Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  ‘Sohrab. My head is spinning and spinning because of the worries. You had said there was another remedy. A final remedy. We must do it now, please!’

  ‘Must-bust nothing!’ said Miss Kutpitia, miffed. ‘How much do you know about these things? Don’t tell me what to do!’

  Dilnavaz retreated meekly: ‘Never would I think of telling you what to do. But this is the only chance, it seems to me.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are asking. Terrible things could happen.’ Miss Kutpitia’s eyes narrowed, her voice dire, full of unspeakable events. ‘And not all your sorrow or regret later on will do any good, or change one single thing.’

  ‘Then my son is lost for ever?’

  Miss Kutpitia was familiar with the sorrow for a lost son. ‘That is not what I am saying. If you insist, we will do it. But on your head will be the parinaam, on your head the weight of all the consequences.’

  Dilnavaz shuddered. ‘For my son’s sake I take the risk.’

  ‘Then it is settled. Wait.’ She became businesslike. From a pile of cardboard boxes, tins, newspapers and torn clothes, she fished out an old shoe-box. ‘This will do. Now we need a lizard. Can you manage?’ Dilnavaz’s face radiated no confidence.

  ‘Never mind. I will get one, wait.’ Miss Kutpitia opened one of the two locked doors and shut it behind her. There were sounds of scampering before she emerged triumphantly, panting a bit, and handed over the box. ‘Be careful with the lid, or it will run away. Wait, better tie some string.’ From the heap where she found the shoe-box, she extracted a length. ‘Good. Now leave it till sunrise under the bed where Sohrab used to sleep. Below the head. And bring it back tomorrow.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘One step at a time. Do this much first.’

  She knew Miss Kutpitia would not satisfy her curiosity. ‘Is ten o’clock all right?’ No later than that: Gustad could return any time after noon, depending on the train.

  ‘Ten, eleven, anything. Bring the box, and bring Tehmul, that’s all.’

  ‘Tehmul?’

  ‘Of course.’ Miss Kutpitia was annoyed at the silly question. ‘Without him the lizard is useless.’

  Imagining bizarre possibilities around the Tehmul-and-lizard combination, Dilnavaz passed Dimple and Mr Rabadi in the compound, and thought she caught a whiff of garlic as he scratched his scalp. She was relieved he had not suffered permanent damage. His eyes were fine, glaring fiercely at her.

  She placed the shoe-box below Sohrab’s dholni. How long it has been, she thought, since he rolled it out from under Darius’s bed. The ache in my heart will not leave. Not till I hear again, each night, the rumbling of the castors.

  iii

  Jimmy was still in the grip of the injection when Gustad returned from the canteen. He soundlessly drew the chair close and waited. Again, the hand was first to stir. ‘Gustad?’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy.’ He stroked the hand. ‘I am still here.’

  ‘Makes me thirsty … injection.’ He reached for the water. ‘Till where … did I tell you?’

  ‘Prime Minister called you again to her office. You said she had made plans to protect herself.’

  ‘Protect herself … yes … trap me.’ Once he located the place, he proceeded as though he had not stopped. ‘She said, I arranged for money … because Mukti Bahini must be helped … but. Having second thoughts. She said, I have enemies … everywhere. If they find out about this money, they will use the information against me. No difference to them that money is for a good cause … our country will suffer if government destabilized. Very dangerous border situation … CIA, Pakistani agents …

  ‘It made sense. Shall I bring the money back, I asked. She said no, Mukti Bahini must not suffer … should be another way.

  ‘She said, only problem is my telephone call to chief cashier … he might talk. Must correct that. How, I asked, he had heard her voice. She said, yes, but he did not see me speaking … we can always say someone imitated my voice.

  ‘Very clever woman, Gustad. She said, if my enemies try to make trouble, all you have to say is … you imitated my voice. I laughed … who would believe this? But she said, under the proper conditions, people will believe anything. She promised … nothing would happen to me.

  ‘Like a fool I agreed … trusted her. Then she said, maybe we should make our plan watertight … you can write a few lines just now. A confession. That you imitated my voice … because you wanted to continue helping Mukti Bahini. This way, she would be prepared in advance … if any politician tried to make mischief. Any allegations, and she could stand up in Parliament. With the written confession … that she was aware, and government was in control of the situation.

  ‘What can I say, Gustad? Even to this … I agreed. She gave me a blank sheet of paper and her own fountain-pen. I wrote my confession … like an idiot. My respect for her … grown so much over the months. Such a strong woman. Trusted her completely.’

  It baffled Gustad. The worldly-wise Jimmy Bilimoria, the cynical Major he had known for so many years, whose motto in life was: when in doubt, keep doubting. Could he really have done the foolish things he is describing? What kind of woman is she?

  ‘Sorry Gustad … talking so much, forgot about your lunch. You want to eat?’

  ‘No, I had some tea while you were sleeping.’

  Jimmy smiled, but upon his wasted face the smile became a painful grimace. ‘So often I have thought of Dilnavaz’s dhansak … those Sunday afternoons.’ He stared into the distance, his eyes cloudy. With a visible effort he began whispering again.

  ‘So my operation was in full swing, I thought … sent the good news to Mukti Bahini commander. But few weeks later … when I went to visit, total disappointment on his face. What happened to new financing, he said. Took me for inspection. I saw for myself. Ragged condition … bare feet, torn clothes, no helmets. A few had guns … rest drilling with sticks, branches. Something terribly wrong … I hurried back to Delhi …

  ‘Did some checking, through my private channels. Ghulam also investigated … at his end. They tried to finish him off on his Lambretta. Their favourite way, traffic accident. He was asking too many questions. But we discovered something impossible to believe. I checked again … Ghulam also. It made no sense … why this way, all she has to do is ask me …’ He choked and began coughing violently. Gustad supported his head till it stopped. He held up the glass of water but Jimmy waved it aside.

  ‘I have seen so much … bribery, double-cross, blackmail. This one …’ He paused, and now took the water.

  ‘What happened to the money?’ asked Gustad.

  ‘Money I was disbursing for supplies … intercepted. By Prime Minister’s office. Rerouted. To a private account.’

  ‘Are you sure of it?’

  Jimmy made a gesture of despair: ‘Wish I could say no.’

  ‘But for what?’

  ‘That I am not sure of. One possibility – to finance her son’s car factory. Or could be for election fund, or maybe …’ ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Not what I should have done … but something very stupid. Should have exposed the whole thing. Told the press, opposition parties. Started an inquiry. But I thought, everything is controlled by her. RAW, the courts, broadcasting … everything is in her pocket, all will be covered up …’

  Suddenly, Jimmy screamed, covering his face with his hands. ‘Stop! Please stop!’ He thrashed around, legs kicking air. ‘Stop! Aaaaa!’ Gustad tried to hold him but Jimmy kept him off with his flailing arms. He subsided of his own accord in a few moments, then lay panting, cold sweat running down his face, knees drawn up to his stomach.

  Shaken, Gustad knew it was the telling that brought back the prison nightmare. He put his arm around him: ‘It’s OK, Jimmy. No one will hurt you, I’m still here.’

  Gradually, Jimmy unclenched his fists and let his legs straighten. But he continued to shiver, and Gustad soothed him till it passed. He opened his eyes. ‘Gustad? Water, please.’ Gustad proppe
d up the pillow again.

  ‘Whole day and night I sat in my flat. Doing nothing … just thinking. What hope for the country? With such crooked leaders? Whole day and night … I sat thinking of all the people I had come across in my life … men in the army, good men. And my Ghulam Mohammed. Khodadad Building … the families living there. You and Dilnavaz, the children, the ambitions you have for them. And those bastards, those ministers and politicians, those ugly buffaloes and pigs … getting fatter and fatter, sucking our blood …’ Jimmy trembled, choking with vehemence.

  ‘It drove me crazy to think of all this. But I decided – if they can profit from the sixty lakh, why not us? Her son, his Maruti car factory, whatever they use it for … we can also use some. You, your family, Ghulam, me. Why not? I put aside ten lakh, told Ghulam to expect a delivery … our usual channels in Chor Bazaar.’

  As gently as he could, Gustad asked, ‘But why did you not tell me what was really happening?’

  ‘Gustad, I know you … your principles. Would you have agreed … if I told you the truth? My plan was to complete my assignment, resign. Return to Bombay and divide the money. You, Ghulam Mohammed, me. It was wrong, I know, two wrongs don’t make a right. But I was disgusted. And I was absolutely sure … if fifty lakh reached PM’s office … no one would bother about missing ten. Every pipeline has leaks.

  ‘But … I was mistaken. They came for me … arrested … made a case based on my confession. What they really wanted was the ten lakh. You know how it is in our jails when you refuse to …’

  ‘And you refused.’

  ‘Had to protect you and Ghulam … did not want any trouble for you. Once money was returned, everything fine. Transferred to hospital, proper treatment …’

  Jimmy fell silent, and Gustad sensed he wanted to hear his reaction. ‘What shall I say, Jimmy? All this suffering. But can you not still talk to lawyers, or newspapers, tell them the truth about your ten lakh, and about the whole bloody crooked –’

  ‘Gustad, it has been tried. Everything is in their control … courts in their pockets. Only one way … quietly do my four years … then forget about it.’

  ‘Everyone knows there’s corruption,’ said Gustad. ‘But to this level? Hard to believe.’

  ‘Gustad, it is beyond the common man’s imagination, the things being done by those in power. But I did not call you here to make you worry … feel sorry for me. What has happened has happened. I just wanted to talk to you. To make sure you don’t think I tried to trick you. You were so angry, Ghulam told me … in your place I would also have been. But I was hoping … you will forgive me now.’

  Gustad held his gaze. He saw his friend’s need for absolution, the pleading in his eyes. ‘Do you forgive me?’

  There was only one answer to give: ‘Rubbish. Nothing to forgive, Jimmy.’

  Trying to reach Gustad’s hand, Jimmy raised his, shaking with the effort. Gustad clasped it firmly. ‘Thank you, Gustad. For everything … for coming, listening …’

  For a while they were silent. Then their conversation was of the old times, when the boys were still very little, when Major Uncle taught them how to march, left-right, left-right, and how to present arms, using rulers for rifles.

  The nurse came to administer another injection shortly before it was time for Gustad to leave. The sinewy woman turned Jimmy over – the other side, this time – and plunged in the needle.

  They managed to finish what they were talking about, say goodbye, before the drug silenced him. Gustad sat awhile on the edge of the bed, listening to the troubled breathing. He pulled the sheet up, tucked it in, then bent over and kissed his friend lightly on the forehead.

  *

  While Gustad slept propped up between his fellow travellers, the Prime Minister, in a special radio broadcast, told the nation that Pakistani Air Force planes had just bombed Indian airfields in Amritsar, Pathankot, Srinagar, Jodhpur, Chandigarh, Ambala, and Agra. She said it was an act of naked aggression; and consequently, India was now at war with Pakistan. By the time the train neared Bombay, everyone aboard had heard the news, having picked up bits and pieces of information mingled with rumour at stations along the way. At Victoria Terminus Gustad tried to buy a paper, but the few remaining copies were going at five times the normal price, and he turned it down.

  NINETEEN

  i

  For good measure Dilnavaz left the lizard under Sohrab’s dholni three hours past sunrise. When it was time to visit Miss Kutpitia, she picked up the box gingerly and shook it. A reassuring rustle came from within.

  What possible conjunction of Tehmul and the lizard would bring Sohrab back, she could not even begin to guess. Strange, that in Miss Kutpitia’s presence, inside that flat, doubts vanished so easily, and all her remedies became paradigms of sound, judicious action. And yet, I must be going mad, to have begged her to do this.

  She pushed open the front window to look for Tehmul. He was waiting for her. ‘Limejuicelimejuice. Veryveryverytasty.’

  ‘No, no. No more lime juice. But Miss Kutpitia has something very nice for you. Go, she is calling.’

  ‘Phonephonephoneupstairs.’

  ‘Right, where the phone is. Go, I am also coming.’

  ‘Goinggoingverytasty.’ Grinning hard, he set off, right hand under left armpit. She let him have a head start of roughly two minutes before following with the box.

  An air of impatience surrounded Miss Kutpitia. She bustled them inside. ‘Come on, come on, shut the door,’ she muttered. ‘Where do you think I do these things, on the staircase?’

  Dilnavaz awaited her instructions. Now that the time was here, she felt trapped (helpless, she thought, as the lizard in the shoe-box). Events were already in motion; she could but watch them gather momentum and manifest the promised end. Grinding spices on the masala stone was one thing, grinding events to a halt was another. It needed a different sort of strength.

  In a daze, she watched Miss Kutpitia go to one of the two closed doors and unlock it with a key from the bunch around her neck. There was a gleam in the old woman’s eyes as, in the manner of an artist unveiling the pièce de résistance, she threw open the portal and bade them enter the forbidden chamber.

  The windows were shut tight, the heavy curtains drawn. Thick, stubborn odours of mildew and disuse loomed in the doorway. But Dilnavaz was reluctant to penetrate the room’s gloomy secrets. With the palpable truth behind years of rumours and stories awaiting her, she lingered timidly in the passage. Tehmul, wide-eyed and perspiring, scratched nervously.

  Miss Kutpitia became impatient with the dawdling twosome. ‘Nothing will get done if you hover by the door all day!’ She pushed them inside and slammed her hand over the wall switch. A weak light came on.

  Dilnavaz gasped. She was unable to decide whether to look, or look away; both desires were equally strong. So she did neither, waited till the room and its contents (with the look of things which had never been looked at) began to register gradually upon her consciousness.

  Shades of grey and white shrouded everything. Cobweb wreaths and layers of dust made it difficult to identify objects, except for the ghostly furniture. But as her senses adapted to the eerie stillness and the crepuscular glow of the dim, dust-coated light bulb, the shadowy chamber started grudgingly to yield its secrets. She was now able to see that the rags hanging on the clothes-horse had once possessed the crisp, starched form of a boy’s shirt and short pants, perhaps a school uniform. From the lower rod, two dark, holey rags dangling like moults of mysterious reptiles were definitely the remains of socks. And what seemed to be a strip of shrivelled leather had been a belt of the finest snakeskin. Yes, it was clear.

  Yes, she could see now, this must have been the room of Miss Kutpitia’s nephew Farad, who had once filled her cup to overflowing. The one who had died with his father in the car accident on the mountain road. And when their broken bodies were recovered from the ravine, Miss Kutpitia’s cup had shattered, as irreparably as their bones – beyond the reach of any bon
esetter’s art, beyond miracles.

  But Miss Kutpitia had been trying to mend and fix, ever since, in her own peculiar way. Her three and a half decades of reverently observed isolation had allowed the tropical climate to work its rot and ruin. The damp of thirty-five monsoons, rampant humidity-loving fungi, numerous types of variegated moulds – all played their clammy, smeary parts in the process of decay and disintegration. There was the boy’s desk, with an exercise book lying open, its pages curled and yellow. Next to it, a stack of textbooks, the one on top brown-paper-covered, with the title penned by a boy’s yet-to-mature hand, in fading ink that had defied the intervening years: High School English Grammar and Composition by Wren & Martin. Fountain-pen and inkpot, dry as dust. A warped, cracked ruler. Pencils. Erasers like little chunks of hardwood. Draped over a chair, a green raincoat covered with fuzzy, grey growth; under the chair, black gumboots, gone furry grey. On the bed, the mattress’s black-striped ticking showed through gaping holes in the bedclothes where generations of moths had feasted for ten thousand nights. But the sheet and blanket were neatly arranged, the pillow in position, awaiting the occupant’s return.

  The door to the adjoining room was open too, and Dilnavaz could glimpse parts of its interior. That must have been the room of Farad’s father. His lawyer’s robe, in shreds more grey than black, was suspended from the door latch on a wire hanger. Sheaves of legal documents, bundles of court papers, each tied correctly with pink cloth ribbon, were in neat piles on a metal desk. A hairbrush, shaving kit, attaché case, magazines, occupied a bedside table. And everywhere, the cobwebs hung densely, wreathing the light fixtures, curtains, doorframes, windows, cupboards, clothes-horses, ceiling fans. Like tohruns and garlands of gloom, the cobwebs had spread their clinging arms and embraced the relics of Miss Kutpitia’s grief-stricken past.

  ‘Stand aside, Tehmul,’ she said, irritated for no reason. ‘Don’t keep coming in my way.’ She took the box from Dilnavaz and placed it on Farad’s desk, opening the lid just a crack. In due course the lizard poked out its tongue-flicking snout. Miss Kutpitia promptly whacked it over the head with the warped ruler. She turned the box over on the desk, and, pinching the lizard’s wriggling tail between her thumb and finger, snipped off about two inches of the appendage with a pair of blunt, rusty scissors.