satisfaction. She made her plans. First the mixture to prepare. That was easy. But Miss Kutpitia said his scalp must be wetted with it. That was the tricky part.
iv
After midnight, Gustad was awakened by a hand tapping his shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ said the luggage-rack man. ‘You want to lie up there?’ ‘What about you?’
‘I slept enough. I will sit in your seat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gustad. With his limbs fast asleep, aching in every joint, it was difficult to climb to the rack. The man helped; Gustad swung up successfully and stretched out. He wondered sleepily about the fellow’s groping hands. But it felt good to lie down. The stiff bones relaxing. The train rocking, soothing. Reminds me of another train. Long time ago. With Dilnavaz. On honeymoon …
He slumbered, drifting in and out of sleep. Half-dreaming and half-imagining he was in the coupé with Dilnavaz, twenty-one years ago. The day after their wedding. Impatient in their little mobile bedchamber, not willing to wait till their destination and hotel …
A hand stroked Gustad’s thigh. It moved to the crotch, discovered his dream-stiffened member, and was encouraged to go further. Fingers groped, fumbled with his fly-buttons, pried and squeezed one through the buttonhole. Did the same with the next. And Gustad realized he was not dreaming any longer.
Pretending to be asleep, he grunted, turned over, and while turning, lashed out with his elbow. He was not disturbed for the rest of the night.
Towards dawn it got cold. The train had left behind the warmth of the lower latitudes. Wishing for a blanket, wishing he was home in bed, he wrapped his arms around himself, drew his knees into his stomach and fell asleep again.
Sunlight through a ventilation grill woke him. Feeling the rays upon his face transported him to another time. Suddenly, all his doubts about coming to Delhi vanished like the night left somewhere down the tracks. Jimmy and I in the compound, saying our prayers. With the first light bathing us. At last everything will be put right between us.
The engine could not devour the remaining miles quickly enough for Gustad. At the next station he alighted, rubbing his cold hands. Some passengers had got off during the night, and there was more room in the compartment. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the luggage-rack man, who had a black eye. ‘What happened?’
‘Oh, it’s OK. In the night I was going to WC and tripped over a suitcase or something. Banged my face.’
‘These crowded trains, what to do. But thank you very much for your bed. I had such a good sleep,’ said Gustad.
A chaiwalla passed with glasses of steaming tea in a metal rack. Gustad took two. The luggage-rack man reached for money, but Gustad paid. The hot glass warmed his hands. Poor fellow, he thought. Forcing himself to select a wife, to please his parents. And the poor woman, whoever she will be.
The warning whistle blew. The chaiwalla came back for his glass. Gustad held it out, unfinished. ‘Drink, drink,’ said the chaiwalla. ‘Still time.’ The whistle blew again, and the train moved. He began running alongside: ‘Drink, drink. Little more time.’ Gustad took a few hurried sips, more anxious to return the glass than the chaiwalla was to get it back. The glass changed hands at the end of the platform.
EIGHTEEN
i
Oh what a pleasant ache, to walk again, thought Gustad, left-right, left-right. But Jimmy in jail must feel … And soldiers again. Left-right, left-right in the railway station. With their immense backpacks, leaning forward to balance. Huge tortoises going erect. Would be quaint if not for their guns.
He ran his fingers through his hair – hard as unwieldy wire – and looked down at his dusty clothes: reddish-brown, from the miles of countryside the train had come through. He tried to brush it off but it was everywhere. Under the collar, under the cuffs, sleeves, watch-strap. Stuck up my nose – hard and dry inside, sitting like a big fat cheepro. Throat feeling raw. Everywhere itching desperately. Inside my socks, inside my sudra. Gritty grains crawling busily, exploring the skin with countless little feet and claws, coarsely announcing their chafing, scratching, raging omnipresence. Like questions about Jimmy in my mind.
He entered the waiting-room and went to the back, to the lavatories. Skirting the dirty puddles made by leaky pipes, overflowing toilets and general carelessness, he waited his turn for the washbasin.
The ice-cold water of Delhi’s December morning stung sharply. But it was wonderfully invigorating. This is the way we wash our face, wash our face, wash our face … He cleared his throat and spat … This is the way we spit out dust on a cold and frosty morning … Good thing Dilnavaz overruled my hanky, insisted on a towel. He rubbed it over the chest and back. Felt good, picked up some still-clinging dust. He put on a fresh sudra and shirt, left the waiting-room, and got into an auto-rickshaw.
The three-wheeler swerved in and out of traffic, changing lanes willy-nilly, tossing him from side to side. Forty minutes of agitation later, they stopped at a nondescript grey building. The ride had churned his insides as thoroughly as the thoughts of Jimmy, his mind. ‘This is the place?’
‘Yes, sahab, this only,’ the driver replied. Gustad stepped out unsteadily and paid, slightly nauseous. He felt very alone as the auto-rickshaw rattled away. Wish I was inside it. Heading back to the railway station.
At the reception area he consulted the note Ghulam Mohammed had given him, and asked for Mr Kashyap. He was told to wait.
After half an hour a peon arrived and said, ‘Sahab is calling you.’ Gustad rose and followed him down a stone-floored hallway, past dirty yellow walls, to a door with a name plate on it: S. Kashyap. The door was ajar.
‘Come in, Mr Noble.’ The man rose to offer his hand. ‘Mr Bilimoria was expecting you many weeks ago.’ Mr Kashyap was thickset, with a face whose propensity was to smile regardless of what was being said.
‘I have been very busy.’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Bilimoria is not
here any more.’ The smile on the man’s face gave his words a sinister slant. ‘Not here?’
‘No, no, what I mean is, he is not in this building in his regular cell, we had to move him to the hospital section.’ ‘What happened?’
‘High fever, and lot of weakness. Must be a jungle sickness.’ He kept smiling his wide, meaningless smile. ‘His duties took him into the jungles very often.’
‘But can I still meet him?’
‘Yes, yes, certainly. Whether hospital, jail cell, solitary – I only have to approve all visitors, so no problem. We can go now.’
A cold bleak corridor connected the main building to the hospital. Mr Kashyap had metal cleats on his heels, and his steps rang out on the stone floor. The footfalls echoed in Gustad’s memory. A feeling of profound loss and desolation, of emptiness, swept over him.
Mr Kashyap had a word with a guard in the hospital lobby. ‘OK,’ he said to Gustad. ‘Please wait here, someone will be coming for you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mention not,’ said Mr Kashyap and departed, smiling at the dirty yellow walls. Soon, a white-jacketed official arrived to escort Gustad upstairs. They passed large, smelly wards and some single rooms outside which policemen were on duty.
‘You are a friend of Mr Bilimoria?’ Gustad nodded. ‘Very very unfortunate, all these legal problems. And now infection. He becomes delirious sometimes. Don’t worry if it happens when you are there, we are treating him for it.’
Gustad nodded, finding it hard to believe. Jimmy’s mind, sharp as a Seven O’Clock stainless-steel razor blade, delirious? Not possible.
‘How long are you staying? Visits are only thirty minutes.’
‘But I came all the way from Bombay. My train leaves at four p.m.’
‘Mr Kashyap told me you were a special case.’ He considered. ‘Till three o’clock?’ They stopped outside a room where a policeman sat on a wooden stool with a long, heavy rifle he was clearly weary of holding. The medical person gave instructions, and Gustad entered hesitantly.