The room was stifling, its single window bolted shut. The figure on the bed seemed asleep with face turned away. Gustad could hear the laboured breathing. Not wanting to wake Jimmy with a start, he moved cautiously to the foot of the bed. Now he could see clearly. And what he saw made him want to weep.
On the bed lay nothing more than a shadow. The shadow of the powerfully-built army man who once lived in Khodadad Building. His hairline had receded, and sunken cheeks made the bones jut sharp and grotesque. The regal handlebar moustache was no more. His eyes had disappeared within their sockets. The neck, what he could see of it, was as scrawny as poor behesti Dinshawji’s, while under the sheet there seemed barely a trace of those strong shoulders and deep chest which Gustad and Dilnavaz used to point out as a good example to their sons, reminding them always to walk erect, with chest out and stomach in, like Major Uncle.
All this in a year and a half? This the man who once carried me like a baby? Into Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s clinic? Who could beat me at arm-wrestling as often as I beat him?
Jimmy’s right hand lay outside the sheet, emaciated like his face. It twitched twice, then his eyes fluttered open. He looked bewildered and shut them. His lips produced a weak, croaking sound: ‘Gus …’
O God. Can’t even say my name. ‘Yes, Jimmy,’ he said reassuringly, taking his hand. ‘It is Gustad.’
‘Injec … jec … injhecshun,’ he whispered, slurring badly. ‘Wait. Soon … little … better.’
‘Yes, yes, slowly. I am here only, Jimmy.’ He pulled the chair close without letting go of his hand. What kind of sickness is this? What have they done to him?
Anger, accusations, demands for explanations emptied from Gustad’s mind. Only a monster could harass a broken man for answers. He would wait, listen to what Jimmy wanted, comfort him, offer his help. Everything else had to be forgotten. And forgiven.
For thirty minutes he sat with Jimmy’s cold, trembling hand in his. Finally Jimmy opened his eyes again. ‘Gustad. Thank you. Thank you for coming,’ he whispered. The slurring was less, though his voice shook with the effort.
‘No, no. I am happy to come. But what happened?’ Then, remembering his resolution, ‘It’s OK, don’t strain yourself.’
‘The injections they give … for infection. Makes it difficult … to speak. But. After an hour … better.’
The words formed and faded like wisps of smoke in a breeze. Gustad moved his chair closer still. ‘What is the infection? Do they know what they are treating?’
‘Something. Caught in Sundarbans. First … yellow fever, they said, then typhus, malaria … typhoid … God knows. But I think … getting better. Injections … terrible …’
He was silent for a bit, his chest heaving. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said again. ‘You will stay?’
‘They gave me permission till three o’clock.’ Gustad looked at his watch. ‘So we have four whole hours.’
‘Have to hurry …’
‘Now listen, Jimmy, talking can wait. What’s happened has happened.’
‘But I want to. I feel no peace. Thinking about it … thinking about what you must be thinking,’ he whispered.
‘It’s OK, what’s happened has happened.’
‘Tell me first about yourself … Dilnavaz and children …’
‘Everyone is fine. We were very worried when you disappeared, that’s all. Then your letter came, and we were happy that you were all right.’ Gustad chose his words carefully: nothing must sound like an accusation. He remembered the decapitated rat and cat; the rhyme: Bilimoria chaaval chorya; the vinca, rose and subjo slashed to bits. He did not mention Sohrab, or Roshan’s illness, nothing to give Jimmy cause to worry.
‘How I miss Khodadad Building … wish I never took Delhi posting. But I can come back … in four years.’
‘Four years?’
‘Yes, my sentence.’
Gustad remembered Ghulam Mohammed’s advice: if Bili Boy is hopeful, let him hope. ‘Plus you can use your influence.’
‘No, Gustad, this is one case where influence won’t help. Goes to the very top … the dirty work.’ Despair filled his eyes again. ‘But … you know what I miss most … since I left?’
‘What?’
‘Early morning. Kusti and prayers together, in the compound.’
‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘I also.’
Jimmy raised himself on one elbow to reach the water on his bedside table. He sipped a bit. ‘Let me tell you what has been going on … it’s hard to believe …’
The injection’s numbing clutches loosened, letting his words grow clearer, but he could still produce no more than a painful whisper and, coughing frequently, had to pause often. The damage inside, viral or man-inflicted, had left its mark. It made Gustad wince to watch and listen.
‘The offer was so exciting … difficult place to join. Prime Minister’s office called me.’
‘You worked there?’
‘My letter came from there. For the Research and Analysis Wing … in direct charge.’
Again Gustad was puzzled. ‘You were in direct charge of RAW?’
‘No, she was,’ he whispered. ‘Surprised me.’
After the first little while, Gustad learned to rearrange Jimmy’s words and understand his slow, disconnected, rambling fragments. He remembered, sadly, the Major’s thrilling stories which used to captivate Sohrab and Darius for hours.
‘In RAW … new identity. Management consultant. I could not lie … to you. Just went away. I am sorry, Gustad. Really sorry … how are the children?’
‘Fine, fine. Everything is fine, Jimmy,’ he said, patting his hand. ‘So you went to Delhi and joined RAW.’
‘Big surprise … she was using RAW like her own private agency. Spying on opposition parties, ministers … anyone. For blackmail. Made me sick. Even spying on her own cabinet. One of them … prefers little boys. Another takes pictures of himself … doing it with women. Bribes, thievery … so much going on, Gustad. RAW kept dossiers. On her friends and enemies. Where they went, who they met, what they said, what they ate, what they drank …’ Jimmy broke off, gasping. Despite his condition, his fondness for rhetoric would not let him trim the story beyond a certain point of leanness. Some fat had to remain, the way he used to insist with Gustad about dhansak meat – charbee in the right proportion added to the flavour.
‘Her friends become enemies and her enemies become friends … so quickly. So often. Blackmail is the only way she can keep control … keep them all in line. Disgusting. I was fed up. Not what I came to Delhi for. I applied for transfer.’
He drank more water, propping up his pillow to keep his head raised. Gustad held him under the arms and pulled him up. The sheet slipped a little. He saw how hollow Jimmy’s chest was, as though the lungs had collapsed.
‘Remember the cyclone last year … in East Pakistan? Thousands killed … bastards in West Pakistan no help. Showed the Bengalis once and for all. West only wants their sweat. And in December elections Sheikh Mujibur Rahman won. Absolute majority.’
‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘Bhutto and the generals would not let him form the government. Yahya Khan sent in the army when the Bengalis began civil disobedience.’
‘Soldiers slaughtered thousands of demonstrators. Refugees came … My superior told me our government will help guerrilla movement. Right away I said I was interested. So Prime Minister’s office called me for interview … What close control she keeps on RAW. Strong woman, Gustad, very strong woman … very intelligent. People say her father’s reputation made her Prime Minister. Maybe. But now she deserves-’ The pillow slipped, and he did not wish to raise it again. He cleared his throat feebly. ‘Sohrab? How is Sohrab?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘And Darius? Body-building?’
‘Solid muscles,’ said Gustad. ‘The Prime Minister.’
Jimmy was grateful for the reminder. ‘She came to the point. She said … your record is excellent, Major Bilimoria, and you understand our objectives. He
r voice … so calm, such confidence. Not like her political speeches … yelling and screaming. Hard to believe now she could be in such crookedness. Maybe people around her … who knows.’ Gustad wanted to ask what crookedness, but waited. All in good time, at Jimmy’s pace.
‘She put me in charge. Training and supplying the Mukti Bahini … tough fighters, Bengalis. Learned quickly. Factories sabotaged … bridges toppled … railway tracks –’
‘Hail’ Jimmy suddenly broke off, looking over Gustad’s shoulder. He had barely raised his voice, but compared to his feeble whispers it seemed like a yell. ‘Swine! Get out! Not your bloody latrine!’
Gustad understood. He leaned forward and patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Jimmy, everything is OK,’ he said, as Jimmy drifted back into the comfortable past.
‘Gustad, what time?’ he panted. The effort had taken a lot out of him. ‘Time for kusti?’
‘Not yet, Jimmy, rest a little.’ He continued to pat his shoulder till he was ready to resume the story.
‘There was a ceremony … birth of Bangladesh. Invited the press to Kushtia district, not far from our border … village renamed Mujibnagar. New flag … green, red, gold, in the mango grove. Singing … sonar Bangla. And Pakistani artillery not far away. Joi Bangla … proud moment for everyone. But bloody foreign press printed name of the village … Pakistani Air Force destroyed it next day …’
Without knocking, a sharp-faced nurse entered the room. It was time for Jimmy’s next injection. Her forearms were sinewy, the veins standing out like braided rope. She roughly turned him on his side, carried out her task, and left wordlessly.
‘Again it will start. Then how will I talk to you?’
‘Don’t worry,’ comforted Gustad. ‘There is lots of time. Rest. I will wait.’ He looked at his watch and was surprised: almost one already. How much time and precious effort Jimmy had expended saying these few words. As though each one was being sculpted painstakingly, out of stubborn granite that deflected his strokes, blunted his chisel. But he persisted, and after the long wrestle, presented them to Gustad. One by one. Who received them reverently, with anguish, because of the pain that went into their making.
‘Money. Money was the main thing for Mukti Bahini. Without money, no supplies, no explosives, no guns … nothing. We needed a regular allocation, a budget. I told her at next meeting … operation would shut down … We were alone, but she not attentive … as if dreaming of something else. Strange woman … very strong woman …
‘I thought she had lost interest, Mukti Bahini finished. But I gave her my full report. Suddenly she said, I understand the situation, I will arrange more funds. She went inside … to her small private office. Gave me instructions. Next morning to go to State Bank, meet chief cashier, ask for sixty lakh rupees.
‘She started explaining, when aid officially sanctioned, amount will be replaced. I thought, whysh … why she telling me all this, none of my bi-bi-bish … bisnesh.’
The injection was gripping his tongue in its pincers again. Gustad wished he would stop and rest; he leaned closer, till his ear was inches away from Jimmy’s lips.
‘She said … don’t tell chief cashier name or RAW identity. Only, Bangladeshi Babu … come for sixty lakh.
‘Next morning, got the m-m-money. Amazing … sixty lakh, just like that. Then, in a few days, she sent m-mess-message … Now ja-ja-just listen carefully … her pe-plans. Hu-how she was arranging. To protect herself … ta-ta-trrrap me …’
Jimmy closed his eyes; the mouth continued to make small movements but no sounds emerged. He fell into an unquiet state resembling sleep. Gustad pulled the sheet up to cover him properly and went outside, exhausted. Jimmy’s agonizing struggle had drained him.
The policeman asked, ‘How is he? Lot of pain?’
‘Yes. But sleeping now.’ The policeman said there was tea and snacks in the canteen downstairs. He pronounced it snakes.
ii
The bhaiya had been reluctant to let Dilnavaz have an extra quarter litre of milk: ‘Arré bai, you should have told me yesterday. Suddenly how to produce more?’
Others quickly jumped in, taking her side. ‘Leave all your acting-facting, muà. We know you will just add quarter litre of water, soon as you are out of here.’ Protesting the charge indignantly as usual, he let her have the milk.
Dilnavaz took it home and separated the extra quarter for the mixture. First came the taveej from over the front door. She sliced the lime into thin wedges, chopped the chillies, then proceeded to grind it all to a fine paste. The round stone rumbled and groaned as she dragged it back and forth over the flat slab.
The paste blended well with the milk, giving it a pretty pale green tint. Next she measured seeds into the mortar – anise, bishop’s-weed, poppy, fennel, mustard – and pestled them to powder. The remaining ingredients were already in powder or liquid form: kun-koo, marcha ni bhhuki, harad, dhanajiru, papad khar, shahjiru, tuj, lav-ang, mari, ailchi, jyfer, sarko, garam masalo, andoo, lassun. She stirred briskly; everything must be well-mixed, Miss Kutpitia had insisted.
Now for the mouse droppings. Dilnavaz was sure she could find the required amount, thanks to Gustad’s black paper; even this nuisance finally had its use. Lifting the corners, she soon gathered a teaspoonful. In the pan the black bits remained suspended no matter how much she stirred. She let the mixture stand, and proceeded to procure the final ingredient: a spider’s round white egg-case. Amazing, the things Miss Kutpitia knew.
Dilnavaz located a large black-brown specimen near the ceiling, where the paper met the top of the ventilator. She lunged with the long-handled broom. The paper tore away, while the spider glided floorward in graceful stages on silken thread. She waited, poised over the predictable landing spot, to finish the job with her slipper.
But the queasy part still lay ahead – the dead spider’s several legs were folded rigidly over the abdomen, and the round egg-case was locked behind a radial grid of dark furry appendages. They reminded her of Inspector Bamji’s hairy legs, in the old days when he wore short pants, before his promotion.
Using paper and a pencil from Gustad’s desk, she bent back the legs, one by one. Some sprang closed again, and had to be held down. Many broke off at the thorax or a midway joint. The cocoon, soft and slightly sticky, though not as clingy as a web, was disengaged after a little poking with the pencil.
She put the pan on the stove. The mixture warmed and became a dark-brown homogeneous compound. Even the obdurate mouse droppings co-operated to blend with the rest. Finally, the carefully preserved alum shape was crumbled and added.
Dilnavaz was ready for the dogwalla idiot.
*
On Saturdays, Mr Rabadi always took Dimple for a midday stroll through the compound, supplementing the morning and evening walks. Aware of this extra airing, Dilnavaz had rehearsed her strategy. She reheated the thick mixture and added a spoonful of milk. Yes, that was the right consistency.
Shortly after one o’clock, Dimple’s shrill bark was heard, faintly, from the far end of the compound. Dilnavaz tensed. Now if only her luck held and the stairs were clear. Timing was important. She waited till Mr Rabadi got closer to the bushes, then nipped out the back and up the stairs.
Her calculations were perfect. She peeked over the balcony. Dimple had called a temporary halt to sniff, searching for the right spot, and Mr Rabadi looked on approvingly. Dilnavaz extended her arm and turned over the pan.
Mr Rabadi’s roar resounded through the compound. She primly descended the stairs and returned home by her back door, cautious about claiming success. There was no evidence that his scalp had been anointed; Mr Rabadi would shout no matter where it landed – even if it fell harmlessly on the ground beside him. She longed to look but had to be content with listening.
‘Junglees!’ he yelled. ‘Living like animals!’ Hearing her master hold forth, Dimple added her voice to his. ‘Thousands are starving! And shameless people throw curry in the compound!’ Dilnavaz grew optimistic; it must have
fallen close enough for him to at least smell it.
Then shrieks of pain entered the angry litany of complaints, as traces of marcha ni bhhuki, andoo, lassun, garam masalo and other fiery spices trickled down Mr Rabadi’s hair and forehead, into his eyes. ‘Aaaaa! It’s killing me! Aaaaaa! Dying, bas, I’m dying!’ Now Dilnavaz was certain she had been on target.
‘Ohhhh! Mari chaalyo! Blinded! Blinded completely! Look, you shameless animal! Whoever you are! Look at me! Eyeless in the compound! Blinded by your curry! May the same thing happen to you! And to your children, and your children’s children!’ He made his way to his flat, cursing, howling, calling on the world to witness his cruel fate. Dimple pranced and leaped around him, enjoying his unusually animated state.
Dilnavaz returned to the kitchen. It had gone exactly according to plan. Miss Kutpitia would be proud of her, she felt, as she scrubbed the pan clean of its magical mélange.
‘Was that the dogwalla idiot shouting, Mummy?’ asked Roshan.
Dilnavaz started, she had not heard her coming. ‘Yes, but you shouldn’t say such things. And why are you out of bed?’
‘I’m tired of sleeping all day. Can I do something else?’
‘OK, sit on the sofa and read your book.’ She rinsed the raakh-bhoosa off the pan. It emerged shining from water. Was it possible? So soon? It was no less than a miracle! Or coincidence. But what did it matter, the result was the same. Besides, was there a person alive who, at one time or another, did not find it difficult to disbelieve completely in things supernatural?
*
Before Miss Kutpitia could fully savour the victory, Dilnavaz moved on to the next item of business. ‘I know I have to be patient,’ she said. ‘But you must help. I cannot go on like this, my head is so full of worries all the time.’
‘What are you talking about?’