Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  The opening bars of the sonata continued to obsess him, and the tears he could not permit now scalded his eyes. A wave touched the tip of his shoe, barely wetting it. The next one soaked both toes. If a person cried here, by the sea, he thought, then the tears would mix with the waves. Salt water from the eyes mixing with salt water from the ocean. The possibility filled him with wonder. He stood watching till the sea covered his rock. Then he followed the directions Malcolm had left him to get to Bandra station.

  Later, as he emerged at Grant Road to walk home, the word came to him. ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’ He repeated it softly. He would amuse Dinshawji with it tomorrow. Make up for missing today’s visit.

  SIXTEEN

  i

  Dilnavaz answered the door without checking the peephole, as it was Gustad’s time to return from Parsi General. She was startled by the bearded man. When he introduced himself as Ghulam Mohammed, her first impulse was to slam the door in his face, lock and bolt it from inside.

  ‘Mr Noble, please?’

  ‘He is out.’ Such everlasting woes that bhustaigayo Major dumped on our heads. When will it end? ‘He has gone to hospital to visit a very sick friend.’ Not that I need to explain to this sataan. But maybe he will feel sorry. If he has a heart.

  ‘I will wait in the compound.’ Good, she thought, don’t want him in my house. How dare he come here so shamelessly, after the things he did to us.

  But she changed her mind: ‘You can sit inside.’ That way, I can warn Gustad at the door.

  ‘I am grateful. Thank you.’

  She stayed in the kitchen, casting nervous glances into the front room. If she could only tell the black-bearded thief exactly what she thought of him. He smiled politely towards the kitchen door, curious about the black-out paper on the ventilators and the glass everywhere.

  ‘GustadGustadGustad,’ Tehmul yelled through the window. ‘PleasepleaseGustadplease.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘I think someone is asking for Mr Noble.’

  She went to the front. ‘Yes?’

  ‘GustadGustadplease.’

  ‘Gone out.’

  He scratched his armpit, deliberating, then remembered the rest of his message. ‘Phonephonephone. Veryimportantphone.’

  ‘Miss Kutpitia sent you?’ Tehmul nodded, using both hands under his arms like claws. ‘Stop it!’ she said, and the hands dropped. ‘Say that Gustad will come later.’ Cannot leave this black-bearded scoundrel alone. But who can be phoning on Sunday?

  She did not have to wonder long, for shortly after, Gustad arrived. At the door, she whispered about the visitor. ‘Shall I stay here or go for the message?’

  ‘You go,’ said Gustad. ‘Better if I talk to him alone.’

  Ghulam Mohammed stood up when he entered. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Gustad said, ‘Last time I made it clear. I want nothing more with you or Mr Bilimoria.’

  ‘Please don’t get upset, Mr Noble, I am sorry to disturb you and your wife. Promise, this is the last time. But remember you said you would consider Bili Boy’s request? To go to Delhi?’ He spoke appeasingly, almost cajoling. No trace of threat or hardness. ‘More than six weeks I waited for you, Mr Noble.’

  ‘No, it’s impossible to go, I –’

  ‘Please Mr Noble, let me show you this.’ He opened his briefcase. Not another newspaper, thought Gustad. It was.

  Ghulam indicated the article. ‘About Bili Boy. If I tell you, you will think I am lying. See for yourself in the paper.’

  It was still light outside, but the covered glass had let darkness overtake the room. Gustad switched on the desk lamp:

  SENTENCING SOON IN RUPEES-FOR-RAW CASE

  Following the recent judgement in the case of voice-impersonator Mr Bilimoria, the RAW officer who defrauded the State Bank of sixty lakh rupees, the defendant’s request for a retrial was denied yesterday.

  It is now learned that the head of the Special Investigation Team, appointed to determine if a retrial was necessary, had asked for more time to conduct a thorough review of the evidence. Soon after, he was killed in a car accident on Grand Trunk Road.

  His replacement has brought the investigation to a rapid conclusion. The report finds that a retrial is not necessary. Sentencing is expected to follow shortly.

  Gustad folded the newspaper and handed it back.

  ‘It was his last chance,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘But the courts are in the pockets of the ones at the top. Those bastards think we are stupid, that we don’t understand what it means when the chief investigator suddenly dies in a car accident.’ He clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘Now it’s just a matter of time. Please go and meet Bili Boy. Before they finish him off. Please.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying finish him off? This is not Russia or China.’ But something funny going on, for sure.

  Ghulam shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know how to convince you, Mr Noble. But it’s true.’

  ‘OK, suppose it’s true. Does it matter whether he sees me?’ Gustad tried to sound hard. ‘He did not care about me, lying, and using me for his purposes.’

  ‘You are wrong, he did care. He made sure you did not get into trouble after he was arrested.’

  ‘But it’s impossible to go to Delhi. My office –’

  ‘Mr Noble, please,’ he pleaded. ‘Three days is all it will take. You leave by train, arrive next morning, and go to the prison. I will arrange for the visit. You will be back on the third day.’ He pulled a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and held it towards Gustad.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Return ticket. Please.’

  Gustad opened the envelope and saw a sleeping-berth reservation for Friday. The prison address, too. He pushed it back at Ghulam. ‘I don’t think-’

  ‘Please, Mr Noble. For the sake of your friend. Who still loves you like a brother.’

  Like a brother. Yes. That’s how I loved him. All these years in the building. Our prayers at sunrise, the children growing up, so many kindnesses, the fun and laughter we shared. And what has it all come to now? Jimmy sitting in jail. Asking for me. What can I say?

  ‘OK.’ He accepted the train ticket. And as he said the word, his hatred of Ghulam sublimated as well.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Noble. Bili Boy will be so happy to see you. But one thing. Please don’t tell him what I said. If he still has some hope, please let him keep it.’

  On his way to the door he noticed the empty bottle of Hercules XXX on the sideboard. Gustad had not been able to throw it away.

  ‘That was Bili Boy’s favourite. Right from the very old days, in Kashmir.’

  ‘I know,’ said Gustad. ‘He gave me that bottle.’

  Dilnavaz returned from Miss Kutpitia and let herself in. She was surprised to hear them chatting pleasantly as Ghulam left. ‘What did he want?’

  Gustad explained. She was suspicious about the whole arrangement but did not argue, as the telephone message was very urgent: ‘Parsi General phoned. They could not get Alamai’s number.’

  He looked up, and knew. ‘Dinshawji …?’

  She nodded. ‘About one hour ago.’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘Poor Dinshu. Was it peaceful? Did they say?’

  ‘He became unconscious late in the afternoon.’

  He stood up. ‘I must go at once. If they could not get Alamai, it means he is alone.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. You were there. What time did you leave him?’

  His lie, his attempted half-truth, was no longer of any consequence. ‘I did not go to Dinshawji today. I went to a church in Bandra. Mount Mary.’

  It baffled her. ‘Church? All of a sudden?’

  He sat again, supporting his chin. ‘Don’t worry, I have not converted or anything. I met Malcolm Saldanha at Crawford Market this morning. It was amazing – we talked like we never lost touch.’ He narrated the story of Mount Mary. ‘And Malcolm says miracles are still happening every day.’

  She understo
od perfectly. After all, Gustad and she desired the same destination, only their paths were different.

  ‘But,’ he said bitterly, ‘one thing is sure. There was no miracle for Dinshawji.’

  She touched his shoulder gently. ‘You tried your best. It’s not your fault.’

  Her attempt to comfort struck like the arrowhead of an accusation. He thought of the illegal deposits, of Laurie’s complaint, and then Dinshawji’s silence. It was my fault. Everything changed when Dinshu became quiet. I silenced him.

  ‘He was sickly for so long,’ Dilnavaz tried again. ‘Remember how he looked when he came for Roshan’s birthday?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Thussook-thussook, my cart rumbles along. Over and over he heard it in his mind, thussook-thussook, my cart keeps rolling. Now, finally, the cart had come to a rest, its wanderings halted. Peace at last, my Poet Laureate.

  ‘It’s all right if the crying comes.’ She leaned against his chair to put her arm around him. He raised his eyes, burning with the tears that could not flow. He lifted his eyes defiantly to her face, so she could see them dry, observe them dry and unblinking. Only then did he put his arm around her. And while they were thus, Roshan entered the room and rejoiced to see her parents hugging. She tried to encircle them both with her skinny arms. Gustad lifted her into his lap.

  ‘How are you feeling, sweetoo?’

  ‘OK.’ She examined their faces. ‘But why are you looking so sad, Daddy?’ She put her fingers to the corners of his lips and tried to stretch them into a smile, giggling at her efforts.

  ‘Because we received some sad news,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You know Dinshawji who came for your birthday?’

  Roshan nodded. ‘He kept tickling me and making me laugh, with gilly-gilly-gilly. He said, “I wiss you health, I wiss you wealth, I wiss you gold in store.”’

  ‘What a memory. My clever little bakulyoo.’

  Dilnavaz continued: ‘He was very sick, in hospital. Today he passed away and went to Dadaji, to heaven.’

  Roshan considered this gravely. ‘But I’m also very sick. When will I go to Dadaji?’

  ‘What idiotic-lunatic talk.’ Gustad used the phrase of anger to mask his dread. ‘You are not very sick, you are much better. First you will grow up and get married, have children. Then they will marry and have their children, and you will be an old, old dossi before Dadaji is interested in calling you to heaven.’ He looked at Dilnavaz reproachfully: she should not have spoken like that. He hugged them both again before leaving for the hospital.

  In the compound, Cavasji’s voice was ringing: ‘Tomorrow is Monday morning, do You know that? And the Tatas will have their board meeting! When You bestow Your bounties on them, remember us also! Be fair now! Bas, it is too much for – !’

  Mrs Pastakia screamed: ‘Shut up, you crazy old fellow! My head is bursting into a thousand pieces!’ Gustad wondered where her husband was, allowing her to talk this way to his father.

  ii

  Visiting hours had ended. He explained to the nurse on duty why he was there, and she accompanied him to the ward. ‘When did he pass away?’

  She consulted the watch pinned to her chest. ‘For the exact time I have to check the records. But about two hours ago. His pain was too much just before he became unconscious. We had to give him lots of morphine.’ Her voice was sharp, it echoed along the cold corridor walls. A chatty one. Usually they have no time for the simplest question. Rude as rabid bitches. ‘Very unfortunate, no one was here with him,’ she said accusingly. ‘You are brother? Cousin?’

  ‘Friend.’ Poking her nose. None of her business.

  ‘Oh,’ said the nurse, in a tone that withdrew the accusation. But the barb remained, goading his flesh, along with the others he had twisted in himself. On Dinshawji’s day I went with Malcolm. Left him to die wondering why I did not come.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the nurse.

  ‘He’s still in the ward?’

  ‘What to do? If empty room is available, patient is put there. She pronounced it ‘avleble’. ‘Otherwise nothing we can do.’ He wondered about the way she used patient – he would have expected ‘deceased’ or ‘body’. ‘That is why we like relatives to come soon to make arrangements. Beds are in such short supply.’

  ‘His wife is inside?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said the nurse, halting at the ward entrance.

  Gustad entered hesitantly and looked towards Dinshawji’s bed. The figure of the woman he expected to see, seated in vigil, was missing. He gazed absently upon the rows of sleeping patients, heard their breathing and snores.

  And if I did not know Dinshawji is gone, he would also have the sleeping look. Strange feeling. To stand beside his bed, and he cannot see me. Unfair advantage. As though I am spying on him. But who knows? Maybe Dinshu is the one with the advantage, spying from Up There. Laughing at me.

  The straight hard chair was by the bed. He had grown so used to it over the weeks. Dinshawji’s sheet rose in a sharp incline at the nether regions of the mattress. He glanced under the bed to see if the size twelve Naughty Boys were there by his trunk. Only the bedpan, its white enamel stark in the dark space. Beside it, the transparent flask-shaped urinal.

  Not all patients were asleep. Some watched intently, keeping an eye on this healthy one visiting after hours, when he had no business to be here. In the dim night light of the ward their eyes focussed fearfully, drifted, then refocussed. When would it be their turn? How would it happen? And afterwards … ? Down an old man’s face, tears were rolling slowly. Silently, on to the pillowcase dull white like his hair. Others were peaceful, reassured, as if they knew now that it was the simplest of things, was dying. After all, the one who had joked and laughed in their midst for several weeks had shown them how easy it was. How easy to go from warm and breathing to cold and waxen, how easy to become one of the smooth white figures in the carts outside the gates of Mount Mary.

  Dinshawji had been stripped of all the appurtenances with which he had clung to life. The metal stand, gaunt and coldly institutional when the saline solution bottle used to hang from it, now stood empty. Now it looked just like a wire coat-rack, harmless and domestic. The various tubes had grown in number with the passing weeks: one through the nose, two in the arms, somewhere under the sheet a catheter. All withdrawn. As if he had never been sick. Were the tubes removed carefully, the way they were inserted: skilfully, by steady hands? Or just yanked out – the useless wires of an old broken radio, like my Telerad. And then the tubes thrown away in the rubbish, like the coils and transformers and condensers littering the pavements outside the repair shops.

  Dinshawji dismantled. And after the prayers are said and the rituals performed at the Tower of Silence, the vultures will do the rest. When the bones are picked clean, and the clean bones gone, no proof will remain that Dinshawji ever lived and breathed. Except his memory.

  But after that? After the memory is lost? When I am gone, and all his friends are gone. What then?

  The eyes of the wakeful patients were still on Gustad. He found it disconcerting if their eyes met. So he kept looking at Dinshawji’s surgical bed. The iron frame, painted creamy white. Black in places where the paint had peeled. Three sockets for the wooden-handled crank. The first raises the head – I used to wind it when Dinshawji’s dinner arrived. Crankshafts and gears, just like my Meccano set. Second socket for the feet (I raised them once by mistake). And the third for the mid-section. Strange. Why should stomach or pelvis be higher than the rest of the body? Only one reason I can think of. And not a medical reason. Unless the interns and nurses use it for playing doctor-doctor. Wish I had thought of that earlier. To tell Dinshu. But he would have come up with a better one himself. His hospital song. O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam …

  ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,’ he whispered in Dinshawji’s ear, and smiled.

  Dinshawji’s wife appeared in the doorway. She looked around, then strode into the ward in a way that made it clear she was not
to be trifled with. She saw Gustad’s smile before he had time to wipe it off, and gave him a withering look.

  Alamai was a tall woman, far taller than Dinshawji had been, with a carpingly stern face that would willingly find fault with the world, especially its inhabitants. A termagant if ever there was one. Her scrawny neck deliquesced into narrow shoulders which were perpetually raised, slightly hunched. No children and a wife like Alamai, thought Gustad, and yet such a sense of humour. Or because of it. His domestic vulture. He almost broke into a smile again as he recalled the favourite line: ‘No need to take me to the Tower of Silence when I die. My domestic vulture will pick my bones clean ahead of time.’

  ‘Alamai, please let me know if there is anything I can do,’ he offered, after expressing his condolences.

  Before she could answer, a pasty-faced young man burst in. ‘Auntie, Auntie!’ he called in a high-pitched voice which disembogued in part through a nose eminently suited to the purpose because of its shape and size. ‘Auntieee! You went away while I was still in the bathroom!’ The patients in the ward opened their eyes. Gustad estimated the fellow’s age to be at least twenty, and wondered who he was.

  ‘Shh! Muà donkey! Close your mouth at once! You boy-without-brain, sick people are sleeping here. You were going to get lost in the bathroom or what because I left?’ The boy-man pouted at the scolding.

  ‘Come and meet Gustadji Noble. He was Pappa’s best friend.’ To Gustad she said, ‘This is our nephew Nusli. My sister’s son. We never had children, so he has always been like our own son. In private he calls us Mamma and Pappa only. I brought him along to help. Come on, come on, what are you standing and staring! Shake hands with Gustad Uncle!’

  Nusli giggled as he offered his hand. He was skinny, and stood with stooped shoulders. A single-paasri weakling, thought Gustad as he shook the clammy hand, wondering how a vulture’s sister could spawn a milquetoast like Nusli. Perhaps it was inevitable. He repeated his question to Alamai. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’