Family Matters (38 page)

Then one morning, with just over a week to Christmas, Mr. Kapur arrived unusually late, close to noon. Yezad asked what had delayed him.

“Delayed?” Mr. Kapur checked his watch. “You’re right – look at the time. I didn’t realize how long it would take by public transport. You see, I’ve finally sold my car.”

“You came by train?”

“Taxi,” said Mr. Kapur with a touch of embarrassment. “But the train is what I really wanted to take.”

He described his strange adventure in detail: he’d gone to the station eager to become one of the millions who travelled like livestock upon the rails. Each time a train came in, he had pushed his way forward, and each time he was left behind on the platform. Once, he was at the very nucleus of the throng, certain that he would get on, but some centrifugal surge had elbowed him aside.

Yezad nodded. “That happens.”

“After trying for over an hour I gave up. But I’ll make another attempt tomorrow. I think it’s a question of practice, like bowling a leg break.” He looked regretfully at the unused ticket and chucked it in the dustbin, while Yezad asked why the sudden keenness on train travel.

“It’s a philosophical decision – we talked about it once. I want to embrace everything my city has to offer. I want to mingle with her people, be part of that crush of bodies in the streets and trains and buses. Become one with the organic whole that is Bombay. That’s where my redemption lies.”

So much for Vilas’s faith in his actors and in epic realism, thought Yezad. Poor Mr. Kapur, he was too far gone into the realm of fantasy. The realm of his rhetoric. Which he truly believed, and which, in the end, would accomplish nothing. That was the sad part.

“I ask myself why I was unsuccessful today. My spirit is one hundred per cent willing. Is my flesh slightly less? Still repulsed by body odour and dirty clothes and oily hair? Maybe. But I will overcome, I will take the train.”

Yezad worried about his boss’s blood pressure, and hoped he would tire of his train idea, come to his senses, and buy another car shortly.

The next day, however, Mr. Kapur dragged himself into the shop, dishevelled and limping. Husain ran to get him a chair, and Mr. Kapur flopped into it while Yezad relieved him of his attaché case. The peon poured tea in a saucer, which he held to his employer’s mouth.

This irritated Mr. Kapur; he waved it away and took the cup. A few sips later, fortified, he commenced his tale: “You remember some months ago, I witnessed the miracle of a man being scooped up by passengers who were themselves hanging outside the train, clinging by their fingers. They had gathered the runner into the safety of the compartment, making room for one more, though it was fully packed.

“Well, late last night, it occurred to me as I lay in bed that I could be the man on the platform. All I had to do was put my trust in my fellow Bombayites, and I would be able to get aboard.

“So this morning, when the train started moving, I moved alongside. It was easy at first, the speed was very slow. The men hanging in the door struggled to squeeze inside. Bit by bit everyone seemed more secure, able to grip a handle or railing.

“Soon it would be my turn, and though I was out of breath, I raced to stay with the train. I held out my arm. Someone gestured. Was it a greeting or dismissal, I wondered, and reached up with both arms so they couldn’t misunderstand, wouldn’t think I was merely waving goodbye.”

Mr. Kapur paused and gazed sorrowfully into his teacup. “They didn’t help me, Yezad. Not one man held out his hand to grasp mine. They looked at me like I was some stranger. Yes, okay, I am a stranger. But I’m also their Bombay brother, am I not? And they just stared through me. Others seemed to find me amusing, turning to one another to laugh.”

He drained his cup and gave it to Husain. “There was no miracle for me, Yezad. I tripped and fell as I neared the end of the platform. And then I took a taxi.”

The rejection appeared to have broken his spirit. He sat in the doorway like an invalid waiting for his bed to be readied.

“I’ve been thinking,” he whispered at last.

“Yes?” Yezad expected him to admit that selling the car was a mistake.

“On the way here in the taxi I asked myself, Why was I abandoned on the platform?”

Because the train was full, thought Yezad, and because they couldn’t hear the romantic nonsense filling your head. “Hard to say,” he answered.

“No, it’s not. Just look at me – my clothes, my shoes, my hair. Go on, tell me what you think.”

Yezad scrutinized the handiwork of Mr. Kapur’s expensive hair stylist and moved his eyes downwards to the open collar of his fine linen shirt. Though smudged and crumpled from his railway adventure, there was no mistaking its quality; likewise his trousers with their perfect drape, cut from some lightweight blend of natural fibres. And finally there were his Italian loafers, whose supple leather gleamed with smug supremacy.

“Well?” said Mr. Kapur, getting impatient.

“Stylish, with a touch of class – that’s my verdict.”

“Exactly. And that’s the problem. My whole appearance screams one thing: I am not one of you. For all that I have in common with the passengers, I might as well be from outer space. Why should their embrace carry me into the train when I’m doing my best to say, See me, so superior to you!”

Mr. Kapur swore to remedy this defect. From now on, he would buy his clothes not in air-conditioned department stores but at the pavement shops of Grant Road and Girgaum – kurta-pyjamas, or ill-fitting pants with crotches that wedged, and short-sleeved bushcoats that gripped the armpits. And no more socks and shoes, but chappals of the sort that would produce corns and calluses, allow the grime of Bombay to encrust his toenails.

“And never again am I going to Signor Valente’s Salon. A pavement barber in Khetwadi will do the needful. After he hacks my hair, then we’ll see if the train passengers pluck me off the platform or not.”

“So when will you complete your transformation?” asked Yezad, unable to resist the taunt.

Mr. Kapur counted silently on his fingers. “In nine days. Right after Christmas.” He rose and walked briskly towards his office, for the morning’s dejection was already dissipating.

“By the way,” said Yezad. “Sometimes even cheap clothes look good. Make sure it’s a bad fit, before buying your new wardrobe.”

But with Mr. Kapur’s confidence regained, trying to needle him was like attempting to hurt a pincushion. “I will indeed,” he said, then stopped, turned around, and stepped into the Christmas window.

N
IGHTLY, IN CHATEAU FELICITY
, the row from the Munshi flat was audible from the ground floor to the rooftop. It commenced as soon as the handyman went home with his tool box, continuing through dinner, till he and his wife retired.

The quarrels surprised (and distressed) Jal, because when Edul had first started work on the ceiling, Manizeh was glad for her husband. It was no secret in the building that her proscription against using his skills in their own flat had always made her feel guilty.

But this job was of a magnitude quite unlike the little repairs Edul was used to muffing; it had been going on for days, and Manizeh had begun complaining that she missed him every evening. As time passed, her complaints grew sharply bitter: she might as well be a widow, her husband was never there with her.

Edul confided in Jal, assuring him there was no need to worry, he was parrying Manizeh’s bitterness with humour, that as long as she could hear his hammer, she was the proud owner of a happy husband.

“All is well,” he told Jal again and again.

But Jal suspected all was not as well as Edul pretended. His hunch was borne out on the day that full-scale hostilities ensued in the Munshi flat, at full volume.

“You think I haven’t figured out what is going on upstairs?” shouted Manizeh. “You and that unmarried woman together! While that chhinaal’s pandering brother goes out for a walk and leaves you with your tool box! How convenient!”

“Shh! Neighbours will hear!” pleaded Edul.

“Good, let them! Better than them laughing behind my back and saying her husband is making repairs for Coomy! Filthy woman, preying on a married man!”

“How can you be jealous of Coomy? Look at her, front and back she’s completely flat. Your bum is so lovely, and your —”

“Speak softly, you fool! You want the neighbours to have a complete description? Just give them naked pictures of me, why not!”

Next evening, when Edul came to work on the ceiling, Jal could see that he had arrived swaggerless. The usually swinging tool box hung still as a broken clock’s pendulum, and instead of his jaunty handyman style, he wore a sheepish smile. Following the hello, how are you, and his response of champion, there was an awkward silence.

“You must have heard my Manizeh last night,” Edul attempted casually. “She was a little upset.”

“Was she? No, we heard nothing. Is she all right now?”

“Champion. Just a little misunderstanding, women don’t understand repairs and renovations.”

He undid the clasp of the box and let the lid crash open. The tools clattered and clanged while he rummaged, his lips pursing to attempt a merry whistle. The tune emerged with some effort, and modulated into melancholy a few bars later.

This was the evening Jal had been awaiting eagerly, when Edul was to commence applying a new coat of plaster. But the handyman could not bring himself to it. His sack of plaster sat untouched by the front door.

The evening walk had to be renounced. Staying home, decided Jal, was the only way to silence Manizeh’s charges of pandering. He wished he could clarify things for her, invite her to watch her Edoo at work, see for herself there was no questionable behaviour.

But he desisted – the nightly quarrels he heard while standing at the window made it clear that Manizeh was in no mood to be placated. To her anger she added a note of fatalism: such misfortune befalling their lives was no surprise – Edul had ventured into the house of unhappiness, the house that had destroyed families, killed two women, given birth to generations of sorrow. And the contagion had affected her husband.

Coomy told Jal to stop eavesdropping. “Isn’t it strange how you can hear everything now? And when I talk to you, your ears have trouble understanding.”

“It’s easier from a distance,” said Jal. “I can adjust the volume better.”

He lamented that the couple used to be so lovey-dovey, and because of the broken ceiling their happy home was plunged into misery. Coomy noted it couldn’t have been all that happy, or it wouldn’t be affected by such a silly thing.

“Silly for you, not for Manizeh,” said Jal. “She doesn’t know the facts.”

“Facts have nothing to do with it. People make up the facts they need. It’s up to Edul to keep working or stop.”

To Jal’s relief, Edul kept working: on the ceiling, and at convincing Manizeh that she was mistaken. He admitted to her he was spending a lot of time upstairs, and enjoying the challenging work. This was no reason for his sweetie-pie to imagine dirty things, was it? Why couldn’t she accept his manly hobby? Would she be happier if he took up embroidery or knitting? Was that what she wanted, a sissy?

The perseverance paid off; Manizeh relented; and the quarrels subsided. Now she began turning up at the job site for snap inspections, armed with some excuse or the other.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said to Jal, relieved to see her husband up a ladder and Coomy nowhere near. “Edoo, dear, do you want the fish fried tonight or in a sauce?”

“Tonight I want it fried,” he answered, and winked. “Hot and sizzling I want it tonight.”

Smothering her laugh, she looked at Jal, who pretended that his hearing aid was switched off.

Another time, she came to inquire about the ironing: the blue shirt or the buff, which one would Edoo like?

“Blue shirt for tomorrow,” answered her husband, then added, thinking they were alone, “And you can press my birthday suit tonight.”

In panic Manizeh put a finger to her lips and motioned to where Coomy was standing, right outside the door. He covered his grinning mouth with a plaster-coated hand, as Coomy rolled her eyes and walked away, disgusted by their indecent behaviour.

Eight days after commencing the application of new plaster, Edul wiped his trowel clean and pronounced the drawing-room ready for habitation. He hailed Manizeh down the stairwell, and asked Jal to fetch Coomy from her room.

“Well?” he beamed. “What do you think?”

Though Jal and Coomy had been prepared for terrible results, they could not furnish a suitable response. They looked at the pockmarked ceiling covered with craters large and small, a domestic version of the lunar surface, and struggled to mask their dismay.

Manizeh jumped into the breach. “You know, Edoo, I can’t believe you did this all by yourself.” Turning to Jal and Coomy, she added, “Isn’t he wonderful?”

“Good work, Edul,” they managed to say. “We’re so grateful.”

“It’s nothing,” said Edul with a modest wave of his hand, though his eyes shone. “Sorry to have taken so long.”

“Four weeks isn’t long for such a beautiful job, I was expecting longer,” said Coomy, while Manizeh glared at her.

“And now you can start on Pappa’s room,” said Jal.

But Edul informed them that he was first taking a break for three days. He and his wife went away hand in hand, Jal looking on like a happy father till Coomy shut the door.

After his little holiday, Edul began removing damaged plaster from the ceiling in Nariman’s room. He made rapid progress, for Jal’s hammering had been quite thorough. Now and again he paused in his whistling to marvel at the devastation wrought by the imaginary leak.

On the second day he said, “Son of a gun!” and summoned his clients to the room.

“You know the supporting beam across this ceiling?”

They nodded.

“Bad news. I’ve just discovered it’s rotten.”

“What?”

“Rotten,” he repeated, enjoying the effect of his announcement. “R-o-t-t-e-n.”

“Impossible!” said Jal, refusing to accept the spurious bombshell.

“Compose yourself, Jal my son. The news is shocking, but what can I do? I have to report honestly. See where it meets the third joist?”

“How can the wood rot so quickly?”

“Ah, but we don’t know how long it’s been wet. There could have been a slow leak for months before the plaster fell off.”

“Impossible!”

Edul was puzzled. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I know! Because —”

Worried that her brother might blurt something incriminating, Coomy intervened. “Let’s suppose it’s rotten. What happens next?”

“Why suppose? Are you doubting me? It is rotten. It must be replaced.”

“No! Please don’t touch it!”

“Stop acting like a child,” said Coomy. “Let’s consider it calmly. Edul, you’re sure about this?”

“One thousand per cent.”

“I see.” She calculated: with the beam complication, there would be a further delay before Pappa returned. “Can you do the job?”

“I won’t lie to you. It’s a serious job. Could be dangerous if not done right. You want someone who works slowly, carefully.”

“And that’s you,” she said, which made him smile.

“Please, just do the plastering and leave it!”

“Enough drama, Jal,” said his sister.

“At least take a second opinion?”

“We handymen have a saying: Second opinion leads to a mountain of confusion.”

“Makes sense,” said Coomy.

“How does it make sense?” blustered Jal.

“Jal my son, relax, let me explain the method,” said Edul. He proceeded to describe the steel posts he would employ, and the hydraulic jacks, with the load transferred off the joists by using surrogate supports. The thoroughness with which he detailed the task befitted a qualified engineer, a master craftsman with years of experience.

Jal missed some of it as he pulled out his earpiece, blew upon it, and reinserted it.

“The most important point is: I’m adding the steel girder parallel to the existing wood. At no time will the structure remain unsupported.”

“Oh,” said Coomy, relieved. “So we’ll have two beams instead of one. You heard that, Jal? Two beams – even safer.”

There were no more objections. It was agreed that Edul would go ahead.

W
hen Jal arrived at Pleasant Villa, his heart beat a little faster to see Daisy at the bedside, with her violin. He tried to greet her, and almost caught her eye, but she swayed, her bow arm rose, and he ended up mouthing hello to her elbow.

His stepfather acknowledged him silently as he patted his shoulder and tiptoed to a chair. Adjusting his hearing aid to listen better to Daisy’s music, he asked Roxana where Yezad was.

She whispered that he must have stopped at Wadiaji fire-temple on the way home from work.

Jal raised his brow. “Yezad? Fire-temple?”

She nodded. “Goes almost every day. Not to pray – he says the few minutes of peace and quiet help him.”

He smiled and nodded. “Pappa’s looking better too.”

“He always brightens when Daisy comes.”

“Shh,” said Jehangir, “you’re disturbing the music.”

“Sorry, dikra,” said Jal, and sat back. The violin, slow and evocative, drew him in as he listened. He felt the music speaking directly about things deep in his heart … those difficult emotions, impossible in speech. Sometimes, just for an instant, the sound seemed human, the instrument articulating words in a language he could almost understand …

The piece ended, they clapped, and Daisy said hello to Jal, apologizing for not greeting him when he came in.

“Oh, quite all right,” he smiled bashfully.

“Splen splen splendid,” murmured Nariman. “You must per perform it.”

“That’s my ambition – soloist with the
BSO.”

“Excuse me,” said Jal. “What was the piece?”

“Beethoven’s violin concerto,” she replied.

“Number?”

“There is only one.”

“And the part you were practising … which movement?”

“Second – the larghetto.”

Daisy returned to telling Nariman about the difficulties of realizing her dream, and while she re-tuned, Jal’s admiring eyes followed her every move. Roxana nudged him, “Go on, talk to her.”

“Later,” he whispered, retreating as the violin started again.

Then Yezad arrived, let himself in quietly with his latchkey, and saw Jal. He was anxious to hear about the ceiling, but waited till Nariman was asleep. After Daisy left, they retired to the back room.

“So what’s the latest bulletin from Chateau Felicity?”

“A week ago, like Edul, I would have said champion. Now, I don’t know any more.” He delivered the news about the rotten beam, and looked anxiously from his face to hers.

“Not your fault,” said Yezad. “Don’t feel so guilty.”

“But I’m the one always bringing you Edul’s nonsense and —”

“Maybe the beam really is rotten,” said Roxana. “How long will it take?”

“A year,” said Yezad with a hollow laugh.

“Oh no, no,” said Jal, “not that long.”

He described Edul’s plan to get equipment in place over the next few days, prepare for hoisting the steel girder. “Latest by the twenty-fourth, because he wants to use the Christmas holiday for the job. He says it shouldn’t be left halfway, he’ll work into the night if necessary, to finish it.”

“Looks like a merry Christmas for you,” said Yezad.

“Certainly won’t be a silent night. And what about you, Jehangir? Are you going to hang up a stocking for Santa?”

“Yes,” sighed Jehangir. “I’m fed up of arguing with Murad. He’s driving me crazy, trying to make me believe it.”

“But he’s right,” said Jal. “You’re nine years old?”