Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  ‘I want you to be able to enjoy your cup of tea first. It may be the last thing you will ever enjoy.’

  Dinshawji laughed, a poor copy of his usual incorrigible laugh. ‘What suspense you are creating, yaar. Taking tuitions from Alfred Hitchcock or what?’

  They walked past the great circle, past the traffic of vehicles and humans. Like a vast river that had reversed its direction, the current was speeding northward – northward, the flow of tired humanity, from banks, insurance companies, shoe shops, textile shops, accounting firms, manufacturing offices, opticians, advertising agencies – northward, the weary flow, by crush of bus, by squeeze of train, by rattle of bicycle, by ache of feet – northward to suburbs and slums, to houses, hovels, apartments, tenements, one-room flats, corrugated-metal shacks, street corners, pavements, cardboard huts – flowing north till the current petered out, its waters still but not restful, lying in darkness, trying to scrounge enough strength to prepare for the morning tide southward, and the repetition of the endless cycle.

  They waited for their tea. ‘You know why I was not in the canteen for lunch?’ asked Gustad.

  ‘If you tell me I will know why.’

  ‘Because Laurie Coutino wanted to talk to me privately. So we came here. Upstairs, to a private room.’

  ‘Go, go! Really?’ Dinshawji grinned. ‘You lucky bugger.’

  ‘No, you are the lucky bugger. Because the whole time she talked about you.’

  ‘You are joking!’

  Gustad minced no words, wanting them to be as deadly as the goaswalla’s knife that went bhup! Dinshawji’s pale countenance lost its last trace of colour; his mouth fell open, fetid breath billowed across the table. ‘But there is more,’ said Gustad mercilessly. Dinshawji gazed blankly at his hands in his lap, too ashamed to look up, too dazed to speak. ‘Luckily, Laurie does not believe in your secret service and ten lakh rupees and guerrillas. She laughed when she told me. But if it reaches Madon’s ears? And he gets suspicious about our deposits? What are we going to do then, you bloody fool?’

  ‘What can I say, Gustad?’ said Dinshawji feebly. ‘You are absolutely right, I’m a bloody stupid idiot.’ He worried the handle of his teacup with his forefinger: ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘It’s in your hands. If you stop bothering her she won’t go to Madon. She told me.’

  ‘Of course I will stop. Whatever you think is best.’ He gulped from his cup. ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’

  Dinshawji took another swallow, choked, and had a coughing fit. ‘If I suddenly stop fooling with her, everybody will wonder what’s wrong. Don’t you think?’ He coughed some more. ‘Then they will start poking their noses to find out what happened. It won’t be good if they see you giving me a packet every day.’

  ‘I have thought about that, I have a plan. What you must do is stop your jokes and teasing with everyone. At the same time, I will start telling people that poor Dinshawji’s health is not good again, he is feeling completely under the weather.’

  ‘I would prefer to be feeling under Laurie’s skirt.’ The attempt at humour was frail, but it was a hard habit to break.

  ‘No more jokes, you agreed,’ said Gustad sternly.

  ‘Sorry, sorry yaar. Just with you, privately.’

  ‘OK. So I’ll spread the story tomorrow. All the fellows will be sympathetic, everything will be fine. Can you manage it?’

  ‘Of course. Let me tell you, it’s more difficult to be a jovial person all the time than to be a quiet, sickly one.’ The truth of Dinshawji’s words was sharp and cruel. They finished their tea silently and left.

  From the next morning, Dinshawji changed utterly. Everyone’s heart went out to the grave individual, suddenly fragile and spent, who greeted them with only a quiet hallo. When Gustad came across him later in the day, he was surprised at how authentically Dinshawji projected his new image. Till he remembered that it seemed authentic because Dinshawji was no longer playing a role; reality, at last, had caught up with him; and Gustad felt awful for confiscating his mask.

  iv

  The tap was re-soldered to the bunghole. Gustad walked home from the Horaji’s repair shop with the water drum upon his shoulder. Dilnavaz was waiting anxiously to tell him about the visitor who would call again at nine p.m. ‘He was asking for you,’ she said. ‘Would not tell me anything. Very strange fellow. Barefoot, and all paint on his hand, as if he was playing Holi with coloured powder. But Holi festival is seven months away. I hope that shameless Bilimoria has not sent him with more troubles for us.’

  Gustad could guess who it was. Later, he was able to reassure Dilnavaz, when the man returned as promised: ‘Don’t worry, I told him to come. To fix that stinking wall.’

  He went with the pavement artist into the compound. ‘So. You finally made up your mind to leave Flora Fountain?’

  ‘What to do,’ said the pavement artist. ‘After the trouble that day, police began harassment. Making me move from here to there, this corner to that corner. So I decided to come and see the place you were telling about.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gustad, ‘you will like it.’ They went outside the gate and the artist inspected the wall. He ran his hand over the surface, feeling with his fingertips. ‘Smooth black stone,’ said Gustad encouragingly, ‘perfect for your pictures. Wall is more than three hundred feet long. And lots of people pass by every day.’ He pointed to the twin towers next to Khodadad Building: ‘To go to those offices. Then there is a bazaar also over there, further down. With expensive jewellery shops. Lots of rich people travel this road. On that side, about twenty minutes away, there are two cinemas. Monday will be no problem, I can guarantee.’

  The pavement artist completed his inspection by taking a crayon from his satchel and sketching briefly. ‘Yes. Quite good.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But stinks very much.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. He had been wondering how long before the artist said something. ‘Shameless people treat the wall like a roadside lavatory. Look! There’s one now!’

  At the far end, a figure stood motionless in the shadows, silent except for a soft hiss. From his centre flowed a liquid arc glinting by the light of the street lamp. ‘Hai!’ shouted Gustad. ‘Bay-sharam budmaas! I’ll break your huddi, you rascal!’ The arc terminated abruptly. The man’s hand shook twice and performed a deft movement in his trousers before he slipped away.

  ‘You saw?’ said Gustad. ‘Shameless. That’s the reason for the stink. But once you draw your holy pictures, no one will dare.’ He glimpsed hesitation on the other’s face and hastened to add, ‘First we will have the whole wall washed and cleaned.’

  The pavement artist thought for a bit, then agreed. ‘I can start tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good, good. But one question. Will you be able to draw enough to cover three hundred feet? I mean, do you know enough different gods to fill the whole wall?’

  The artist smiled. ‘There is no difficulty. I can cover three hundred miles if necessary. Using assorted religions and their gods, saints and prophets: Hindu, Sikh, Judaic, Christian, Muslim, Zoroastrian, Buddhist, Jainist. Actually, Hinduism alone can provide enough. But I always like to mix them up, include a variety in my drawings. Makes me feel I am doing something to promote tolerance and understanding in the world.’

  Gustad was impressed. ‘How do you know about so many religions?’

  The artist smiled again. ‘I have a BA in World Religions. My speciality was Comparative Studies. Of course, that was before I transferred to the School of Arts.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gustad. They agreed to meet next morning, very early, when the street-sweeper arrived. Later that night, he said to Dilnavaz, ‘Tell that worthless son of yours who kicked IIT in the face. Tell him when he comes next time to visit you – that poor wandering pavement artist has two BAs.’

  At dawn, after the street-sweeper cleaned up the nocturnal deposits, Gustad convinced him with the help of a five-rupee note to wash down the wall. He got him a stiff wire brush
to scrub it well. The artist arrived with his satchel, a Petromax lamp, and a small roll of bedding. ‘The sun will come out now,’ said Gustad, ‘wall will soon be dry.’

  Three hours later, as he left for the bank, the artist was hard at work on his first drawing. He watched, trying to identify the subject, and finally interrupted, ‘Excuse me. Which one is that, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Trimurti. Of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, the gods of creation, preservation and destruction. If that is all right with you, sir? Or I can do something else.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s fine,’ said Gustad. He would have preferred a portrait of Zarathustra to inaugurate the wall, but realized that this triad would have a far-reaching influence in dissuading the urinators and defecators. When he returned in the evening, the artist had lit the Petromax. The Trimurti was complete, as well as a grim, sanguinary Crucifixion. A representation of the Jumma Masjid was in progress – since Islam prohibited portraits, he restricted himself to drawings of the famous mosques.

  ‘Hope it does not rain,’ said Gustad. He tested the air with a deep breath. ‘So far, no stink.’ The artist nodded without looking up from his work. ‘But you will have to be careful tonight. It’s the first night, people do not know yet that there are holy pictures here.’

  ‘That’s OK, I will warn them,’ said the artist. ‘I am going to work all night.’ He set down a green crayon which started to roll away down the pavement. Gustad stopped it, replaced it in the box. ‘Excuse me sir. Please, one request. Is it OK if I break a twig from your neem every morning? To brush my teeth?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gustad. ‘Everybody does that.’

  During the night, the artist completed two more pictures: Moses descending with the Ten Commandments, and Ganpati Baba. As the sun was rising he added some flourishes to the latter’s flesh-coloured proboscis, then took up his white crayon to write in the commandments on Moses’s stone tablets.

  Over the next few days, the wall filled up with gods, prophets and saints. When Gustad checked the air each morning and evening, he found it free of malodour. Mosquitoes and flies were no longer quite the nuisance they used to be; with their breeding grounds drying up, the numbers diminished dramatically. And in Khodadad Building, Odomos became a thing of the past. Dilnavaz and Gustad put away the flat dishes, khumchaas, tapaylis from under the light bulbs; there was no further use for those mosquito traps either.

  The holy countenances on the wall – some grim and vengeful, some jovial, some compassionate, others frightful and awe-inspiring, yet others kind and avuncular – watched over the road, the traffic, the passers-by, day and night. Nataraja did his cosmic dance, Abraham lifted his ax high above Isaac, Mary cradled the Infant Jesus, Laxmi dispensed wealth, Saraswati spread wisdom and learning.

  But the artist began to have misgivings as the wall underwent its transformation. Bigger than any pavement project he had ever undertaken, it made him restless. Over the years, a precise cycle had entered the rhythm of his life, the cycle of arrival, creation and obliteration. Like sleeping, waking and stretching, or eating, digesting and excreting, the cycle sang in harmony with the blood in his veins and the breath in his lungs. He learned to disdain the overlong sojourn and the procrastinated departure, for they were the progenitors of complacent routine, to be shunned at all costs. The journey – chanced, unplanned, solitary – was the thing to relish.

  Now, however, his old way of life was being threatened. The agreeable neighbourhood and the solidity of the long, black wall were reawakening in him the usual sources of human sorrow: a yearning for permanence, for roots, for something he could call his own, something immutable. Torn between staying and leaving, he worked on, ill at ease, confused and discontented. Swami Dayananda, Swami Vivekananda, Our Lady of Fatima, Zarathustra, and numerous others assumed their places on the wall, places preordained by the pavement artist; together, they awaited the uncertain future.

  THIRTEEN

  i

  The air-raid siren poured its howls into the bank through the open window. To Gustad’s ears, the rising and falling wail heralded better days, dismissing the chilling ululation of impending disaster it had been so far. At dawn, he had offered up special thanks. The halfway mark was crossed, today the fifty-first bundle would be deposited. Dada Ormuzd, my gratitude. For keeping trouble away. And for Roshan, so much better, some colour back in her cheeks at last.

  The morning flew by. He met Dinshawji, passed him the bundle. ‘What’s the news, Dinshu? What about the Pakistanis?’

  Dinshawji turned both hands palms up. ‘Who knows? I have not yet seen the paper.’ He stood, and Gustad glanced at his stomach. There it was, what he had been noticing for the past few days: a swelling, as though something was growing in there. He turned away before he was caught looking.

  Dinshawji dragged himself painfully to the bathroom. Though he had renounced his clowning, people continued to expect one of his innumerable jokes when they exchanged morning greetings with him or asked how he was. They held themselves in readiness for laughter, but now there was one stock answer for everyone: ‘Thussook-thussook, my cart rumbles along.’ The first few times, people assumed that since it came from Dinshawji, it must be funny, perhaps some kind of subtle deadpan humour. Stubborn perceptions of the jovial man and his quick tongue persisted in their minds. So they chuckled or smiled broadly and slapped his shoulder.

  But when he repeated the response morning after morning: ‘Thussook-thussook, my cart is rumbling along,’ they had to give in to the reality demanding acknowledgement. Now they wanted to hold his hand and comfort him, but all they said, morning after morning, was: ‘How are you, Dinshawji?’ and he answered with the words which let them share his pain.

  Gustad had suspected the truth about Dinshawji’s illness ever since Roshan’s birthday. But when it became known to everyone in the bank, the truth seemed to multiply in intensity, following some perverse undiscovered law of physics, whereby the burden grew directly in proportion to the number of people carrying it. He prayed for Dinshawji every morning. That he was responsible for forcing him to abandon his comic ways gnawed at his conscience. After all, if Roshan could feel better because of her doll, perhaps Dinshawji got worse because he had to give up his games. But besides guilt, there was also shame – his prayers had a selfish motive: should Dinshawji stop coming to work, it would interrupt the deposits, delay the riddance of the package in the choolavati.

  In the evening the pavement artist, his unease and restlessness having disappeared, was happily whistling ‘You Are My Sunshine’. He greeted Gustad and said that today, a small bunch of flowers had been left before the drawing of Saraswati. ‘Must be someone sitting for an exam.’

  ‘That means respect for the wall is increasing, thanks to your beautiful pictures,’ said Gustad. The artist smiled modestly, bowing his head, and said that in the last few days, passers-by had left enough money to pay for a new set of clothes and a pair of shoes. He planned to go shopping soon. Gustad inspected the latest deities and entered the gate, whistling the tune that had been on the artist’s lips. He saw Dilnavaz on the steps outside, hushing and scolding the children, urging them to go to the far end of the compound and play without making any noise. The whistle ceased, his mouth went dry. He walked faster.

  ‘It’s started again,’ she said. ‘Very loose motions, seems worse than before.’

  He dropped his briefcase on the desk. The fledgling bits of hope he had been nurturing all day took wing. Like the sparrows that chirped in the compound’s solitary tree, but flew away if the Land-master backfired, Gustad’s hope circled once over his head and departed. If it were possible to, he would have leaped up to hold on to it. ‘Is she asleep?’

  ‘No. Stupid children outside, making so much noise.’

  He went to Roshan’s bedside and leaned over the slatted door to kiss her forehead. The doll lay beside her, arrayed in the bridal finery that seemed so funereal now. It sent a shiver down his spine. He raised its head to make the ey
es open, and left it leaning against the headboard. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now the doll can look after you when you sleep. If she sleeps all day, she’ll become lazy and fat, like the dogwalla idiot’s daughter.’

  He squeezed her hand and returned to the dining-room. ‘I’m going to the doctor, Roshan doesn’t need to come. And he better refer us to a specialist.’ Dilnavaz suggested a cup of tea before leaving. He untied his shoelaces and rested his feet on the teapoy. ‘At least this proves it could not have been bad water,’ he said. ‘You have boiled it every day.’

  ‘Who knows? Once an infection, virus, gets in the body –’

  ‘You still want to blame me? Fine!’ He retied his laces and dramatically poured the tea down the drain.

  She regretted her words. For him to leave now, without anything having passed his lips after mention of tea, was extremely unpropitious. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘you hate me and you hate my tea. But at least drink a little water before going.’

  ‘Drink it yourself.’ He knew of her superstition, and was determined to make her suffer.

  ii

  Dilnavaz debated whether to consult Miss Kutpitia while he was gone. The partial recovery, followed by this worsening, was most mystifying.

  But then the doorbell rang. It took her a moment to recognize Dinshawji. She was surprised how much he had changed since Roshan’s birthday. All the same, she was not prepared to tolerate any of his silly jokes or rubbish, and made her greeting as stiff as possible: ‘Sahibji’. But there was nothing to fear. The man who had laughed and sung that night, drunk beer and recited rhymes, and done numerous small things to annoy her, was not the man who stood before her with a newspaper under his arm and a bulky envelope in his hand.

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you,’ said Dinshawji, very soft. As soft, she thought, as the muted midnight clucking of the chicken Gustad had brought home. ‘Could I speak to Gustad please? It’s very important.’ His voice shook, and his rheumy eyes wandered nervously as he fidgeted, moving the newspaper from one armpit to the other.