Family Matters (21 page)

“Don’t you appreciate the beauty of it?” Coomy asked, still trying a week later to convince Jal. “Isn’t it amazing that the plaster from his own leg gave me the answer to our problem?”

“But it’s so deceitful, so destructive, so extreme,” he tried yet again to dissuade her.

“You have another idea? Are you willing to do his bedpan and toilet from tomorrow?”

“But he’s getting better.”

“Don’t fool yourself. Pappa will never get better.”

“How will we live with this on our conscience?”

“We’ll get used to it. I’m sure conscience is easier to look after than Pappa. To be honest, I cannot bear the thought of him back – in this four-week gap, I have been remembering Mamma, and everything else, more sharply.”

“I remember Mamma and her unhappiness too. But isn’t it time to forgive?”

“Did Mamma have time to forgive him before she died, is what I’d like to know!”

“We can’t really be sure what happened,” said Jal wearily.

“You can think what you like – there is no doubt in my mind. You and I were both in the room when Mamma and Pappa had their last fight. We both heard Mamma’s words before she went up to the terrace.”

He sighed. “The more time passes, the more I feel there is no sense blaming anyone – it was just a sad, unhappy mess. Sometimes, life is like that.”

“Stop the philosophy and do what needs doing. Go to Edul Munshi.”

“Okay, don’t yell, I’m going,” said Jal, and trudged down the stairs. She was always dredging up the past, he felt. It was abnormal, harbouring so much anger after thirty years. And now she was using the past to justify keeping Pappa away, unable to overcome her revulsion for the smelly sick-room chores. Like himself. If only some of the share prices would go up, they could hire a hospital ayah, solve the problem peacefully … instead of this crazy plan of hers …

He prepared himself for meeting Edul Munshi and broaching the subject. He thought about Edul’s wife – poor Manizeh, he knew she rued the day when Edul had stopped at a secondhand book stall and, among the books and magazines spread out on the footpath, come upon an American journal devoted to the do-it-yourselfer. Edul still told people the story of how he had found his calling, and preached the virtues of handiness to anyone who would listen.

“You know why America is a great country? Because they believe in do-it-yourself. And we are poor and backward because we don’t. Now I understand what Gandhiji meant when he taught svavlumban. With his doctrine of self-reliance, Mahatmaji was the first genuine Indian do-it-yourselfer. His vision is true,
DIY
is the only way to save this country.”

He had embarked confidently upon this new path, and learned the handyman style of personifying the tools he worked with. He even had his own song, sung to the tune of “Candyman”: “The handyman can ’cause he fixes it with love and makes it work all right.”

Arriving at the Munshi flat, Jal stood at the door with its crooked nameplate and rang the doorbell. Since Edul had been fixing it, the pushbutton had to be jiggled and coaxed before it responded with an unpleasant jangling.

Manizeh opened the door. “Edoo! Upstairs Jal is here!”

Jal waited, offering up a smile filled with sympathy. In the beginning, Manizeh had been so pleased with her husband’s hobby, bragging to the building about his wonderful tools and gadgets. The things they could do left you gasping in amazement, she told her neighbours. But as time went on, she saw the devastation those same instruments could wreak.

Edul’s first project had been the installation of wooden shelves in the kitchen. After days of work during which everyone, including the servant, watched with awe, Edul proclaimed, using what he presumed was an American accent, “Okay, Manizeh, these babies are ready. Load ’em up.”

She placed three tins, one on each of the shelves, and stood back to admire the effect. Seconds later, the shelves crashed to the floor.

Edul was mortified. How could his expensive, shiny tools betray him? He picked out the screws and brackets from the debris, blew off the plaster dust, and examined them with a dazed anger.

His broken heart mended in a few days, and he tackled the job again, the shelves staying up this time. But there were gaping holes in the wall plaster. And the patching he accomplished left the surface uneven as the wall of a mountain cave. Manizeh assured him it was fine, that for modern decor, interior designers recommended textured walls.

Next, Edul had taken on a dripping tap and turned the leak into a flood. Struggling through the Sunday morning, he did change the washer, addressing it as the slippery swine. But to open and shut the tap required the full strength of both hands.

After a series of small jobs that he managed to convert into progressively larger disasters, Manizeh took control of her husband’s hobby. The rules were clear: Edul had to submit all his projects for her prior approval.

Invariably overambitious, they were always refused. His dreams of installing new flooring, performing a bathroom renovation, constructing built-in closets fell by the wayside. Occasionally, when she was certain it wouldn’t leave ruin in its wake, he was allowed to undertake something modest such as hanging a picture frame.

For work on a larger scale, Edul had to satisfy his cravings away from home. He often tried to convince people to borrow his tools, which came with his services. Unfortunately, most of his friends and neighbours had grown aware of the hidden cost of the loan, and were not inclined to pay it.

But Jal was optimistic as he waited for Edul to appear. Not much harm could come of asking for a simple hammer, he thought.

“How are you, Edul?”

“Champion, Jal. You?”

“Fine. Doorbell not working?”

Edul tried it, pushing the button this way and that till brief contact produced the unpleasant jangling. Manizeh grimaced.

“Just needs a few more adjustments,” he reassured her.

Learning that Jal wanted to borrow a hammer, he began to salivate. “Tell me what you’re doing. The right tool for every job – that’s the handyman’s motto. I have three types of hammer: claw, ball-peen, and bricklayer’s.”

“My gosh, Edul, you’re really well equipped.”

“A few basic tools,” he said modestly. “It’s not how many, but how Well you use them. So what’s the job?”

Jal hesitated. His lie shouldn’t be too interesting or Edul would jump right in. “Shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Yes, some nails in my heels have popped out.”

“Sure. Step inside, we’ll bang them in.”

“Not these, my other pair. At home. Coomy’s as well, we’re both having heel trouble.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you.”

“And handle my dirty shoes?” said Jal. “Can’t insult you like that.”

“Don’t worry, Jal my son, we handymen are used to all kinds of dirt.”

Jal had to think fast or he would soon be climbing upstairs with the handyman in tow. “Can I be honest, Edul? We need your help later – a more difficult job. So let me do this alone, or Coomy will feel over-obligated and won’t ask for that favour.”

Edul’s eyes grew large. “What’s the difficult job?”

“A window.” Fairly safe choice, thought Jal, there was bound to be at least one problem window if he came demanding to examine it. He decided he must get away now, the chap was quite worked up. “Could I have the hammer?”

“Sure. This one’s right for your job.” He showed Jal how to use the claw to remove the nails. “Always best to throw the old buggers out and put in new ones. Take my pliers as well, in case the claw doesn’t grip. And this iron block should fit inside the shoe, like a last.”

Thus equipped, Jal climbed the stairs to his flat. It had been relatively easy. And Edul did seem knowledgeable. Perhaps people complained too much of his shortcomings; exaggeration, after all, was a human tendency.

He fiddled with his hearing aid, pretending he couldn’t hear Coomy scolding him for taking so long with Edul. He followed her into their stepfather’s room, where she placed a tall stool on the bed and told him to climb up.

“It wobbles.”

“I’ll hold it.”

He hesitated again. “What a mess it will make. Shouldn’t we cover the furniture, Pappa’s nice things?”

“For once, use your head. A mess is exactly what we need.”

He put one foot on the stool, then the other, and remained in a squat till he was sure of his balance. “Ready?” he asked.

She was gripping its legs. “Yes, yes, ready.”

“I’m going to stand up now.”

“Shall I clap?”

“Hold the stool tight!” He stood, and steadied himself, checking if he could touch the ceiling. Yes. He rested the fingertips of his left hand against the smooth surface, and immediately felt more stable.

“Go on, begin.”

Sighing, he swung the hammer. It landed with a half-hearted thud, raining bits of plaster upon the bed and in Coomy’s hair. “I just thought of something – what if someone hears the noise?”

“Who, the crows? Only the roof is above us.”

He continued, creating holes and cracks in the ceiling. Some sections crumbled readily, others resisted. He paused to give his shoulder a rest, and moved to places that were less damaged, following her directions.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Keep going. Dr. Tarapore removed more plaster from Pappa’s leg.”

Finally she asked him to come down and give his opinion. “Does it look genuine?”

From below, the ceiling appeared worse than when his face had been close to it. He felt sick as he surveyed the wreck, and nodded.

“Good, we can work on the other side.”

The stool was placed upon the dresser, he climbed onto it, and did as he was told. From Nariman’s room they went to Roxana’s old bedroom, then to each of theirs.

The ceiling in their mother’s room was left intact. Jal wondered if it might not seem suspicious. Coomy said no, it wouldn’t, because everyone knew that God worked in mysterious ways. She went to the bathroom for a bucket of water and a mug.

“Is this necessary?” he asked. “It already looks realistic.”

“There have to be water marks. What if Yezad wants to check the damage? Every detail of our story should be solid.” She began throwing water towards the ceiling, but instead of hitting the target most of it splashed down upon her. “You’ll have to get on the stool again.”

Jal soaked the broken areas, being liberal with the water as she suggested: if the furniture and floor got wet, it would look more natural.

Then it was time to clean themselves up, wash the plaster out of their hair, and rehearse how to break the news of this misfortune tomorrow at Parsi General.

D
r. Tarapore smiled at the X-ray with satisfaction; the bones had healed well. “Quite remarkable, Professor, at your age, with osteoporosis.”

He instructed Nariman in some simple exercises to be performed sitting down: wriggling the toes, flexing the foot, placing it flat on the ground and raising the heel. Walking would be restricted to a few steps each day on crutches, for the next four weeks. “Walking, my dear Professor,” he said, “is not a means of taking you from point A to point B. If the crutches are difficult, just stay in bed. But don’t neglect the exercises.”

Roxana wished Coomy was there to hear this, she worried Pappa would exert more than he should, once he went home. Then it was off in a wheelchair to Mr. Rangarajan the plasterer.

“What a pleasure to meet Professor Vakeel’s youngest,” said Mr. Rangarajan, shaking hands with Roxana. “And are you following in your esteemed father’s footsteps, as educator and broadener of minds?”

She shook her head. “I’m just a housewife.”

“Just?” Mr. Rangarajan was aghast. “What are you saying, dear lady? Housewifery is a most important calling, requiring umpteen talents. Without housewife there is no home; without home, no family. And without family, nothing else matters, everything from top to bottom falls apart or descends into chaos. Which is basically the malady of the West. Would you not agree, Professor Vakeel?”

“I don’t think they have a monopoly,” said Nariman. “We do quite well here too when it comes to creating miserable families.”

Mr. Rangarajan laughed. He drew Roxana’s attention to the manner of tying the tensor bandage. “Basically, it’s a figure eight. Please, check the tension I am employing.”

While Roxana was observing the technique, Jal and Coomy arrived in a flurry of movement and expression, as though they had travelled great distances under inclement conditions. “Such a relief to find you, Pappa. We asked for Dr. Tarapore, but the receptionist said you had left already.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Roxana.

“Too much,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“Now that everyone is assembled,” announced Mr. Rangarajan, “I will start the bandage at the very beginning.”

“I wonder how long this gadhayro will take,” said Coomy in Gujarati.

Embarrassed, Nariman intervened, “We mustn’t detain you any longer, Mr. Rangarajan, your other patients are waiting. Thank you very much for your help.”

“But it is no trouble —”

“Thank you, bye-bye,” said Coomy.

For a moment, Mr. Rangarajan looked offended. But he recovered his poise, wished the professor a speedy recovery, and left.

They pushed Nariman’s wheelchair into the corridor, parking it by a bench near the window. “You won’t believe our bad luck,” said Jal, “when we tell you what happened last night.”

“The big water tank on the terrace burst,” said Coomy, “and the ceiling collapsed.” She described the roar that had awakened them, and then bits of plaster falling on their beds, which was fortunate, for they were able to jump out before the water soaked in and larger pieces came crashing down.

“Some were the size of footballs. I must say, Pappa, God is watching after you. If you were in your bed last night, a big chunk could have cracked your head. Maybe your broken ankle, and moving to Pleasant Villa, was God’s way of protecting you.”

“Luckily, there was not too much water,” said Jal, uncomfortable with casting God in a supporting role in their deceitful drama. “The tank must have been only half full.”

“Both of us shifted to Mamma’s room,” added Coomy. “It’s undamaged. The only safe place.”