Tehmul did not actually catch the rats, he merely got rid of the ones caught by the tenants of Khodadad Building. The Pest Control Department of the municipal ward office offered twenty-five paise for every rat presented to it, dead or alive, as part of its campaign to encourage all-out war against the rodent menace. So Tehmul earned a little money this way, collecting and delivering rats trapped in his neighbours’ wood-and-wire cages. Those who were squeamish gave the cages to Tehmul with the rats still alive, the job to be completed by the municipality. Death by drowning was the official policy. The cages were immersed in a tank and withdrawn after a suitable interval. The corpses were thrown on a heap for disposal, the empty cages returned with the appropriate sum of money.
But when his brother was out of town, Tehmul did not convey the live rats directly to the municipality. He first brought them home with a desire to entertain them in the municipal manner, to teach them to swim and dive. A bucket of water was filled and the rats ducked one by one. He pulled them out before the end, gasping and suffocating, and kept on till he was bored with the game, or a miscalculation drowned the rats.
Sometimes, for variety, he boiled a large kettle of water and poured it over the rats, emulating the neighbours who were brave enough to exterminate their own trappings. But unlike them, he poured the boiling water a little at a time. As the rats squealed and writhed in agony, he watched their reactions with great interest, particularly their tails, proud of the pretty colours he could bestow on them. He giggled to himself as they turned from grey to pink, and then red. If the scalding did not kill them before he ran out of boiling water, he dropped them in the bucket.
One day, Tehmul’s secret was discovered. No one seriously censured him for it. The neighbours agreed, however, never again to hand over a live rat to Tehmul.
But perhaps he understood more than people assumed. When Miss Kutpitia mentioned rat-catcher his grin disappeared and his face clouded shamefully. ‘Gustadbigbigfatrats. Municipalrats. GustadGustaddrowningswimmingratsdivingrats. Chickenranbig-knife.’
‘Yes,’ said Gustad, ‘OK.’ He had never quite decided on the best way of conversing with Tehmul. He invariably found himself speaking faster and faster if he was not careful. It was safest to use nods and gestures, combined with monosyllabic responses.
Tehmul followed him to the flat. He grinned and waved goodbye. Dilnavaz, Roshan and the boys were waiting by the door. ‘The string was untied from the chicken’s leg,’ said Gustad. ‘How that happened is what I am wondering.’ He looked meaningfully at them. The butcher returned to the kitchen, the bird firmly in his grasp this time, and Roshan’s eyes started to fill. ‘Yes,’ said Gustad sternly, ‘I would like to know very much how. Expensive chicken I buy, to celebrate birthday and IIT, then the string is untied. What kind of thanks is that?’
From the kitchen came the tell-tale screech. The butcher emerged, wiping his knife on a rag. ‘Good chicken, seth, lots of meat.’ He left with a salaam in Gustad’s general direction.
Roshan burst into sobs, and Gustad abandoned his line of questioning. All four looked at him accusingly, then Dilnavaz went to the kitchen.
Two crows were peering curiously through the wire mesh of the window. The limp mass of feathers and flesh on the stone parapet beside the tap held their attention. When she entered, they cawed frantically and spread their wings, hesitating for a moment, then flew away.
THREE
i
Just hours before the dinner party, Miss Kutpitia excused herself from the invitation Dilnavaz had extended against Gustad’s express orders. Miss Kutpitia explained that when she sat down to breakfast that morning, at the table’s very centre was a lizard, motionless, staring insolently, flicking its tongue. If that wasn’t bad enough, when she wrenched her leather sapaat from her left foot and thwacked the lizard dead, its tail broke off, and continued to wriggle and dance on the table top for at least five minutes. That, said Miss Kutpitia, was a definite omen. She was not going to step outside her home for the next twenty-four hours.
The news had Gustad laughing uproariously, till Dilnavaz threatened to turn off the stove and put her spoon down permanently. ‘I will see where your laughter goes when your silly Dinshawji arrives and the chicken is still uncooked.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘I was just imagining the lizard sticking its tongue out at Kutpitia.’ He tried to get busy and help in the evening’s preparations. ‘Where’s the sev-ganthia and monkey nuts? To serve with drinks?’
‘I am walking around with them on the top of my head!’ She finished stirring something on the stove and dropped the spoon with a loud clatter. ‘In the jars, where else?’
‘Don’t get upset, Dilnoo-darling. Dinshawji is a very nice fellow. Just resumed work after his sickness, and still looking fikko-fuchuk, white as a ghost. He needs our company, and some of your tasty cooking.’ The fragrance of basmati rice filled the kitchen as she opened the pot and squeezed a grain between thumb and finger. She slammed shut the lid, no fonder of Gustad’s friend.
Dinshawji had joined the bank six years before Gustad. That gave him thirty unbroken years of service, he often said, proudly or complainingly, whatever the situation called for. He was older than Gustad, but it did not preclude the fellowship that had grown between them. It was the sort of bond peculiar to such institutions, nurtured from strength to strength by the dryness and mustiness native to the business of banks.
Gustad found the two jars and emptied the snacks into small bowls before noticing that one was chipped, the other had a crack limned by light brown residues. Never mind, no fuss or formalities needed for good old Dinshawji. Now for the drinks.
There was a little rum in the dark brown bottle: Hercules XXX. Major Bilimoria’s final gift, shortly before he disappeared. Gustad debated whether to bring out the bottle. He held it up again, tilted it, trying to estimate. Almost two pegs. Would do for Dinshawji – he could offer him a choice between it and Golden Eagle beer. There were three tall bottles in the icebox.
From the kitchen, Dilnavaz could see the sideboard and the Hercules rum. ‘That is the man,’ she said, pointing, ‘who should be here tonight instead of your silly Dinshawji.’
‘You mean Hercules?’ He pretended to laugh. That bloody Bilimoria. Should have shown her the letter instead of hiding it. Then she would know what a shameless rascal he is.
‘You always get rid of everything by joking. You know what I mean.’ The doorbell rang, loud and confident. ‘Here already,’ she grumbled, rushing back to the stove.
‘We said seven, and it is seven.’ He went to the door. ‘Aavo, Dinshawji, welcome! A hundred years you will live, we were just talking about you.’ They shook hands. ‘But alone? Where’s the wife?’
‘Not well, yaar, not well.’ Dinshawji looked extremely pleased about it.
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘No, no, just a little woman-trouble.’
‘We were thinking that finally today we will meet Alamai. This is very sad. We will miss her company.’
Dinshawji leaned forward and whispered, chuckling, ‘Believe me, I won’t. Good to leave the domestic vulture behind.’
Gustad had often wondered how much truth there was behind Dinshawji’s habitual references to the tribulations of his marriage. He smiled, inhaling cautiously as Dinshawji’s whisper brought him close, and was relieved that his friend’s chronically carious mouth gave off only a faint smell today. The odour had a cycle of its own, periodically going from a gale-force stench to a harmless zephyr. Presently, it was passing through the abatement phase. Of course, there was no guarantee it would not issue full strength during the evening if his mood changed. There had been mornings at the bank when Dinshawji arrived with fresh breath that turned foul after an argument with a whining, complaining customer. And because of the incident, if Mr Madon the manager heaped animadversions upon Dinshawji, the stench quickly became unbearable.
Dinshawji’s stubborn case of car
ies had resisted the medications of numerous doctors. But after Gustad became a believer in Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s miraculous powers, he convinced Dinshawji to consult him too. Mouth problems and gums and teeth were bone-related matters, after all. Dinshawji resisted at first, trying to make light of it. ‘Forget it, yaar. My biggest bone problem is not in the mouth. It’s much lower, between my legs. With my domestic vulture, that bone gets no exercise. Withering away for years. Can your Bonesetter set that right?’
But he finally came around and paid a visit to Madhiwalla. The resinous secretion of a particular tree was prescribed, which Dinshawji had to chew on three times a day. Within a week, the results were plain to see. At the bank, for instance, customers no longer leaned backwards from the counter while waiting for their money. One day, however, Dinshawji sprained a jaw muscle while zealously masticating the resin. So severe was the pain, he had to restrict himself to a liquid diet for a fortnight, and after the jaw healed, he refused to go back to the resin. The thought of that agony was far more fearful than the carious mouth. So his friends and colleagues learned to live with the ebb and flow of the foul smell, as unpredictable as a roulette wheel.
Dinshawji’s problem no longer embarrassed him, his concern was more for those around him and their discomfiture. ‘And where is your missis, if I may ask?’
‘Just finishing in the kitchen.’
‘Arré, that means I came too early.’
‘No, no,’ Gustad assured him, ‘you are exactly on time.’
Dinshawji made a gallant bow when Dilnavaz entered. Pinpoints of perspiration glistened on his bald pate as he lowered his head. His hair restricted its growth patterns to the regions over the ears, and at the back over the nape. Prominent strands also flourished inside his ears, and in the dark, capacious recesses of his imposing nostrils, from whence they emerged unabashedly to be counted with the rest.
He held out his hand. ‘It is such an honour for me to come to dinner.’
In return, Dilnavaz bestowed upon him the tiniest of her smiles. He turned again to Gustad. ‘I think the last time I was here was seven or eight years ago. When you were in bed after the accident.’
‘Nine years.’
‘Gustad told me you were not well,’ said Dilnavaz politely, diluting her haughtiness. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Absolutely first-class, everything tiptop. Just look at my red-red cheeks.’ Dinshawji pinched both sides of his waxen face as one would a baby’s. The sickly skin retained the imprints of his digits for a long time.
‘Chaalo, time for drinks,’ said Gustad. ‘Speak, Dinshawji.’
‘A glass of cold water for me, has.’
‘No, no, a proper drink. No arguments. There is Golden Eagle, also some rum.’ ‘OK, if you insist, Golden Eagle.’
Gustad poured the beer as Dilnavaz disappeared into the kitchen. They settled down with their drinks. ‘Cheers!’
‘Ahhh!’ said Dinshawji, taking a large swallow and exhaling. ‘This is nice. Much nicer than visiting you in bed with your fracture. Remember how I used to come every Sunday? To give you my personal bank bulletin, bring you up to date?’
‘I always said you should have been a reporter instead of a bank teller.’
‘What days those were, yaar. What fun we used to have.’ Dinshawji touched the corners of his lips to wipe the foam. ‘Parsis were the kings of banking in those days. Such respect we used to get. Now the whole atmosphere only has been spoiled. Ever since that Indira nationalized the banks.’
Gustad topped up Dinshawji’s glass. ‘Nowhere in the world has nationalization worked. What can you say to idiots?’
‘Believe me,’ said Dinshawji, ‘she is a shrewd woman, these are vote-getting tactics. Showing the poor she is on their side. Saali always up to some mischief. Remember when her pappy was Prime Minister and he made her president of Congress Party? At once she began encouraging the demands for a separate Maharashtra. How much bloodshed, how much rioting she caused. And today we have that bloody Shiv Sena, wanting to make the rest of us into second-class citizens. Don’t forget, she started it all by supporting the racist buggers.’
Dinshawji mopped his head and left the handkerchief draped over one knee. Gustad rose to switch on the ceiling fan. ‘That rioting was the time when Madhiwalla’s sandbags were around my legs.’
‘That’s right, you never got to see the big processions at Flora Fountain. Every day fighting and some morcha or other.’ He took a quick swallow of beer. ‘In the bank we thought our innings were over when those goondas broke the windows, even the thick glass of the main entrance. There goes our bonus, I thought. They were shouting “Parsi crow-eaters, we’ll show you who is the boss.” And you know what Goover-Ni-Gaan from Ledgers Department did?’ Gustad shook his head.
Goover-Ni-Gaan was a morose and lugubrious elderly employee named Ratansa. But the nickname had stuck ever since the day a young fellow, part-time and temporary with nothing to lose, insolently asked him why he went around with a face like an owl’s arse. Now, in private, people always referred to Ratansa as Goover-Ni-Gaan, or Ratansa Goover if they were being polite.
‘Take a guess, yaar,’ said Dinshawji. ‘What do you think he did?’
‘Give up.’
‘First Goover-Ni-Gaan told people not to panic, it was just a few goondas. But as things got hotter, he covered his head with his white hanky and began doing his kusti. Loudly, like a dustoorji in the fire-temple. Afterwards, some of the chaps were teasing him non-stop, to take it up as a full-time job, that he would earn much more.’ Dinshawji dabbed his forehead again and fanned himself with the kerchief while Gustad laughed. He wiped round the neck, under his collar. ‘But really, yaar, we all thought our number was up. Thank God for those two Pathans doing chowki at the entrance. I used to think they were nothing but decorations with their uniforms and turbans and shiny rifles.’
‘Solid fellows,’ said Gustad. ‘What a smart salute they give when the big shots pass by.’
‘Yes, but because of the Pathans and their guns, all those Sakarams and Dattarams and Tukarams only stood outside, screaming like fishwives. If they came close, one of the Pathans stamped his foot and at once they went in reverse gear.’ Dinshawji demonstrated with his size twelve Naughty Boys from Bata, making the beer bottles vibrate on the teapoy. He had enormous feet for a man on the short side. ‘Bhum! That’s all, and the Maratha brigade ran like cockroaches.’ He took a long draught and set down the glass. ‘Lucky for us that just as the bloody cockroaches were getting braver, the police came. What a day it was, yaar.’
Dinshawji wiped his forehead once more, then neatly folded the handkerchief and put it away, content with the ceiling fan. ‘One question may I ask?’
‘Sure, speak.’
‘Why is this black paper covering all the windows?’
‘You remember the war with China,’ said Gustad, but was spared from explaining further because the two boys and Roshan entered the room and said ‘Sahibji’ to Dinshawji.
‘Hallo, hallo, hallo!’ he said, delighted to see them. ‘My God, how tall they’ve grown. Arré Roshan, you were this big – only one billus – when I last saw you,’ and he extended a hand with the thumb and little finger outstretched. ‘Hard to believe, no? Happy birthday to the birthday girl! And congratulations for Sohrab. The IIT genius!’
Sohrab ignored him and glared at his father. ‘Have you told the whole world about it already?’
‘Behave yourself,’ said Gustad under his breath, facing the sideboard where he was opening a beer bottle. His voice could be heard plainly, but turning away provided the opportunity to pretend otherwise.
Sohrab persisted. ‘You keep boasting to everyone about IIT. As if you were going there yourself. I’m not interested in it, I’ve already told you.’
‘Don’t give me any idiotic-lunatic talk. God knows what has happened to you in the last few days.’
Dinshawji, sensing the necessity, tried a diversion. ‘Gustad, I think your Darius wants t
o make an oollu out of me. Says he can do fifty push-ups and fifty squats.’
Roshan also did her bit. ‘Daddy, sing the song about the donkey! For my birthday, please, please, please!’
Sohrab interrupted: ‘I’m going to drink the rum if no one wants it.’
Gustad paused. ‘Are you sure? You never liked it before.’
‘So what?’
Gustad swallowed and made a dismissive gesture with his hands, a gesture of acquiescence, resignation and rejection rolled into one. He turned to Dinshawji and Darius. ‘It’s true, fifty pushups and fifty squats, every morning. And he will keep increasing till he reaches hundred, like me.’
‘Hundred?’ Dinshawji dramatically fell back in his chair.
‘Daddy, the donkey song,’ reminded Roshan.
‘Later, later,’ said Gustad. ‘Yes, absolutely, one hundred pushups and one hundred squats. Every morning till my accident, just like my grandfather taught me when I was a little boy.’
Gustad’s grandfather, the furniture-maker, had been a powerful man, standing well over six feet, with tremendous strength in his arms and shoulders. Some of that strength had passed on to his grandson. Grandpa often said to his son, discussing Gustad’s upbringing and welfare: ‘With your bookstore and your books, you develop his mind. I won’t interfere. But I will take care of the body.’ On mornings when the little Gustad was still rubbing his sleepy eyes, reluctant to perform his exercises, Grandpa would fire him up with the exploits of wrestlers and strong men who did a thousand push-ups every morning: Rustom Pahelwan, who could lie flat and allow a truck to pass over him; or Joraaver Jal, supporting on his back a large platform with a symphony orchestra for the duration of Beethoven’s Fifth. From time to time Grandpa took him to wrestling matches so he could see, in person, titans like Dara Singh, the Terrible Turk, King Kong, Son of Kong, and the Masked Marauder.