Family Matters (23 page)

“What is
Lear?”
asked Jehangir.

Nariman swallowed the potato. “It’s the name of a king who made many mistakes.”

“You are not to blame for Jal and Coomy’s behaviour, Pappa. What you did is proof of your kind and trusting nature.”

“Kindness and trust don’t put a roof over your head,” said Yezad.

“Don’t worry,” said Nariman. “This Lear will go home again. I know Coomy – she’ll let me return when she’s ready.”

They ate in silence for a while. Then Murad asked if there was more bread.

“You got your share,” said his mother.

“But I have some gravy left in my plate.”

She passed him one of her slices, and his father pointed at him. “Give it back to Mummy,” he commanded, and held out one of his own.

“No, we cannot deprive Daddy,” she said. “He has to go to work, bring home the salary.”

“And Mummy needs her strength to bring the bedpan.” He tossed his slice into Murad’s plate beside the one she had placed.

Murad left the table without touching either slice, and his mother said at this rate no one would miss the mutton, the children’s stomachs would fill up with their father’s childish displays.

He waited till the boys cleared the table, then put on his shoes.

“Where are you going?” asked Roxana.

“Nowhere special.”

The door slammed. Her hand covering her mouth, she stared at the rose pattern in the tablecloth. In fifteen years of marriage it was the first time he had behaved like this.

“Don’t be distressed,” said Nariman. “The poor man is sunk in worries. Probably gone for a little walk, to clear his head. It always used to help me.”

“Oh Pappa, how does it help to say nasty things, lose his temper?”

“What else can he do? He is not a saint – none of us is.”

She took the hand he held out to her. In so much pain himself, she thought, and he still comforts me.

The boys hurried to the balcony to watch their father emerge from the building and cross the road. They waited for him to turn and wave, but he disappeared round the bend.

“He went towards the bazaar, Mummy,” reported Murad.

“Did he … wave?”

“Yes,” said Jehangir quickly.

Gaining the corner, Yezad could observe his sons on the balcony without being seen himself. Their anxious faces distressed him. How much pleasure he used to get from seeing their healthy appetites. The last few weeks had erased all that … and Roxie taking smaller helpings every day, to leave something in the pot, but the boys weren’t fooled by it … The first time, Murad had hesitated, though Jehangla had quickly refused, signalling to his brother. Now they always said they were stuffed, forcing her to take her share. Murad must have been really hungry tonight, to have asked for more bread …

The thought bore through Yezad’s mind like an auger. He checked the balcony again. Certain no one was watching, he recrossed the road in a dangerous weave through traffic and ducked into the Pleasant Villa entrance. He crept up the stairs to the third floor, tiptoeing past his own door to Villie Cardmaster’s, and knocked.

It opened at once.

“Hallo, my dear Yezadji!” she boomed. “What brings —”

“Shh!” He entered and pushed the door shut behind him. Her usual odour, like the smell of Belgaum ghee gone slightly off, made him want to step back. “Roxana mustn’t know I’m here.”

She giggled. “What are you planning, my dear?”

“I need a favour.”

“Speak, Yezadji.”

“How’s the Matka these days?”

“Up and down. My own dreams are reliable. With others I lose money. Trouble is, my sleep isn’t what it used to be.”

She put a stray lock of hair in place and straightened her crumpled collar. “But why this sudden interest in Matka?”

“Just temporary …” he hesitated. “To make some extra money. For a surprise. For Roxana.”

“Oh, you two lovebirds!”

“How about today, any suggestion?”

“My dream was so solid last night, the numbers are guaranteed today.”

“What did you see?”

Her eyes grew bashful. “It was very personal.” Realizing that he wasn’t going to insist, she said, “I might as well tell you – I’m not responsible for what happens in dreams, am I? You see, I was shopping at Grant Road for a bra. And I stopped at a stall with a good selection. The fellow asked me what size, and I said my usual, 34A.”

Yezad started feeling uncomfortable; she continued, “The shopkeeper shook his head and stared at my chest. Such a rude fellow. With a dirty smile, he said, ‘Madam, you are not 34A. I’ve been in this line for many years, one look at your lovely form and I can tell – you are 36C’ ”

Despite himself, Yezad took a quick look: Villie’s chest was the same as ever, shapeless under her dowdy housecoat.

“ ‘Stop staring,’ I said to the mavaali, ‘I know my own chest, I have worn 34A for years now, and I am not a blossoming schoolgirl.’ ‘Just try it on, madam,’ he said, ‘then tell me.’ ‘Are you crazy?’ I said. ‘Try it standing here on the pavement?’ ‘No, take it home, madam, trust me – breasts and brassières are my business, my livelihood. You will be very happy with 36C. Bring it back if it doesn’t fit, I will refund full purchase price plus ten per cent for inconvenience.’

“So I brought it home. And would you believe it? The fellow was right, 36C fit me like my own skin!”

Now she abandoned the dramatic stance and tone adopted to act out the dream. “You follow, Yezadji? Today’s Matka is thirty-six – three for opening, six for closing.”

Yezad took out his wallet and gave her ten rupees. “Can you put this on thirty-six for me?”

“What time is it? Oh dear, I’ll have to hurry.”

She ran into the next room and came back with a faded yellow chiffon sari, proceeding to wrap it over the housecoat. “Now where are my safety pins? Help me with them, Yezadji. Shoulder, waist, here at the back. And this one I’ll pin over my stomach. There. Thank you, my dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

She examined herself in the mirror, front and profile, and was satisfied. “If I’m in time, you’ll get eight hundred and ten rupees for your ten.”

“When do we know the result?”

“Closing is declared at twelve o’clock. You’ll come?”

“I’ll wait for morning. Good night.” Over his shoulder he added, “Sweet dreams.”

Two hours after the lights were switched off, Jehangir was still tossing, unable to fall asleep. The boards under the mattress creaked with every move. He worried his mother might come to check. Haunted by the unhappiness that had appeared like an ugly creature to live in their home, he clenched his fists and tried hard not to cry.

He thought about his father’s anger – not the flash that would blaze now and again, like thunder and lightning, then clear, and bring back a smile like sunshine. This dull rage, constant over days, was different.

The last few weeks puzzled him. It was quarrels and sarcastic comments all the time. Gone away completely was his parents’ tenderness, and the happy looks they used to exchange in secret (not secret from him, though, he saw everything). The pleasant whispers and soft laughter from their bed at night would put him to sleep like a lullaby, assuring him all was right with his world. Now it was falling part. Angry hisses and harsh mutterings from their room made him cry in the dark.

If only he could earn some money for Mummy-Daddy. Like the Famous Five and the Secret Seven, who did chores and went on errands. They didn’t even need the money for something important like he did, they just bought liquorice and humbugs. And ice cream, which they called ices. It was all so unfair, his life was never going to be fun like theirs, none of them had a sick Grandpa who needed lots of expensive medicines. The fighting between Mummy and Daddy was all Grandpa’s fault.

Jehangir looked across at the settee and wondered if his grandfather was asleep or his eyes were just closed. He could hear him breathe, the tremble of his limbs had abated. His medicine bottles were on the table. Jehangir had made it his duty to bring the pills to his grandfather with a glass of water. Sometimes Grandpa choked, and Jehangir flinched in empathy as the pills were coughed out, then wiped the water sputtering down his chin and neck, coaxing him to take a deep breath (“in and out, Grandpa, in and out”) and try again, slowly, with more water.

What did Grandpa think about, alone all day in bed, never complaining? Jal Uncle and Coomy Aunty’s unkindness? Maybe he worried about where he would go if Daddy got fed up and told him to leave. Poor Grandpa, so old and weak, and all the pains in his body that made him wince and moan, though he kept it hidden (but not from him, for he saw everything).

Jehangir began crying again, his brief resentment turning to sorrow. He had heard Dr. Tarapore talk to Mummy in secret, that Grandpa would get worse, there was no cure, it would be harder and harder for him to use his arms and legs. “Locomotion will be increasingly difficult,” the doctor had said.

His tears caused the darkness to become blurry. He hadn’t realized nighttime could be just as vivid as daytime, and as liable to distortion. Maybe he could earn some money by offering to work for Villie Aunty, any small jobs. And for Daisy Aunty downstairs. Murad might go with him. The two of them together could do big jobs and earn even more.

In the cradle of this comforting thought, he fell asleep at last. He dreamt that Grandpa was on his crutches, swinging along briskly, and everyone was applauding him. But then he began to slow down, something was wrong with one of the pair. When he got to the kitchen he discovered that the upper half of the crutch had turned into a huge joint of mutton. Daddy took the big knife from the drawer and started sharpening it, to cut the meat and cook it, but Mummy said no, how would Pappa be able to walk without it? And soon there was another terrible fight, shouting and yelling, till Grandpa said it was okay, he could manage. Relinquishing the mutton joint for Daddy and Murad, whose mouth was watering, Grandpa demonstrated with the single crutch and almost crashed to the floor. Mummy screamed at Daddy that he was going to kill her poor father in his greed for mutton; besides, so much red meat would increase his cholesterol and leave her a widow with two young boys to look after …

Jehangir woke with a start. He sat up, and the cot gave out a loud creak.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Nariman.

“Your crutch, Grandpa, I had a dream it was spoilt …”

“My crutch is all right. Come, hold my hand and sleep.”

Jehangir groped across the space between the settee and the cot to take his grandfather’s hand, and was soon sound asleep. He did not dream again that night.

“W
ait,” called Roxana, and ran to the door for the bye-bye kiss, but her husband had already disappeared down the stairs. Yet another morning, she thought, which had failed to work its healing magic on him.

Yezad reached the second-floor landing, heard the door close, and waited. Now with the sunlight bathing the staircase, he felt he had been very foolish last night. Giving Villie ten rupees to bet on her dream bra size – money as good as thrown in the dustbin.

Through the stairwell soared Daisy Ichhaporia’s violin music, accompanying his return to the third floor. He knocked, Villie’s eye came to the peephole, he put his finger to his lips. She opened and beckoned him inside. Her housecoated figure was swaying romantically to the violin, which made him thankful that the music was part of a sedate second movement, not something wild and fiery like a czardas.

Still moving with the melody, she thrust her hand down her front and extracted a roll of notes. Grabbing his wrist, she smacked the money into his palm. “There you are, my dear. Eight hundred and ten rupees. Count it, go on.”

He stared at it, incredulous. Then he greedily unrolled the notes still warm from her bosom. “This is fantastic. Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

“What do you mean, beginner?” she was indignant. “I’ve been dreaming since I was a little girl.”

He walked to the station feeling depressed despite the win, thinking about Villie’s lonely, stunted life. But her size 36C had certainly delivered the Matka. Coincidence? Or had she predicted the future? And if dreams could do that … no more worry and anxiety. The worst news, foreknown, would lose its sting. Of course, the pleasure of any good news would diminish as well. But that was a price he was willing to pay.

Tonight, he would secretly distribute a hundred rupees in Roxana’s envelopes. Then another hundred the next week, and the next … and if she noticed, he’d say, Surprise! Extra commission from Mr. Kapur.