Family Matters (45 page)

“Oh, those. No, no, the Panchayat has enough money. No one will be sick or poor. The only things we have to worry about are notions of individualism. Poison. Pure poison, that’s what these ideas are to the Parsi community.”

“My dear fellow,” sighed the doctor. “It’s hard to stop the march of ideas.”

“We have to try,” said the inspector sternly. “They cause too much misery. Look at Edul Munshi’s example. Crushed to death in his youth. Why? Because of his silly handyman hobby. If he had done his duty as a Parsi, had half-a-dozen children, he would have had no time to fool around with his tools. He’d still be alive.”

“True,” said Jal. So far, it was the only part of Inspector Masalavala’s rant that made some sense.

“Same goes for your sister. I don’t mean to upset you, Jal, but if she had married, she would have been in her husband’s house, far from the steel beam that broke her skull.”

“If, if, if,” said Dr. Fitter. “If we are meant to die out, nothing will save us.”

“Yes,” said Inspector Masalavala. “But it will be a loss to the whole world. When a culture vanishes, humanity is the loser.”

“Agreed,” said Dr. Fitter. “So maybe we should bury a time capsule for posterity. To be opened in one thousand years. Containing recipes for dhansak, patra-ni-machhi, margi-na-farcha, and lagan-nu-custard.”

Inspector Masalavala liked this suggestion, and it cheered him up. “How about including the Zend-Avesta, and words and music for Chhaiye Hamay Zarthosti?”

“Sure. And a few old issues of
Jam-e-Jamshed.”

“Also, some cassettes of Adi Marzban’s radio comedies,” said Jal. “Coomy used to love them.”

“Complete instructions and explanations for all our rituals and ceremonies,” said the inspector.

“Whatever you do, you mustn’t forget a copy of our great Navsari epic,” said the doctor.

“Which one is that?”

“ ‘Ek Pila Ni Ladai.’ ”

Inspector Masalavala laughed, finally loosening up a little. “With an English translation,” he said.

The three took a shot at it themselves, agreeing to “The Battle of the Chicken” for the poem’s title. They tried hard to remember all the verses about the woman feuding with neighbours over the theft of her chicken, the confrontation that lasted fifty-four unforgettable days. Several stanzas were devoted to the dastardly way the dark deed was perpetrated, followed by her threats and curses: a string of horrible diseases for the thieves, should they so much as taste a morsel of the stolen bird. They had the most fun with the verses where the diseases were catalogued, an endless river of affliction, from typhoid, cholera, diphtheria, diarrhoea, dysentery, pyorrhoea, piles, and herpes, onwards to mumps, measles, madness, malaria, and, of course, chicken pox.

As the evening wore on, the three of them filled their imaginary time capsule with their favourite items, ancient and modern, serious and frivolous, sacred and profane, till they ran out of ideas.

Sighing, Inspector Masalavala poured more Scotch into the two empty glasses. “To think that we Parsis were the ones who built this beautiful city and made it prosper. And in a few more years, there won’t be any of us left alive to tell the tale.”

“Well, we are dying out, and Bombay is dying as well,” said Dr. Fitter. “When the spirit departs, it isn’t long before the body decays and disintegrates.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Inspector Masalavala, discreetly touching the corner of his eye. “That makes sense. Makes me feel better.”

“In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry.”

Then Mrs. Fitter arrived to call her husband home because dinner was ready.

“Fully ready or almost getting ready?” asked Dr. Fitter, for his Scotch was not quite finished.

“Fully ready and almost on the table,” she said. “If you waste time the fish will get cold, Shapurji, and you will grumble non-stop.”

She turned to them to complain, “This Parsi of mine is such a fussy fellow, you should hear him. You’d think he was still in his surgery, giving orders, instead of my retired dosaji.”

“Okay, Tehmi, you’ve made enough malido of my honour for one evening,” he said jovially. He drained his glass and struggled out of the deep rattan chair.

Jal was warmed by the banter of the old couple, the love they so obviously shared. He rose as well, to leave with them.

Mrs. Fitter scurried ahead while the two men lingered outside, looking through the dusk at the traffic and the people and the sky. Night had fallen on the city. But it was still as frenetic as ever. Vital, in its exuberance. Jal saw Dr. Fitter observe it all with satisfaction, nodding to himself, a slight smile playing on his lips, as though he were giving a patient good news. They shook hands before the doctor hurried away to his fish dinner.

Waiting at the kerb to cross the road, Jal looked at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. He had stayed much longer than he intended. But the company had been most enjoyable.

Strange, he thought, how Inspector Masalavala’s deluge of pessimism could be deflected by Dr. Fitter’s handful of words, his sly humour turning doom and gloom into something comic. He wished he had that ability to make sense of the world by using laughter, or at least using it like a shield against its constant assault. As for the inspector and his expert demographers, such despair was for fools – he needed to take only one look at Roxie and Yezad’s family, at their sons, to know it. His nephews, he thought with pride.

T
here was no newspaper to help Yezad pass the time. He had stopped it two days after Christmas, after the uncertainty about his next salary. The boys were at school, he was alone at the dining table. And yesterday had been Coomy’s dusmoo prayers, which meant that Bombay Sporting had stayed closed for ten days already.

“Yezad, what will happen at the shop?” asked Roxana, overcome by the need to speak her anxiety. “Will they put you in charge now?”

He must stay calm for her sake, he resolved, not let her feel his worry about his job, whether there would even be one to go back to. “Mrs. Kapur needs time to recover first. Think about it – her husband murdered in the shop, without warning.”

“You’re right, ten days is nothing,” she agreed. “It’s just that when Jehangoo and Murad were putting on their uniforms …”

“What?”

“I felt they had lost weight.”

“But, Roxie, they’ve always been skinny,” he chuckled to feign amusement. “You know the game we used to play with them, counting their ribs, playing piano upon them.”

She smiled, bolstered by the memory, and went to the kitchen, leaving her father’s tea to cool for a bit in the feeding cup.

He wondered how much longer he could sustain this outward show of calm. But he had no choice – if he lost his grip, despair would overwhelm them. Reminding himself yet again that ultimately it was in the hands of God, he went to the balcony.

Shoulders slumped over the railing, elbows hanging, he stared at the street below. The parrot on the third floor across the road was hopping endlessly in its cage, shuffling from side to side, almost hurling itself against the bars. He winced. If it were his pet he would open the cage and let it go.

He couldn’t bear to watch any more, and went inside. The feeding cup with tea was still on the table. He touched its side – cool enough now. About to call Roxana, he stopped himself.

“Ready, chief, for your tea?”

“Umm.”

He sat on the edge of the settee and put the spout to Nariman’s lips. It made a trickle at the corner of his mouth.

“Oops. Sorry, chief, it’s a spout-and-a-half.” He snatched the napkin beside the pillow and wiped Nariman’s chin. The stubble, long and rough, grabbed the cloth. It was weeks since they had been able to afford the barber’s services. “Good thing the growth is slow, chief. Or you’d have a full Karl Marx beard by now.”

Nariman attempted a smile, and Yezad offered the feeding cup again. He got the hang of it, the angle that permitted a manageable flow. He tilted, Nariman swallowed. He realized this was the first time he had sat close to his father-in-law since his arrival months ago.

Though only a small cup, the tea took a while to finish. When the spout was drained, Nariman lifted his shaking hand and laid it over Yezad’s. Their two hands held the cup together, trembling together.

Yezad knew he was saying thank you. He looked at the hand, the long fingers with nails due for cutting. The knuckles were like seaside pebbles exposed to the elements, the skin almost transparent, displaying the handiwork of time, the years endured.

“You’re welcome, chief,” he whispered, swallowing to clear his throat.

He returned the feeding cup to the kitchen, and Roxana thought he was bringing it to remind her.

“But it’s empty,” she said, looking inside, puzzled for just a fraction of a second before understanding: he had served Pappa. Her lip trembled.

“He drank it all,” he said, and left the kitchen. On the way back he stopped at the dressing table to rummage in Roxana’s small drawer till he found what he was looking for.

“Okay, chief, let’s trim your nails.” He lifted Nariman’s hand from the bed, taking the thumb first. The tremor made his own hand shake, and the nail kept evading the clippers.

“Let’s try something different.” He sat sideways on the settee, crossing his leg so the knee was raised high. Upon this knee he placed his father-in-law’s hand, then held it down with his own, the fingers spread out over his kneecap. With each snap of the clippers, hard yellow crescents shot across the room.

“There. How’s that?”

“Excel excellent.”

But the ends were rough, the brittle nails having broken in the clippers rather than been cut. He slid out the folding file and began smoothing the jagged ends, which made Nariman smile.

“Better now, isn’t it?” said Yezad, checking the edges again.

“De-clawed. And ha ha harmless.”

“Not you, chief. Not with that tongue you possess.”

They laughed softly, and Yezad cast his eye across the floor, recovering many of the clippings in a scrap of old newspaper. “You know, chief, might as well do your toenails.”

“Too much trub trub …”

“No trouble at all.”

He moved the sheet aside from the legs and sat at his father-in-law’s feet. The toenails were much harder, almost corneous. Like the beaks of tiny birds, he thought. He looked over his shoulder. A tear was running down Nariman’s cheeks. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, and squeezed the clippers.

He added the toe clippings to the newspaper square and wrapped it up. “Now we must do something about that beard, chief. I think you brought your razor with you, didn’t you?”

It was in the suitcase, with the shaving brush and soap. But the blade was dull, it would scratch and nick, especially with this amount of stubble. He selected a new one from his own box and took his plastic mug to the kitchen for hot water.

“Shaving?” asked Roxana, glancing at the five o’clock shadow on her husband’s cheeks.

He nodded and returned to the front room. He spread a towel over Nariman’s chest and moistened his jowls, working up a vigorous lather to soften the stubble. Nariman made his lips disappear to let him brush under the nose.

“All set,” said Yezad, and dipped the razor in the hot water. Starting at one ear, he stretched the skin to make it taut, his thumb having to pull quite a bit before it tightened. Nariman did his best to help, trying to twist his mouth sideways or puff his cheek.

Yezad was working under the chin when Roxana came into the room. She saw him leaning over Pappa, and panicked for a moment – was something wrong? Then she realized what he was doing. She put a hand over her mouth to keep silent.

He finished, and wiped off the leftover flecks from the nostrils and earlobes. Gathering up the shaving things, he turned. He saw her in the doorway, saw her eyes overflowing with gratitude so intense, he averted his own in guiltiness.

Just before dinnertime Jal arrived with another food package. “Lots extra again,” he said cheerfully. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s very useful,” said Roxana, though she was uncertain how Yezad might react to these deliveries.

Then Jal noticed Nariman spick and span, almost dapper, if being dapper in bed were possible. “Hello! Is that really you, Pappa?”

“Uncle, just feel this,” urged Jehangir, squeezing his grandfather’s chin. “So soft and smooth, like before.”

Jal hesitated.

“Touch it, it feels so nice.”

He leaned over from his chair and caressed the chin gently. “Jehangir’s right. Better than my own shave.”

Nariman smiled. “Yezad … res pon si ble for my trans …”

“Transformation? Yes?” He turned to Yezad, who looked away.

But Roxana was quick to praise, “Manicure, pedicure, facial, everything! Yezad gave Pappa the full beauty treatment!”

They laughed, and Murad joked that maybe Daddy should open up Monsieur Chenoy’s Salon de Beauté.

“Learnt a little French, and see how big he talks,” said Yezad with pride.

“You know, Daddy,” said Jehangir pensively, “if you specialize in old people, you would have lots of customers. I’m sure there are many grandpas who …,” his voice trailed off.

Then Jal got up, overcome by emotion, and gave Yezad a hug. “You are such a good person. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all.” Feeling uncomfortable, he eased himself out of Jal’s arms.

Roxana asked her father if he would like one of the mutton patties that Jal had brought. He indicated no with a slight movement of his head, but whispered a need for the bedpan.

As she bent to get it, she noticed Yezad shrink in his chair, then rise and edge casually towards the balcony. Oh well, she smiled to herself, this was one thing he wouldn’t help with.