Family Matters (34 page)

The whole exercise was tedious, devoid of wit (the Book Mart excepted, thanks to Vilas’s imagination). For once, a Shiv Sena agitation would be welcome, against this nonsense. Where were those goondas when needed, why weren’t they rampaging down the street, smashing these crass displays?

Perhaps that was the type of stimulant Mr. Kapur needed. If his fielders were de-antlered, the blinking bulb silenced, the annoying white-bearded batsman drawn and quartered by the Sena’s storm troopers, it might bring back his fighting spirit. What a salutary shock for him, if Shiv Sena came to his doorstep …

Outside the shuttered Book Mart, Vilas hailed Yezad from his perch. He patted the step and made room for him to sit.

“No, it’s late,” said Yezad, kneading his neck muscles, trying to ease the stiffness.

“You look upset. Something wrong?”

“Mr. Kapur – you know about his election plans, he was so committed before. Now it’s a complete reversal. He told me his wife said no.”

Vilas laughed. “How sweet. A henpecked Punjabi must be a rare thing.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to him. And my promotion has vanished.”

While they talked, a labourer with an empty basket approached the bookstore, halting at a respectful distance. In readiness for the scribe, he pulled out a letter from within his head-cushioning turban and attempted to smooth the crumples.

“Your customer,” said Yezad, relinquishing the step.

The pain was stuck between the shoulder blades like a knife. He rubbed the neck muscles again and again, turned his head left-right, left-right, then up and down. Instead of walking straight to Marine Lines station, he took the longer way around Dhobitalao, down Princess Street – time to think. His breath was short and shallow, he was almost panting. Breathe in over five steps, he told himself, out for the next eight. In for five, out for eight …

A blast of diesel fumes made him cough. Bloody pollution. This was no city for deep breathing. Not unless he managed to slip into Mr. Kapur’s old photographs. In the old Hughes Road … And talking to Vilas had only agitated him again. Easy for Vilas to say be patient, find a way to motivate Mr. Kapur, while here he was beside himself with worry.

A motorcyclist puttered by wearing a breathing mask. Soon everybody would need one, the way things were going – but wouldn’t it be great if there were a mask to filter out the world’s problems …

“Sahibji,” said a voice.

He turned around: it was the man in the sandalwood shop outside Wadiaji fire-temple. Yezad realized he was just passing its gates.

“Sahibji” said the man again, pausing in his task of sorting the sandalwood sticks by size. “Sukhad? It’s genuine Malbari.”

He wore a prayer cap of black velvet, observed Yezad, the type his father used to wear. Declining the sandalwood, he continued on his way.

A few steps later he hesitated, returned to the gates, and entered the compound. It was empty except for two bicycles chained to a post. Probably for the chasnivalas, he thought, delivering chasni to families who had requested prayers. Ages since he had partaken of a chasni … almost forgotten what paapri and malido tasted like …

He stopped at the doors of the fire-temple, knowing he was bareheaded. He could use his handkerchief if he … No – he had no intention of entering.

The light inside was poor, but he could see the long verandalike space with its stone floor, the ablutions area with its stone parapet. At the far end, a lone figure was drying his hands and face before starting his kusti prayers.

Now the man pulled out his sudra and shirt so they hung over his trousers. He reached under the shirt to his kusti and began untying the knots as he prayed. He unwound it from around his waist, then raised it to touch his forehead.

And that slight gesture in the dim light brought back the words of the prayer Yezad hadn’t recited in years … Ahura mazda khodai, az hama gunah, patet pashemanum … he let it run through his mind, feeling a sense of deep satisfaction that he could still remember it. Then the man formed two loops with the kusti and lifted it to his brow again. Yezad knew he had reached the manashni, gavashni, kunashni section, in preparation for retying the sacred cord …

And watching the solitary figure, the veranda in his mind began to fill with the happy crowds he would see when he came here as a boy, with his parents, on Navroze and Khordad Sal, everyone in their colourful New Year finery, clutching sticks of sandalwood, thronging the parapet, eager to grab the silver karasio to wash their hands, complete their devotions, get on with the day’s festivities. The women who wore saris, like Yezad’s mother, had easy access to their kustis, but the ones who had to raise their skirts to untie the knots flocked to the privacy partition. They were the modern women, looked upon disapprovingly by the orthodox who believed that once a girl began menstruating she had no business wearing a frock. Some men would cast surreptitious glances towards the frosted-glass screens, hoping the light would show them more than a blurred silhouette. Many a time he heard some grandmother complain that mua mavalis couldn’t behave themselves even in the atash-behram on an auspicious day, the louts deserved to be flogged.

After the kusti prayers, the family would venture farther into the fire-temple through the main hall. Inside, the crowd was equally thick. The closer you came to the sanctum, the warmer it grew, the fire blazing high, brighter than on any other day of the year, for the silver trays were overflowing with sandalwood offerings. You had to wait your turn to kneel before the sanctum and bow your head to the ground.

And after the fire-temple, there would be visits to relatives, sweets to be distributed, sumptuous meals to be eaten. And in the evening, to the theatre for an Adi Marzban farce or his variety entertainment show, chock full of Parsi jokes and skits and songs …

The solitary worshipper finished his kusti, climbed up the steps from the veranda past the fluted columns, and disappeared within the inner recesses. The washing area was desolate now.

How tranquil it seemed inside where the man had gone, thought Yezad, cool and dark. Roxana was right, it was a real oasis in the midst of this big, mad city.

He heard a shuffle of feet from the hallway to the left, the slap of sapats, and before he could retreat a tall, thin figure in white was standing next to him. The dustoorji was wearing his full prayer garb, the robes fragrant with sandalwood smoke. The smell brought a wistful smile to Yezad’s face.

The dustoorji smiled back. “Sahibji,” he said, raising his right hand to his forehead, and paused, bringing his head forward as though to better observe this Parsi lingering outside. His pupils were reduced to sharp points by his thick glasses.

Yezad felt they were boring into him like drill bits, but was unable to look away. The long white beard made the thin face even longer.

The dustoorji spoke again, “Is it a cap you need?”

“No, no, thank you,” said Yezad, flustered. “Not today … I’m getting late.” Turning on his heels, he fled to the train station.

The boys were alone in the back room when he got home. He asked them where their mother was.

“She went out, Daddy.”

“I can see that. I asked where.”

“She didn’t tell us.”

He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for himself. Nariman’s voice, requesting his bottle, drifted softly in from the front room.

Jehangir came hurrying to the kitchen. “I think Grandpa wants to do soo-soo.”

Though his son’s concern touched him, he was firm. “We went through this last week, didn’t we?”

“Yes, Daddy, but I think he wants to do it very badly.”

“Listen, Jehangla, I promised myself when your grandfather was thrust into our lives – I will never touch the bottle or the bedpan. And neither will you.”

Jehangir looked puzzled while his father was saying all this. There was sadness in his father’s voice. He tried again, explaining that the bed might get wet.

“That’s not your concern. Do your homework.”

His shoulders drooped as he went back exhaling heavily. He heard his grandfather call out again, “Please, it cannot wait. Ultimately … it will issue forth …,” before lapsing into a whimper.

Yezad finished making his tea, stirring his grievances into it. After a sip from the saucer he gulped the rest down and made a face. Not as good as Roxana’s.

He returned his empty cup and saucer to the kitchen, peeked in the back room where the boys were doing homework, and went to the balcony to lean over the railing. Was he becoming one of those pathetic men who were models of geniality everywhere except in their own homes, where they were bullies?

No, he refused to believe it. His very life, the one he’d been leading till a few months ago, had been kidnapped. Roxana’s family had stolen his peace and contentment. And till he could regain it, he would have to face the squalor within these four walls, in this place that used to be his sanctuary from the brutal city.

He should have sat in the fire-temple instead of coming back. Back to this wretched front room, this nauseating sick-room. Not that it would have done much good – couldn’t live in the fire-temple permanently. This mess would always be waiting for him.

Jehangir found it impossible to pay attention to his homework; the sounds from the settee were anguishing him. He knew how uncomfortable it was when you wanted to do soo-soo, and couldn’t. He had had to suffer once when Miss Alvarez had given a test and no one was allowed to go to the bathroom. But at least he’d been able to run as soon as the bell rang. Poor Grandpa had to lie there waiting, not knowing when he would get to do it. And why was Daddy so stubborn about the bottle? Jehangir always understood intuitively what was upsetting him, but this time it was as though he had picked a reason at random.

“Go and ask again,” he urged his brother.

“I don’t know what’s your problem,” said Murad. “Mummy told us to call Villie Aunty. She told us she had arranged it all.”

“But what will she think when she sees Daddy is home? It’s not fair, he should give Grandpa the bottle.”

“In your dreams.”

Nariman moaned again, and Jehangir couldn’t bear it any longer. Ashamed to fetch Villie Aunty, he put down his pencil and went to the settee, ignoring Murad’s frantic warnings.

Grandpa hadn’t had a sponge bath for three days, he smelled like the hamper when it was full of dirty clothes for the dhobi. He took the bony trembling hand, braced himself, and pulled as hard as he could to help his grandfather to a sitting position. Mummy always made him sit up for soo-soo, she said it was good for his joints to get some movement.

The urinal crouched like a smooth white animal under the settee. He picked it up and guided Grandpa into its mouth, carefully, or the edge would hurt. It was like that game-stall at a mela, he thought, where you had to pass a small loop clear along a metal wire; if it touched, a buzzer went off and you lost. Sometimes Grandpa said ouch, if Mummy was in a hurry.

They waited. Nothing happened. Grandpa looked helplessly into his face, frowned in concentration, and let out an aggressive groan, almost like a growl.

Then Jehangir made the hissing sound his mother used, to help things along. “Soosss,” he said. “Soo-soo-soo-soo sssss!”

His father heard the sibilating prompts and came in from the balcony. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Grandpa wanted to do soo-soo very badly,” he mumbled, as the translucent plastic acquired a yellow wash and started to fill. Nervous about his father, he found it difficult to hold steady.

Then the trickle faded, became a drip, stopped. Jehangir gave a little shake, the way he had seen Mummy do it. As he withdrew the urinal, a few drops dribbled on the bed. He thrust it forward again, but it was too late. The final drop, lingering at the foreskins tip, was all he managed to catch.

E
VENING AFTER EVENING
, between seven and nine, Edul chipped away at the plaster from his wobbly portable scaffold made of two stepladders linked by a plank.

Jal adjusted the plastic sheets that shrouded the furniture, then stood in the doorway to keep an eye on the ceiling. From time to time he interjected that this spot looked fine, Edul should move on, or that area was undamaged, no need to mess it up.

In response, Edul offered gems from his handyman’s book of proverbs: “Preparing is three-quarters of repairing, Jal my son. I have to check the wood lath behind the plaster, make sure it’s not rotten. If you hurry, you’ll spoil your curry.” Then he rapped on the intact plaster with his knuckles and acknowledged the sound with knowing nods. “Hear that? See what I mean?”

Jal manipulated his earpiece to listen, so he could dispute the sound. He cocked his head and asked Edul to tap the plaster again.

But her brother’s efforts at speeding the job along worried Coomy. Interrupting her evening prayers, she called him to the kitchen and told him to stop nagging the man. “Edul will get fed up and leave. You do want Pappa back, don’t you?”

Jal muttered that he had wanted him back three months ago. He couldn’t understand, he said, why she had made Edul start in the drawing-room instead of Pappa’s bedroom.

“I want Edul to practise in the drawing-room, learn from his mistakes. We can’t make Pappa the guinea pig.”

So Edul’s assault on the plaster continued. Through the dreary evenings the hammer continued its endless tattoo. Like misfortune banging on the door, thought Jal. And all the while, he worried about Roxana and Yezad, about how impossible things must be in their tiny flat.

Occasionally, the handyman livened up the proceedings with a distraction. One evening, they heard two crashes, followed by Edul’s bellowing. They rushed in to see him with his hands over his face, screaming that plaster had got into his eyes.

“Let me look,” said Coomy, but he would not move his fingers. She told Jal to hold down his wrists while she pried apart the upper and lower lids and blew twice in each eye.

Edul blinked, rubbed his eyes, and wiped them dry. “You’re a genius, Coomy.”

“I learned it from my father. My real father, Palonji – Jal was always getting sand in his eyes when we went to Chowpatty, such a mischievous boy.”

Then she reminisced about those visits to the beach, with the set of bucket, spade, sieve, and watering can that their father had bought them, and the castles they would make, especially Jal, who was very talented at it, and the pride their father would feel when other families stopped to admire. “He always said Jal would be a master builder, live up to the name of Contractor.”

Edul laughed. “This Jal?” Retrieving the hammer and chisel from the floor, he sprinted up the ladder again.

On another evening, a piercing howl rent the gloom. They did not run, having grown accustomed to Edul’s crises; they walked wearily to the drawing-room, and found him sucking his thumb.

“Gardeners have green thumbs, handymen have black-and-blue ones,” he said, attempting a hearty laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

“Hammers are slippery things,” said Jal, sorry for him.

“Not at all, my hammer is first class,” said Edul, too honest to seize the excuse. “A good handyman never blames his tools.” The thumb disappeared again into his mouth.

“How is it?” asked Coomy. “Want to put ice on it?”

“Champion,” he answered, but took the ice all the same. After sliding it around the thumb for a while, he popped the cube in his mouth and crunched it down.

A fortnight after Edul started work, Jal secretly withdrew five hundred rupees from the bank. Secretly for the time being, he knew, for Coomy would find out. But he didn’t care.

Late that evening he went to Pleasant Villa, and heard music coming from the flat. Inside, he was surprised to see a violinist at the foot of Pappa’s settee. Roxana detained him in the hallway: would he mind not greeting Pappa – he had been in great distress for the last twenty-four hours and was at last on the verge of sleep.

“I’ll stay in the back room,” said Jal.

She returned to sit by her father. Moisture trickled from the corner of his eyes. She dried it with a napkin while Daisy finished the allemande from a Bach
Partita
and waited with the bow poised over the strings like question mark – more music?

Roxana indicated silence, and they withdrew quietly. Yezad introduced Daisy to Jal in the back room. “My brother-in-law.”

“That was a beautiful piece,” he said, shaking her hand. “Thank you so much for playing for Pappa.”

“No thanks necessary,” said Daisy. “It’s a pleasure.” She reminded Roxana to send Jehangir tomorrow, should she be needed.

“Such a lovely lady,” said Jal after she left. “Is she married?”

“No,” said Yezad with a mischievous smile. “Shall we fix you up?”

“No,” Jal blushed. “Just wondering. And how’s Pappa?”

“Worse, I think,” said Roxana, and told him about the trouble he had begun having with his speech.

The response saddened him, and he went on tiptoe to look into the front room. “He’s become so thin since the last time. Skin and bones, as though his flesh has melted away.”

“Doctor said it’s rapid atrophy of the muscles. Come, sit.” She indicated the bed, and asked for news from Chateau Felicity.

Half-leaning and half-sitting at the foot of the bed, he played with a corner of the sheet and said Coomy was okay, everything was fine. Then, unable to countenance his lie, he unburdened himself in a rush of emotion.

“Everything is a mess, I don’t know what to do any more. That idiot Edul, thock thock thock he’s banging away at the ceiling day after day. And Coomy refuses to tell him to hurry, she insists it won’t be safe if he rushes.”

“She has a point,” said Roxana charitably.

“And we know what the point is,” said Yezad.

“I was hoping he would finish plastering in a few days and Pappa could come home,” said Jal. “At this rate another month or two will go by, with that fool and his hammer.”

“Not much we can do,” said Yezad.

“But it’s not fair, in this tiny place. And poor Roxie with such a lot to do. Plus the medicines and expenses, and …” He pulled out the envelope with five hundred rupees. Unsure who to hand it to, he concentrated on straightening the crumpled edges. “I … this is for …”

Roxana opened the envelope, and let Yezad see inside. “Does Coomy know about this?” she asked gently, not wanting to offend her brother.

“It’s my money as much as hers. I don’t need her permission, I can give Pappa a gift if I want.”

Yezad smiled his approval but could well imagine what lay in store for Jal. He held the envelope out towards him. “Are you sure? Coomy might get a little upset.”

Jal hesitated, and twisted his earlobe. “I don’t care,” he said, his sense of self-esteem healthier than it had been in months. “What is she going to do, throw me out of the house as well? If I had a choice, I would myself leave.”

The unexpected declaration surprised Yezad and Roxana. They exchanged looks. “Did something happen with Coomy?”

“No, nothing special. Just the usual – I have no brains, I’m useless, I’m interfering. And I’m fed up of listening to her thirty-year-old anger.” He paused. “If you had a huge flat like Chateau Felicity, I would come and live with you.” Looking at Yezad, he added quickly, “Only if I was welcome, of course.”

“If I had a huge flat, I would insist on you living with us,” said Yezad.

“I could even help Roxie take care of Pappa. My share of the money could contribute for expenses. How nice that would be.”

He got up to leave, and they assured him he was welcome to visit as often as he wanted. Smiling gratefully, he entered the front room again on tiptoe, and approached the settee.

His stepfather’s eyes were shut, but his lips were moving. Jal watched in sadness, imagining the relentless memories haunting his sleep. He stood there for a few moments, his fingertips lightly resting on Nariman’s shoulder.

Rain had fallen earlier, everything was wet on the rooftop terrace. When he reached there, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart thudding like a hammer against his chest, Lucy was still standing on the parapet.

“ ‘One day when we were young, one wonderful morning in May,’ ” she sang, gazing towards the horizon, not looking down at the evening traffic, or the crowd that was gathered below to see what might happen next.

It was Mr. Arjani from the ground floor who had sent someone to inform him of this fearful turn of events. At first, he’d refused to believe the messenger – if Mr. Arjani had been vindictive enough to hire Lucy as an ayah, he wouldn’t put it past him to attempt a joke as cruel as this.

But he had gone to the window to check. Yasmin and the children huddled around him. What they could see was the hullabaloo in the street, people on the pavement looking up, pointing, shouting, cars stopping in mid-traffic, drivers craning their necks. There was no doubt now in his mind, Mr. Arjani was not playing a joke, something was happening on the rooftop.

As Nariman had got ready to run to the terrace, Yasmin asked him to think twice before starting another nonsensical drama with this woman. Mr. Arjani should deal with it, if he insisted on keeping her as his ayah – it was not her husband’s responsibility.

“But I do feel responsible,” he said – for the past, for the eleven years he had gone out with her, but also for driving her, in part, to this act of desperation. “Wouldn’t it have been better if you’d just let me keep walking to school with her?”

“And for how long? Till the Arjani brats graduate? You should have put a stop to it months ago, when she first came here, staring at our window! But you indulged her, so she went further! And now this!”

Jal and Coomy, at the other end of the drawing-room, were watching him resentfully from the corners of their eyes. He knew what they were thinking – here he was, being mean to their mother again, making her cry. They had grown used to their parents’ fights, he thought sadly. Grown used to seeing their mother’s anger, and what they probably thought of as their stepfather’s callous goading of her. He wished he could explain that he meant her no unhappiness. That he felt as helpless in all this as they did.

Suddenly, Coomy screamed, “Stop it, Pappa! You can’t go to the terrace!” Her mother hushed her, gave her a kiss, then sent her and Jal to their rooms to do their school work.

“This is not the time to debate and regurgitate the past,” he pleaded with Yasmin. “The situation is too precarious.”

“If it’s precarious, there’s nothing you can do. The woman requires professional help in a mental hospital.”

“Maybe you’re right. But before they can take her there, she needs to come down.”

“She will when she’s tired. How long can she stand on the ledge and sing?”

“Or she might tire, get dizzy, and fall. Do you want an unhappy woman’s death on our conscience?”

Yasmin agreed reluctantly to let him go.

On the stairs that led to the roof, he could hear Lucy’s voice. He reached the terrace and saw her on the parapet. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, the way she used to wear it before. She looked slender in the evening light, young again. She seemed happy again, silhouetted against the grey sky, swaying in waltz tempo.

Then he shuddered; his step on the wet flagstones reminded him the ledge she was standing on would be just as slick. There was no time to waste.

His father’s old foe was hiding with his son behind the large water tank. They beckoned him over. Mr. Arjani indicated with broad gestures the need to avoid any sudden sound. He whispered that they had tried to reason with her, but their attempts had only appeared to annoy her, and they had retreated.

“We must hurry – God forbid if her foot slips and she plummets to the ground. Poor woman doesn’t deserve that. And can you imagine the aggravation of a police case?”