Family Matters (22 page)

“Strange,” said Nariman. “It’s right next to yours.”

“Who knows,” said Jal. “Maybe the terrace is uneven and the water couldn’t flow that way. Or Mamma’s ceiling might be stronger.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” declared Coomy.

Nariman said there was no need to waste time in theological discussions – best to go home, get things back to normal, a broken ceiling did not bother him.

The idea was declared absurd in a chorus of disapproval: there could be structural problems, something else might collapse; besides, Jal and Coomy were able-bodied, they could run at the first sign of crumbling, but Pappa would be trapped.

“I’m willing to take the risk,” said Nariman.

Eventually, Roxana convinced her father to return to Pleasant Villa for a few more days, while the damage was assessed. Coomy promised to send Pappa’s pension to help with his expenses.

“I hate putting you and Yezad through more difficulty,” said Nariman.

“Don’t be silly, Pappa, it’s not your fault,” said Roxana.

“An act of God is no one’s fault,” said Coomy.

As they set off for the ambulance, Jal pushing the wheelchair, Nariman observed that Coomy was getting into the bad habit of burdening God with altogether too much responsibility: “And that is good for neither God nor us.”

In the evening Yezad heard the news about the ceiling without emotion. He’d had a hunch Jal and Coomy would not be taking the chief back with them today.

Roxana protested they were scarcely to be blamed for the water tank. “As Coomy said, it’s an act of God.”

“Yes, and His act is mainly in her behalf, isn’t it? Must be all her visits to fire-temple and her sandalwood bribes. I might have some influence too if I went more often.”

“That would be so nice, Yezdaa,” she said eagerly. “And you could take the boys with you, light a deevo —”

“I was just being funny,” he interrupted, and her face fell.

They helped Nariman up, the crutches were put in place, and, with Yezad’s support, he took his first steps. Slowly, they covered the four feet between the settee and the chair. He sat down, wincing with the effort, and the boys clapped.

“One small step for Grandpa’s foot, one giant leap for Grandpa,” said Murad.

“Exactly,” he panted.

“So how was it, chief?”

“All right.”

“Any pain?” asked Roxana, having seen him wince.

“A little. But that’s to be expected.” He remained in the chair till dinnertime, when they pushed him closer to the table so he could eat with them.

Roxana had made dhandar-paatiyo to celebrate her father’s first steps, though it bothered her that it was without fish. For a small pair of pomfrets the machhivala had demanded a hundred and thirty rupees. Ninety she could have managed, scrimping on other things, but the rogue had refused to budge – why should he, people were lined up to buy at his price, the obscene wealth there was in Bombay these days. So here it was, a fishless dhandar-paatiyo, an incomplete celebration. She began to lay the table.

“I notice you never use my mother’s good dishes that I gave you on your wedding,” said her father.

“Naturally, Pappa, they’re so precious, so old and delicate.”

“Is that a reason to keep them locked up? I am old and delicate, and Jal and Coomy wanted to keep me locked up. You can’t live like that. Use the dishes.”

“How will I ever replace something so valuable if it breaks?”

“Human beings break, and you cannot replace them either. Are dishes more important? All you can do is enjoy the memories.”

“There’s my philosopher,” said Yezad. “You tell her, chief.”

“Don’t encourage Pappa. Such inauspicious words when we’re celebrating his recovery.”

“Not inauspicious” said her father gently. “There’s only one way to defeat the sorrow and sadness of life – with laughter and rejoicing. Bring out the good dishes, put on your good clothes, no sense hoarding them. Where is the cut-glass vase and the rose bowl from your wedding? The porcelain shepherdess with her lamb? Bring them all out, Roxana, and enjoy them.”

“You’re being silly, Pappa. Like on your birthday – making Coomy do double work with your demands.”

The reminder blotted the smile from Nariman’s face. What an age it seemed since that evening two months ago. When he was still able to stand, dress himself, go to the toilet, go for a walk. Before his fall, before the nightmare with Coomy and Jal and the commode, the days in bed with his stinking body, frightened and shivering.

Roxana at once regretted her words; their effect on her father was painful to observe, and she looked to Yezad for help. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Then Jehangir cleared his throat like a grown-up about to make an important announcement: “Be that as it may, the good plates are on the agenda.”

Nariman laughed, and Yezad said it was about time this little brown parrot learned some new expressions from Grandpa. Murad pretended to train him: Jehangoo sweetie, pretty Jehangoo. The good dishes were brought out from the lower section of Yezad’s cupboard, the rose bowl took the centre of the dining table, and the porcelain shepherdess was assigned the teapoy to graze her charges.

Through dinner, Yezad’s thoughts kept turning to the days ahead. The morning stress, the overcrowding, the smelly front room – all of it would continue. And providing for one more person, when every rupee was budgeted, meant a shortfall of twenty-five per cent in Roxana’s food envelopes. Not to mention things like soap and washing and dhobi.

“About your pension, chief,” said Yezad. “How much remains after buying medicines for the month?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. Coomy runs the house. I gave her power of attorney for my accounts a long time ago.”

“And what about the ceilings? I should take a look, see how bad the damage is.”

“As far as I am concerned,” said Nariman, “the damage is irrelevant. Broken plaster is no calamity.”

Yezad nodded; to voice his money worries now would not help, better to keep a calm, patient demeanour for Roxana’s sake. “We can manage for another week or so.”

When the medication ran out and Roxana went to purchase the next lot, she discovered that what Coomy had given her as her father’s pension did not cover even the cost of the pills. There had to be some mistake, she thought, perhaps Coomy had sent a partial amount.

The chemist’s bill was paid by making up the difference from housekeeping money. To compensate, she bought bread but not butter, and a small tin of cooking oil instead of the more economical large one. Tea, sugar, rice could wait till next week. And dinner would be meatless, just cauliflower with potatoes.

She placed the pill bottles on the side table next to her father. He inquired if the money had been enough, and she nodded, convinced that Coomy and Jal would soon show up with the balance. To Yezad too, when he asked during dinner, she said, “It’s okay for now.”

In the days that followed, her frugalities began to be noticed. At breakfast, Murad grumbled there was no butter on his toast, and Jehangir said his tea was bitter, it needed more sugar.

Yezad didn’t like their fuss. “You boys are spoilt. Be thankful you at least have toast to eat and tea to drink. You know how many millions in the world would be happy to have what you have?”

Towards the end of the week, Nariman found it harder to hide the pain in his ankle when he stood on crutches. He had remained silent because the three little steps he took went far in sustaining everyone’s hope.

Then one evening, as he tried to stand, the agony in his ankle made him scream out, the crutches slipped, and he fell back upon the settee.

Throwing aside his newspaper, Yezad rushed to him. Roxana ran in from the kitchen. Once they determined he was safe, they grilled him about the scream. He tried to pass it off as a sudden twinge, but she saw through it and pried the secret out.

“That bloody Tarapore,” said Yezad. “The quack-and-a-half was in a hurry.”

Nariman shook his head. “To be fair, we were all relieved when he said I could get up.”

“Don’t defend him, chief. If this was America, we could sue him for millions.”

But Dr. Tarapore was duly consulted again, and was quite forthcoming about the setback. The X-ray had not lied, the cracks had mended, but calcium deficiency and porous bones had allowed hairline fractures to reopen.

The full regimen of bed-care was back in force.

At least once a day Roxana sat with her envelopes to pore over the contents, debating if she should transfer a few rupees from the one marked Milk & Tea into the one for Butter & Bread, or from Meat into Rice & Sugar. Jehangir sat with her, asking the price of a slab of Amul butter, a packet of tea, a kilo of mutton, while working out sums in his head and making suggestions.

Lost in anxiety, she discussed the finances with him till she realized what she was doing. “That’s enough, Jehangoo, money is not your worry. Daddy and I can look after it.”

“Yes,” he started, “but Daddy will …,” and though he trailed off, she understood his fear.

A fortnight passed since the ceilings had collapsed. Jal and Coomy were nowhere in sight, and Yezad refused to call on them, saying he didn’t want any favours from those two.

“May I make a suggestion?” urged Nariman. “Arguments between you and Roxana will not solve the problem. The pension payment notwithstanding, my expenses have remained unmet. Hence, my instructions are to make a withdrawal from my savings account. My money, which I earned by the sweat of my brow. Simple as that. In short, the question of favours does not arise.”

“I feel awkward,” said Yezad, “to announce we’ve come to collect Pappa’s money. If they had any decency, they would have brought it to us.”

“I have an idea,” said Jehangir. “You can say you came for Grandpa’s walking stick, the one we gave him on his birthday.”

Yezad chuckled, patted his son’s shoulder, and said that was exactly what they would do.

Y
EZAD AND ROXANA WALKED
across the debris covering the drawing-room floor, stepping gingerly over the plaster chunks. Jal hurried to brush off the plaster powder from two armchairs. He thumped the cushions, and coughed in the rising dust.

Coomy crunched her way into the room. He began tidying a third chair, but she touched his elbow to indicate she would stand. So he remained standing too, behind her, while she grumbled that the sun had set, the coals for loban were ready, and she was just about to start praying the Aiwisruthrem Geh.

“Very sorry,” said Yezad, “we had no intention of jumping the queue between you and God.”

“Don’t make fun of sacred matters,” said Roxana, as Jal chuckled. She explained why they had come, setting Coomy’s head shaking in exasperation.

“What nerve Pappa has. How long will you indulge his nonsense? Remember his birthday dinner, and my prediction? Everyone made fun of me. Now you must think I’m a prophet.”

She went to her stepfather’s room and fetched the birthday gift. “Barely hobbling on his crutches, and he demands his walking stick. Such madness.”

Yezad switched to the more important subject. “What about these ceilings, Jal? I thought they’d be fixed by now.”

“We got someone to check,” Coomy answered for her brother. “They wanted to charge too much.”

“And the landlord?”

“Hah. We’d have to go to court to make him repair it. And Pappa doesn’t have the twenty years the case would take. Anyway, another contractor will come.”

“Another?” Yezad attempted to keep the mood light. “Already two in our midst – Jal Contractor and Coomy Contractor.”

This amused Jal, but he took his cue from Coomy’s unbending sternness.

“By the way,” said Roxana, “I bought Pappa’s medicines. The money wasn’t enough.”

“I know that,” said Coomy. “I used to buy them every month.”

Roxana waited for her to continue. But there was nothing else. “Could I … could I have the rest of the pension?”

Coomy gave a short laugh. “That was it. All of it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Yezad.

“What are you implying? I’m robbing Pappa?” She rushed from the room and returned with a bank book.

“Oh Coomy,” said Roxana, “he doesn’t need to see it. It was just an expression of his surprise.”

“Sounded like an expression of insult to me!” She threw the book in his lap.

“No, Coomy, please don’t take it like that,” Roxana tried again. “As you know, it’s very difficult looking after Pappa – the expenses.”

“The work too,” said Yezad. “Don’t be so modest.” He turned to Jal, “It’s a job-and-a-half. Her exhaustion at the end of the day worries me.”

“Remember the ground-floor Arjanis?” said Coomy. “Hired a full-time nurse for their father, and she gave him bedsores. Roxie gets so much satisfaction from serving her aged parent. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

“I do,” agreed Roxana. “If at least the medicines were covered by his pension, I could manage the rest. Government should be ashamed of itself, the amount it pays.”

“If government had a sense of shame, lots of problems would disappear,” said Jal.

“Yes,” said Roxana. “So, can you give me the difference from Pappa’s savings account?”

Coomy offered her short laugh again. “There’s no such thing.”

“But Pappa said the money from fixed deposits —”

“Pappa’s brain is soft as a pickled mango. You listen to his bak-bakaat, then come to accuse me? I wonder how firm is your brain.”

Roxana looked at Jal to see if he would speak up; he was playing again with his hearing aid. “Abuse me if you like,” she said. “For Pappa, show a little respect. He’s a problem now, but after your father died, you were fed and clothed thanks to him.”

“And thanks to him, also, for killing my mother.”

“Don’t talk rubbish! And she was my mother too!”

“And mine,” added Jal, in a voice pleading for peace.

“Yes, yes, our little sister knows that,” said Coomy. “What she doesn’t know is, month after month we’ve made up the difference for Pappa’s medicines, his food, his clothes, dhobi, everything. We have more than repaid him. We have subsidized him all these years. Out of the goodness of our hearts, Jal and I looked after him. Not for anyone’s praise or thanks.”

“Or because you live in his house and will inherit it,” said Yezad, as a bolt of disapproval flew from Roxana’s eyes.

“Oh, Mr. Clever thinks he knows everything,” said Coomy. “Coming here with his are-you-sure and the-rest-of-the-money and what-not. Let me tell you about this house, Roxie, now that your husband —”

“Please let’s not fight,” said Jal.

“Don’t interrupt! He started it, now he’ll hear the truth! You know, fifteen years ago, when Pappa bought your flat for you? He also went to the landlord of Chateau Felicity and put this flat jointly in Jal’s name and mine.” She surveyed their stunned faces with a look of triumph.

“What a fool,” muttered Yezad.

“You heard that?” she pounced. “This ungrateful man called Pappa a fool.”

“I heard,” said Roxana. “And even when Yezad calls him a fool, it has more affection than all your words of concern.”

“Go ahead, defend him! Do what you like! But don’t dictate to me in my house! For that’s what it is, mine and Jal’s. And we will repair the ceiling at our convenience, unless you have money for it. Pappa will return when we want him to.”

“So that’s it?” said Yezad softly. “You’re kicking him out of his own flat?”

“Don’t twist my words! No one kicked him out, Dr. Tarapore said his depression needed —”

“We know all about that,” said Yezad, clenching the walking stick and rising. “So what shall we tell the chief?”

“Please tell him,” said Jal, “we’ll get the house fixed as soon as possible, so he can come back.”

Because her brother’s rage was a rare thing, Coomy watched in silence for a while. It was as though the order of nature had broken at last.

“What was the point?” he screamed, pacing wildly about the room. “Why did you force me to get Edul’s hammer? Why did you destroy the ceilings? You could have told them weeks ago we were kicking Pappa out!”

“I wanted Pappa to stay away, but in a civilized manner,” she said quietly. “Without fighting, or ruining family relationships.”

“Why should you care? Family does not matter to you! You keep nursing your bitterness instead of nursing Pappa. I’ve begged you for thirty years to let it go, to forgive, to look for peace.”

He started pacing again, raising his arms to the ceiling, shaking them in despair. “Look around, look at what you’ve achieved.”

She looked, hoping to calm him by doing his bidding, and saw the dust and plaster everywhere. She raised her eyes and saw the mutilated ceiling. She shuddered. For the first time since the hammer blows, her heart sank.

“Don’t turn away! You said you wanted a ruin, so feast your eyes! Happy? Ruined house, and ruined relations with our one and only sister.”

Then his voice lost its hysterical edge, suddenly subdued by sorrow. Exhausted, he sank into a chair and covered his face.

She sat too, watching him, thinking of all that he’d said, thinking of Roxana … their little doll … how they had loved her when she was born, how crazy they were about her, carrying her everywhere, taking her wherever they went, Marine Drive, cinema, Hanging Gardens … and how much she had adored them, in those childhood years …

What remained now of all that love? Exhaustion washed over her too and tears came to her eyes.

Hearing her sniff, Jal lifted his face out of his hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Then she began to weep. No one gave a thought to her feelings, she whispered, the unkind things they said to her, and Yezad accusing her of stealing from Pappa, after all that she had done for Pappa, for so many years …

Yezad leaned the walking stick in the corner by the settee and asked his father-in-law about his finances. The questions were simple and direct, but Nariman seemed confused, unable to provide any helpful information.

“What were you saying about your savings account?”

“I can’t remember.”

“According to Coomy you have no money. No house, either.”

His blunt way of putting it distressed Roxana. “Don’t worry, Pappa, you know how stupidly she talks sometimes.”

“I, for one, have had enough of her insults,” said Yezad. “We’re never going there again. Not unless she apologizes. I forbid you to visit them.”

“That means punishing poor Jal as well,” she pleaded. “He hasn’t ever uttered one rude word to us.”

“If he fiddled less with his hearing aid and showed more gumption, he could make his sister behave herself.”

“Please don’t quarrel,” entreated Nariman. “Tell me what Coomy said to annoy you.”

They told him. “So is it true?”

He gave a little smile. “It may be.”

“If you put the flat in their names, you should know.”

“It was many years ago. The poor children, hurt so much already. I think I may have signed something.”

“Very foolish of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s very simple – you have no legal claim to that flat now. Not unless you go to court and fight.”

Nariman turned his face to the wall and composed himself before speaking. “Not to have me around must be a pleasant holiday for them. But are you suggesting I’ve been thrown out for good?”

“Only one way to check: ring their doorbell, see if they’ll take you in,” said Yezad.

“Don’t worry, Pappa, they’re just delaying. They want you back fully recovered – to make it easier for themselves.”

She went to warm the dinner, and Yezad followed her. The recalcitrant stove resisted the spark. Switching off the gas cylinder, he took the lighter from her and cleaned the burner, saying they had to find a way to outwit Coomy and Jal. “That’s what this has become, a battle of wits.”

“But if they have no intention of taking Pappa back …”

The burner lit with a whoosh of flame. “Nothing doing. If they play this game, so will we. They kick him into our house, we find a way to kick him back into theirs.”

“Pappa is not a football. I won’t behave like them.”

“You don’t have to, I’ll do it.” He kept tinkering with the gas lighter, making sparks with the flint.

She grabbed it from his hand and slammed it on the table. “I’ll tell you right now – if you force Pappa out, you may as well throw me out at the same time.”

The ultimatum left him silent for a few moments. “So that’s it? That’s all I mean to you, your family means to you?”

“And what’s Pappa if not family?”

Considering it worthless to argue the definition, he left the kitchen and sat at the dining table, playing with the toaster, pressing the lever down and releasing it, over and over. What a muddle life had become, he thought, wishing Mr. Kapur would get on with his campaign planning, the election was only three months away. The promised promotion would at least solve the money troubles.

“The spring will get spoiled, Daddy,” said Jehangir.

Yezad sighed and pushed the toaster away, as Roxana carried the steaming pot to the table, cut the loaf of bread, and divided the slices among the five of them. The odd one left over she placed in Yezad’s plate, then called the boys.

“What’s for dinner?” asked Murad.

“Irish stew.” She spooned onions, potatoes, and gravy into his plate.

He examined the serving. “Where’s the mutton?”

“Good question,” said Yezad. “Probably grazing in Ireland.” He dipped a piece of bread in the gravy and started eating.

Watching his father, Jehangir followed suit, and declared the stew was delicious. It made his mother smile as she filled the remaining plates.

She came to her father’s bowl, and he said, at the first spoonful, “Thanks, that’s enough.”

“What’s the matter, chief? Don’t like our meatless dishes? Better eat some, or you’ll upset your little Roxie.”

“Please, Pappa is already feeling bad, okay?”

“He might feel worse. Soon it could be bread and water.”

“Stop it! How can you be so mean?”

Nariman raised his hand. “Whatever Yezad wants to say, I deserve to hear. You are suffering on account of my shortsightedness. It was stupid of me to sign over the flat.” He mashed a bit of potato and continued softly into his bowl, “To so many classes I taught
Lear,
learning nothing myself. What kind of teacher is that, as foolish at the end of his life as at the beginning?”