Family Matters (40 page)

“Oh yes, they’ll come.” Guilt must look like worry, he thought, trying to compose himself. The tightness in his chest from last night had troubled him all day, and he wondered if he should see a doctor.

After half an hour Mr. Kapur began pacing again. “Why is no one coming? Yesterday when I passed Akbarally’s, it was packed with children. Look at me, Yezad. Am I inferior to the Akbarally’s Santa?”

“You look wonderful. Problem is, they have a mailing list, and special invitations. My Jehangir also got one last week.”

“Did you take him?”

“Of course not, he’s too old for that. And if he wanted to meet Santa, I’d bring him here.”

The response pleased Mr. Kapur. He tried to spot in the crowds rushing past a young child to whom he might wave, who might then ask to come inside.

Another half-hour passed, and the only sweets consumed were the ones eaten by Yezad. He kept unwrapping them, one after another, and crunching them down. As he fumbled with the wrappers, he realized his fingers were as unsteady as a chain-smoker’s.

“No one wants my treats,” said Mr. Kapur mournfully. “You might as well have them all. You and Husain take them home.”

“Maybe the cardboard sign is the problem,” said Yezad, putting back the sweet in his hand. “I wonder if people can read the message.”

Mr. Kapur jumped at the excuse. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Husain can stand outside and direct people’s attention to it.”

The peon took his new assignment seriously. When a woman and her son paused to look in the window, he approached them with such alacrity, they shied away in alarm.

“Walk faster, baba, it’s a crazy fellow,” she said, looking around fearfully.

Wounded by the comment but undaunted, Husain selected another recipient for Kapur sahab’s benefaction. A man and a little girl, probably his daughter, were stopping to examine shop displays. The child asked for something; the man smiled and shook his head, patting her cheek to console her.

They neared, and Husain got ready. He seemed determined that his quarry would not escape this time – a child would be provided for Kapur sahab. And when they passed, he pounced.

Grabbing the little girl’s arm, he began supplicating the father. “Please come inside, bhai sahab! Free sweets milayga, your bachchi will enjoy!”

Perhaps the father thought it was an abduction attempt, or was annoyed at the aggressive solicitation. “Hai, sala!” he yelled. “Haath mut lagao!”

But Husain held on.

“Let us go or I’ll break your head!”

As he made to strike Husain, Mr. Kapur decided it was time to rescue his peon. “Excuse me, sir!” he called from the entrance, preempting the blow. “Sorry for the inconvenience! We’re just offering free sweets for Christmas.”

Yezad went to the door too, ready to intervene if needed. But Mr. Kapur’s words had reassured the parent. The child, however, looked at the red apparition and burst into tears. People were stopping to watch, unwilling to walk past what could be a unique altercation: Santa Claus versus the public.

“Rona nahi, my child,” said Mr. Kapur, holding out a hand from which she flinched. “You understand English?”

“My daughter is in standard one, English medium,” said the father haughtily, insulted by the question.

“Excellent,” said Mr. Kapur. “So why are you crying, my little girl? You’ve never seen Santa Claus?”

The father said frostily, “We follow the Jain religion.”

“That’s good,” said Mr. Kapur. “Myself, I am Hindu. But no harm in a bit of Christmas fun. And modern Santa Claus is secular, anyway.”

Dragging his child who was now as fascinated as she was terrified, the man walked off while Mr. Kapur expounded on the virtues of a cosmopolitan society and the advantage of celebrating festivals of all faiths and religions. The crowd on the pavement heard him out, several people clapping in agreement. He gave them a wave, startling himself with the chimes, and returned inside, somewhat deflated.

“Oollu kay patthay!” he scolded Husain. “I said to inform people about Santa Claus. Not ghubrao them by snatching their children. Smile at them, be nice. As though you are inviting friends into your home. Jao, try again.”

Husain returned to the pavement, worried about Kapur sahab’s anger. Was the fierce-looking costume and beard changing his sweet nature?

Meanwhile, Yezad felt he needed to commiserate with Mr. Kapur: “New things take time to work.”

“Santa Claus is not new,” he said gloomily. “He is hundreds of years old.”

They watched Husain have another go at enticing visitors. He grinned and bowed, indicated the sign, pointed at the man in red inside the shop. He mastered the art of communicating without intimidating, and they were rewarded with their first guests.

The boy was familiar with Santa etiquette. He went up to shake Mr. Kapur’s hand and wordlessly endured the hug. The fond parents answered in an eager affirmative when their son was asked if he had been good this year.

Beaming, Mr. Kapur reached into his red sack and tried to engage the taciturn boy in conversation. In a burst of generosity he gave handfuls of sweets to the parents too.

A baffled Husain observed the ritual at the centre of his employer’s elaborate preparations. His expression seemed to say it made no sense – sahab was giving away sweets to strangers who weren’t interested in buying anything from the shop.

“Ho-ho-ho!” laughed Santa once more for the departing guests. “Merry Christmas, and see you next year!”

“Say thank you, Santa,” instructed the parents. The boy ignored them, engrossed in his sweets as he skipped down the steps.

“That went well,” said Mr. Kapur.

“Perfect,” said Yezad from behind him, wishing the evening would come to an end. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, dried the finger on his shirt sleeve, and reached into the sack for one more sweet.

“I think now it will get very busy,” declared Mr. Kapur. “I feel it in my bones. Chalo, Husain, why are you staring at me like a buddhoo? Go outside, send in more bachchay with their ma-baap.”

Though Mr. Kapur’s bones were far from right, there was a trickle steady enough to warm his heart with a variety of experiences. Children who were seeing their first Santa gazed in fascination or turned away in horror. Others marched in and out like well-behaved robots. Those too old for Santa came for the free sweets with a mocking, jeering attitude. One boy kept repeating joyfully, “Father Christmas has bugs in his beard!”

The embarrassed mother explained: her son was mixing up Santa Claus with family jokes about a white-bearded priest whose facial hair was reputed to harbour insects.

The window lights were switched off at seven; Husain was told to stop recruiting visitors. In his office Mr. Kapur pried the beard and moustache from his face, wincing as the skin pulled. The reassuring clank of the steel shutters was heard outside. He sat to remove his gumboots, but his feet, encased in the hot rubber, had swollen. He managed to tug one boot off after a struggle.

While he wrestled with the other, Husain came in. “Ah, miyan bhai, can you help me? Bahut tight hai.”

The peon knelt and grasped the boot’s heel and toe as Mr. Kapur braced himself in the chair. The gumboot came off with a whoosh. He flexed his ankles, wiggled his toes, and slipped the aching feet into his comfortable Italian loafers. “Ready to leave, Yezad?”

They stepped outside, and while Yezad locked the shop, Mr. Kapur pointed to the signboard: “Look at that.”

Rubbing a hand over his chest where the tightness persisted, Yezad stared at the sign. The neon lights said
BOMBAY SPORTING GODS EMPORIUM –
an o had blown. There was an o in each word, he thought uneasily, and yet this was the one that had gone dark.

“The electrician will be closed tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have it checked day after.”

“Absolutely. Spend the holiday with your family.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kapur.”

“Merry Christmas, Yezad.”

A
FTER MIDNIGHT
, Yezad felt the tightness in his chest getting worse, and his forehead was dripping sweat. He rose cautiously, but the bed creaked and Roxana turned over.

“What’s wrong, Yezdaa?”

“Nothing, just gas, I think. I’m going to drink ginger.”

He left the kitchen dark and opened the refrigerator. Its light made him squint. There was one bottle of ginger on the door – he touched it: barely chilled.

His fingers made spoons clatter in the drawer before closing around the opener. He snapped the cap off, trying to catch it as it fell and rolled away under the table, then emptied the fizzing drink into a glass. Fresh bottle, he thought, and took a few sips. The effervescence continued to hiss in the dark.

His ginger burp was prompt in arriving, but he knew the relief he sought wasn’t in this drink: it was not gas but the envelope – from the minute he’d brought it home it had turned into his biggest burden, squeezing the breath out of him. What had possessed him? Desperation, he knew. And he was still desperate, nothing had changed in twenty-four hours, the chief was still suffering, Roxana still driving herself to exhaustion, there wasn’t enough to eat, and here was money to ease all the difficulties, if he would only open the envelope, start spending …

He heard bare feet approach the kitchen. Probably Roxana, to ask how he was feeling. The light went on. He shielded his eyes.

It was Murad, startled to find his father on the stool beside the stove. “Why are you sitting in the dark, Daddy?”

“The bulb is too bright.” Pointing to the glass of ginger, he added, “Gas,” and rubbed his chest. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve to put Jehangir’s Christmas gift in his stocking.”

His father narrowed his eyes. “How did you get the money for it?”

“By saving all my bus fare.”

Yezad started to ask another stern question, then understood. He continued gently, “You should have told Mummy you were walking home, she was so anxious about you coming back late every day from school.”

“I wanted to keep it secret. Surprise everyone on Christmas morning.”

Yezad smiled. “I won’t breathe a word.” He took a sip from his ginger. “You must have planned this months ago.”

Murad nodded. “Jehangir looks so sad all the time, worrying about everything. I wanted to cheer him up.”

Yezad put his glass down. He rose from the stool and squeezed his son’s shoulder.

Grinning, Murad opened the spice cabinet and reached behind the boxes and bottles to retrieve the hidden package. He sniffed the wrapping and made a face. “Smells like the Motilal masala shop.”

“So what did you buy for Jehangir?”

“Three books – Enid Blyton.” He shut the spice cabinet, and prepared to leave the kitchen. “Shall I keep the light on?”

“No.”

The kitchen went dark again, and Murad knocked into something. “Hard to see,” he whispered.

“Don’t walk till your eyes adjust. Banging around, you’ll wake up Jehangir and Grandpa.”

He could hear his son’s breathing, his eagerness to surprise his brother. Must have done something right, he felt, he and Roxana – but mostly Roxana – to have raised such a fine boy. Didn’t show affection outwardly, the way Jehangla did, though he cared just as much.

“I can see clearly now,” said Murad, and left the kitchen.

A few seconds later, Yezad followed his son. He did not want to miss the moment.

Noises by his bed told Jehangir his brother was approaching the stocking. Not really a stocking, just an old cloth shopping bag that Mummy had cut into the shape and put stitches around; the two handles were still attached. He wondered what was in his Christmas present.

He opened his eyes a sliver, waiting to catch Murad red-handed. He was moving very cautiously. Something rustled, Murad froze and looked directly at his pillow. Then Grandpa made a sound, and Murad almost fled to the balcony. But after murmuring a few words about Mr. Braganza, Grandpa was quiet, and Murad tried again to tuck the gift into the stocking.

Jehangir got ready to pounce. Now? He hesitated. He could see Murad’s expression, the little smile that flickered. There was tenderness on his brother’s face.

Suddenly he understood why Murad wanted him to believe in Santa Claus: not to make a fool of him, but because he wanted him to enjoy the story.

In a way, thought Jehangir, the Santa Claus story was like the Famous Five books. You knew none of it was real, but it let you imagine there was a better world somewhere. You could dream of a place where there was lots to eat, where children could have a midnight feast and raid the larder that was always full of sumptuous delicacies. A place where they organized picnics to the countryside and had adventures, where even the smugglers and thieves they caught were not too dangerous, just “nasty customers” who were “up to no good,” as the kindly police inspector explained at the end of each book. A place where there were no beggars, no sickness, and no one died of starvation. And once a year a jolly fat man brought gifts for good children.

All this was what Murad wanted for him. To jump up in bed and say, I caught you, you can’t trick me, would be so mean.

He shut his eyes tight, not moving a muscle. The package was stuffed into the stocking, and Murad tiptoed away to his balcony bed.

In the dark kitchen Yezad picked up his glass of ginger again, wishing Roxana had been with him to see their sons. He was certain Jehangir had observed Murad, he knew from the way he’d relaxed and turned onto his back the moment Murad left the room. For days Jehangla had rejected the notion of Santa Claus. All he had had to do tonight was sit up in bed to prove his point. Instead he had let Murad stay and work the surprise.

He wanted to hug him, hug them both, tell them he loved them beyond measure, tell them how fortunate he was to have them for his sons, and how blessed they were to be brothers who cared about each other, and he wished their caring would never end, they would look out for each other all their lives. He wanted to wake Roxana, wake the chief, proclaim to everyone how he felt …

He drank some of the tepid ginger remaining in the glass, unable to reconcile this precious moment with the torment he had created for himself. The kitchen clock sounded once. Was it twelve-thirty, or one o’clock?

He strained to make out the position of the hands: one-thirty – and stared at the octagonal face, the glass door in its frame of dark polished wood, the brass pendulum catching just a gleam of light. He gazed at it, the clock that used to hang in the kitchen in Jehangir Mansion, the one remembrance of his childhood home, of his father …

As he looked, the clock swallowed up time. And he was back in that ground-floor flat, watching his father with the big chrome key in his hand, inserting it on the left, winding clockwise, then on the right, anticlockwise. His father moving the hands through the hours, waiting for the bongs, setting the precise time, closing the glass door with a click after giving it a wipe. And the little boy that Yezad used to be was asking again to hear the story behind the engraving:
In gratitude for an exemplary display of courage and honesty in the course of duty,
the story of his father stranded in an exploding city with a fortune in cash …

The clock struck two, returning Yezad to the kitchen in Pleasant Villa. How comforting its ticking, reassuring, like a steady hand guiding the affairs of the universe. Like his father’s hand that held his when he was little, leading him through the world of wonder and upheaval. And his father’s words, always at the end of the story,
Remember your kusti prayers: manashni, gavashni, kunashni – good thoughts, good words, good deeds …

He heard them in the ticking of the clock, and felt his heart constrict. His gaze followed the gleam of the pendulum for a few more moments. Then he closed his eyes, and decided: he would drop in at the shop in the morning.

Yes, he would wish Mr. Kapur a merry Christmas, and while Mr. Kapur was giving out sweets by the door he would replace the envelope in the drawer. Or he could go early, before anyone arrived.

He threw away the remaining ginger, ready to return to bed. He paused under the clock, running his hand over its face and patting the glass door.

The tightness in his chest had almost disappeared. He heard Nariman calling out in his sleep, and wished him good night in his thoughts. The bed creaked as he lay down.

“Yezdaa? How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Go to sleep now.” He kissed her gently on the back.

Up on one elbow, Jehangir listened to Grandpa having that same dream about Lucy singing their favourite song. Now he was asking her to step down, it was dangerous to stand up there. But he could only catch bits of Grandpa’s dream. Like Daddy’s badly working radio, where the sound came and went.

He turned the phrases over in his mind, storing them away with the other fragments he was saving. Some day, it would all fit together, and he would make sense of Grandpa’s words, he was certain.

There was a commotion in the building – the ayah is singing on the terrace again! shouted someone. Looks like she is going to jump this time! – and Nariman froze with fear. Then he was possessed by a rage against Mr. Arjani, against himself, against Lucy, for subjecting herself and him to such misery.

He took a deep breath, tried to stay calm, as once more Mr. Arjani humbled himself by pleading for his assistance. And once more, for Lucy’s sake, he agreed.

Yasmin was furious; he had expected she would be. But her anger, hurled at him like never before – like a fist, he felt – took him by surprise. Almost two months since the first drama on the terrace, she said. Two months the Arjanis had had, to send the crazy woman to a place where she would be safe without ruining the lives of other people. She forbade him to go to the rescue, it was none of his business.

But he climbed the stairs to the terrace. From the landing below, Yasmin reminded him to spare a thought for his honour, if he had any, and for his family. He turned, looked at her sadly, and kept climbing.

On the rooftop, things seemed to him almost identical to the last time. There was Lucy on the parapet, singing happily. There too were Mr. Arjani and his son crouching behind the water tank, their relief at seeing him almost palpable. And their fervent thanks again, which he disdained. He ordered them to leave the terrace. Overcome by a feeling of utter weariness, he coaxed Lucy into stepping down, returned her to the Arjanis, and went home.

He was expecting a storm like never before. Instead, he saw Yasmin sitting at the table, the silver thurible ready with hot coals for the evening loban.

Good, he thought, she was preparing to start her evening prayers, perhaps there wouldn’t be another fight.