‘I phoned the Tower of Silence while Nusli was in the bathroom. They said the hearse will come in half an hour.’
The patients who had decided to close their eyes after Alamai silenced Nusli, opened them again. For Nusli chose to speak once more with his high-pitched instrument. ‘I am so scaaared, Auntie!’
‘A-ra-ra-ra! Now what are you scared of?’
‘Of the hearse,’ he whined. ‘I don’t want to sit in it!’
‘You boy-without-brain, what is there to be scared of? It’s just like a van. Remember, we all went for a picnic in the van last year with Dorab Uncle’s family to Victoria Garden? And saw all the animals there? A van, just like that one.’
‘No, Auntie, please, I am so scared.’ He cringed and wrung his hands.
‘Marey em-no-em! God knows to collect what dust I brought you along! Thought you would be a help. Help, my head!’ and she struck it hard with both hands.
Gustad felt it was time to intervene, before more patients were awakened to the nightmare in their ward. ‘Alamai, I will be happy to come with you in the hearse. To help with everything.’
‘See? See, you lumbasoo-baywakoof, listen to Gustad Uncle. He is not scared, is he?’ Nusli gazed at his feet and pursed his lips as though to blow spit bubbles. She thumped him on the back, and he lurched forward. ‘Look at me when I talk to you!’
‘Yes, yes, he will come,’ said Gustad. ‘He will sit beside me. Won’t you, Nusli?’
‘OK,’ said Nusli, and giggled.
‘I don’t want any of your khikhi-khaakhaa,’ said Alamai. But Nusli permitted himself another short paroxysm of giggles before heeding her injunction.
She turned her attention now to Dinshawji’s trunk under the bed. ‘Come on, come on, Nusla! Don’t just stand there! Come here and pull it out for me. I want to check everything that Pappa brought from home. Cannot trust these hospital people.’
Gustad felt it was a good moment to disappear. He could return at the hearse’s appointed time. ‘Excuse me, I will be back in a few minutes.’
Alamai, engrossed in taking an inventory, granted him leave with an imperious wave of her hand. He caught a glimpse of Dinshawji’s black Naughty Boys in the trunk. Empty of their owner’s feet, they seemed larger than life.
He walked down the long cold corridor and down the stairs. Through the reception area, through the lobby, till he was outside, in the hospital grounds. The lawn was slightly damp, there was a pleasing fresh-cut scent in the grass. The grounds were dark except for the dim light from an ornate cast-iron lamppost by the walkway. He headed for the little garden with the arbor where he had sat many Sundays ago, when Dinshawji had newly arrived at the hospital.
The bench, like the lawn, was damp. Too early for dew, it must have been made wet when the maali watered the flowers. Gustad spread his handkerchief and sat. The exhaustion he had kept at bay now overtook him. He felt drained, emptied of the last bit of energy that had got him through the day, took him to Crawford Market and to Mount Mary, that kept his limp under control, that made him suffer Alamai with forbearance.
It was cool on the bench under the trees. Peaceful. Like the countryside. Or a hill station, with the nocturnal insect sounds. Matheran, when I was eight years old. Where Pappa had taken the entire family: Grandma, Grandpa, the younger brother’s family (the one who was to betray Pappa’s trust and ruin him), and two servants. They had reserved four rooms at Central Hotel. It was raining when they alighted from the toy train that chugged slowly up the hill. Everything was damp as they arrived by rickshaw at the hotel. The manager was Pappa’s personal friend. He sent cups of hot Bournvita to their rooms. When it got dark and the lights went on, the mosquitoes came. It was the first time for Gustad, sleeping under mosquito nets. He slipped in through the opening, then his mother tucked the flap securely under the mattress. It was strange to say goodnight-Godblessyou through the gauze-like material and then listen to her say it. Her voice came clearly, but she looked so insubstantial behind the enveloping veil, far away, beyond his reach, and he was all alone, under the canopy of white, entombed in his mosquito-free mausoleum. It had been such a long journey, and he fell asleep.
But that picture. That picture of my mother – locked away for ever in my mind: my mother through the white, diaphanous mosquito net, saying goodnight-Godblessyou, smiling, soft and evanescent, floating before my sleepy eyes, floating for ever with her eyes so gentle and kind. That was the way he chose to remember her, when he was eighteen and she was dead.
And there had never again been cornflakes as delicious as the ones he ate at breakfast in Matheran. Or toast, with roses of butter, and marmalade. With the jabbering brown monkeys always waiting to snatch what fell or was carelessly left around. One had even grabbed a packet of Gluco biscuits from his hand. There were pony rides. Long walks in the mornings and evenings, to Echo Point, Monkey Point, Panorama Point, Charlotte Lake. With walking-sticks. Pappa bought one for each member of the party: freshly carved, with the smell of the tree still strong upon it. The cool, crisp mountain air filled their lungs, driving out the city staleness. At dusk it was chilly, and they needed pullovers. The manager told them stories of tiger hunts he had been on in these hills. And on the last night, the chef made a special pudding for them. After it was eaten, he came out to say goodbye, then pretended to be disappointed that they did not enjoy his pudding. They thought he was joking, for the bowl had been licked clean. But the chef picked up the empty bowl, broke it before their startled eyes, and distributed the shards in their plates, eating one himself to demonstrate. Everyone laughed at how well they had been fooled, crunching the pieces moulded from sugar and gelatine. ‘Now this is what you call a sweet dish,’ said Pappa.
But Gustad sat silent and downcast throughout dinner, thinking of the morrow, the end of the holiday. His father had tried to cheer him up, saying they would come again another year. And then, the bowl was broken and eaten. There was something so final and terrible about the act. He refused to eat a single piece of the flavoured sugar and gelatine.
And when the bookstore was bankrupt and the bailiff arrived, I remembered the broken bowl. Watching helplessly as the shelves were emptied and the books were loaded on lorries. Pappa begging and pleading in vain with the bailiff. The cleats on the bailiff’s shoes clattering brazenly on the stone floor. The men continuing their task, dismantling Pappa’s life, breaking it up into little pieces, feeding the pieces into the bellies of the lorries. Then rolling away, leaving in their wake a noxious smell. Diesel fumes. And I remembering the dinner-table in Matheran, the crunching down of the broken bowl – such a terrible, final act.
But what pudding was it that night? Lemon? No, it was pineapple. Or maybe caramel? Perhaps. Even memories do not stay intact for ever. Have to be careful, scrupulous, in dealing with them. And Dinshu is dead. Tomorrow, the vultures. Then, nothing. Except memories. His jokes. About the two men whose wives. And the other one, the bicycle pump. O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam …
Gustad closed his eyes, nodded. Jerked his head up. But down it went again. And up. His spectacles slid a little bit lower. The third time he did not struggle to raise his head.
*
A loud honking across the dark, damp grass silenced the crickets and cicadas in the foliage, and ended Gustad’s brief nap. He pushed up his spectacles. A car was blocking the hospital driveway; a van waited to get through. He stood up. The building lights illuminated the legend on the van: HEARSE, and then the rest: Bombay Parsi Punchayet. The unpainted body of the vehicle shone eerily, silvery-white in the darkness.
He hurried across the lawn. The chirr-chirr-chirr-chirr started up in the grass again, as the cicadas reasserted their shrill presence. Hearses can be impeded by cars and barricades, he thought. But death. Death gets through every time. Death can choose to be prompt or fashionably late.
The offending car drove away, and the hearse rumbled over the remaining few yards. He reached the entrance just as two men emerged and climbed t
he steps into the lobby. Alamai was waiting. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Where were you all this time, Gustadji? I was thinking that by mistake-bistake you forgot and went home.’
Who does she think she is speaking to? Her mai-issi Nusli? Outwardly calm, he said, ‘I saw the hearse just arriving. Are you ready?’
The hospital formalities were completed, papers checked and handed over, and the two khandhias went to work. Nusli stood by with Alamai’s handbag while she did some last-minute rummaging in Dinshawji’s trunk. She asked the men as sweetly and politely as she could, ‘Please, can you also put this little paytee inside? So we can drive by my house and leave it there?’
‘Maiji, we are not allowed to do that. Straight back to Doon-gerwadi we have to go. Only one van is on duty.’
Alamai folded her hands meekly and bent her head sideways. ‘Look, bawa, a helpless old widow will give you her blessings if you can do this.’
But the two men were adamant: they had already glimpsed her true colours. ‘Sorry, not possible.’
She flung down her hands and turned away in a huff, walking stiff and straight as a ramrod to the door, muttering about the extra trip by taxi she would have to make. ‘Lazy, stubborn loafers,’ she said under her breath, to no one in particular. Nusli followed her with the handbag, then the khandhias with the bier of iron, and finally Gustad.
In the hearse, the bier was secured to one side. Along the length of the van was a bench seat for passengers. The driver started the engine, and Alamai motioned to Nusli to get in. Hunching his shoulders, he crossed his hands over his chest and backed away. ‘No, Auntie! Not me first! Please, not me first!’
‘You boy-without-courage! You will remain a beekun-bylo for ever.’ She pushed him away with the back of her hand. ‘Move aside, muà animal, move aside! I will go first.’ Ignoring the attendant’s hand waiting to help her up, she was inside in one bound. ‘Now muà coward! You climb now and hide under my petticoat.’
But Nusli turned to Gustad and asked him, with pleading eyes and imploring hand, to go next. Gustad obliged. Finally Nusli crept in, cringing, sitting as far back as possible. The man outside shook his head, slammed the van’s rear door shut and made his way to the front, next to the driver.
The journey was uneventful except when the van went over an extremely bumpy stretch. Everyone was badly shaken, and the bier received a rough jouncing. The dead man’s head moved around a bit, and Nusli shrieked in terror. This incident affected Alamai too in some way; she started to sniff and dab at her eyes with a little hanky, and Gustad was utterly disgusted. Better to stay quiet than to pretend. Shameless hypocrite. Have to hire mourners if she wants more tears. Thank God the quality of afterlife does not depend on the quantity of tears.
But he was wrong. After sniffing and dabbing for a while, Alamai showed how badly he had underestimated her histrionic capabilities. For as the hearse turned into the Doongerwadi gates and made its way up the hill, she was convulsed by a great sob that burst forth without warning. She rocked back and forth, her tall, thin trunk swaying alarmingly in the narrow space, as she clutched her head in her hands and wailed. ‘O my Dinshaw! Why! Why! Why! O Dinshaw!’ Like Tom Jones and his Delilah, thought Gustad. Dinshu would have enjoyed this. His domestic vulture, finally singing her torch song.
‘You have left me? Gone away? But why?’ Since Dinshawji refused to tell her why, she sobbed some more, then directed her efforts at the roof of the hearse. ‘O Parvar Daegar! What have You done! You took him away? Why? Now what will I do? Take me also! Now! Now and now only!’ and she smote her chest twice.
The driver slowed by the prayer bungalows on the lower level and, receiving no instructions, continued to the upper level. But Alamai had not made any arrangements. Gustad asked to return to the office.
‘These people,’ grumbled the driver to his companion. ‘They think they are out for a Sunday drive at Scandal Point, making me go round and round.’
Alamai was still wailing and beating her chest as Gustad led her into the office. ‘It is God’s will, Alamai,’ he said, a little weary of the business. He tried to calm her with all the de rigueur phrases he knew. ‘Dinshawji has been released from his pain and misery. Thanks to the mercy of the Almighty.’
‘That’s true,’ she moaned, the volume of her sobs quite respectable for one with so skimpy a chest. ‘He is released! At least from his suffering he is released!’ Then the man in the office offered information about rates and expenses.
‘Let us think of Dinshawji now,’ said Gustad. ‘Prepare for his prayers.’ He deftly guided his words in through little windows that opened between her sobs. ‘Do you want four-day prayers? At upper bungalee? Or one-day at lower bungalee?’
‘One-day, four-day, what does it matter? He is gone!’
‘For upper bungalee, you will have to live here for four days. Can you manage that?’ He suspected that a question of a practical nature would stem the tears.
It worked. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Are you crazy? Four days? Who will look after my little Nusla? Who will cook his dinner, hunh?’ It was all very quick from here on. The time for the funeral next afternoon was scheduled, and Alamai agreed to have the announcement in the morning’s Jam-E-Jamshed. The clerk promised to telephone the newspaper before the presses rolled.
Once more, they occupied their places in the van. The driver took them to the allocated bungalee. It had a little verandah in the front leading to the prayer hall, and a bathroom at the back, where the deceased would be given the final bath of ritual purity. Alamai, Nusli, and Gustad took turns to wash their hands and faces before doing their kustis.
Meanwhile, Alamai got into a passionate argument with the men who came to perform Dinshawji’s suchkaar and ablutions. She forbade them to follow the traditional method of sponging the corpse with gomez. ‘All this nonsense with bull’s urine is not for us,’ she said. ‘We are modern people. Use water only, nothing else.’ But she insisted that the water be warmed first, because Dinshawji, it seemed, had a habit of catching a chill if he bathed with cold tap water.
Embarrassed, Gustad left her to do his kusti. Nusli gladly went with him. However, Alamai soon finished dealing with the suchkaar and followed them to the verandah.
Here, it was discovered that Nusli had forgotten to bring his prayer cap. ‘You boy-without-brain,’ she said, gritting her teeth, softly, in deference to the place and the occasion. ‘Coming to a place of prayer without prayer cap. To collect what dust, I am asking?’
Gustad tried to restore peace by pulling out his large white handkerchief. He folded it along the diagonal and showed Nusli how to cover his head with it. This was a perfectly respectable method. But Alamai uttered another imprecation: ‘Marey em-no-em. Which fire burned all his wits, I wonder,’ then decided to let the matter pass.
Gustad fled the verandah as soon as he knotted the last knot in his kusti. He did not know how much more of this woman he could tolerate. He went into the empty room and sat in a corner, in the dark. Two men entered with the body, white-clad now, and laid it on the low marble platform. The face and ears were left uncovered by the white sheet. A priest arrived and lit an oil lamp next to Dinshawji’s head.
How efficiently everything proceeds, thought Gustad. All routine. As though Dinshawji died every day. Alamai and Nusli took their seats. The priest picked up a sliver of sandalwood, dipped it in oil and held it to the flame. He transferred it to the thurible and sprinkled loban upon it. The fragrance of frankincense filled the room. The priest started to pray. For some reason, the quiet prayers made Nusli restless and fidgety. He kept squirming, adjusting the handkerchief on his head. But Alamai soon settled that wordlessly, by directing her elbow and knee into his person.
The dustoorji prayed beautifully. Each word emerged clear and full-toned, pure, as if shaped for the first time by human lips. And Gustad, lost in his thoughts, began to listen. It sounded so soothing. Such a wonderful voice. Like Nat King Cole’s when he sang ‘You Will Never Grow Old’. Soft, smooth, rich as velvet.
The prayers filled the dark room slowly. Slowly, the prayer sound was the dark room. And before he was aware of it, Gustad was under its gentle spell. He forgot the time, forgot Alamai, forgot Nusli. He listened to the music, the song in a language which he did not understand, but which was wondrously soothing. All his life he had uttered by rote the words of this dead language, comprehending not one of them while mouthing his prayers. But tonight, in the dustoorji’s soft and gentle music, the words were alive; tonight he came closer than he ever had to understanding the ancient meanings.
The dustoorji cantillated the verses of the ancient Avesta. And as the notes and syllables were intoned, they mingled with the sounds of night. Steadily, from the trees and bushes rose the voices of night and nature, and from all the lush vegetation that grew here on the hill, around the Tower of Silence. The murmurings of leaf-hoppers and tree-dwellers, winged and crawling, ascended Doongerwadi, up towards the Tower of Silence. Their murmurings blended with the sandalwood and loban and prayer music floating forth from the room with the oil lamp, and Gustad understood it all.
Such a Long Journey Page 29