Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  ‘And what is the urgent matter?’

  Gustad told him everything, from Major Bilimoria’s letter about the guerrilla operation, to the money package from Ghulam Mohammed. But he left out the bandicoot, the cat, and the rhyming couplet. Scaring Dinshawji would not help anything. Instead, he emphasized how their effort would help the Mukti Bahini’s liberation struggle, which Dinshawji found very stimulating. The more enthusiastic he became, the worse Gustad felt at having to dupe his sick friend who was now willing to break banking laws and jeopardize his job and pension this close to retirement.

  At the end, Dinshawji was so inspired, he would have agreed to join a bayonet charge against Pakistani soldiers. ‘Absolutely, yaar. One hundred per cent we will help the Major. Somebody has to do something about those bastard butchers.’ ‘That’s how I feel,’ said Gustad.

  ‘And did you read today about what America is doing?’ Gustad confessed he hadn’t read the papers for the last three days. ‘Arré, CIA bastards are up to their usual anus-fingering tactics. Provoking more killings and atrocities.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s obvious, yaar. If there is more terror, then more refugees will come to India. Right? And bigger problems for us – feeding and clothing them. Which means we will have to go to war with Pakistan, to solve the refugee problem.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then, the CIA plan is for America to support Pakistan. So India will lose the war, and Indira will lose the next election, because everyone will blame her only for the defeat. And that is exactly what America wants. They don’t like her being friends with Russia, you see. Makes Nixon shit, lying awake in bed and thinking about it. His house is white, but his pyjamas become brown every night.’

  Gustad laughed and opened the briefcase. ‘Time to get back,’ he said, and handed over the money in a plain envelope.

  Dinshawji wrapped his empty lunch bag around the bundle. ‘Yes. Have to be on the dot these days. Remember the olden times? When they took attendance just by counting the jackets hanging on the chairs? No bloody time-book nonsense. Arré, they trusted you in those days to do your work. Honour system. Jacket on the chair, hat on the rack, and you could go out for one-two hours, take a nap. Nobody minded. Age of honour and trust is gone for ever now.’

  Gustad checked if the lunch-boxes were still there. ‘You go in,’ he said. ‘I’m just coming.’ He scribbled a note to Dilnavaz: ‘My Dearest, Everything OK with Mira Obili. But did not have time to eat. Love & xxx.’ The aroma from the tiffin box intrigued his nose. He pulled out the rack of containers and saw pumpkin buryani. His mouth watered. Never mind. I can taste some tonight. And Darius will have the rest – he always likes rice at night, in addition to the main dish with bread. Needs it, too, with all the body-building.

  It was three minutes to two. Dinshawji was utilizing the time around Laurie Coutino’s desk. He had become bolder over the weeks, egged on by the other men. Now he was insisting that she dance with him. He sang ‘Rock Around the Clock’, prancing about her chair as she sat demurely, waiting for the lunch-hour to end. The beads of sweat were not long in appearing on his bald pate. He wiggled and jiggled, waved his arms, threw back his head, and added a pelvic thrust occasionally.

  Gustad looked on, concerned that trapped under the spell of his pitiful clownery, Dinshawji would forget the crucial envelope on Laurie’s desk. Day by day, he worried more and more for Dinshawji, for his ailing appearance, the face like parchment, the eyes battling to hide pain. But he also despaired about his embarrassing ways and the demise of his self-respect. Dinshawji was acting with abandon, in the manner of a medieval plague victim who knew that since the last vestige of hope was lost, clinging to dignity and other precious luxuries affordable by the healthy was of little use.

  He stopped singing, and said, panting, ‘Laurie, Laurie, one day I must introduce you to my little lorri.’ She smiled, ignorant of the Parsi slang for the male member. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued, ‘you will love to play with my sweet lorri. What fun we will have together.’

  She nodded pleasantly, and around them, the men guffawed, digging one another in the ribs. Gustad winced. Dinshawji was going too far. But Laurie smiled again, a little puzzled, and uncovered her typewriter.

  People drifted reluctantly to their work-stations as the minute hand crept upwards. Gustad followed Dinshawji, and reminded him as they parted, ‘Don’t forget. Bring me the deposit slip for initialling.’

  The scheme worked perfectly. ‘All done without a hitch,’ said Dinshawji next day at lunch. Gustad passed him the second bundle, and suggested slowing down with Laurie while they were helping the Major, just to avoid drawing attention.

  ‘On the contrary, yaar, on the contrary,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Safest thing is to behave this way. As long as I do my nonsense, I am the normal Dinshawji. If I become serious, people will start watching and wondering what’s wrong.’

  Gustad had been ready to tell him he was a stupid old fool. But when Dinshawji said what he did, Gustad did not have the heart to scold. How true, he thought. And the more ill he becomes, the harder he will work to be the normal Dinshawji.

  So Gustad let him continue in his way, praying that nothing would go amiss with the deposits. Slowly, the package in the coal-storage alcove emptied. Sometimes he wondered what else Major Bilimoria would demand once the money was deposited. But he did not dwell on that; instead, he looked forward to the day when the black plastic would collapse completely upon itself.

  iii

  Early in August, a few hours after Gustad left for work with the twenty-seventh bundle of money, Dilnavaz was surprised by the doorbell. She had just finished cooking the day’s meals. The dubbawalla, on the run in the pouring rain, had picked up Gustad’s lunch-box, and she hoped the food would not be cold when it reached the office. Now she was not expecting anyone else.

  The morning stream of vendors had ended with the arrival of the ashes-and-sawdust-man’s handcart, who had sold her a sack of each; her supply of the cleansers was running low. She was resisting the recent popular change to detergents and nylon scrubbers. Not that Dilnavaz had anything against modern technology – she always looked for the Sanforized label when shopping for fabric: it was a blessing not to lose three or four inches per yard to shrinkage. And those new Terylene and Tery-Cotton shirts were a miracle, never needed ironing. But she drew the line at fancy soaps and scrubbers; not only were they expensive, they did not do as good a job as raakh-bhoosa and a twist of coconut coir. Nothing worked better than the centuries-old method when it came to scouring pots and pans greasy with vanaspati and ghee. Some people claimed it was unhygienic, because you never could tell what ashes these fellows were selling – could be from cremation grounds, for all you knew. But Dilnavaz had faith in her man, trusted the quality of his raakh and bhoosa.

  After the sacks were emptied in the chawl outside the WC, Tehmul-Lungraa arrived to dutifully drink his glass of lime juice. He swallowed the mixture with a burp and a grin, as she watched anxiously to see if he was behaving more brainlessly than usual. She both dreaded and wished Tehmul’s deterioration: the erosion without which it would be impossible to redeem Sohrab. Tehmul returned the glass: ‘Thankyouthankyouverytasty,’ and left, scratching his groin with one hand, waving with the other.

  And it was while she was washing out the glass that the doorbell surprised her. Through the peephole she saw Roshan with one of the school nuns. Dilnavaz’s hand trembled as she fumbled with the latch.

  ‘Good-day, Mrs Noble,’ said the nun, shaking water off her umbrella. Then she started, and dropped the umbrella, for Tehmul suddenly materialized behind her. He examined her cagily from head to toe, from the folds of her wimple to the rain-muddied hem of her white habit, gazing long and hard at the crucifix shining upon her flattened bosom. He scratched his head and circled around her, never having seen such a strangely attired creature during all his cloistered life in Khodadad Building and its surrounds.

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ said Dilnavaz, ta
king Roshan’s hand. ‘What is wrong?’ But the question was unnecessary; the child’s wan countenance and clammy hand revealed all.

  ‘Roshan is not feeling well today, so we decided to bring her home.’ The nun squirmed under Tehmul’s gaze and eyed him suspiciously. ‘She has been to the bathroom several times already, and brought up her breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Sister. Say thank you, Roshan.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  ‘You are welcome, child. Now get well soon, we want you back in class.’ She stroked Roshan’s head and said a short, silent prayer before leaving.

  Dilnavaz took off Roshan’s raincoat, dried her hands and feet. ‘Sleep a little. I will phone Daddy and tell him.’

  ‘Ask Daddy to come early today. Please.’ Her pale, beseeching face made Dilnavaz want to hold her tight, but she did not let it show.

  ‘Now you know Daddy has work to do in the office,’ she said briskly, covering her with a sheet. ‘He cannot leave it just like that.’

  ‘Only once,’ she pleaded.

  ‘OK, I will ask him. Sleep now.’ She locked the door and went to telephone.

  Miss Kutpitia took a while to reach the door. Dilnavaz could hear talking inside the flat. Visitors for Miss Kutpitia? Impossible. She put her ear to the door. ‘I made bhakras today for your tea. And if you finish all your lessons quickly, I will take you to Chaupatty, you can dig in the sand with your spade. Hurry, hurry now, be a good boy, don’t waste time.’ Then a door slammed inside. Dilnavaz stepped back as footsteps approached.

  Miss Kutpitia opened the peephole, asking coldly, ‘Who?’

  ‘Dilnavaz.’

  The cover fell into place and she unbolted the door. ‘Forgive me, day by day eyes are getting worse and worse.’

  ‘It’s all right, sometimes I also have trouble seeing. What to do, years pass and make us old.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Miss Kutpitia spiritedly. ‘Many years before you will have my kind of problems. Your three children will get married, make you a grandmother first.’

  ‘All in God’s hands. But can I use the phone?’

  ‘Of course.’ She unlocked the receiver and stepped aside. While waiting for the bank receptionist to locate Gustad, Dilnavaz looked around her. No sign of any visitors. Unless they were hidden behind the two locked doors. She finished and offered thirty paise.

  ‘I cannot take money for phoning about Roshan’s sickness,’ said Miss Kutpitia. Insisting was useless, it was impossible to get past the adamant years between their ages. ‘Put it away in your pocket. Put it away or you will make me angry.’ She looked for the key. ‘Poor Roshan. What a sweet and gentle child she is.’ The lock clicked back on the receiver. ‘Can I tell you something? You will not mind taking an old woman’s advice?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Dilnavaz.

  ‘Listen. I heard you talking about the doctor. What I am saying is: go, get the medicine. But don’t forget there are causes of sickness for which doctor can do nothing.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Miss Kutpitia raised a hand with the index finger extended. ‘When a laughing-playing child like Roshan suddenly becomes sick, there can be other reasons. Such as evil eye. And doctor’s medicine is no prevention or cure for that. There are special ways.’

  Dilnavaz nodded.

  ‘Oh, you know about them?’ She shook her head, and Miss Kutpitia was irritated. ‘Then why are you nodding? Listen. Take your needle and thread, a nice strong thread with a big knot at the end. Select a yellow lime, and seven chillies. Chillies must be green, not turning red. Never red. String them all together with the needle. Lime goes at the bottom. Then hang the whole thing over your door, inside the house.’

  ‘What will it do?’

  ‘It is like a taveej, a protection. Each time Roshan walks under it, the evil eye becomes less and less powerful. Actually, once you hang it, everyone in your family will benefit.’

  Dilnavaz agreed to prepare the talisman immediately. ‘But you know, Sohrab is still refusing to come back home.’

  ‘Naturally. You want a miracle or what? You want Seem-Salamay Foofoo and Abracadabra? Then go to a magician.’ But her annoyance passed easily, and she reassured Dilnavaz. ‘Patience. These things take time. Tehmul comes for the juice?’ She thought for a moment. ‘There is one more thing you can do, if you like, to make it a little faster. You will need Tehmul’s nails.’ She explained the full procedure. ‘But after this, there is only one remedy left. And it’s too dangerous, Tehmul could completely lose his mind, become a madhouse case. It is so terrible, I am not even going to tell you about it. Just do what I have said.’

  ‘Thank you. So much of your time I’ve taken.’

  ‘What have I to do anyway? Sit and wait till the One Up There calls me.’

  ‘Don’t say that, you have many years left with us.’

  ‘Such a curse you are putting on me? What will I do with many years? I wish them for you and your children instead.’ It was difficult to get the last word on the subject of death and dying with Miss Kutpitia, as on any other subject. Dilnavaz tried again, unsuccessfully, to give her thirty paise, then returned home.

  A smile like a sunburst shone briefly on Roshan’s drawn face when she heard that Daddy would be home early to take her to Dr Paymaster. ‘Early? Then I’ll sleep now,’ she said, and closed her eyes. Dilnavaz stroked her hair, remembering that when the boys were little, they waited just as anxiously for their Daddy to return from the office. How Sohrab and Darius used to race to the door to open it for him. Now they are grown, and things are so different.

  iv

  Gustad’s early arrival coincided with Dimple’s walk, and he came face to face with Mr Rabadi. The Pomeranian yapped and darted at his ankles, fetching up short thanks to the leash, but Gustad burst out, ‘If you must keep an animal, at least train your bloody bitch!’

  It provided Mr Rabadi with the opening he had been waiting for. Recently, Dustoorji Baria had given him two new sets of prayers: one for Dimple’s health; the other to weave protective vibrations around his sweet child Jasmine, safeguarding her from the savage lusts of wild boys like that son of Noble. The prayers made Mr Rabadi feel invincible. ‘You are talking of training an animal? First teach manners and discipline to your own son! Walking away with somebody else’s newspapers!’

  ‘Go, go! Ask your daughter about it! And take your bitch with you, before I lose my temper!’ Gustad went inside, leaving him to mutter among the bushes.

  ‘Is Roshan ready?’ asked Gustad, his rage straining his determination to keep his voice down.

  ‘Almost.’ Dilnavaz wondered what the matter was.

  ‘Good. I will be back in two minutes.’ He went to the WC chawl and picked up The Times of India and Jam-E-Jamshed stacks, one under each arm. He asked Dilnavaz to open the door. ‘That dogwalla idiot is saying my son stole his papers, so I’ll give him papers!’

  She blocked his way. ‘Calm down a little. That man is a crackpot, why are you being like him?’

  ‘I am telling you, open the door and move aside!’

  ‘But how will we pay next month’s bill without these?’

  ‘That’s OK, we will stop the papers! Every morning brings nothing but bad news, anyway.’

  She gave up and let him pass. His teeth were clenched tight. The weight under his arms hampered him, making him limp more than usual. Tehmul hurried over to help. ‘GustadGustad. Pleaseplease-please. I willcarrythankyoupleaseverymuch.’

  ‘Shut up and get lost!’ he said without looking at him.

  Tehmul froze. Not till Gustad entered the building at the other end did he dare move. Blubbering and sniffing, he went to stand at a safe distance from the neem tree.

  Gustad climbed the two floors to Mr Rabadi’s flat and dumped the papers outside. Inside, Dimple yipped and yapped a few times, but no one came to the door.

  v

  The needle refused to pass through the lime. Dilnavaz pushed, and it snapped in two. From th
e china hen where her sewing things were kept, she selected a longer, fatter needle. It entered smoothly; the lime slid along the thread and stopped at the knot. Threading the chillies was much easier; the needle met no resistance.

  She climbed on a chair to examine the ventilator over the front door. The blackout paper had come undone at one corner. She lifted it and tied the thread to one of the horizontal bars behind. The paper fell back over it.

  No need to rush, Gustad and Roshan would be gone for an hour or more. Now for the lime juice. The last time Sohrab came to visit, she had circled his head with several limes at once, to have a ready supply. But only three remained. Please God, make Sohrab come soon. His visits becoming less and less frequent. And he promised me, once a week, he said. A wonder he even lets me do the lime, the way he says no to everything else.

  She went to the window for Tehmul. He was still standing near the tree. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘juice is ready.’ In the kitchen he held out his hand for the glass. ‘What big nails. Don’t you cut them every week?’ He shook his head bashfully.

  ‘Come, I will do it for you.’ She picked up the nail scissors. He shook his head again and put his hands behind his back. ‘Come on, come on,’ she coaxed, ‘not nice to have such big nails. All dirty collects inside.’ He would not budge. ‘Then, no juice today. First nails, if you want the juice.’

  Gazing longingly at the glass, he put out his fingers. She grasped them before he could change his mind. His hand was sticky. The edges of the nails were rough, jagged where he had bitten them, and underneath was greenish black stuff. Overcoming her revulsion, she began, collecting the clippings in a little plastic dish.

  Once, she glanced at his face and saw him smile. Not his usual grin, but more innocent, a child’s smile. What was he thinking? Perhaps a memory of his long-dead mother, kindled by the nail scissors? Something left over inside his damaged head, from his happy childhood years before the fall?