The doll’s clothes were on the chair, just as he had seen them the night of the air raid. Leaning over Tehmul, he picked up the doll and began clothing it in its wedding ensemble. The painted plaster felt as cold as Tehmul. When the doll was dressed he slipped it under the sheet, beside Tehmul. He moved the chair nearer the bed and raised a hand to adjust his prayer cap, but his fingers touched hair instead of black velvet. Then he remembered: the cap had fallen off in the road. He looked around the room for something to cover his head. Nothing, except Tehmul’s pyjamas hanging on the bedrail. It was either that or his bloodied handkerchief. He picked up the pyjama top.
With covered head he sat, placing his right hand upon Tehmul’s head. Tehmul’s hair felt stiff under his fingers, matted where the blood had dried. He closed his eyes and began to pray softly. He recited the Yatha Ahu Varyo, five times, and Ashem Vahoo, three times, his bloodstained hand resting light as a leaf on Tehmul’s head. Flies buzzed around the room, drawn by the smell, but they did not distract him. He kept his eyes closed and started a second cycle of prayer. Tears began to well in his closed eyes. His voice was soft and steady, and his hand steady and light upon Tehmul’s head, as the tears ran down his cheeks. He started another cycle, and yet another, and he could not stop the tears.
Five times Yathu Ahu Varyo, and three times Ashem Vahoo. Over and over. Five and three, recited repeatedly, with his right hand covering Tehmul’s head. Yatha Ahu Varyo and Ashem Vahoo, and the salt water of his eyes, as much for himself as for Tehmul. As much for Tehmul as for Jimmy. And for Dinshawji, for Pappa and Mamma, for Grandpa and Grandma, all who had had to wait for so long …
How long he sat there, repeating Yatha Ahu Varyo and Ashem Vahoo, he could not say. Then he felt there was someone in the room. He did not turn around. He had not heard the curtain rings tinkle, the faded organdie was hanging still as death, filtering the harsh verandah sunlight. He asked gruffly, ‘Who is there?’
There was no answer. Again he asked, ‘Who?’
‘Daddy … Sohrab.’
Gustad turned around. He saw his son standing in the doorway, and each held the other’s eyes. Still he sat, gazing upon his son, and Sohrab waited motionless in the doorway, till at last Gustad got to his feet slowly. Then he went up and put his arms around him. ‘Yes,’ said Gustad, running his bloodstained fingers once through Sohrab’s hair. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes,’ and hugged him tightly once more.
iv
A stench still hung in the air around the work area cordoned off by police, where the morcha’s barrel of sewer sludge and slime had been overturned. Malcolm sputtered and quavered, unable to find the words. His hands shook like crippled bird wings. ‘You won’t believe it! Crazy! Bloody crazy, I am saying. Absolute madness!’
Gustad put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You want to come inside? Drink tea or something?’
‘Just imagine it! Bloody thing hits me in the face! Big, furry, smelly thing! Imagine it! Rotting stinking rats, right in my face! Aagh! Chhee! Thoo!’ Malcolm clutched his head as though it was going to explode. ‘What if I catch plague or something?’
He refused Gustad’s offer to wash up. ‘I at once opened a hydrant. And I’ve already promised a candle for Mount Mary. Some of those bloody bandicoots were still alive!’ He shuddered again. ‘I am also going to my doctor.’
But first he had to await replacements for the injured workers. ‘Bastard police, taking their own sweet time. I bet you anything it was a bloody municipal plot. These crooks all work hand in hand.’
‘I believe you,’ said Gustad. ‘Nothing is beyond the government. Ordinary people like us are helpless against them.’
The workers had started chiselling out the mortar between the stone slabs. Malcolm hurried to supervise, shouting instructions. ‘O baba, arya ghay! Carefully, arya, arya!’ The labourers set up a vigorous chant, full of muscle and vitality: ‘Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato! Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato!’ A truck of gravel and sand was being unloaded. The unmistakable crunching rose over other noises and reached Gustad’s ears. Crunching, grating, rasping, as men with shovels trampled through the gravel. The sound made Gustad freeze for a moment.
Presently, the first huge block of black stone, the one with the Trimurti, was levered off with crowbars and sent crashing to the ground. As the dust settled, the pavement artist awoke from his trance of despair. He rose and went to Gustad. ‘I am very grateful to you for providing me with the wall’s hospitality. Now it is time to go-’
‘Go? But where? Have you made any plan?’
‘Where does not matter, sir.’ The tumbling Trimurti had restored all his philosophical buoyancy. ‘In a world where roadside latrines become temples and shrines, and temples and shrines become dust and ruin, does it matter where?’ He began putting his things together. ‘Sir, one request. Is it OK if I take some twigs from your tree? I like to control the creation, preservation and destruction of my dental health.’
‘Take as many as you want.’ The artist broke off seven small branches and put them in his satchel. ‘Good luck,’ said Gustad, shaking his hand.
‘Luck is the spit of gods and goddesses,’ the artist replied, and slipped out through the gate, padding softly in his bare feet.
Gustad noticed the large box of oil paints and brushes leaning against the pillar. ‘Wait, you are forgetting your things.’
The pavement artist about-faced. He smiled and shook his head, walking backwards for a moment. ‘I have taken everything I need for my journey.’ He patted his satchel. ‘My box of crayons is in here.’ Then he bent by the kerb to pick something up. ‘I think this is yours.’ He tossed it towards the gate.
‘Thank you,’ said Gustad, catching his trampled prayer cap. The black velvet pile was crushed, coated with mud, and he did not put it on again.
The artist quickly disappeared from sight. It was well past noon, and the air was rank with the smell of diesel fumes. A shrunken shadow of the solitary tree crouched to one side. Two men were working on its trunk with a crosscut saw.
Gustad left the sun-flooded compound and entered the flat. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he slapped the prayer cap against his leg; a little dry mud flaked off. He dropped the cap on his desk, fetched a chair, and closed the front door.
Much of the noise from the road was shut out, save the persistent crunch of gravel. He stood upon the chair and pulled at the paper covering the ventilators. As the first sheet tore away, a frightened moth flew out and circled the room.
Rohinton Mistry is the author of three novels, Such a Long Journey, A Fine Balance, and Family Matters, and a collection of short stories, Tales from Firozsha Baag. His fiction has won many prestigious awards internationally. Born in Bombay, Rohinton Mistry has lived in Canada since 1975.
Rohinton Mistry, Such a Long Journey
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