Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  Outside, Peerbhoy told him Tehmul had left. ‘Don’t worry, he is all right. Poor fellow tried to explain what happened. But speaks very fast. I gave him a paan to reduce his juice production.’

  ii

  Miss Kutpitia could offer no explanation about Roshan’s relapse without examining the lime and chillies. So Dilnavaz went back with those neutralizers of evil eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘Yes, just as I thought. Look at this. You know what usually happens to a yellow lime?’

  ‘It turns brown, becomes soft and smells sour.’

  ‘And see this one,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Hard as a rock and black as the devil! And no smell at all.’

  Dilnavaz felt a cold draught slink through the passage. Then Miss Kutpitia pointed out how peculiarly the chillies were also behaving, all still green as Satan’s emeralds instead of turning red. She kept passing them between her fingers like beads on a rosary. ‘Shows us how much damage the evil eye can do. The poor child has received the full force of it.’ She sniffed the chillies. ‘Fortunately, it is not difficult to be rid of. The seven will do it.’

  ‘But why did Roshan first improve, then get worse?’

  ‘Will you wait? I am coming to that. Listen. Inside the child, two forces are attacking: evil eye, which is unintentional; and something else, something dark, something deliberately inflicted. Now, when the evil eye is crushed, the child recovers. Then the dark force arises, and the child is sick again.’ She picked up the lime. ‘This,’ she said. ‘This black stone reveals the dark force.’

  Dilnavaz wrung her hands. ‘So medicine is of no use?’

  ‘Some use. Will keep her from getting worse. But won’t cure. We have to find the one responsible for the dark force.’

  ‘O God! That will be impossible!’

  ‘Not with alum.’ A rare smile, of quiet confidence, strayed across Miss Kutpitia’s lips. ‘Wait.’ She went to her kitchen and returned with two chunks the size of pigeon eggs. ‘Take these. And Roshan must be present when you do what I will tell you, or it’s no use.’ She detailed the procedure, then returned the chillies and lime. ‘From now on, learn to be more cautious. And teach your children also. Teach them to fear the nights of the full moon; and with Kalichovdas approaching, keep them indoors after sunset. Tell them not to step on, or over, strange objects placed in the road. Beware of anything that looks like a little packet of flowers, or broken eggs or shattered coconuts. Those things come from black-magical kaarestaan, believe me.’

  Dilnavaz nodded, trying to memorize her instructions. ‘But what about Sohrab? When will he return to me?’

  ‘Patience.’

  ‘Is there nothing more I can do?’

  Her persistence vexed Miss Kutpitia; then, as a matter of compromise, she said, ‘Do Tehmul’s nails again. Add a lock of his hair this time. On the day after the new moon. His channels will be open widest that day.’ Wagging her bony forefinger, she admonished her again: ‘But you must be patient.’

  Dilnavaz ventured timidly, ‘You had said there was a final remedy we could try if everything failed –’

  Miss Kutpitia cut her off sharply. ‘I have told you not to think of that. Put it out of your mind. At once.’

  ‘Whatever you wish. You know best, that’s why I come to you.’ She thanked her humbly and left.

  iii

  Dinshawji’s advice to Gustad was to comply with everything Ghulam Mohammed said. ‘Don’t defy him. Just do it quietly, then we can forget about the bastard.’

  ‘But we’ll have to withdraw two bundles a day. That’s the only way we’ll finish in thirty days.’

  ‘Don’t worry, leave that to me.’ Dinshawji went about the task quietly, confidently. Each evening he passed two bundles to Gustad, who took them home and stuffed them back into the hateful black plastic under the choolavati.

  The bank was abuzz with the remarkable case in New Delhi. It was not very often that a Parsi made the newspapers for a crime. The last sensation had been more than a decade ago, when a naval commander had shot and killed his wife’s lover. In the canteen, they debated Major Bilimoria’s dubious confession, and the plethora of startling facts that the investigation was uncovering. Most of them refused to believe he could have imitated the Prime Minister’s voice, there was something very fishy about the whole thing, they said.

  Dinshawji and Gustad took part in these discussions, trying to show a normal interest. Dinshawji handled it so well, thought Gustad, filling with admiration for the cool courage and good sense. Here was no clown or buffoon, but a solid, dependable friend. How badly I misjudged him. And how will I ever repay him for all his help?

  Before long, the thirty-day deadline reached the halfway mark. Gustad emerged to pray at dawn and found the rose plant, the vinca, and the subjo bush hacked to the ground. Every stem, every branch had been slashed off, chopped into little pieces.

  No point in calling the Gurkha, he thought. Why make a fuss? But Jimmy loved the vinca, sometimes he would come to water the flowers in the morning.

  He stood there for a minute or two, then fetched the rubbish pail and quietly gathered up Ghulam Mohammed’s bloodless reminder.

  *

  Dinshawji stepped up the pace to withdraw three bundles a day, and Gustad wished he had not mentioned Ghulam’s threats. But the least he owed Dinshawji now was complete honesty. ‘Isn’t that dangerous, Dinshu? Thirty thousand will be highly noticeable on the ledger, don’t rush it.’ Dinshawji said there was nothing to worry about, he knew what he was doing. So the account was emptied five days ahead of the deadline.

  That evening, Gustad shook his hand fervently. ‘Thank you, Dinshu, thank you. I don’t know how to thank you enough, so much you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Forget it, yaar,’ he smiled. ‘It’s nothing.’

  But it was only the next day, after Dinshawji had expunged all traces of the fictitious account, that Gustad learned the truth. Dinshawji collapsed just before lunch, and was rushed to Parsi General. Mr Madon sent a messenger to Dinshawji’s wife, and granted Gustad’s request to ride in the ambulance.

  As it sped through the streets, its siren wailing, Dinshawji regained consciousness. ‘It’s OK, Dinshu, everything will be all right,’ said Gustad. ‘Your wife has been informed, she will come to the hospital.’

  ‘My domestic vulture,’ said Dinshawji, smiling weakly. ‘God bless her, she will come flying.’ The ambulance weaved in and out of traffic, at times grinding to a halt, making Gustad curse and fret. He gazed upon Dinshawji’s face and noticed how the dewlaps under his chin had, in repose, collapsed into little rolls of skin along the throat.

  Dinshawji opened his eyes again. ‘Now you know, Gustad, why such a big rush. I could feel that not many days were left. So I began to take out three, to finish the job. Before it was too late.’ Gustad took his hand in both of his. The thing in his throat made it impossible to speak. The hand felt cold, and very smooth.

  Dinshawji’s wife was not there when the ambulance reached Parsi General. ‘Traffic is bad,’ said Gustad reassuringly. ‘Alamai must be caught in the jam.’ He stayed with him while a bed was found in the male ward and the formalities were completed. It was the same ward where Dinshawji had spent time six months ago.

  Dinshawji urged him to get back to the bank. ‘Or else that Madon will start marching up and down, asking why Mr Noble is taking so long to come back.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Madon. I am going to stay here till the doctor sees you.’

  ‘Not necessary, yaar. This place is like a vacation home for me.’ His eyes twinkled the way they used to before Laurie Coutino’s complaint. ‘All the comforts and conveniences I can imagine.’ Then he sang softly, out of tune:

  O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam,

  Where they all have big beautiful tits;

  But where seldom is heard an encouraging word,

  And the patient is treated like shit.

  Gustad laughed. ‘Shh! If they hear you, they wi
ll give you a tough time. These people don’t know how to appreciate a Poet Laureate. You know their favourite way to harass patients?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you ask for the bedpan, they make you wait and wait till you think you cannot hold it any more.’

  Dinshawji chortled, holding his stomach where it hurt. ‘Arré, let them try that with me. I will just let go, dhuma-dhum, dhuma-dhum. Right in the middle of the bed. And make the whole hospital stink. More work for them only.’ They laughed again. Then Gustad shook his hand and left. At the registration desk, he made the clerk note Miss Kutpitia’s telephone number next to Alamai’s, just in case.

  He did not return immediately to the bank. Outside, in the hospital grounds, the sun was shining on the lawns. He found a bench along a path between flowerbeds. A butterfly flitted among the flowers. He saw its brilliant orange and black patterns before it floated away. Sohrab had one like that in his collection. Monarch, he said its name was. I can remember perfectly. After the rain, at Hanging Gardens. Everything was in bloom. Sohrab all excited the night before, making plans. And so shy in the garden, with his sudra-and-racquet net. But he caught five that day. Monarch was first. He removed it from the killing-tin with his tweezers, its antennae crippled, thorax contorted. A cloud had passed over Sohrab’s face when he saw that twisted butterfly, and Gustad knew his son would not pursue the hobby for long.

  How much of all this does Sohrab remember, he wondered. Very little, I think. For now. But one day he will remember every bit. As I do, about my father. Always begins after the loss is complete, the remembering.

  The butterfly returned, gliding on a slow breeze. He watched till it became a speck and disappeared from sight.

  iv

  When the lumps of alum fell on the hot coals, they fused into a single blob. The blob bubbled and frothed, making a hissing, gurgling sound as it perched viscously atop the coals. Roshan watched with interest till the coals lost their red heat and the seething activity ended.

  ‘Now back to bed,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You will feel better after these prayers.’ She observed curiously, fearfully, the smooth, white contours the alum had assumed. How wickedly it sits on the coals. This evil thing. It separated easily from the embers, light and brittle. Like a fresh khaari biscuit, she thought, concealing it in a paper bag – the clue to the dark force harming her child.

  Miss Kutpitia was delighted with the results. ‘Good, very good,’ she said. ‘What a nice, complete shape. Often it crumbles, and then it’s difficult to read. But you have done it so well.’ She placed the indeterminate mass on the telephone table and inspected it. ‘Come, you also look,’ she said. ‘But look at it without seeing it. That way it will take on different meanings. Look with the eyes you use when you dream.’

  Dilnavaz tried, unsure of the instructions. ‘Reminds me of the Sister who brought Roshan home when she was sick.’

  ‘What?’ said Miss Kutpitia disbelievingly.

  ‘See, looks like the long white jhabbho the nuns wear.’

  ‘But would they want to hurt Roshan? They are good and godly people.’ She explained again. ‘Listen. If you use only your eyes, you will only see the things of this world. But we are dealing with forces from another world.’ They studied the alum again, silently, turning it this way and that.

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘Yes, definitely. Stand here,’ she said, pulling Dilnavaz over to the other side. ‘Now what do you see?’

  ‘A hat? No. A house? A house without windows?’

  Sorely disappointed with Dilnavaz’s hamstrung imagination, Miss Kutpitia dismissed the suggestions with the contempt they deserved, then guided her eyes with the benefit of her own expert vision. ‘Look, what is this? A tail. And this, this, this, and that? Four legs. And over there?’

  ‘Two upright ears!’ said Dilnavaz, excited, catching on at last, to her mentor’s relief. ‘And that, that’s a snout!’

  ‘Right!’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘What does it all add up to?’

  ‘A four-legged animal?’

  ‘Of course. A dog, I think.’

  ‘A dog? Sending out a dark and evil force?’

  ‘You are not remembering what I said before.’ Miss Kutpitia was impatient. ‘I said the alum shape will give us a clue. That does not mean it will show the culprit. Someone who owns a dog could be the one we are looking for.’

  Dilnavaz clutched her face with both hands. ‘O my God!’

  ‘Now what is it?’

  ‘Mr Rabadi! He has a white Pomeranian! He was – !’

  ‘Calm down. First of all, does he have a reason?’

  ‘Yes, yes! He and Gustad have been fighting all the time, since the time of the big dog. Tiger, who used to do his chhee-chhee in Gustad’s flowers. And now the small dog also barks at him. Then there was trouble with newspapers, and he thinks my Darius is after his daughter. Rabadi really hates us!’

  Miss Kutpitia picked up the crucial shape. ‘You know what you have to do next.’

  v

  A fragrance was in the air near the compound wall. ‘Where is it coming from?’ asked Gustad. The artist was fixing up his pictures. Some people had the annoying habit of touching the wall when they performed their obeisances. This had never bothered him in the past: during his years of wandering and drawing, he had learned that impermanence was the one significant certainty governing his work. Whenever the vicissitudes and vagaries of street life randomly dispossessed him of his crayoned creations, forcing him to repaint or move on, he was able to do so cheerfully. If short-panted, knobbly-kneed policemen did not stamp out his drawings with regulation black-sandalled feet, then eventually they became one with the rain and wind. And it was all the same to him.

  But of late, something had changed, and he became very protective of his work. ‘Hallo, sir. Not seen you for many days,’ he said, putting down the crayon. ‘Lots of new pictures are complete.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ Gustad sniffed the air again. ‘Such a nice smell.’

  ‘It’s coming from Laxmi,’ said the artist, and Gustad walked towards the goddess of wealth. Someone had stuck an agarbatti in a pavement crack next to the picture. The incense stick was down to the final inch, its vital end glowing a bright orange. Frail wisps of grey-white smoke rose gently, floated towards Laxmi’s face, then vanished in the evening air. Gustad enjoyed the delicate fragrance. As the agarbatti burnt itself out, a length of ash dangled momentarily before falling in a sprinkle around the stub.

  ‘The wall is getting more and more popular,’ said Gustad. ‘But what about money, you are getting enough?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the artist. ‘This is a very good location.’ He showed off his new clothes. ‘Terylene pant – latest fashion, bell-bottoms, with seven belt loops. And Tery-Cotton shirt, drip-dry.’ He tugged at the collar to display the label on the inside. But his feet were still bare. ‘I went to Carona, Bata, Regal Footwear. Tried lots of different-different styles. Shoes, sandals, chappals, but they all pinch and hurt. Barefoot is the best.’ Then he led Gustad to his most recent artwork: Gautama Buddha in Lotus Position under the Bodhi Tree; Christ with Disciples at the Last Supper; Karttikeya, God of Valour; Haji Ali Dargah, the beautiful mosque in the sea; Church of Mount Mary; Daniel in the Lions’ Den; Sai Baba; Manasa, the Serpent-Goddess; Saint Francis Talking to the Birds; Krishna with Flute and Radha Holding Flowers; the Ascension; and finally, Dustoor Kookadaru and Dustoor Meherji Rana.

  The artist was far from his usual reticent self; he confided that he was going to save up to buy new painting supplies: ‘From now on, no more crayons. All pictures in oil and enamel only. Completely permanent. Nothing will spoil them.’ Then he introduced Gustad to brief hagiographies of saints such as Haji Ali, who had died while on pilgrimage to Mecca. The casket containing his mortal remains floated miraculously across the Arabian Sea, back to Bombay, till it came to rest on a rocky bed not far from shore. Devotees constructed his tomb and a mosque on the very spot, as well as a causeway t
o the mainland which could be walked at low tide.

  Then there was Mount Mary, another place of miracles. A band of frightened fishermen, caught in a violent storm, were certain they would drown. But the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared and assured them they would be safe, for she would watch over them. In return, they were to build a church atop a hill in Bandra, and place in it a statue which would wash ashore at the foot of that hill. The fishermen reached dry land safely. Next morning, when the seas grew calm, a statue of Mother Mary with the Infant Jesus in her arms floated ashore at the very beach.

  The artist unfolded one story after another, and Gustad listened, engrossed. What a wealth of knowledge, he thought. And apart from the way the wall had been transformed into a clean place, there was such a sense of goodness about it, about the holy pictures.

  When it got too dark to see, Gustad went into the compound. Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster rolled in. ‘Arré bossie! Amazing thing you have done, really. In one shot all the fucking pissers gone. No more goo-mooter, no more stink. Just like a bloody miracle, bossie.’

  ‘With so many saints and prophets on the wall, one miracle should be easy.’

  ‘Too good, bossie, too good!’ said Bamji. ‘You have made it pisser-proof. But you know, I don’t understand the maader chod mentality of our neighbours. Can you believe it? Some of them (I won’t say names) are grumbling – that why should all perjaat gods be on a Parsi Zarathosti building’s wall. I’m telling you, sawdust in their brains.’

  ‘I think I can guess who they are.’

  ‘Oh, forget it, bossie. Not worth thinking about. Instead of being happy that smell is gone, nuisance gone, mosquitoes gone, saala maader chods find something else to cry about.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Gustad, ‘the artist has drawn Zarathost Saheb. And also Meherji Rana and Dustoorji Kookadaru.’