Family Matters (44 page)

“Such horrifying news,” the man murmured. “What a shameful place of crime Bombay is becoming.”

“Terrible,” said Yezad, shaking his head. “Mrs. Kapur …?”

“Yes, yes, please, in that room.”

Yezad moved on, nodding to the people he passed in the hallway. He peered inside the room: yes, he had found Mrs. Kapur, there she was in a chair by the window.

But a phalanx of relatives surrounded her, and breaking through was difficult, he soon discovered. Each time he tried to get closer, someone outmanoeuvred him. He felt it would be unseemly to make a stronger effort, and waited for an opening.

Everyone seemed to be obsessed with being in physical contact with Mrs. Kapur, he noticed. As though their grief would be suspect unless they were clutching her fingers, stroking her hair, cupping her face. Poor woman … to suffer such a tragedy, and then to have to endure this …

He lingered behind a group he felt had already contributed more than their share of condolences. From their whispers, he gathered they were awaiting Mr. Kapur’s body – it had been released by the police after forensic examination, and was expected to arrive shortly.

Then an excited voice on the balcony announced, “Yes, I think they’re coming!” Something resembling a hearse had turned into the building gate.

Everyone flocked to the balcony to look. But it was a false alarm – just a furniture delivery van.

“Very sorry,” said the man. “From up here, it’s so difficult to see all the way down. I should get the binoculars from Vikram’s study.” He went off to find them.

But the distraction gave Yezad the opportunity to get next to Mrs. Kapur. Would she remember him? They had met years ago when she was still in the habit of dropping by at the shop.

“I am Yezad Chenoy,” he started, “from Bombay Sporting —”

“Of course,” she said, and took his hand. “Please sit down.”

She gestured to the chair next to hers, which, owing to the balcony diversion, was empty. He sat on the edge, eschewing comfort as a mark of respect. Her composure was remarkable, he thought, especially in contrast to the others around her.

“It was such a shock,” he said softly. “I saw the notice this morning when I went to the shop. Then Husain arrived and told me what happened.”

“Poor Husain,” said Mrs. Kapur. “He is very upset. Only an uneducated peon, but what a help yesterday. How lucky Vikram was in his employees. You know he was very fond of you, always praising you.”

“It was an honour and pleasure for me to work with Mr. Kapur,” he mumbled, his voice shaking. “If there is something I can do … regarding the shop … or anything else …”

“Thank you for coming, Yezad,” she said.

“Not at all. I’m so sorry I won’t be at the funeral. You see, my sister-in-law also died yesterday – an accident.”

“I am sad to hear it. Of course I understand, family first.”

He offered his hand again, then whispered, “One more thing, Mrs. Kapur …”

“Yes?”

He felt awkward, not sure how to tell her there was black money, undisclosed income hidden in the shop. “You see, in Mr. Kapur’s office, there is a large suitcase.”

She smiled conspiratorially. “It’s quite safe. Thanks to Husain’s screaming, the thieves ran away. I’ve brought it home.”

“That’s good,” said Yezad, marvelling again at her calmness, her self-possession.

“I will let you know about the shop,” she assured him. “Soon as I decide.”

“If you need me in any capacity …”

“Yes, thank you.”

He saw that the crowd keen on condoling was becoming impatient with his presence. A woman had squeezed her way behind his chair, and was rubbing the back of Mrs. Kapur’s neck. Another had extended her arm to claim Mrs. Kapur’s shoulder, fixing him with a half-hostile stare that compromised her mourning expression. It reminded him of a
National Geographic
photograph he had seen, of a Maori greeting-ritual grimace.

The women’s fervour was unsettling. He shook hands with Mrs. Kapur and left, extricating himself carefully from the ever-growing cluster around her.

F
rom funeral to uthamna to charam, Yezad and Roxana saw Jal regularly for the four days of prayers and ceremonies. Each time he seemed more exhausted than the last. Then there was a gap during which they did not meet, and Roxana wondered if he was all right.

“He knows he’s welcome to ask for any help,” said Yezad.

Two evenings later Jal visited, confessing that the past week had tired him out, and he’d been staying home to rest, to think. He handed over some food in aluminium containers: so much extra at home, he explained, he hadn’t yet reduced the Seva Sadan order from two persons to one.

The basket contained cutlets, mashed potatoes, a small bowl of gravy, and caramel custard. Roxana accepted it all eagerly, it would do nicely for dinner – the gravy thinned with a little water could stretch for five.

Then, talking about the last few days, Jal said that despite his fatigue, his nights at the Tower of Silence had been filled with the most peaceful sleep he’d ever experienced.

“I believe it,” said Yezad. “A few years ago, I was there for my father. I swore I would sit with him till the sun came up. But Doongerwadi is a magical place. It took away the pain and sadness, left peace in its stead. Almost like angels and fareshtas came down to comfort me.” He smiled at Roxana, to acknowledge he’d used her phrase, and continued, “Around three in the morning, I remember, I fell asleep. I slept as soundly as though my father’s hand was stroking my head, rubbing my back, the way he would when I was a child.”

“Exactly how I felt,” said Jal. Then he told them that he had attended some prayers for Edul yesterday, as a gesture of reconciliation with Manizeh’s family, who blamed him for Edul’s death. While offering his sandalwood to the fire, he’d had to pass the seated row of family members, and took the opportunity to nod and touch his forehead. Better to save the handshake and condolences for after.

“But when the prayers ended, they whisked Manizeh away. I went searching for her all around the fire-temple, and in the garden as well, but she was gone.”

“I’m sure you’ll get another chance,” said Yezad. “Or you can make a condolence visit, she lives right below you.”

“No, the flat is empty now, she’s back at her parents’ house. I hope they don’t stay angry forever. A terrible thing, anger.” He shook his head. “So many unhappy marriages in the world are dragged out in fights. And here, a perfect loving match is shattered. What is this absurd force called destiny?”

“Man proposes, God disposes,” was Yezad’s explanation. “We are not meant to understand everything. We just make ourselves miserable, trying to.”

“You’re right,” said Jal. “By the way, tomorrow I’m planning to go and thank Inspector Masalavala for his help. And Dr. Fitter, for writing the death certificates.”

“Good idea. Please convey our thanks as well.”

Jal left before they sat down to dinner. Roxana began warming the food he’d brought, and the quantities distressed her. “So many cutlets – has he kept enough for himself?”

“I don’t think he’s planning to starve.”

“Coomy used to do everything in the house. Must be so difficult for him.”

“He’s not a child, he’ll be fine.”

J
al rang Inspector Masalavala’s doorbell just after six-thirty the next evening. He wouldn’t stay long, he decided, a few minutes to say how grateful he was, then on to Dr. Fitter’s.

But when the servant opened the door, Jal saw that the doctor was in the front room with the inspector. They were comfortable in capacious rattan chairs, soft cushions tucked strategically behind them. On a glass-topped rattan table stood two drinks with ice cubes.

“Please don’t get up,” he said, and they were happy to comply, shaking his hand from the cosy depths of their chairs.

“I came to thank you, Inspector. For all your assistance last week. And later I was going to knock on your door, Doctor, to thank you as well.”

“You can thank two birds with one knock,” said Dr. Fitter.

“Please sit,” said Inspector Masalavala. “I also wanted to show appreciation for our good doctor. Coming out of retirement at my request, eh?” He laughed. “So I invited him for a drink.”

Inspector Masalavala was being modest, for it was more than a drink: he was treating Dr. Fitter to a double peg of Scotch from his treasured bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He asked if Jal would have one.

“No, thanks, I don’t feel like drinking.”

“I understand, I won’t insist,” said the inspector, quickly putting aside the bottle. “Something else? Cold drink?”

“No, nothing for me, honest. I just want to say how grateful I am. The whole family is, they send their thanks to you both.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

“Least we could do.”

They picked up their glasses. “Salaamati,” said Inspector Masalavala.

“Tandarosti,” responded Dr. Fitter.

A short silence followed as they savoured their drinks, then the inspector said he was glad to have been able to help. “If we don’t look after our own people in times of trouble, who will?”

“Agreed,” said Dr. Fitter.

“But it was very kind of you,” said Jal.

“Not at all, not at all.”

They sipped the Scotch, praising its sterling qualities and nursing the glow of their good deed. Jal enjoyed watching the pleasure they took in the drinks. The doctor asked how Professor Vakeel was, and Jal said not very well.

“That’s the problem with the damned Parkinson’s,” muttered the doctor. “Never gets better.”

“Just before you came, Jal,” said Inspector Masalavala, “we were chatting about the future of the Parsi community.”

“Yes? The orthodox and reform argument?”

“That’s only one part of it. The more crucial point is our dwindling birth rate, our men and women marrying non-Parsis, and the heavy migration to the West.”

“Vultures and crematoriums, both will be redundant,” declared Dr. Fitter, “if there are no Parsis to feed them. What’s your opinion?”

“I’m not sure,” said Jal, reluctant to be drawn into a debate over this explosive topic. “We’ve been a small community right from the beginning. But we’ve survived, and prospered.”

“Those were different times, a different world,” said Inspector Masalavala, not in a mood to tolerate optimism. “The experts in demographics are confident that fifty years hence, there will be no Parsis left.”

“Extinct, like dinosaurs,” said Dr. Fitter. “They’ll have to study our bones, that’s all.”

Jal smiled. He liked the doctor despite the gruff personality and bluntness. His humour epitomized the Parsi spirit, he felt, the ability to laugh in the face of darkness.

“You will be named Jalosauras,” said Dr. Fitter. “I will be Shapurjisauras. If they find my father’s bones, we will have a Pestonjisauras with a pugree on his head. And our inspector here, who loves his Scotch, will be the powerful Whiskysauras, a magnum of Blue Label tucked under his arm. In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry.”

They laughed, the doctor and Jal, the latter realizing how good it was to do so again.

The inspector maintained his solemnness as he puzzled over why the idea of Parsi dinosaurs was funny. “I get very depressed when I think about these matters. The most frustrating thing is, we have the means to avert disaster.”

“Really?” said the doctor.

“Take the falling birth rate. Our Parsi boys and girls don’t want to get married unless they have their own flat. Which is next to impossible in Bombay, right? They don’t want to sleep under the same roof as their mummy and daddy. Meanwhile, the other communities are doing it in the same room, never mind the same roof, separated by a plywood partition or a torn curtain. Our little lords and ladies want soundproofing and privacy. These Western ideas are harmful.”

“Indeed,” said Dr. Fitter. “The funny thing is, we used to pride ourselves on being Westernized, more advanced.”

“Yes, but listen to my solution. If lack of privacy is holding up a marriage, Parsi Panchayat should pay to make modifications in the parents’ flat. Take one corner and make it absolutely soundproof, so the couple can go in that room, enjoy, make as much noise as they like. And make lots of babies too.”

“A mating room?” said Dr. Fitter. “You think young couples would go for it?”

“Worth trying. But privacy is not the only issue. There are lots of wealthy couples living alone in new flats who produce just one child. Two, if we’re lucky. Parsis seem to be the only people in India who follow the family planning message. Rest of the country is breeding like rabbits.”

“Well,” said Dr. Fitter. “Your demographers will tell you, the more educated a community, the lower the birth rate.”

“Then we need to fix that. I have two suggestions. First, our youth must be prohibited from going beyond a bachelor’s degree. Give them cash incentives to study less. And those who want to do post-graduate studies, tell them they will get no funding from Panchayat unless they sign a contract to have as many children as the number of people over age fifty in their family. Maximum of seven – we don’t want to spoil the health of our young women.”

“I see,” said Dr. Fitter. “But what about those who might have medical problems, inability to conceive?”

“That’s no excuse,” said the inspector. “Not these days, with in vitro fertilization and all those mind-boggling technologies that result in multiple births. We can produce six and seven Parsis in one shot, I’m telling you.”

“Ah,” said the doctor. “A very interesting proposition.”

“Our community, our youth has to rediscover the joys of a large family,” continued Inspector Masalavala, failing to notice the smiles exchanged by the doctor and Jal. “They have to realize what they are missing. The happy music of children’s laughter filling the home, wife cooking huge hearty meals in the kitchen, clatter of pots and pans, the aromas of dhansak and dhandar.”

“You will ensure in your plan,” said the doctor, “that the evils that accompany large families do not creep in and ruin the joy and happiness.”

“Yes, of course,” assured the inspector. “What evils?”

“The usual – sickness, poverty.”