Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  iii

  Dilnavaz was asleep, her head thrown back on the sofa. He opened the door with his latchkey, waking her.

  ‘Is it very late?’ she asked.

  The clock showed just after ten. The pendulum was still. He checked his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty.’ He opened the glass and felt for the key.

  ‘What happened?’

  He wound the clock, telling her about Alamai, Nusli, the hearse, their arrival at Doongerwadi. ‘When I went to the bungalee, I was so tired and sleepy, I said to myself, I’ll leave in five minutes. Then the prayers started and …’ He stopped, feeling a little foolish. ‘So beautiful. I kept listening.’

  He moved the minute hand, waited for the ten-thirty bong, then pushed it to eleven. ‘Dinshawji’s face. On the marble slab. Looked so peaceful. And you will think I am crazy … I moved my head this way and that. Changed my way of seeing. Thinking it must be the light. But…’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘There was no doubt. He was smiling.’ He checked his watch again, and adjusted the clock’s minute hand. ‘Go on. Tell me I am crazy.’

  ‘Prayer is a very powerful thing.’

  ‘I saw his face when he was still at hospital. Also in the hearse. But nothing.’

  ‘Prayers are powerful. Prayers can put a smile on Dinshawji’s face, or in your eyes.’

  He put his arm around her. ‘I hope when I go there will be a smile like that on my face. And in your eyes.’ The clock was still silent. He pushed the pendulum gently, and shut the glass.

  SEVENTEEN

  i

  Those who missed the funeral notice in Jam-E-Jamshed got the news at the bank, in a memo from the manager which included employees’ names under two headings: Funeral – Monday 3.30 p.m. and Uthamna Ceremony – Tuesday 3.00 p.m. Only Gustad was given a choice before the memo was written. Mr Madon, who had also elected to attend the funeral, offered him a ride in his car.

  There was a large turnout at Doongerwadi. Few relatives, but many, many friends and colleagues. The news had taken them by surprise, so they were neither dressed in white nor had their prayer caps. But they managed somehow, the women draping their saris over the head, the men using handkerchiefs or borrowing caps from the sandalwood shop at the bottom of the hill.

  It was not yet three-thirty, and people were still arriving. The overflow was accommodated in a pavilion adjacent to the bungalee, along with the non-Parsis. Looking over the gathering, Gustad realized that Dinshawji had brought laughter into the life of almost every person now sitting there silently, waiting for the last rites to commence. Even Goover-Ni-Gaan Ratansa had been known to smile occasionally at Dinshawji’s jokes.

  Alamai was saving a place for Gustad in the first row facing the marble platform. Mr Madon accompanied him to the front, to offer his condolences to Alamai. She thanked him for coming and introduced Nusli. ‘It was Dinshawji’s hope that one day, before he retired, Nusli would start working with him, side by side, at the bank. Alas, now it is too late,’ she said, doing the first spadeful of groundwork regarding her plans for Nusli.

  She decided it would be politic to seat Mr Madon also in the first row, and offered him Nusli’s chair. And Nusli, to his credit, quietly moved further down. In his white dugli and maroon prayer cap the boy-man blended with the congregation, except at the moment when the dustoorjis gave the cue for the ritual of the dog. The Doongerwadi dog was led to the bier, the char-chassam dog, who, with his preternatural eyes, would contain the nassoo, the evil of death, and assist the forces of good. Nusli craned and peered, rising excitedly from his chair like a child seeing a dog for the first time. He made soft kissing sounds and snapped his fingers lightly to get the dog’s attention.

  No one noticed Nusli, however, for when the dog walked round the bier, sniffed in silence and left, Alamai suddenly stood with her arms raised and wailed: ‘O dog! Make some little sound at least! O Parvar Daegar! No barking? Now it is certain! O my Dinshaw, now you have really left me!’

  Women in her vicinity hastened to calm her. Gustad and Mr Madon were only too glad to move aside, visibly relieved at not having to comfort Alamai. Gustad shook his head at the pathetic exhibition, more pitiful for its being based on her mistaken notions about the char-chassam dog. Poor Alamai, with her modernistic ideas and her orthodox confusions.

  The women held her from rushing to the bier, hanging on to her arms, trying to wrestle her down into a chair. Of course, if tall, lean Alamai had really wanted to, she could have easily tossed aside the four or five gasping women. But she suddenly gave up and flopped back. The women hugged her, patted her cheeks, adjusted her sari and said variously comforting things.

  ‘God’s will, Alamai, God’s will!’

  ‘What can we do when Dada Ormuzd makes His Almighty Plans for us?’

  ‘Stay calm, Alamai, stay calm, please, for Dinshawji’s sake. Or he will have trouble getting to the Other Side.’

  ‘God’s will! God’s will!’

  ‘Peace, peace, Alamai! Too much crying makes the body very heavy. How will they carry him then?’ ‘God’s will, Alamai, God’s will!’

  The dustoorjis waited patiently until silence was restored, then continued with the Ahunavad Gatha. The rest of the prayers proceeded without interruption. At the conclusion, they invited Alamai to place loban and sandalwood on the afargan fire. All eyes were on her, the women alert lest she needed restraining again. But she seemed quite calm now.

  After family members and relatives finished their obeisances, the other mourners filed past for the sezdoe. While they bowed and touched the ground three times, the room suddenly grew dark. The sunlight streaming into the prayer hall was blocked by four shadows. The nassasalers had arrived. They stood in the doorway, waiting to carry the bier to the Tower, to the well of vultures.

  It was Gustad’s turn. He observed Dinshawji’s face carefully and bowed three times. Wish I could be one of the four. Surely Dinshu would prefer his friends. Silly custom, to have professional pallbearers. And on top of that, poor fellows treated like outcasts and untouchables.

  The sezdoe ended. The nassasalers entered, clad in white from head to toe. They wore white gloves and white canvas shoes. People moved aside to give them a wide berth, fearful of contact. Dinshawji’s face was covered and the bier of iron carried from the prayer bungalee.

  Once outside, the nassasalers took a few steps and stopped. They waited for the men who would follow in procession to fall in behind them. The approach to the well of vultures was for men only. The women lined up on the bungalee’s verandah.

  ‘Please Gustadji,’ said Alamai, ‘do one thing for my Dinshaw’s sake. Take Nusli up the hill. He is afraid to go without me, but says if he can walk with you then it is all right.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gustad. He took out his handkerchief and called Nusli. They joined the procession, holding the white kerchief between them. Every man from the bank had decided to take the last walk with Dinshawji. Many of them were weeping openly now. They stepped up in twos or threes, linked by white handkerchiefs, in keeping with the wisdom of the ancients – that there was strength in numbers, strength to repel the nassoo, the evil which hovered around death.

  Mr Madon had a white silk kerchief. He approached Gustad. ‘May I?’ Gustad nodded, and grasped Mr Madon’s hanky in his other hand. The subtle fragrance of expensive perfume rose from it. The four nassasalers shuffled their feet and shifted the bier-handles cutting into their shoulders. They looked around to see if the procession was ready. The char-chassam dog and dustoorjis took their place. The nassasalers started forward.

  The long column of handkerchief-linked men followed. Gustad gave Nusli an encouraging smile, then glanced towards the bungalee. The women were gathered to watch the men accompany their friend on his final journey. He looked for Alamai, curious to see how she was taking it. He expected to see one last bravura performance, some wailing, beating of the chest, perhaps even a little tearing of the hair.

  But he was surprised (and as
hamed of his uncharitable thoughts) to see her standing with dignity, her hands clasped tightly together. She was gazing quietly after Dinshawji, and when Gustad looked again he realized that she was indeed weeping. At last, she was weeping silent tears. Rising, perhaps, from a deep well of memories. Memories of? Joys, sorrows, pleasures, regrets? Yes, all these must have filled Dinshawji’s and Alamai’s private lives. And never a clue, never a word except that line about his dear domestic vulture. But hidden behind it, who knew what love, what life?

  The procession wended its way towards the Tower. On both sides of the path, from dense foliage and undergrowth came the rustle of scurrying creatures. Once, a squirrel ran in front of the nassasalers, froze, then scampered on. Carrion crows, large and glistening, watched the column curiously from tree-tops. Ahead, a muster of peacocks shuffled to the edge of the path, craning inquisitively before scrambling to safety in the bushes. Their necks flashed blue amidst the green of the shrubbery.

  The paved road ended and the gravel path began. The crunch of footsteps got louder as the feet moved from asphalt to gravel, reaching a crescendo when the entire procession was marching on it. Now the sound was magnificent, awe-inspiring. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Grinding, grating, rasping. The millwheel of death. Grinding down the pieces of a life, to fit death’s specifications.

  Up the hill went the column, the nassasalers setting the pace. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A fitting sound, thought Gustad, to surround death. Awesome and magnificent as death itself. And as painful and incomprehensible, no matter how many times I hear it repeated. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A sound to stir the past, to stir up sleeping memories, to whisk them all into the flux of the present, all the occasions when I marched thus, up the hill, upon the gravel walk, as though to crunch, to grind, to crush all loss, all sorrow, into dry flakes, pulverize it into nothingness, be rid of it for ever.

  But it always comes back. So much gravel to tread, so many walks to take. For Grandma: who insisted on live chickens, knew spices and half-nelsons, and the secret but universal connections between matchmaking and wrestling. For Grandpa: who made furniture as stout-hearted as his own being, who knew that when a piece of furniture was handed down, the family was enriched by much more than just wood and dowels. For Mamma: fair as morning, sweet as the music of her mandolin, who went gently through life, offending no one, whispered goodnight-Godblessyou through the gauze-like net, and departed much too early. For Pappa: lover of books, who tried to read life like a book and was therefore lost, utterly lost, when the final volume was found missing its most crucial pages …

  The incline of the hill levelled off. The procession had arrived at the Tower. The nassasalers halted and placed the bier on the stone platform outside. They uncovered the face one last time and stood aside. It was time for the last farewell to Dinshawji.

  The men approached the stone platform, still linked in twos and threes, the way they had walked up the hill, and bowed three times in unison without letting go of the white kerchiefs. Then the four shouldered the bier again and climbed the stone steps to the door leading inside the Tower. They entered and pulled it shut behind them. The mourners could see no more. But they knew what would happen inside: the nassasalers would place the body on a pavi, on the outermost of three concentric stone circles. Then, without touching Dinshawji’s flesh, using their special hooked rods they would tear off the white cloth. Every stitch, till he was exposed to the creatures of the air, naked as the day he had entered the world.

  Overhead, the vultures were circling, flying lower and lower with each perfect circle they casually described. Now they started to alight on the high stone wall of the Tower, and in the tall trees around it.

  Nusli edged closer to Gustad. He whispered nervously, ‘Gustad Uncle. Vultures are coming, the vultures are coming!’

  ‘Yes, Nusli,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Don’t worry, everything is all right.’ Nusli nodded gratefully.

  The mourners walked to the terrace of the nearby atash-dadgah where the attendant handed out prayer books. There were not enough to go around; the attendant muttered to himself, ‘How many copies am I supposed to keep?’

  At the Tower, the chief nassasaler clapped three times: the signal to start the prayer for Dinshawji’s ascending soul.

  While they prayed, the vultures descended in great numbers, so graceful in flight but transforming into black hunched forms upon perching, grim and silent. The high stone wall was lined with them now, their serpent-like necks and bald heads rising incongruously from their plumage.

  The prayer books were handed back, the white handkerchiefs folded and put away. The mourners had to make one last stop: to wash their hands and faces, do their kustis, before returning down the hill to rejoin the world of the living. And there, amid the sound of water taps and the murmur of prayers, Gustad turned abruptly to Mr Madon: ‘I need leave on Friday and Saturday.’ It was wholly impulsive; he had prepared no excuses.

  But Mr Madon assumed the request was relating to Dinshawji’s death ceremonies. He was quite understanding: ‘Of course. I will mark it on my calendar, first thing in the morning.’

  At the bungalee, Gustad returned Nusli to Alamai. She thanked Mr Madon for coming. He replied it was his duty.

  ii

  The street lights were extinguished as Gustad’s taxi arrived at Victoria Terminus. The white statue of the Queen hovered in the dawn before the main façade. Red-shirted porters with thick, head-cushioning turbans rushed to the taxi, turning away disappointed when they saw the small bag.

  Gustad went to the huge display but no trains were listed. Nearby, the questions of hordes of disgruntled travellers were being fielded by a white-jacketed official who kept removing his black-visored white cap to rub his forehead. Gustad waited for an opening, a space to elbow himself into, and finally shouted over their heads, ‘Please excuse me, Inspector!’

  His words found a direct channel to the beleaguered ears. The ‘please’ was balm to that harried spirit: ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Where are all the trains?’

  ‘Railway is gone on strike since midnight, sir.’

  Gustad felt relief: now I can cancel the trip with a clear conscience. ‘There is no service at all?’

  ‘We don’t know that, sir. But please listen to loudspeakers, they will be providing all the latest news.’

  Gustad thanked him and went to the Inquiry counter. A handwritten sign perched on the closed window: refunds were available, but all bookings would be honoured when service resumed. To return his ticket, give back the money to Ghulam Mohammed, would be the easiest thing. Forget Jimmy once and for all. But if I don’t give him a chance. To explain …

  The tea stall was doing brisk business. Dilnavaz had forbidden Gustad to consume anything not packaged by a reputable company, but it was too early for a bottled cold drink. The man was setting up a pyramid of cups and saucers: ‘Hot chai! Hot chai!’ At intervals he eschewed that prosaic call for a rhyme sung with great gusto:

  Drink from saucer, drink from cup!

  Forget your sorrow, drink it up!

  Train will run – today? Tomorrow?

  Drink one saucer, forget your sorrow!

  Gustad set down his bag and ordered. ‘Wait!’ he exclaimed as the man was about to pour from a vast kettle boiling atop a Primus stove at full blast. ‘That cup is dirty.’

  The man squinted into it: ‘You are absolutely telling the truth. But why worry, in one second it will be clean.’ Without warning he cuffed his helper violently over the ear. ‘Budmaas! Leaving it dirty? Wash properly or I’ll throw you out!’

  ‘The water only is dirty, what can I do, you won’t let me get more,’ mumbled the boy of eight or nine, dipping the cup in a bucket of murky water.

  He was cuffed over the other ear for his efforts. ‘Sooverka batcha! Blaming the water? Wash! Wash properly or every huddi I will break.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at Gustad while the child whisked the cup around in the brown fluid: ‘Absolutely clean now,’ then dried it with a fl
ourish of the cloth doing triple duty: to wipe brow, counter, and crockery.

  Gustad took the tea and moved away. He poured a little in the saucer, blew, and tried a draught. The scalding brew was strong and sweet. Felt good going down, despite the dirty cup. Ah, the unique pleasures of railway tea: not so much the drink but the act, the privileged observer status it conferred. He watched detachedly as a family of four made itself comfortable under the station clock. Bedding unrolled, the father was fast asleep, outmanoeuvring circumstances that laid waste to his plans. Wife by his feet, infant at her breast. An older child curled up beside his father. Around their temporary shelter stood walls of luggage. Not far away, a woman lit her portable kerosene stove to make chapaatis. Her family members ate a pungent breakfast stew from shiny stainless-steel boxes.

  A railway security person approached the stove, bent over wordlessly and doused the flame. ‘Oiee!’ cried the woman. ‘What are you doing?’ Maintaining his arrogant silence, he pointed to the sign listing prohibited acts.

  ‘I’m a poor person,’ said the woman. ‘How can I read?’

  The guard deigned to speak, reading the law for her. ‘What kind of law is this?’ protested the woman. ‘Not being allowed to make chapaati for my children?’

  ‘For the sake of your children’s chapaati if whole place catches fire, then what?’

  The loudspeakers came alive with violent hissing and crackling, then a high-pitched hum. A hush descended upon the railway station. The tea-stall clatter ceased; the newsstand boys stopped calling; and the sudden quiet awakened the man on the bedding. He sat up with a start. Everyone waited for the voice from above to speak of deliverance. The hiss and crackle bore fruit: ‘Checking checking checking. One two three four. Checking. Ek do teen chaar.’ A painful whine. Then the voice again, hoarse and indistinct, the malfunctioning system devouring most of the words. The survivors emerged like grape seeds spat carelessly through the loudspeaker mesh: ‘Passengers are req … to vacate the plat … and wait in the … trains arrive … at which time … ssengers with tickets may … platforms.’