Family Matters (19 page)

“There he was, hanging, his life literally in the hands of strangers. And he had put it there. He had trusted them. More arms reached out and held him tight in their embrace. It was a miracle – suddenly he was completely safe. So safe, I wondered if I had overreacted to the earlier danger. But no, his position had been truly perilous for a few seconds.

“I waited on the platform to see more trains. It was then I realized that what I had witnessed was not a miracle. It happened over and over: hands reaching out to help, as though it were perfectly normal, a routine commuter procedure.

“Whose hands were they, and whose hands were they grasping? Hindu, Muslim, Dalit, Parsi, Christian? No one knew and no one cared. Fellow passengers, that’s all they were. And I stood there on the platform for a long time, Yezad, my eyes filled with tears of joy, because what I saw told me there was still hope for this great city.”

Yezad nodded quietly. What Mr. Kapur had described, he saw every day – a mundane sight in the daily grind. But Mr. Kapur had revealed an aspect of it he had not seen, and it made him wonder what else he had missed.

“Now you understand why I want to act before it’s too late,” continued Mr. Kapur. “This beautiful city of seven islands, this jewel by the Arabian Sea, this reclaimed land, this ocean gift transformed into ground beneath our feet, this enigma of cosmopolitanism where races and religions live side by side and cheek by jowl in peace and harmony, this diamond of diversity, this generous goddess who embraces the poor and the hungry and the huddled masses, this Urbs Prima in Indis, this dear, dear city now languishes – I don’t exaggerate – like a patient in intensive care, Yezad, my friend, put there by small, selfish men who would destroy it because their coarseness cannot bear something so grand, so fine.”

Yezad was silent, admiring Mr. Kapur’s ability to adapt Shakespeare. Nariman would enjoy it, he would repeat it for him tonight. “Bravo,” he exclaimed. “If you can do that in Hindi and Marathi as well, you’ll win the election.” He offered him his hand.

“So I can count on your vote?”

“For the last seven or eight years, I haven’t voted in any election – not local, not national. But for you, I will vote early, and I will vote often.”

They laughed, and rose to lock up the shop.

The boys had taken to spending some time each day after school at their grandfather’s bedside. Murad discovered that Grandpa in his youth used to make model aeroplanes. He began discussing biplanes and monoplanes from the First World War with him. They compared the Fokker D.VII and the Spad, the elegant Sopwith Camel, and the deadly Fokker Eindecker, while Jehangir listened.

“I think the Camel is Biggles’s favourite,” said Murad. “But he also flies the Spitfire and Hurricane. Did you have them in your collection?”

“No,” said Nariman. “They are Second World War. Unlike me, Biggies is ageless. By the time the balsa-wood models came on the market I was much older, there was no time for my hobby.”

He shifted, trying to adjust his pillow, and the boys did it for him. “Thank you. Now, speaking of time, isn’t it time for your homework?”

“You haven’t told me a story yet, Grandpa,” complained Jehangir. “You keep talking about aeroplanes with Murad.”

So Nariman continued from the day before with tales about his childhood friend Nauzer, whose parents had had a veritable menagerie of birds and dogs. Though it was not a huge flat, just four rooms, they had been crazy about animals, and had a golden retriever, two Pomeranians, and three Sydney Silkies. Jehangir’s eyes shone as his imagination embraced such a lively household.

“Then there was a big cage with lovebirds, and finches that sang,” said Nariman. “And a parrot named Tehmuras. But he had his own private cage, which he went into at night. During the day he roamed free.”

“He didn’t try to fly away?”

“Never, he loved it there, and the dogs loved him, especially the golden retriever, Cleopatra. She let Tehmuras walk all over her, perch on her back, even on her head. Sometimes he would sit between her paws and rest his beak next to her nose.”

Jehangir sought details about the birds’ colouring, the dogs’ diets, and their sleeping arrangements. “Did Tehmuras talk?”

“Tehmuras was an African grey parrot, he was brilliant. You see, Nauzer’s mother was very strict, she made him do his homework every evening. So the parrot learned to say, ‘Nauzer! Time for lessons, Nauzer!’ in the mother’s voice. As soon as my friend came home from school Tehmuras would start repeating that. And Nauzer threatened to make a special little muzzle, to silence Tehmuras.”

Jehangir laughed anxiously. “Was he serious?”

“It was a joke. Nauzer loved all living creatures, even the snails we found in the school garden in the monsoon.”

“Did he have a cat?”

“No. No cats. Parsi families never keep cats. They consider them bad luck, because cats hate water, they never take a bath.”

“Sound familiar, Jehangoo?” said his mother as she came in from the kitchen. “Maybe you were a cat in a previous life.”

“Cats stay clean by licking themselves,” said Jehangir. “I read it in a book, it’s very hygienic.”

“Yes” said Nariman. “But beliefs are more powerful than facts. Like our belief in spiders and cocks.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, Parsis don’t kill spiders, and they only eat the female chicken, never a cock – you must know that, from the story of Zuhaak the Evil One.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Of course you do,” said his mother. “I told it to you when you were learning the prayers for your navjote. We read many stories from the Shah-Nama – about King Jamsheed, about Rustam and Sohrab. And the one about King Gustasp’s favourite horse becoming lame, how our prophet Zarathustra cured it by passing his hand over the hocks and fetlocks.”

“I remember those, but not the one about Zuhaak.”

“Pappa, I think he just wants to hear it from you.”

“No, really, I don’t know that story.”

“Well,” said Nariman, “a very long time ago, thousands of years ago, there lived an evil king whose name was Zuhaak. Out of Zuhaak’s shoulders grew two immense serpents, ugly and smelly, that had to be fed every morning with the brains of two young men. For more than nine hundred years Zuhaak ruled, and brought indescribable misery upon the people, devouring their sons day after day. The people prayed for deliverance; the centuries passed; and finally, the great hero Faridoon arrived to confront Zuhaak. This evil monster had murdered Faridoon’s father, and Faridoon was seeking vengeance. They met in hand-to-hand combat. It was a terrible fight, a fight that lasted days and weeks. Sometimes it seemed Faridoon was winning, sometimes Zuhaak. But in the end Faridoon overpowered him and tied him in huge chains. Unimaginably strong chains, that no file could cut or hammer smash. And when Zuhaak was rendered helpless, the good angel Sarosh instructed Faridoon to bury him deep inside Mount Damavand. Thus, the universe was saved.”

“And the spider and the cock?”

“They are the ones who protect us in Faridoon’s absence. The evil Zuhaak with his snake shoulders is still alive, and very strong. With his supernatural strength, he struggles and rages all night long in the bowels of Mount Damavand, trying to free himself. Early in the morning, while it is still dark and the sun has not yet risen, when Zuhaak has almost succeeded in bursting his chains, the cock crows and warns the world that the Evil One will be loose again in the universe. Then the good angel Sarosh at once sends out the spider to spin its web and mend the chains that Zuhaak is about to break. Thus the world is safe again. The cock and the spider keep it safe for us, one day at a time.”

Jehangir nodded. “So if people ate up all the cocks and killed all the spiders, there would be no one to help us fight all the evil.”

“Exactly. My friend Nauzer loved this story. He would sit for hours gazing at a spider spinning its web. Especially outdoors, in sunshine after rain, with drops like jewels caught in the gossamer.”

Jehangir began scrutinizing the ceiling, walls, and corners of the room, looking for a web. He wanted to see for himself how beautiful it might be.

Murad began to laugh. “My brother is a crackpot, Grandpa. Now he’ll worry about Zuhaak and start protecting spiders.”

“I’m not a crackpot. I know there isn’t any Zuhaak. It’s just a story, like Santa Claus.”

“They’re both real,” said Murad. “And Zuhaak will catch you if you sleep on the balcony.”

“You’re saying that because you want to steal my turn tomorrow.”

“I think you’re right, Jehangir,” chuckled his grandfather. “But even if Zuhaak were real, he wouldn’t bother you. He’d be busy with things like diseases and famines, wars and cyclones.”

The room did not reveal any spiders. Jehangir made his mother promise: next time she found a web, she would let him look at it first.

“And when your leg is all right, Grandpa, can we go to meet your friend’s dogs and birds?”

“But that was a long time ago, Jehangir, those pets are” – he paused, making a sorrowful gesture with his hand – “are gone.”

He saw Jehangir’s reluctance to accept that the pets were dead, and continued with more directness, “I remember when Cleopatra died. My ssc exams were only a week away. But I went with Nauzer and his parents to bury her. A friend of theirs who had a cottage in Bandra said they were welcome to use the back garden, so we went in a taxi. It was a rainy day. We had to try many taxis before one agreed, and even then, the driver refused to allow a dead dog on the seat. We put Cleopatra in the boot, wrapped in a sheet. Nauzer and I carried her. The sheet got wet and muddy. That was the first time I saw Nauzer crying.”

The sorrow from sixty-two years ago, of the burial of a dog he’d never seen, arced across time and touched Jehangir. Aching with grief, he asked, “Did you and Nauzer dig the hole?”

“No, the gardener had it ready. It was next to a lemon tree. Then Nauzer’s mother wanted to see Cleopatra one more time, and Nauzer unfolded the wet sheet. I think that was a mistake. The beautiful golden-brown coat was dirty and yellow, the hair in knots and tangles. We quickly put back the sheet and buried her.”

Elbows on his knees, face cupped in his hands, Jehangir sat gazing at the floor. He had run out of questions.

“You see, having a dog is not easy,” said his mother. “It’s not just laughing and playing with the dog. You have to be prepared for the sadness when it dies.”

“I know that.” He turned to his grandfather again. “But your friend might have new pets, we could go and see those.”

Nariman shook his head. “My friend Nauzer – he died two years ago.”

A cloud passed over Jehangir’s face. “How old was he?”

“Seventy-six.”

He counted: Grandpa was seventy-nine; if his friend was still alive, he would be seventy-eight. One year younger than Grandpa. And yet the friend was dead.

He felt his hands go cold and tears start to stab his eyes. The arithmetic was threatening his grandfather’s life, he wished he could forget the cruel numbers. He rose abruptly and went to the balcony.

Roxana mimed for her father, drawing a line with her finger from her eye down along her cheek. Murad pretended to be unaffected, more grown-up.

Nariman waited for a while before calling, “Jehangir, do you know the story of Faridoon’s life after he defeated Zuhaak?”

“No.”

“It’s about Salim, Tur, and Iraj, the three sons of Faridoon. Don’t you want to hear the end?”

“Yes,” he answered, but stayed on the balcony because his eyes were still wet. Gazing down at the blurred pavement, he saw his father appear in the lane, striding homewards.

Yezad used his latchkey, disappointed that Jehangir was not at the door, and asked Roxana why her son was standing on the balcony. She hushed him, it would embarrass Jehangoo if he heard, he’d been crying because of a story Pappa had told, which had made him sad.

“Jehangla! Come here, talk to me.”

Jehangir gave a final wipe to his eyes and went in with a weak smile.

Yezad took his hand. “Now what story is this, chief? Why are you making my son cry? When I tell stories, it makes everyone laugh.” He went on giving Nariman a mock scolding, but his annoyance tinged with jealousy was unmistakable.

Jehangir wrenched his hand out of his father’s. “Don’t be angry with Grandpa,” he said, aware that the tears he had got rid of had returned to his eyes.

“Okay, then I’ll be angry with you. Tears before I leave for work, tears when I come home!”

Jehangir’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he went to the balcony again.

Turning to enter the back room, Yezad walked into wet clothes on hangers suspended in the doorway. In a rage he tore the clammy shirts from his face and flung them aside. “Is this a place to dry the washing?”

“There’s no space on the balcony because of the tent,” said Roxana softly, determined to stay calm. “Where can I dry them?”

“Take them to Chateau Felicity. Your bloody brother and sister can dry them in their seven rooms.”

She gathered up the clothes from the floor, shook them out, hung them up again. “Tea, Yezdaa?”

He did not answer. She made it anyway, and asked him how it was at work.