Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  Dilnavaz blanched; like Tehmul, she watched in fascination. Everything Miss Kutpitia needed was at the ready in this room. Like a regular cotton wick, the tail was inserted into a wick-holder, dipped in oil, and floated in the lamp glass. Loaded with its strange cargo, the holder rocked on the oil surface as the tail continued to writhe and wiggle, but managed to stay afloat.

  ‘Now,’ she said to Dilnavaz, picking up her box of matches. ‘You go and stand outside. You,’ she said to Tehmul. ‘You want to have some fun?’

  ‘Funfunfunfunfunfun.’

  ‘Then sit down and pay attention to this glass.’

  Tehmul giggled at the squirming tail and sat. The rotted wicker seat gave immediately. He sank, his bottom sticking out below and rendering him helpless. ‘Fallingfallingfalling,’ he appealed with a drowning man’s outstretched arms.

  Dilnavaz helped to extricate him before she left the room. Outside the door, a whiff of acrid fumes told her Miss Kutpitia had struck the match. Within seconds the latter emerged, shutting the door behind her.

  ‘Very dangerous to look at it once it is burning,’ she said. ‘That’s why I had to send you away.’

  ‘But what about you? You must have seen it.’

  ‘Never. You think I am crazy? I know how to light it without looking.’ For five minutes they listened to Tehmul’s giggles through the odours of burning lizard skin and flesh. Then Miss Kutpitia opened the door and called him out.

  He was reluctant to leave. ‘Twistingburningtwistingburning.’

  ‘Enough now,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘go play in the compound.’ She would wait a little longer to clean the glass, she whispered to Dilnavaz, because she wanted to take no chances. Even a smouldering bit of tail could have devastating consequences. Like that (she snapped her fingers) you could lose your mind.

  Dilnavaz immediately took a good look at Tehmul to see if there was any change. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘it needs a few days.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dilnavaz, relieved and disappointed.

  ‘Twistingtwisting,’ said Tehmul. He descended the stairs, leading with his good leg and letting the lame one drop heavily. ‘Twisting-twistingfireturning. Funfunfunfun.’ He waved and disappeared from sight, but his voice came from the stairwell below: ‘Burning-burningburningburning.’ That the lizard tail had wriggled its way out of the glass and on to Farad’s tattered exercise book, he left unsaid.

  ii

  As Gustad stepped off the bus from Victoria Terminus, he could see that the compound wall’s last vacant spots had been filled while he was away. Pictures of prophets, saints, swamis, babas, seers, holy men and sacred places, in oils and enamels, covered every square inch of black stone. The bright colours glistened in the late morning light.

  On the pavement, flowers had been left by the faithful: singly, or in posies and bouquets. There were thick garlands, too, of roses and lilies, gulgota and goolchhadi, filling the air with their heavenly fragrances. He could smell them as far away as the bus stop, faint as the touch of the woman’s veil at Mount Mary. And the closer he came, the richer grew the sweet aromas. Zinnias, marigolds, mogra, chamayli, goolbahar, magnolias, bunfasha, chrysanthemum, suraj-mukhi, asters, dahlias, bukayun, nargis enveloped his senses in a fantastic profusion of colour and scent, making him smile dreamily and forget his exhaustion from two nights on the train.

  What an amazing contrast to the wall of old, he thought. Hard now to even imagine the horrid shit-and-piss hell it was. Dada Ormuzd, You are wonderful. Instead of flies and mosquitoes buzzing, a thousand colours dancing in sunlight. Instead of the stink, this glorious fragrance of paradise. Heaven on earth.

  Weeks had gone by since he last examined the wall properly. Everything in crayon had been erased and done over in oil, including the inaugural Trimurti of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. What a miraculous transformation. God is really in His heaven, and all is right with Khodadad Building.

  Gustad remembered the evening, almost two months ago, when he had been surprised by the perfume of an agarbatti wedged in a pavement crack. Today there were bunches of them, in agarbatti holders, sending up their fragile wisps of white, sweet-scented smoke. Nearby, in a little earthen thurible, loban smouldered with its unique, pleasantly pungent fragrance. Candles and oil lamps were lit at intervals. And there was even a stick of sandalwood before the portrait of Zarathustra. The black wall had verily become a shrine for all races and religions.

  ‘Your idea was great, sir,’ said the pavement artist. ‘This is the best location in the whole city.’

  ‘No, no, credit goes to your talent. And with your new oil paints, the pictures look even more wonderful than before. But what is all that stuff in the corner?’ Gustad pointed to the far end of the wall, where a few bamboo poles, corrugated metal sheets, pieces of cardboard and plastic were stacked.

  ‘I am planning to build a small shelter for myself. With your permission, sir.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gustad. ‘But you used to say that you like sleeping on your mat under the stars. What happened?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said the artist, embarrassed. ‘Just for a change. Come, let me show you the new ones I painted.’ He led him by the arm. ‘See there: Parvati with Garland Awaiting Shiva; Hanuman the Monkey God Building the Bridge to Lanka; Rama Killing the Demon Ravana; and next to that, Rama and Sita Reunited. And here: Upasani Baba, Kamu Baba, Godavari Mata. And this world-famous church, St Peter’s, designed by Michelangelo, you must have heard of it.’ Gustad nodded.

  ‘Some more Christian paintings over here. Baby Jesus in the Manger with Three Wise Men; Madonna and Child; Sermon on the Mount. And these are Old Testament: Moses and the Burning Bush; Parting of Red Sea; Noah’s Ark; David and Goliath; Samson Between the Pillars Pulling Down the House of Philistines.’

  ‘Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘And here is the famous Blue Mosque. Next to it, Haji Malung’s Durgah in Kalyan. That’s the Kaaba. Over here, the two great synthesizers of Hinduism and Islam: Kabir and Guru Nanak.’

  ‘What about these, on this side? You missed them.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I thought you had seen them before. This is Agni, God of Fire; Kali, the World-Mother; and Goddess Yellamma of the devdasis.’

  ‘Yellamma?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

  ‘Yes. The deity of devdasis – you know, rundees, vaishyas, whores – same thing, for all practical purposes. They call her Protector of Prostitutes,’ explained the artist, and now Gustad remembered. Long, long ago, during his school days. He had heard the name in the stories of Peerbhoy Paanwalla.

  ‘And this one. You should recognize this one,’ said the pavement artist, smiling mischievously.

  Gustad looked closely at what seemed a very familiar place. ‘Looks like our wall,’ he said tentatively.

  ‘Absolutely correct. It’s now a sacred place, is it not? So it rightfully deserves to be painted on a wall of holy men and holy places.’

  Gustad bent down to get a better look at the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a …

  ‘That’s everything,’ said the artist. ‘Except for one more. I saved it for the end.’ He led Gustad to the section which used to be shared by Zarathustra, Dustoorji Kookadaru and Meherji Rana. A fourth figure had been added, also in the garb and head-dress of a Parsi priest.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Gustad sharply.

  ‘That’s the surprise. Being a Parsi yourself, I was thinking you will find this incident very interesting. You see, few days back, a gentleman who lives in your building – one with the small white dog-’

  ‘Rabadi,’ said Gustad.

  ‘He said to me that since I was doing drawings of holy men and prophets, he had a request. I said sure, there is room for everyone on this wall. He showed me a black and white photo, said it was Dustoorji Baria, Very Holy Man for Parsis. Does lots of miracles to help the sick and suffering, he said. And not just restricted to spiritual problems, because the philosophy of
Zoroastrian religion encourages material and spiritual success.

  ‘I knew all this. But I did not want to tell him that besides my Art School diploma I had degrees in Ancient and Present-Day World Religions. You never know when you will learn something new. So I listened. He said that Dustoorji Baria was famous for helping people with health problems, pet problems, stock-market problems, business-partnership problems, job-finding problems, merchant-banker problems, problems of distinguished civil servants, problems of chairmen of many committees, problems of industrial lords, problems of petty contractors, and so on.

  ‘OK, I am convinced, I said to him, and took the photo. Began to draw the picture. When the sketch was finished, I started with the oil paint. But then in the evening, that police inspector who lives here went by in his car –’

  ‘Inspector Bamji,’ said Gustad.

  ‘He went by, looking at the new drawing. Suddenly he braked hard and reversed, began shouting at me to stop painting. I was quite frightened, you see, I have had enough trouble with police. No appreciation for art they have – treat me as a vagrant or beggar. With very much humility I told him, please sir, the man with the small white dog has respectfully requested it, because this is a Parsi Holy Man.

  ‘The Inspector began to laugh. Holy man? he said, arré, that fellow is a charlatan and a disgrace to the Parsi priesthood. Fooling desperate people, selling his photo-frames and amulets and rubbish. That sort of thing is absolutely not encouraged in Zoroastrianism, said the Inspector.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Mr Rabadi came out for dog-walking. He heard the Inspector and began to argue: Dustoorji Baria had never made one single paisa of profit from his Holy Powers, those who said so were filthy jealous dogs, lazy idle loafers unfit to lick the sacred soles of his sapaat. Besides, this was a secular country, people had the right to believe what they wanted to, and Dustoorji Baria had a right to be on the wall as much as anyone else.

  ‘I had to agree with his last point. The Inspector must have felt embarrassed about squabbling in public. He said, do what you like, a charlatan will remain a charlatan even if you put him among prophets and saints. Then he went away.

  ‘Mr Rabadi told me that there were lots of sceptics and maligners like Inspector Bamji but they would all see the truth one day. He said he had proof of Dustoorji Baria’s saintliness. When his big dog, Tiger, died a few years ago, tears fell from the eyes of a framed photograph of Dustoorji Baria that he has in his house. Amazing.’

  ‘But do you believe it?’ asked Gustad, smiling broadly.

  ‘You see, I don’t like to weaken anyone’s faith. Miracle, magic, mechanical trick, coincidence – does it matter what it is, as long as it helps? Why analyse the strength of the imagination, the power of suggestion, power of auto-suggestion, the potency of psychological pressures? Looking too closely is destructive, makes everything disintegrate. As it is, life is difficult enough. Why to simply make it tougher? After all, who is to say what makes a miracle and what makes a coincidence?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. ‘But this wall is the kind of miracle I like to see, useful and genuine, rather than tears from a photograph. A stinking, filthy disgrace has become a beautiful, fragrant place which makes everyone feel good.’

  ‘And it will get better and better, now that the war has started. At such times people become more generously religious.’

  ‘True,’ said Gustad. ‘Look, that sandalwood has stopped burning. You got matches?’

  The pavement artist had a box. While Gustad attempted to rekindle the stick, a fire-engine clanged past, slowed, and turned into the compound. He abandoned the sandalwood and hurried inside. Firemen were unwinding the hose as he got there.

  Tehmul was watching them, engrossed. He waved excitedly: ‘GustadGustadGustad. Dingdingdingdingdingding. Funfunfun. Twist-ingtwistingtturningfire.’

  ‘Not now, Tehmul,’ he said impatiently. Smoke was emerging from Miss Kutpitia’s flat. He wondered if she was all right.

  iii

  After the firemen left, everyone agreed it was a miracle Miss Kutpitia’s flat had come through largely unscathed. That there had been more smoke than flame was easily overlooked.

  Through tellings and retellings, the smoky little fire became a roaring blaze, then grew into an uncontrollable conflagration. Khodadad Building had been on the verge of turning into a morsel for the belly of the raging inferno. But divine intervention had come to the rescue, it was fervently affirmed.

  Others ascribed the good fortune to the wall: with people stopping to pray, to utter their invocations and thanksgivings, they said, it undoubtedly created endless vibrations of a propitious nature. How could it be other than that goodness and virtue reside here, in constant compassionate watch over this exalted place?

  Inside Miss Kutpitia’s flat, the damage was confined to the locked rooms. The precious grief-nurturing reminders of her beloved nephew and brother had perished within the brick walls of those reliquaries. Grey ash now lightly lay, covering the floors and the furniture, mingled with the dust of thirty-five years. The soggy ash coated everything, as though a sackful had been bought from the raakh-bhoosa man and spread by diligent human hands to scrub and scour the two rooms.

  Miss Kutpitia and Dilnavaz assessed the damage, the latter promising to get Darius to help clear the mess. She was surprised that Miss Kutpitia accepted the outcome so matter-of-factly. In fact, Dilnavaz found her positively cheery, looking forward to the chores that lay ahead, enjoying the sympathetic attention of people who had decided to forget her reputation for meanness and crankiness. It was tacitly accepted now that a person so providentially delivered from the jaws of fiery death must have forces of goodness on her side.

  Only Miss Kutpitia understood the mystery of the benign fire. For thirty-five years, the very essences of all the hoarded mementoes had worked like a gentle salve upon the unkind gashes of her sorrow. They soothed her grief with their secret marrow, and Miss Kutpitia understood this well.

  But she also knew that the qualities which made these objects special, made them glow with the aura which their owners had imparted to them, were not eternal – that one day they would lose their luminescence and become worthless. When that happened, she would be on her own.

  Now, with the fire, it was evident that the day had arrived. The fire’s conduct made it plain – all that was healing and life-giving in her treasures had already been drawn forth by her, leaving feathery husks too insubstantial to feed the flames. It was no great matter of puzzlement for Miss Kutpitia that the fire died in such a docile fashion.

  *

  In between helping Miss Kutpitia and doing her own cooking and chores, Dilnavaz heard Gustad tell Jimmy’s story. She was happy and light-hearted for the first time in months. All the terror and shame and guilt of dabbling in unspeakable things with Miss Kutpitia was cremated in the fire, along with Miss Kutpitia’s past.

  Gustad wished she would sit still and listen. He tried to convey his anguish at witnessing Jimmy’s wretched condition. ‘You know the wooden presses that roadside juicewallas use? To squeeze the fruit? When I walked into Jimmy’s room and saw him, it felt like my heart was being pulped in one of those presses.’ His voice shook, but Dilnavaz did not notice. The softening veil of hustle-bustle and relief that descended in the wake of the lizard-tail mishap blurred and distorted things, held out generous promises of happy endings.

  She was certain that Jimmy would recover and come back to Khodadad Building after four years. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  Gustad preferred to say nothing. He turned to Roshan. ‘Now, my little monkey. Just because you are feeling better does not mean you should run around all day. Little by little, as you get stronger.’ He rose and stretched. ‘So sleepy. Two nights on the train. But such a lot of work to do.’

  ‘You don’t have to come to help Miss Kutpitia,’ said Dilnavaz.

  ‘That is not what I meant at all. The war has started.’

  ‘So what work f
or you if the war has started? My husband will take a gun and go to fight?’ She threw her arms around his neck and, laughing, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Roshan’s recovery, Gustad’s safe return, Miss Kutpitia’s bright new demeanour – what more could she ask for? The days of gloom and worry were far behind. Except, of course, for Sohrab’s absence. But even that, she felt, would now somehow be put right.

  ‘Very funny you are becoming,’ said Gustad sternly. ‘Total blackout has been declared from tonight. I have to prepare for that, and for air raids.’

  ‘They are not going to come all the way to Bombay at once,’ she said, still laughing.

  ‘All the way? Do you know that with modern jet fighters the Pakistanis could be here in minutes? Or do you think they will send you a postcard when they want to drop a bomb?’

  ‘OK, baba, OK,’ she said good-humouredly. ‘Do whatever you think is necessary.’

  He said it was a good thing he had not removed the blackout paper, at least that was one less job. He reminded her how she had kept nagging about it nine years ago, after the China war, nagging on and on. But in ’65, when there was war with Pakistan, was it not convenient to have the paper already in place? ‘Same thing again. History repeats itself.’

  ‘OK, baba, OK, you were right.’

  He carried a chair to the front door to inspect the paper. ‘Leave Darius with me,’ he said, as she prepared to go with the long-handled broom and various assorted jhaavus and butaaras. ‘I’ll need his help for a little while.’ There were several places where mending was required. Darius stood by to hand him the hammer, nails, and paper patches. Gustad climbed up and realized there had been no air-raid siren at ten o’clock this morning. From now on it would sound only for the real thing.