Family Matters (20 page)

“How do you think? Look at this – grease on my shirt. I had to do the peon’s work, open the bloody shutters.”

“I’ll wash it in Surf, the stain will disappear.”

“And what about your father’s gloomy face? Now he’s making Jehangir gloomy as well. Doesn’t anybody know how to smile or laugh?”

“Shh, Pappa will hear! You used to call it his philosopher’s face, now it’s gloomy just because he’s staying here?”

In the front room, Murad asked his grandfather to start the next story, the one about Faridoon’s three sons. Nariman shook his head, afraid Yezad might take it as competition. “Later. Come, do your homework now.”

Roxana brought the tea to the dining table and sent both boys to their desk. She gathered up the washing from the chairs, to spread out later, after Yezad went to bed.

He saw her arms full of damp clothes. “Leave them, I only need one chair,” he tried to make amends.

While he drank his tea she sat with him and chatted about how Villie Cardmaster had bought onions and salt for her this morning from the bunya. “You were right, she really is quite nice.”

“Ask her for a Matka tip. If we win big, we can hire a hospital ayah.”

“I will starve before I gamble, or let you gamble.”

“Calm down, I wasn’t serious.” He watched his father-in-law’s hands trying to rest but thrashing about in the region of his chest, as though he were beating it.

Murad came and sat with them. “You know, Grandpa,” he said, “you should play the bongoes.”

“And why is that?”

“The way your fingers move, you’ll be good at it.” He attempted his idea on a chair, making his fingers tremble like his grandfather’s to see if they could produce a thrum.

“Don’t be a clown,” said Yezad. “It’s not funny.”

He made him return to his lessons in the back room, told him to follow his younger brother’s example. Jehangir heard the peace-offering and smiled into his book.

A
NXIETY ABOUT THE
impending verdict wakened Nariman with a jittery stomach. Three weeks had passed, and Dr. Tarapore was to visit today to pronounce upon the ankle.

So far, Nariman had managed to hold off each morning till everyone finished tea and breakfast, and left for school and work. He took pride in sparing them his smell; but his bowels were letting him down this last day.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Roxana, “I don’t dare delay, or it will be a bigger mess.”

“Don’t be silly, Pappa, if you need the bedpan you must have it.” She made sure its edges were dry, as he turned slightly to one side to let her position it.

Yezad was silent until the smell began to fill the room. He felt his gorge rise. Pushing his plate from him, he fled into the back room, and she followed.

“Such a stink with my breakfast,” he said, not caring to lower his voice. “You couldn’t wait a few more minutes.”

“I could, but Pappa couldn’t. Haven’t you noticed, all these days, not once has he done number two till you left the house?”

“Why not the same today? Or does he want to give me a sample before leaving?”

“Stop being disgusting!” She walked away to the front room where the boys were teasing Nariman.

“Chhee, Grandpa!” said Jehangir. “It’s an atom bomb!”

Murad said more like a hydrogen bomb. Yezad shouted from the back room to get out, it was not hygienic to eat in there.

“Millions of people live in the gutters of Bombay!” Roxana shouted back. “Eating and sleeping next to drains and ditches! This whole city stinks like a sewer! And you are worried about Pappa’s bedpan? How stupid can you be!”

“See that, chief? She calls me stupid because of you. Is that fair?”

“My daughter calls everyone stupid,” observed Nariman softly. “Including me.”

Jehangir was scared that another fight was beginning, like the one about Grandpa’s soo-soo bottle a few days ago. “I have a new joke, Daddy,” he said. “Can I tell you?”

“Later.”

“Please, Daddy, it’s very funny.”

“All right,” he said grouchily.

“Once upon a time, some tourists were in Vienna, and they went to the Beethoven museum where —”

“That’s a stale joke,” scoffed Murad. “Everyone knows about Beethoven’s last movement. I have a new one.”

“I don’t want any filthy jokes,” warned his mother.

“But mine isn’t filthy. Just listen to it: Some tourists were in Vienna in the Beethoven museum and —”

“You’re copy-catting mine!” protested Jehangir.

“Let me finish, it’s completely different, okay? So the tourists went into a room where there was an open coffin with a body in it, all rotting and green, worms crawling out of it. The frowning face had a wide forehead and untidy hair, just like Beethoven’s. Next to the coffin was a music stand with the manuscript of the
Fifth Symphony.
The tourists were upset, they asked the guide what was going on. He told them to be patient and watch the exhibit carefully. So they waited. Soon, the corpse raised a hand out of the coffin and erased a bar of music. A few seconds later, the hand came up again and erased another bar. The tourists were shocked, they asked the guide, Isn’t this the body of Ludwig van Beethoven, why isn’t he buried in the ground? The guide said, Please be calm, mein damen und herren. Ja, this is Beethoven the composer, ja, he is dead. And now he is slowly de-composing.”

Everyone laughed, and Roxana said she didn’t know where the boys picked up these things. Jehangir sensed he had been upstaged by Murad, but didn’t mind. Together they had averted a fight between Mummy-Daddy. Amid their clowning and teasing, she cleared away the bedpan.

Before leaving for work, Yezad stopped beside Nariman’s bed. “Good luck, chief, when Dr. Tarapore comes.”

“Thanks, Yezad.”

Roxana waited at the door to kiss him. “Sorry I shouted,” he said in her ear. “You know how I am about smells.” She closed her eyes as his arm pressed her against him.

“Can you do me a favour, Yezdaa? Ask the corner barber to come now for Pappa’s shave, before Doctor gets here.”

“Sure.” He started down the stairs, then stopped. “If Jal and Coomy visit, don’t let them bully you in Doctor’s presence, don’t agree to anything.”

“Knowing them, they’ve forgotten the check-up is today,” she said, reassuring him with a flying kiss.

For Jal and Coomy, the three weeks were ending as they had begun, in squabble and confusion, fretting and arguing, feeling guilty about what they had done, lacking the strength to put it right. They were ashamed of visiting their sister, and not all their toys and knick-knacks in the showcase could distract them from their torment.

More than the present, the future worried Coomy. Even if Pappa’s ankle mended, letting him move around a little, it wouldn’t be long before he was bedridden again. Dr. Tarapore had warned that Parkinson’s would incapacitate him. The kind of nursing it would require terrified her. She and Jal had really made a valiant effort, she felt – what was the use of denying your limitations? “And if Roxana had any decency, she would keep her father for longer.”

“What?” exclaimed Jal in disbelief. “In that tiny flat? This is Pappa’s house.”

“I can’t have him back, please don’t force me. I haven’t even found a servant to replace Phoola, the sweeping and swabbing is breaking my back. For days I’ve begged you to find a way out. Not one suggestion have you offered.”

Which was not surprising, since Jal wanted to accept the inevitable, bring Pappa home. “Be reasonable, Coomy. We said three weeks, we must keep our word. If Roxana can look after him, so can we.”

“We? You run off every morning to the share bazaar. And three weeks does not balance the fifteen years I’ve looked after him. If you’re feeling noble, stay home and nurse Pappa. Otherwise, use your head and think of something. Time is running out, the doctor comes today.”

But he had no suggestions when they set off at six-thirty, and endured her in silence till they arrived at Pleasant Villa.

Dusk had fallen, and the stairwell was half-dark. Jal tried to locate the switch in the lobby. He blundered into the wrong corner, into cobwebs, and retreated, clawing at his face to get the strands off. They began climbing in the gloom.

As they rounded the first landing, the lights went on. They heard someone on the flight below, taking the steps two at a time. “They’re in a hurry, let them pass,” whispered Jal.

“We’re first,” said Coomy. “Whoever it is will wait. Always you let people take advantage.”

Behind them, Yezad was closing the gap. How like a long-married couple they were, he thought, rather than brother and sister. “Coomy’s right, Jal,” he called over the banister. “You must stand up for yourself.”

“Oh! Yezad!” said Coomy. “Sorry, didn’t know it was you.”

“Not at all, you have as much claim to the stairs as me. So how are you both? Come to take Pappa home?”

Layering care and concern over her panic, she said, “We missed him. I hope doctor says he is all right now.”

“Oh, he’s been all right for three weeks, hasn’t he?”

She suffered the dart without response. They reached the top floor and he used his latchkey, calling out to warn Roxana, “Hello! Look who I found on the stairs!”

Greetings were exchanged, familial niceties completed, and they stood at their stepfather’s bedside.

“You seem much better than three weeks ago, Pappa,” said Coomy. “This visit has been good for you.”

“And a lovely shave as well,” said Jal. “See those pink cheeks. Going on a date, Pappa?”

“Yes, with destiny.”

“But you’re still lying down,” said Coomy, staying in the lighter vein. “I thought Doctor might have taken you for a trial walk.”

“And I thought you might have forgotten where you left me.”

“What a thing to say, Pappa. I was just telling Yezad how much Jal and I missed you. Come, Roxie, don’t make us worry – what did Doctor say?”

“What’s the rush, relax, have some tea first,” said Yezad, though he too was anxious to know. And Jal, smiling, moved towards the dining table.

“Love to, but we are in a hurry,” said Coomy, before her brother could sit. “We want to go to fire-temple to offer thanks for Pappa’s recovery.”

“Good, I’ll go with you,” said Nariman, “and then we’ll head for home.”

“That’s lovely,” said Coomy, her smile a rictus of dismay. “That means Doctor gave the okay to get up? Have you tried out your crutches?”

“Oh Pappa, stop teasing her,” said Roxana. She wished she could have shared the news alone with Yezad first, Dr. Tarapore’s explanation about the pills for Parkinson’s disease and its main ingredient, L-dopa, and the side effects. Dr. Tarapore had said they were not to worry, disconcerting though it may be if her father rambled incoherently. Stopping the pills would mean losing complete control of his limbs.

She didn’t want to spout all this before Jal and Coomy, and stuck to the ankle. “Doctor told Pappa to wait till next week to get up. He removed some plaster today, look.”

She lifted the sheet – the cast, which used to encase his leg from the thigh downwards, and the entire foot, was somewhat reduced at both ends. His toes were exposed, and the knee.

Coomy began to sense a reprieve. “That must feel more comfortable for Pappa.”

“So what happens now?” asked Yezad. “This week, I mean?”

“Doctor needs Pappa at Parsi General for an X-ray in eight days. This week is up to us.”

“Excuse me, it’s up to me,” said Nariman. “And I want to go home now.”

“Really, Pappa, how insensitive,” said Coomy. “You want to offend poor Roxie and Yezad? This is home as well, isn’t it?” Meeting with silence, she continued, “You can come back with us now, Pappa. But that means calling one ambulance to take you from here to Chateau Felicity, a second ambulance next week to take you to hospital for X-ray. Then a third one to take you home again.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll share the expense,” said Yezad.

“It’s not the money,” she protested. “It’s the risk, each time those junglee ambulancevalas grab Pappa and throw him on their stretcher. God forbid, if they twist something, imagine the pain and suffering, and prolonging of his recovery.”

Everyone paused while this dire forecast hung in the air. Then, to her surprise, Coomy received support from an unexpected source.

“She’s right, chief. You should stay on, it’s just eight more days.”

Roxana looked gratefully at her husband while Coomy tried not to appear too relieved. “Is there enough medicine for a week?” she asked. “Or shall I get more?”

They began counting the pills, and one fell to the floor. Coomy bent to her knees to retrieve it. The delay she wanted was hers, she thought, but the inevitable had merely been postponed by a week. After that, what?

As she hunted for the fallen pill, she noticed the plaster removed by Dr. Tarapore. The bits lay on a sheet of newspaper under the teapoy, fragments large and small, some of them still holding the curve of Nariman’s leg.

And suddenly it came to her. There was the solution – staring her in the face.

“Yes, the medicine is enough for ten days,” announced Roxana, finishing the count.

“Good,” said Coomy. “And Pappa will be home before then. Oh look, there’s the pill, under the chair.”

She picked it up, then they said goodbye, making arrangements to meet at Parsi General in a week.