Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  In the old days, Gustad would have promptly dismissed such an invitation. Dabbling in religions was distasteful and irreverent, an affront to the other faith and his own. But Mount Mary was different – a feeling almost of pre-ordination about it. First, the pavement artist, describing the miracle. Then suddenly meeting Malcolm today. And hearing the same thing. Like divine intervention. Maybe Dada Ormuzd is telling me something.

  ‘OK, we will go.’

  ‘Good,’ said Malcolm, pleased. ‘See, I will catch the two o’clock local from Marine Lines. You wait on the platform at Grant Road and watch for me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gustad. ‘What’s the time now?’ It was ten-thirty, ten-thirty by the hundred-year-old clock in Crawford Market’s façade, faithfully keeping the hours (except during power cuts) for butchers and pet-shop owners, merchants and black-marketeers, shoppers and beggars, all under one vast roof.

  Gustad watched Malcolm walk home down the road to Dhobitalao where Sohrab’s old school was. From the bus stop he could see the walls and railings around the police station near St Xavier’s. They used to train police dogs in that yard. Once, he and Sohrab had watched through the barred gate, as the Doberman pinschers attacked dummies and mauled their trainers’ heavily padded arms.

  The bus came, and Gustad cast an anxious glance at his basket. The old dread about dripping blood still haunted him. Although in the last few weeks he had perfected his basket technique: layers of newspaper at the bottom and sides, and a polythene bag within – if the polythene leaked at the seams, then the newspaper would soak up the effluence. It was performing flawlessly, but as though to justify his anxiety, the woman in front turned and eyed him nastily. She reached for a sari corner to cover her nose and mouth. Her eyes continued to swivel from the basket to his face.

  She knows what’s in there. Smells my fear, like a dog. Eyes of a Doberman. These bloody vegetarians. A sixth sense for meat. No luck on buses … that time from Chor Bazaar. Bumped into Madam Wide-Arse. How upset. But how quickly I charmed her.

  He smiled at the memory, and the vegetarian woman read arrogance into it. She made her eyes spit venom.

  iii

  ‘I’m off to see Dinshawji,’ Gustad told Dilnavaz after lunch. He hoped to return early enough to stop at the hospital and convert his lie into a half-truth. He felt guilty, using up Dinshawji’s afternoon visiting hours.

  At two o’clock, a fast train to Virar pulled into Grant Road station. The surging, jostling exchange of bodies commenced, then the train pulled out: the overflowing third class; the cushioned first class; the Ladies Only, windows covered with special metal grills, with chinks so tiny, not one molesting, Eve-teasing finger could poke through. On the platform, the sign changed to show the next arrival. Gustad examined the display, trying to unravel its intricacies. Meanwhile, the train came in, and Malcolm called to get his attention. In a few minutes, at Bombay Central, the two were able to get window seats. ‘Slow train,’ said Malcolm. ‘Supply and demand, always.’

  Gustad read the station names as the blue, white and red signs on the platforms periodically swept past his window. Mahalaxmi. Lower Parel. Elphinstone Road. Dadar. ‘Dadar,’ said Gustad. ‘I had to come here with Sohrab when he was in seventh standard. To get his textbooks at Pervez Hall.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They do social work, helping students.’ He smiled as he remembered. ‘Sohrab was so excited with all the books there. He wanted to see everything, the books for eighth standard, ninth standard, tenth standard, SSC, all of them. The old lady said to him, dikra, do it slowly, one year at a time, gobbling too much will give you indigestion.’ Malcolm laughed at the imitation of the old lady’s voice, as Gustad continued: ‘I used to be the same way, when I first began going to my father’s bookstore. Trying to examine every book immediately. As if they were all going to vanish.’ His face clouded over at his inopportune words. ‘But they did. With the bailiff.’ Matunga station.

  ‘But you remember how we took my uncle’s van to hide the furniture? In the night?’

  ‘Yes, just one day before the bloody bailiff’s truck.’

  ‘You still have that furniture?’

  ‘Of course. What superb quality. My grandfather made it, you know. Still in perfect condition,’ he said proudly. The train passed over Mahim Creek, and the stink of raw sewage mingled with salty sea smells made them wrinkle their noses.

  ‘How much longer?’ asked Gustad.

  ‘Next one is Bandra.’

  *

  An old woman shuffled towards them on the platform. Her shoulder was weighed down by a khaki cloth bag crammed with candles. Rheum, like stubborn tears, lingered at the corners of her eyes. Out of the bag’s fraying mouth, the white candlewicks peeked clownishly, a silent cluster of tiny tongues supplicating on the old woman’s behalf. Her wizened face and grey-streaked white hair reminded Gustad of the bird-woman in Mary Poppins, on the steps of St Paul’s. Poor thing, how old and tired … feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag … special film première, it was. St Xavier’s High School’s gala night, to raise funds for the new gymnasium. And that other song. Such a long word. Sohrab was the only one who could remember it when we all got home. ‘Superca … superfragi … Supercalifragi …’ ‘What?’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ What a memory, what a brain the boy had. And such a waste.

  ‘Candles for Mount Mary,’ the old woman murmured, pulling a handful out of the khaki bag.

  Gustad hesitated. ‘Keep walking, man,’ said Malcolm. ‘Cannot trust these people. They mix impurities, then the candle does not burn properly. Near the church you get better quality.’

  The old woman hawked feebly, spat her reproach, and called after them: ‘If everybody buys near the church only, what will happen to me, henh? How will I put a morsel in my mouth?’ She said more, but the words were lost in a fit of coughing.

  Outside the station, Malcolm negotiated the fare with an unmetered taxi. When they were off, the driver reached under his seat and came up with a bunch of medium-sized candles. ‘For Mount Mary?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘No,’ said Malcolm.

  The driver persisted. ‘You want bigger? I have all different-different sizes in the dickey.’

  ‘No man, we don’t need your candles.’ He gave the I-will-handle-it look to Gustad, who was preoccupied with the partly-raised window rattling violently. The handle was missing, so the glass could not be wound up or down.

  ‘I have everything for Mount Mary in the dickey,’ said the driver. ‘Complete set. Hands and feet, legs and thighs. Full heads. Separate fingers and toes.’ The litany of body parts distracted Gustad from the clattering window. ‘Knees and noses, not to forget eyes and ears. Everything that you –’

  ‘How many times to say no before you understand?’ snapped Malcolm. Sulking, the driver shifted gears vengefully as the hill approached. The car began to climb. Gradually, between trees and buildings, they glimpsed slices of the sea, coruscating like shards of a mirror. The rocky beach became visible now, shining hot and black in the sun. ‘We can go there,’ said Malcolm, ‘after church. It’s so pleasant to sit on the rocks when the tide comes in with the breeze. So peaceful.’

  Children clutching candles ran up to the taxi as it halted by the gates. The driver shooed them off. Gustad offered to share the fare but Malcolm refused: ‘You are my guest today.’ They turned their attention to the two carts by the gates, seeing which, the taxi-driver-cum-spurned-candleseller flung his arms in the air. He drove off, spinning his wheels and turning sharply. A cloud of dust enveloped the two men. ‘Bastard,’ said Malcolm.

  The four-wheel carts were stacked with everything for the churchgoer. They had tarpaulin roofs supported on a frame of metal rods. One was being attended to by an elderly woman, portly and in black, who sat like a statue on a wooden stool. A smartly dressed young fellow looked after the other cart. Their inventories were virtually identical: rosaries, holy pictures, plastic Jesus
es, pendant-size silver crosses on silver chains, desk-size crucifixes, wall-size crucifixes, Bibles, framed photographs of Mount Mary, souvenirs of Bombay for out-of-town pilgrims. But all these items occupied the peripheries of the carts. The central display was dedicated to the wax products.

  Arranged in neat rows were fingers, thumbs, hands, elbows, arms (inclusive of fingers), kneecaps, feet, thighs and truncated legs. The hands and feet came in left and right, in two sizes: child and adult. Skulls, eyes, noses, ears, and lips were grouped separately from limbs and digits. Complete male and female wax figures were also available. There they all lay, corresponding to the catalogue the taxi-driver had recited, divisions and subdivisions of limbs and torsos anatomically organized.

  A vision of Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s clinic swam briefly before Gustad’s eyes, of limbs hanging lifelessly, limp and defenceless as these waxen ones. His left hip twinged sharply with a forgotten pain. He passed a hand over his brow and looked to Malcolm to be guided through this world of wax. This unfinished Madame Tussaud’s, he thought.

  ‘You see,’ explained Malcolm, ‘suffering people come to Mount Mary and offer up the part that is troubling them. Think of it as a repair shop. Mother Mary is the Mechanic for all sufferers, She mends everything.’ His earthly correlatives made Gustad smile appreciatively. A repair shop, yes, that was good. Like the mechanics on Dr Paymaster’s street.

  ‘Some people do it differently,’ continued Malcolm. ‘They first come and pray to Mother Mary, and promise to return with the part after it is cured. But that makes no sense to me. If your watch is not working, can the watch-repairer fix it unless you give it to him?’ The conclusion was irrefutable. The portly woman was moved to nod in agreement. ‘Also,’ said Malcolm, ‘it’s too much like bargaining, don’t you think? I trust Mother Mary completely with advance payment.’ The woman quivered on the stool. It was difficult to tell if she was shaking with mirth: her face was still impassive.

  Malcolm picked out a female child’s torso and gave it to Gustad. ‘For Roshan. Next, your friend in hospital. If the cancer has spread, maybe best thing is to buy the full body.’ He indicated the male figure in the last row. The woman in black grudgingly got off her stool. ‘Who else?’

  Gustad hesitated. ‘Can Mother Mary help with the head? I mean the mind? For someone not thinking straight?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think Sohrab will definitely benefit.’ Malcolm picked out a male head. ‘Now what about your hip?’

  ‘No, no, that’s OK.’

  ‘What rubbish, man. This morning only you were limping at the market, I saw myself. Come on, don’t be shy.’ The portly woman bent sideways on her stool to see around the cart, and examined Gustad. Having sized him up, she expertly picked out a wax leg. ‘Good,’ said Malcolm. ‘You will see how it helps. Who else?’ Gustad thought of Jimmy. The pleading note he sent me. All those scary things uttered by Ghulam Mohammed. Jimmy’s enemies, wanting to get rid of him and …

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Malcolm again.

  ‘No. No one else.’

  The portly woman in black totalled the purchases. ‘The offerings will work,’ explained Malcolm, ‘only if you pay. My money is no good.’

  ‘Of course, naturally.’

  ‘Four candles now,’ said Malcolm, moving to the other cart. ‘I always buy from both, to be fair.’

  Gustad paid, and they went inside the hot crowded church. Devotees with offerings were slowly making their way towards the altar. The ceiling fan made a woman’s veil caress Gustad’s face. Candles in their hundreds were burning fiercely in flat metal trays. The collective light cast a brilliant orange glow towards the sanctuary. Around the trays were strewn countless limbs and figures, a waxwork universe petitioning on behalf of the suffering multitude. The intense heat from the candles was robbing the offerings of their shapes. Gustad knelt, following his friend’s example, then Malcolm indicated that the wax purchases should be relinquished and the candles lit. But it was difficult to find a bare spot amid the scorching blaze in progress. Malcolm looked around to see if anyone was watching. He made room by quickly knocking over a few candles that were down to half their size. Like a backhand table-tennis smash, thought Gustad. ‘Is that allowed?’ he asked in a whisper.

  ‘Oh, it’s OK. Someone will later do the same to yours. Important thing is to light them.’ He drew Gustad’s attention to the main icon. ‘That’s the statue found by the fishermen.’

  It was draped in rich, gold-embroidered fabrics; what seemed like precious or semi-precious stones glinted by candlelight. ‘Did they also find those clothes?’

  ‘No, no, they were made much later, from donations.’ Gustad wondered what the statue was wearing when it came ashore.

  ‘You see Baby Jesus on Mother Mary’s left arm? Once a year, He moves. Next year He will be on the right arm. No one knows how it happens. A true miracle.’ Then Malcolm fell silent. He crossed himself and started to pray. Gustad joined his hands, bowed his head and thought of Roshan, wishing her healthy and well again; of Dinshawji, that his suffering may ease; and of Sohrab, that his good sense be restored to him. He did not bother with his hip; it was really not that important.

  *

  The sea was steadily working its way to high tide. The two men selected a dry flat boulder to sit. ‘Such a beautiful place,’ said Gustad.

  ‘Yes, especially this part of Bandra. But the buggers have plans for reclamation and development.’

  ‘Roshan would really enjoy it. When we go to Chaupatty or Marine Drive sometimes, she loves to sit and watch the waves.’

  Now and again, the salt spray touched their faces lightly, like the woman’s errant veil had touched Gustad’s cheek. After a while they had to pick another rock. ‘The sea is pushing us back,’ said Malcolm.

  They talked fondly of the old days, of college, and the crazy old professors and padres. Gustad said he had never forgotten how kind Malcolm’s family had been to him, welcoming him in their home every evening, letting him share the music, even offering him a place to study. They tried to fill in for each other the lacunae in the scanty outlines exchanged earlier at Crawford Market. But to reclaim suddenly the gaping abyss which had swallowed up time was well-nigh impossible. They had to be content with wisps and strands that came to hand as they groped or stumbled their way through the vaults of memory.

  ‘That sonata you used to play with your father,’ said Gustad. ‘Da dee da da dee dum, Ta ta tum, Ta ta tum, Ta ta tum … You remember it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Malcolm without hesitation. ‘Last movement of César Franck’s Sonata for violin and piano. In A. It was Daddy’s favourite.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ said Gustad. ‘Sometimes you two played it when it was getting dark in the evening. Before the lights came on. It sounded so beautiful, tears would almost spring to my eyes. I still cannot decide exactly whether it made me feel sad or happy. So difficult to describe.’ So difficult. Like Tehmul, all of us. Even with proper tongues, words are hard to find.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ said Malcolm, ‘but after Daddy’s stroke, in such bad condition that he couldn’t hold his violin or remember his own name, this sonata was always in his head. He could only make sounds with his mouth, no speech. But he would keep humming the last movement.’

  Malcolm whistled the theme as Gustad smiled encouragingly. ‘You know, I used to love to see your father put rosin on the bow, his face was always frowning with concentration when he did that. Then he would start to play, his bow moving up and down with so much life and power – gave me a strange feeling. As if he was searching desperately for something, but always disappointed. Because the piece ended before he found it.’

  Malcolm nodded vigorously, he understood exactly. Gustad continued: ‘And the funny thing is, my father had the same kind of look in his eyes. Sometimes, when he was reading – a kind of sadness, that the book was finishing too soon, without telling him everything he wanted to know.’

  ‘That’s life,’ said Malcolm. The encroac
hing waves made them move again. Gradually, their conversation shifted to the present, to politics and the state of the nation. ‘Look at it. Indira has visited every country in Europe, they all say they sympathize. But nobody does a damn thing to make Pakistan behave decently. What is left but war?’

  ‘That’s true. This Refugee Relief Tax is terrible,’ said Gustad. ‘It’s killing the middle class.’ He described how, working at the bank, he could see the trend: more and more people had to draw on their savings. Then he asked what it was like to work for the municipality.

  ‘Very boring,’ said Malcolm. ‘Not worth talking about.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ready to go?’

  But the rush of the approaching tide, the blue-pink sky filled with comforting white shapes, the dancing foam and sea-glistened rocks, the touch of salty breezes on his face: all this was working to bestow gently upon Gustad a serenity he had not known for a very long time. He decided to stay. Malcolm had to leave for a piano lesson, but they promised to keep in touch, and shook hands on that. He thanked Malcolm for bringing him to Mount Mary; Malcolm replied it was his pleasure.

  Alone, Gustad gazed at the horizon. There, the sea was calm. The tidal hustle and bustle could only be perceived near the shore. How reassuring, the tranquillity at the far edge, where the water met the sky. While the waves crashed against his rock. He felt an intense – what? joy? or sadness? did it matter? Like the sonata. Or dawn in the old days, the rising sun, its rays streaming happy golden tears into the compound, the sparrows chirping in the solitary tree.

  The sun sank in the ocean, its journey done for the day. And all things that mattered in life were touched by this sweet, sad joy. One after another he remembered them. The workshop, the cheerful sound of tools, but also the silence of the end of day. Rides in his father’s four-horse carriage with the shiny brass lamps, it did not matter where to, for it was magic just to go clip-clop, until the ride ended and the horses were led away to the stable. Pappa’s wonderful parties, the food and music, the clothes, the people, the toys. And yet, always, at some point in the evening, the thought would surface – that the food would be consumed, the guests would leave, the music would stop playing, then he would have to go to bed and the lights switched off.