Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  ‘Yes, but I am wondering what to do now,’ said Dinshawji.

  ‘We took such a risk. For his stolen ten lakh rupees. For a bloody crook, thinking we were doing something good!’

  ‘Yes, yes, Gustad,’ said Dinshawji calmly. ‘But we cannot change that now. Fait accompli. Jay thayu tay thayu. Now we have to think about what to do with the money.’

  ‘Dinshawji is right,’ said Dilnavaz, surprised to hear him speak so sensibly.

  ‘I’d like to burn it all. The way that dogwalla idiot burned the newspapers,’ said Gustad bitterly.

  ‘First of all, I think we should stop depositing it,’ persisted Dinshawji, still on the rational track.

  ‘But what about the money already in the bank?’

  ‘Just leave it the way it is. Maybe Ghulam Mohammed will contact you. Or you can contact him.’

  ‘But he could also be in jail,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘We don’t know how far he was involved in it. Maybe we should go to the police with everything.’

  Gustad remembered: ‘Ghulam Mohammed is not in jail. I’ll go to him tomorrow. Peerbhoy Paanwalla told me he saw him today, looking very upset and worried. No wonder. Yes, he is definitely involved in this. Too risky for us to go to the police. You know what kind of dangerous fellow he is.’

  ‘Is he?’ asked Dinshawji.

  ‘Of course,’ said Gustad, then remembered in time that Dinshawji knew nothing about the cat and bandicoot. ‘That is, I am assuming.’

  ‘I still cannot believe,’ said Dilnavaz, ‘our Jimmy would do something so crooked.’

  ‘People change,’ said Gustad. ‘In his confession it says money was for guerrillas. Then why did he send ten lakh to me? My right hand I will cut off and give you if this is not something crooked. What kind of guerrilla pipeline is that, from Delhi to Chor Bazaar to Khodadad Building?’

  ‘True,’ said Dinshawji. ‘But we don’t know the whole story. And I think the reporter is asking some good questions. Everyone says Indira and her son – the motorcar fellow – are involved in all kinds of crooked deals, that they have Swiss bank accounts and everything.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘And there has been talk of worse things. When Shastri died.’

  ‘I remember that,’ said Dinshawji. ‘It was the time I had my gall-bladder operation, almost six years ago. I was in bed when the news came on the radio.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘And before that, when her father was still alive, there was poor Feroze Gandhi. Nehru never liked him from the beginning.’

  ‘That was tragic,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Even today, people say Feroze’s heart attack was not really a heart attack.’

  Gustad got annoyed. ‘What does all this gossip and rumour have to do with the Major? He is the one who tricked me! If politicians are crooks and rascals, how does that change what Jimmy did?’

  Dinshawji saw it was time to leave. He shook hands with them both. ‘Sorry for bringing so much bad news.’ He plodded to the door.

  ‘On the contrary, thanks for coming. Without your newspaper we would never have known about it,’ said Gustad. After Dinshawji had gone, he sat on the sofa for a while, worrying the doll’s veil. ‘My bakulyoo didn’t take her doll to bed tonight.’ Then he went and stood by the window. ‘What kind of evil spell are we caught in, I wonder sometimes. How long is this punoti going to last?’

  Tehmul saw his figure framed in the light. ‘Gustad. Please-Gustadplease. Theywouldnotletmetouchnotoncenotonce. Please-pleaseplease. Onlyonceonly.’

  Gustad raised his arm and waved it vaguely. He drew the curtain, having no time or compassion to spare tonight. There was the sound of sniffling outside, and a sob; then the sound of footsteps: a light step first, then heavy and dragging, alternating till they faded.

  FOURTEEN

  i

  Nearing the crossroads, Gustad saw the cinema billboard lights blaze in the dusking sky. Synchronized bulbs flashed around gigantic cut-outs of hero and heroine, guardians of the city’s evening chaos; behind them loomed a bearded villain, nastily twisting his villainous lips.

  Outside the Aarey Colony milk booth, three boys in tattered vests and a little girl, in scavenged ankle-length blouse scrambled round the wire racks, examining the used bottles. The booth attendant bellowed to leave the bottles alone. Bad for business, he said, nuisances staring with big-big eyes as if they never saw milk in their lives.

  The children waited till he was absorbed in his work, then sneaked up again. The attendant heard the tinkling of bottles. He silently opened the door at the rear of the booth and leaped out as Gustad reached the corner.

  The three boys escaped. The little girl was caught by the sleeve of her blouse-frock. ‘Budtameez!’ said the man, and whacked her over the head. ‘Won’t listen when I tell you nicely!’ Whack, again. The child squealed and struggled. The boys watched helplessly. The man lifted his hand for the third blow, which never landed.

  Gustad grabbed his collar from behind and the shock made him lose his grip. The boys clapped, and the girl quickly ran to a safe distance. Gustad spun the man around. ‘You have no sharam, a big donkey beating a tiny girl?’

  ‘All day they make nuisance,’ he whined. ‘Harassing my customers, grabbing their bottles before they even put them down.’ Gustad released the man’s collar. The little girl watched gratefully from her place of safety. She wiped her runny nose on a sleeve. How thin she is. Even skinnier than Roshan. ‘People don’t like to stop where there are beggars,’ the attendant continued. ‘If I don’t sell my quota, this booth will shut down. Then what will I do?’

  ‘Give me one bottle,’ snapped Gustad, taking out his wallet.

  ‘What kind? Chocolate, mango, pista, plain?’

  Gustad beckoned to the little girl. ‘Come, baby. What milk you like?’ She made a shy movement with her head and shoulders. He insisted she choose.

  ‘Plain white,’ she said timidly. The attendant grudgingly placed a bottle before her and inserted the straw. After a few sips she called the boys, holding out the bottle towards them.

  ‘Wait wait, what is this?’ said Gustad. ‘Milk is for you.’

  ‘My brothers. They also like milk,’ she said shyly, looking down and tracing a design in the dust with her toe.

  ‘Oh,’ considered Gustad. ‘What kind they like?’

  ‘Chocolate!’

  ‘Chocolate!’

  ‘Chocolate!’ came the replies in quick succession, and then, in unison, ‘But any kind is OK.’

  ‘Three chocolate,’ he told the attendant. He waited while they drank, not willing to trust the fellow alone with them. When the straws gurgled emptily, he left. They tagged behind for a little distance, skipping along, pushing one another, bursting into film songs now and again, not quite certain how to show their gratitude. Eventually, they disappeared in the rush of movie-goers.

  Past the cinema junction, the crowds thinned. The Wheeler-Dealer Tyre Mart was taking in its display from the pavement. The car mechanics (All Makes-Local & Foren) collected their tools and spare parts from the curb and locked the cars. Near the House of Cages were the usual loiterers, come to gaze at the exotic birds in their skimpy, colourful plumage. The genuine customers entered and emerged without dilly-dallying.

  ‘Hallo, gentleman!’ said Peerbhoy. ‘Leg is fine today?’

  ‘Yes, yes, very fine,’ he replied, pre-empting offers of another paan. ‘Is Ghulam Mohammed coming today?’

  ‘Already he is inside.’

  ‘And I can go in? They won’t mind?’

  ‘The women? Arré, they like it if a man comes. Ghulambhai is on top floor, exactly opposite the staircase.’

  A radio or record-player somewhere was playing an old film song: ‘Dil deke dekho, dil deke dekko, dil deke dekhoji …’ Try giving your heart away, give your heart away and see, exhorted the singer. Gustad entered the place hesitantly. Down the passage, into the cheap perfume smells and nauseating attar mingled with body odours. The women waiting for customers. Bosoms thrus
ting. One dropped a hand to the hem of her skirt and raised it so the thigh was exposed. Gustad glanced quickly: hairy. He climbed the stairs. At the next landing, the exhibition repeated. Cleavages and navels framed in doorways. One in shorts (Hot Pants, said the print on the back), turned sideways, showing squeezed-out half-moons. He looked without staring, hoping his face showed a blank disinterest. Have to be desperate to … that one needing a good shave. Elongated baatli mangoes. Wheeler-Dealer tyres. This place looking better from outside than in. But they say at Colaba, beautiful high-class whores. Colaba call-girls, making lots of money with Middle East tourists, Arbaas, fond of AC-DC, both ways …

  The rooms he could peek into were sordid. Bed, thin lumpy mattress, no sheet, ceiling fan, chair, table. In one corner, a basin and small mirror. Where were the scented silk sheets, the air-conditioned rooms, drinks, refreshments? The luxuries that they talked of in their stories of this place? Where were the dancing-girls, the skilled practitioners of the art said to possess secrets that could drive a man insane with pleasure? The way these women moved and displayed themselves, there was as much chance of going insane with pleasure as recovering from heart surgery performed by a beef-carving Crawford Market goaswalla. He climbed the third and final floor. It’s always the same. Always, things look wonderful from afar. When the moment arrives, only disappointment.

  The music ended, then the same song started again. ‘Dil deke dekho, dil deke dekho, dil deke dekhoji’ … must be someone’s favourite record. He knocked on the door opposite the stairs. It opened a crack. He did not recognize the man with a full beard who peered out. Then the man spoke and let the door open wide: ‘Mr Noble. Please come in.’ The voice was familiar. In the months since Chor Bazaar, Ghulam Mohammed had lost his bandage and gained a beard.

  Gustad entered cautiously. The room was like the others he had glimpsed, down to the wash-basin, but instead of a bed there was a desk. Framed pictures of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru hung on the wall behind the desk.

  ‘Please have a seat. I was expecting you. Thanks for coming so promptly.’ Polite and courteous as ever, thought Gustad. As though nothing had happened. ‘You read it in the newspaper?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Gustad.

  ‘You must be wondering what’s going on.’ He swivelled from side to side in his chair, then became very still. ‘It’s true. Our dear friend is really in jail. But the rest is lies. Dirty lies. You know everything that appears in newspapers is not the truth.’

  Salt and pepper, ginger and garlic, came to Gustad’s mind, what he used to tell Sohrab about propaganda and falsehoods. ‘I know how to read a newspaper,’ he said. ‘But you tell me the truth. Why Jimmy sent ten lakh to me for deposit. You say what the truth is.’ He felt his anger rising, though he knew this man had to be dealt with cautiously. ‘And tell me also about the cat and the huge rat thrown in my bush. With the heads chopped off.’

  He watched him closely, but Ghulam betrayed no trace of emotion. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr Noble. In RAW, we have no time for playing with cats and rats. But I can tell you this. Bili Boy has enemies. This whole story was cooked up by people at the very top to cover their wrongdoings.’ He leaned closer. ‘I’m glad you asked about the money. Sadly, I am not in a position to answer your questions. Bili Boy will tell you himself, at the proper time. You have to trust him.’

  ‘I think I have trusted him too much already.’

  ‘Now, Mr Noble. No sense being upset with your friend when he needs you most.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His life is in danger,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘He is –’

  Screams and shouts drowned the Dil deke dekho record. Ghulam jumped up from his chair and checked the back alley outside his window, then opened the door to listen. The women were yelling abuse at someone – a male, judging by the derision and taunts concerning his manhood which flew thick and fast. The two men went to the landing. The attar-clouded air of the brothel filled with the women’s colourfully obscene speech.

  Then, through all of that, penetrated an unmistakable high-speed utterance: ‘Pleasepleaseonceonly. Onceonlyonce. Fastfastrubbing-pleaseonceonly. Pleasetakemoneypleaseplease. Letmetouchletme-pressonceonly.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ said Gustad.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That voice! It’s Tehmul-Lungraa, lives in my building. Poor lame fellow with a half-cracked head.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  He seems relieved, thought Gustad. ‘Completely sure. What is he doing here, but?’

  ‘Same thing that other men do, I think.’

  ‘Cannot be, he’s like a child. Sounds like he’s in trouble.’

  The row was proceeding on the ground floor. Hydraulic Hema, favourite of the mechanics, with lips like blood and eyes black as coal, was savagely shaking Tehmul by the ear. Women surrounded him, taking turns to clip him on the head, pinch, pull his hair. They were enjoying the sport, staying out of his reach as he continued to make a grab at a breast or tried to reach inside a skirt. ‘Pleaseletmetouch. Pleasepleaseonceonlyletmetouchplease. Take-moneyplease.’ He held out a round cigarette tin that jingle-jangled, but there were no takers.

  ‘Tehmul!’ shouted Gustad. ‘Stop it!’

  Tehmul dropped his hungry hands. He looked around, trying to locate his beloved Gustad, and found him, halfway up the stairs. ‘GustadGustadGustad.’ He waved the cigarette tin, with the blood-lipped amazon still clutching his ear. A well-placed blow dislodged the tin. It burst open on the floor and scattered the coins. Most of them twenty-five paisa pieces. The women fell silent.

  ‘What is all this shouting and screaming like a madhouse?’ demanded Ghulam Mohammed. ‘This is a respectable establishment, not some third class rundi-khana.’

  The women protested, all speaking at once: ‘It’s not our fault, this fellow-!’

  ‘He keeps wanting to touch and -!’

  ‘There is no law that we have to lift our skirts for anyone who can pay!’

  ‘They say madmen have very big ones, built like horses! We don’t want to get hurt!’

  Hydraulic Hema held on to Tehmul’s ear while her sisters poured out their grievances. ‘Enough!’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘I have heard enough! Let go of his ear!’

  ‘Arré, he’ll start grabbing again, he’s a complete gone-case!’ she said, her voice like sandpaper.

  ‘No, he won’t.’ Ghulam Mohammed looked at Gustad. The women moved away as Tehmul was released. He stood motionless, contrite.

  ‘What is all this, Tehmul?’ said Gustad reproachfully. ‘What have you done here?’

  ‘GustadGustadverysorryGustadpleaseGustad.’ He stooped to pick up his empty cigarette tin. ‘Somuchmoneyallgonegonegone. Moneyforrubbingfastfastfastfast. Nicenicefeelingallgone.’ He looked forlornly inside the tin.

  ‘Where did money come from, Tehmul?’

  ‘Ratratratdeadratmunicipalrat.’

  Of course. ‘He is OK now,’ he told Ghulam. ‘I’ll take him home with me.’ Tehmul began to gather his coins.

  ‘Chulo, everybody back to your rooms,’ ordered Ghulam, ‘tam-aasha is finished.’ The women dispersed, save a couple who stayed to help Tehmul refill his tin. Tehmul slipped his hand in Gustad’s as they walked outside to Peerbhoy Paanwalla. The latter had already gathered what the commotion was about. He agreed to watch Tehmul till Gustad finished his business.

  *

  ‘I was telling you that Bili Boy’s life is in danger.’

  ‘First you say he is in prison, then you say his life is in danger.’ What does he take me for.

  ‘I know you are upset, Mr Noble,’ said Ghulam patiently. ‘But please try to understand. People at the very top are involved. They can do whatever they like with Bili Boy. In this country, laws don’t apply to the ones at the top, you know that.’

  ‘So what can I do?’

  ‘First of all, the money must be sent back.’

  ‘Sure. But I have already deposited half. You can h
ave the remaining fifty bundles any time.’

  ‘All of it, Mr Noble. Withdraw the rest if you have deposited it.’ The voice was sharper now.

  ‘Do you know how difficult it is to deposit and withdraw these big amounts? How dangerous? The law is being broken.’

  ‘Better than bones being broken, Mr Noble.’ Whose bones does he mean? Unemotional, the bastard’s voice. ‘Do you know how dangerous it is for Bili Boy? They are using their usual methods to make him say where the money is. The only reason he has not confessed is that he wants no trouble for his friends.’

  What part of this to believe? How to trust him or Jimmy? ‘Now Bili Boy has made a deal with them,’ Ghulam continued. ‘If the money is returned in thirty days, they will ask no more questions.’

  For all I know, this bastard could take the money and disappear. But if Jimmy is really being tortured? ‘Thirty days is impossible. I can only withdraw one bundle a day.’

  ‘Withdraw two, Mr Noble.’ A smile appeared suddenly on his face. ‘Or I will have to come and rob your bank.’ Disappeared just as suddenly. Poison again, in his voice. ‘I will do whatever is necessary to help Bili Boy. You have thirty days to return the full package.’

  Gustad tried to protest again, but the man was hard as steel. ‘If the money is not delivered on time, things will go badly for all of us, Mr Noble.’ Bloody bastard. With one hand I could flatten him. He knows I dare not.

  They fixed the delivery date. ‘But if you are ready earlier,’ said Ghulam, ‘please come. I will be here every evening.’ He led him to the door. ‘So you were saying someone threw a dead cat and rat in your bushes?’

  ‘Yes.’ With one hand. Just one blow.

  ‘Hope you catch him, whoever he is.’

  On the way downstairs most of the doors were shut. Brisk business. The record-player was spinning another song, about undying love, constant for over a hundred years, for eternity … ‘Sau saal pahalay, mujay tumsay pyar tha, mujay tumsay pyar tha, aajbhi hai, aur kalbhi rahayga …’ the melody warm and syrupy, dripping nostalgia. And no way out for me. Have to withdraw. Involve poor Dinshawji also in the risk.