It is my pleasure to inform you, on behalf of Mother Claudiana, that your daughter has won first prize in our Annual School Raffle.
May I trouble you to make arrangements for taking delivery of the prize? The doll is quite big, and I fear little Roshan will be unable to manage on the school bus. It would be a pity if it was damaged. The doll is in my office (off the main parlour) and I would appreciate it if you could arrange transportation as soon as possible.
Please accept our sincere thanks for participating in the raffle and making our fund-raising drive a success. When our new school building goes up, it will be due to the generous co-operation of parents like yourselves.
Yours truly,
Sister Constance
(Raffle Committee)
Gustad was unable to hide his disgust. ‘I thought it was Jimmy’s letter. You couldn’t say something before giving it to me?’
‘Why do you have to look so unhappy? Major wants to write, he will write. But for Roshan’s sake change your face, she is so excited, you know she has never had a doll in her life.’
He heeded her advice as Roshan came running in from the compound. ‘Daddy! Daddy! I won the doll!’
He swept her up in his arms. ‘My doll has won a doll. But you are the prettier of the two, I am sure.’
‘No! That doll is much prettier, she has blue eyes, and fair skin, so pink, and a lovely white dress!’
‘Blue eyes and pink skin? Chhee! Who wants that?’
‘Daddy! Don’t say chhee to my doll. Can we go and bring her now? Sister Constance said you must come and –’
‘Yes, I read the note. But it’s late now, maybe tomorrow, I have half-day.’
‘But school is closed on Saturday.’
‘That’s OK, Sister Constance will be there,’ said Gustad, and Dilnavaz agreed. She suggested that he telephone Sister, though, just in case she was planning to go to the market or the cinema. After all, it was no longer like the old days when the nuns stayed inside all the time, cleaning and sewing and praying.
‘Take thirty paise and go to Miss Kutpitia,’ she said, for Miss Kutpitia was the sole tenant of Khodadad Building with the luxury of a telephone. The luxury was often a nuisance, however, because neighbours (including the ones who thought her mean and crazy) would request its use or (‘please, with your permission Miss Kutpitia’) give the number to relatives and friends to receive emergency messages.
Those who went to telephone were never allowed more than two steps inside: the coveted black instrument squatted on a little table beside the front door. None the less, everyone had strange tales to report. Long conversations could be heard from the landing outside, they said, and when the door opened, there was only Miss Kutpitia inside. She lived like a miser, a typical loose-screw eccentric, with dust and cobwebs everywhere, stacks of old newspapers piled to the ceiling, empty milk bottles in corners, curtains tattered, sofa cushions spilling their insides, and cracked light shades hanging from the ceiling like broken birds and bats. There was no shortage of money, they said, that much was certain. How else could she afford Parsi Dairy Farm milk and custom-catered meals from the Ratan Tata Institute?
The reason, they said, that no one was allowed inside – not ayah or gunga or friend or relative – was because she had a dire secret: the bodies of two deceased relatives she had had embalmed and preserved, years ago, instead of handing them over for proper disposal at the Tower of Silence. Others claimed this was rubbish; there were no preserved bodies, only the dry bones. Miss Kutpitia had gone to the funeral, and after the vultures had picked the bones clean inside the Tower, she had bribed some nassasalers to retrieve them before disintegration within the central well in lime and phosphorus. Miss Kutpitia naturally shielded those bones from the eyes of the world, they said, and were the reason for her secrecy and strange ways.
‘OK,’ said Gustad. ‘I’ll go. But first let Roshan ask if it is all right. Say to her, Auntie, can Daddy please come and use your phone?’
‘I’m scared to go there,’ said Roshan.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You want your prize or not?’ The waiting doll easily conquered Roshan’s fears.
Gustad got the pruning shears and cut a rose from his precious plant. ‘Say to her, Daddy sent this for you.’
‘Now what new farus is this?’ said Dilnavaz. He ignored her with a wave of his hand which said he knew how to take care of these things.
Roshan returned with Miss Kutpitia’s consent, then accompanied him to the telephone. Night was falling, but Tehmul-Lungraa was in the compound. He spied them from the other end. ‘GustadGus-tadGustad.’ He had a sheaf of pages under one arm, and clutched a ballpoint pen. ‘GustadGustadwaitwaitwait.’ He came as fast as his swaying-rolling walk would permit, waving a page. ‘ImportantGustadveryveryimportant.’
‘Not now, Tehmul,’ said Gustad. ‘I’m busy.’ Probably some rubbish that had been foisted on the poor fellow, he assumed, remembering the time the Shiv Sena had recruited him to distribute racist pamphlets aimed against minorities in Bombay. They had promised him a Kwality Choc-O-Bar if he did a good job. Gustad, returning from the bank, saw him, on the verge of being beaten up by a group of outraged South Indians who worked in the office building down the road. Gustad tried to explain, but they perceived him as the enemy too, for defending a Shiv Sena agent. Fortunately, Inspector Bamji was driving home to Khodadad Building from the police station. He stopped his Landmaster when he saw Gustad and Tehmul surrounded, and blew his horn. The crowd glimpsed the uniform and started to disperse before Inspector Bamji stepped out. Afterwards, Gustad had cautioned Tehmul not to accept things from strangers.
He spoke patiently, gently, to allay Tehmul’s perpetual agitation. ‘Come back in half an hour. Then we will read what you have.’ Somebody had to look after God’s unfortunate ones.
‘PleaseGustadplease. Readpetitionpleaseplease.’ He followed them to Miss Kutpitia’s stairway entrance. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, gazing forlornly after them.
On the second floor, the cover of the peephole slid up and an eye stared out unblinkingly. ‘Gustad Noble, for telephone.’ He spoke loudly to the eye, making dialling gestures with the right hand and holding the other like a receiver to his ear. The eye disappeared, and the sound of turning latches and withdrawing bolts echoed sharply in the corridor as the door opened.
Without much subtlety, he tried to peer off the hallway but the rooms were locked or in darkness. She reprimanded him sharply. ‘The telephone is right over here.’ From the bunch that hung around her neck, she selected a key and unlocked the clasp immobilizing the receiver. He dialled the convent’s number off Sister Constance’s note. On top of the telephone directory lay his rose. Miss Kutpitia waited while he made arrangements, and said, ‘Thirty paise,’ when he hung up.
‘Of course, of course.’ He dug placatingly in his pocket.
‘And take your rose with you when you leave.’
‘That’s for-’
‘All this pretence with a rose no one needs.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Just remember one thing.’ A trembling finger, skinny and fragile, pointed. The sight of it made him remorseful. ‘Old age and sorrow comes to everyone some day,’ she said. Her words made the passing of time into a terrible curse.
He penitently held out the thirty paise. ‘Thank you for letting me phone.’ His face felt hot as he heard, ringing in his ears, his voice shouting at her on the night of the dinner party.
When Miss Kutpitia spoke again, the sharpness was absent. ‘Wait, Roshan.’ She hefted up a large pile of newspapers. ‘I heard you want these for school.’
‘Thank you,’ said Roshan, staggering under the weight.
‘And you will show me your dolly, when she comes home?’ Roshan nodded. ‘Bye-bye,’ said Miss Kutpitia.
‘Bye-bye,’ said Roshan.
Gustad relieved her of the stack as they descended. Outside, Tehmul had disappeared, but the quiet of the compound was suddenly broken. They looked up and
saw Cavasji at his second-floor window. ‘To the Tatas You give so much! And nothing for me? To the Wadias You give, You keep on giving! You cannot hear my prayers? The pockets of the Camas only You will fill! We others don’t need it, You think?’
Cavasji was in his late eighties. He had the habit of leaning his ancient white-maned head out the window to reprimand the sky and register his displeasure with the Almighty’s grossly inequitable way of running the universe. Demand for Gustad’s medicinal subjo from Cavasji’s household was constant, for Cavasji suffered from hypertension. Every day, his daughter-in-law fastened a fresh sprig of the mint on a string around his neck. As long as it dangled green and protective, his blood-pressure would not explode like his rage.
The window slammed shut, cutting short the skyward progress of Cavasji’s cosmic criticisms, and Gustad lowered his gaze. He glanced at the topmost page in Miss Kutpitia’s yellowed, dusty stack of newspapers. A photograph under the headlines was fleetingly illumined by light from a neighbour’s window. He saw the huge cloud of an explosion, and then the dateline. My God - 1945. Saving papers for this long?
iii
The next day, Tehmul-Lungraa shuffled up as Gustad stepped out to pay the taxi-driver. ‘GustadGustadwaitpleasewait.’ The sheaf of pages was again under his arm.
Gustad decided to use the stern approach; it was good for Tehmul once in a while. ‘What is this nonsense? All the time in the compound? Do something useful. Sweep the floor, wash the dishes, help your brother.’
‘GustadGustadnotwasting. Timeveryimportantpetitionplease. Please-readGustadplease.’
‘You were going to bring it last night. What happened?’
‘ForgotforgotGustadforgot. Veryverysorryforgot.’
The taxi-driver got impatient. ‘First remove your memsahib, then talk all day if you like.’ Gustad reached into the rear. He cradled the doll in full bridal array, and it responded with a mama-ing bleat. The blue eyes rolled open and shut.
‘Ohhhhh,’ said Tehmul. ‘Ohhhhh. Gustadpleasepleaseplease. Can-Itouchcanltouchpleasepleaseplease.’
‘Fingers far away,’ said Gustad sternly. ‘Just looking is allowed. Or you will dirty the white-as-milk dress.’
Tehmul rubbed his palms briskly on his shirt front, then held them out. ‘SeeGustadseeclean. Cleanverycleanhands. PleaseGus-tadpleasepleasepleaseletmetouch.’ Gustad examined the hands. No harm in satisfying the poor fellow’s urge.
‘OK. But once only.’ Tehmul was thrilled. He stepped closer and stood on tiptoe. His eyes shining, he gazed upon the doll’s face and gently stroked the little fingers. ‘Enough.’
‘PleasepleaseGustadpleaseonemoretime.’ This time he petted the cheek, very lightly, and paused. ‘GustadGustad,’ he said, and petted it again. ‘Ohhhhh.’ His eyes filled with tears. He looked from the doll’s sleeping face to Gustad’s, and back, then burst into sobs and hobbled away. Gustad went inside, shaking his head sadly. He sat the doll in his armchair and adjusted the long wedding dress, straightened the tiara, smoothed the veil.
‘Daddy!’ Roshan came running from the back room and tried to lift the doll.
‘What is this, no hug for me? Only for the doll?’ She put her arms around him briefly, then ran back to the doll. ‘Careful, it’s too big for you to carry.’
‘All these expensive white clothes,’ said Dilnavaz fretfully. ‘They will get dirty.’
‘So silly, to make it that big,’ said Gustad, as Roshan climbed on to the deep, commodious seat of her great-grandfather’s chair and sat beside the doll. ‘How can any child play with such a big doll?’
‘Maybe when she grows a little bigger.’
‘Bigger? Already she is past the age for dolls. And in the meantime what? It cannot stay here.’
Dilnavaz said that what was needed was some kind of showcase in which it could stand, for this doll was not a toy. ‘For now,’ she said, ‘put it flat on the bottom shelf in my cupboard.’ Roshan did not like the idea at all, even though they convinced her it was only temporary. The doll would not fit on the shelf, however, clad in its voluminous garments, especially the enormous hoop petticoat. It would have to be undressed. The doorbell rang while they debated. Dilnavaz looked through the peephole. ‘It’s that idiot. Send him away.’
Gustad opened the door, and saw that Tehmul’s eyes were dry. ‘GustadGustadpleaseimportantpetition.’ He spied the doll on the chair. ‘Ohhhh,’ he said. ‘Gustadpleasepleasetouchonceonly.’
‘No!’ snapped Roshan, to everyone’s surprise.
‘Roshan.’ That was Gustad, warningly. Then to Tehmul, ‘How much touching do you want? You touched it so much in the compound. And then you will start crying again.’
‘Crying? Why crying?’ asked Dilnavaz.
‘PleaseGustadpleasenocrying. Promisepleasecanltouch.’
Gustad gave in, and Tehmul immediately slipped his hand under the veil. He looked into the doll’s blue eyes, petted the cheek, stroked the red lipsticked lips and laughed gleefully.
‘OK, Tehmul, that’s enough. Let’s read the petition.’ Tehmul touched those smooth, cold cheeks of plaster one last time before Gustad led him firmly to the dining-table. The petition was the landlord’s response to the municipality, detailing hardships that would be imposed on the tenants if the compound was narrowed. In a covering letter, the landlord urged the tenants to attest their signatures to the petition, thereby registering their objection to the scheme and joining forces to defeat the pernicious proposition.
Dilnavaz began undressing the doll. First she removed the veil and tiara, next the little bouquet tied cleverly to the hand to create the illusion that the doll’s fingers were holding it. The pearl necklace, shoes, stockings, came off one by one, as Tehmul watched, fascinated. When she started to unbutton the dress, he became quite restless.
‘OK Tehmul, pay attention,’ said Gustad. ‘You know what to do with this?’ But Tehmul was engrossed in the undressing of the doll. Dilnavaz was down to the underclothing when a trickle of saliva started its descent from one corner of his mouth.
‘Tehmul!’ His dark red tongue, yellow where it was coated, arrested the drool.
‘GustadGustadveryimportantpetitionlbrahimtoldme.’
‘Ah, he was here collecting rents? And you understood what he told you?’
‘Veryimportantpetitionveryimportantmustbesigned.’
Gustad counted the number of copies. Thirty. He made Tehmul sit with his back to the doll. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said, but was interrupted by the mail. He dropped the letters on the table; they fanned out in falling. The return address of one was a post office box in New Delhi. ‘Listen very carefully.’
‘ListeninglisteningGustadlisteningveryveryverycarefully.’
‘Take this petition to all the flats, OK?’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Allallallflatsallflats.’
‘Give one copy to each. Tell them to read and sign. And speak slowly. Say one word. Then stop. Then say another word. Slowly. Slowly. OK?’
‘YesyesyesGustadslowlyslowly. ThankyouthankyouGustad.’ On the way out he hesitated. The doll was stripped, down to its anatomically vague pink plaster. ‘Ohhhhh.’ His nostrils flared; his mouth began to move in the manner of a ruminant’s; a hand reached out.
‘Tehmul!’ He moved on. At the door he turned and looked yearningly once more before Gustad shut it after him. Dilnavaz shook her head and began folding the veil, the train, the dress, and collapsed the hoop petticoat.
‘It’s arrived,’ said Gustad quietly.
Like him, she contained her excitement. ‘You read it?’
‘Let’s finish this first.’ He fetched the empty suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She dusted it and packed the clothes inside. Roshan watched forlornly as the doll was swaddled in an old sheet and shut away on the lowest shelf of her mother’s cupboard.
iv
Gustad opened the envelope with the ivory paper-knife that had belonged to his grandmother. The handle was sculpted into a finely detailed figure of an elephant,
and delicate floral designs ornamented the blunt side of the blade, making the whole an exquisitely fragile instrument. He did not use it very often: heirlooms were special, he felt, to be cherished and handed down, not used up like a box of cocoa or a bottle of hair oil. But this was a special letter:
My dear Gustad,
Thank you for your reply. Overjoyed to hear from you. It would be too much for me to bear if our friendship was lost. Could not write immediately because I was away, visiting the border zones. Not a pretty sight. Thought I had seen it all in my time. Especially in Kashmir, the handiwork of the North-West Frontier tribesmen. What I have seen now in my work with RAW is beyond words. (Did I mention in my last letter I am working for Research and Analysis Wing?) This new breed of Pakistani butchers is something else. I tell you, Gustad, everything in the papers these days about the atrocities is true.
But let me get to the main point. All you have to do is go to Chor Bazaar between two and four in the afternoon, any one of the next three Fridays after receiving this letter. Look for a pavement bookstall. There are many in Chor Bazaar, so I have told my contact to display prominently a copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare. And just to be absolutely certain if it is the right one, open the book to Othello, end of act I, scene iii, where Iago gives advice to Roderigo. The line: ‘Put money in thy purse’ will be underlined in red.
My man will give you a parcel. Please take it home and follow the instructions in the note inside. That’s all. I am sure you will recognize the man, you met him once, many years ago. The Shakespeare thing is just in case he cannot be there and has to use his back-up.
Good luck, Gustad, and thank you again. If anything about all this seems strange to you, just trust me for now. One day, when I am back in Bombay, we will sit with a bottle of Hercules XXX and talk about it.
Your loving friend,
Jimmy
Gustad was smiling by the time he came to the end. Dilnavaz looked at him impatiently. ‘What does he say? Is he coming back? He can stay with us for a few days, we can move the teapoy and put a mattress beside the sofa for him at night.’
Such a Long Journey Page 11