Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  When the front door was done they moved the chair to the window by the black desk. ‘I’ll do this one,’ said Darius. He climbed up and put out his hand for the hammer. But his father was caressing the dark brown wood of the handle, a faraway smile on his face.

  ‘OK,’ called Darius, to get his attention.

  Gustad felt a great surge of pride as Darius’s fingers closed round the handle. ‘You never got to see your great-grandfather. But this is his hammer.’

  Darius nodded. He had listened when Gustad used to teach Sohrab carpentry. He hefted the ball-peen hammerhead by its perfectly balanced handle, and knocked in the nails. When he gave it back, the handle felt slightly damp to Gustad. From Darius’s palms, he thought. But how bountifully my grandfather used to sweat. Even in the prosperous days, when there were others to do it, he loved the heavy work. And the runnels pouring off his forehead, coursing down his face and neck. Deep in the midst of a job, two huge patches under his arms, and his vast shirt all soaked at the back, clinging to his skin, the wet appearing in the shape of a big heart. Then it was off with the shirt and sudra. The sweat flowing in great streams now, falling on pieces of wood, on the work table, on tools around him, sprinkling the layers of sawdust, which turned dark where the drops landed like life-giving water, like parched soil vitalized by a gardener. And the sweat from Grandpa’s palms, soaking the handle of this hammer. To darken and burnish the wood. His hands first, and then my hands. Making the handle smoother and smoother. Sohrab should have … but Darius will. He will add his gloss to the wood.

  What did it mean when a hammer like this was passed from generation to generation? It meant something satisfying, fulfilling, at the deep centre of one’s being. That was all. No need to wrestle further with the meaning of the words.

  They moved to the next window, the next ventilator, mending the tears, patching the gaps, while he told Darius about the workshop in the days before power tools, where men expended sweat and muscle, and sometimes even blood, to transform wood into useful, beautiful things; about Darius’s great-grandfather who was a huge, powerful man, kind and gentle, but with an unswerving sense of justice and fair play, who had once lifted his own foreman by the collar till his feet swung clear off the ground, threatening to toss him out in the street, because the foreman had mistreated one of the carpenters.

  They worked their way from window to window, from ventilator to ventilator, while Gustad remembered, opening the fenestrae of his life for Darius to look through. Darius had heard all the stories before, but somehow, with Great-Grandpa’s hammer in his hand, they sounded different.

  After the blackout paper was mended, they made shades of stiff cardpaper for the light bulbs hanging bare. They switched on the bulbs to check that the light fell in neat circles on the floor. Next, Gustad decided that underneath the huge four-poster bed would be the air-raid shelter: the pure ebony of its construction, and solid one-inch Burma teak slats, would be able to withstand the rubble if the worst were to happen.

  ‘It took two men with a crosscut saw a whole day. A whole day’s work, just to cut the ebony beams for the bedsteads and posters. That’s why the main frame of this old bed is strong as any old iron,’ he said. But the four-poster was next to the window. ‘It won’t do, has to be on the other side.’ The cupboard and dressing-table were pushed out of the way. Then they struggled with the bed’s immense weight, moving it inch by inch.

  Dilnavaz returned from Miss Kutpitia’s and saw them grunting and labouring. ‘What are you doing? Stop! Your aanterdo and liver will burst! Stop, listen to me!’

  ‘Do you know how strong your son is? Show her, Darius. Show her your muscles,’ said Gustad.

  ‘Touch wood, baba, touch wood,’ she said, reaching frantically for the bedstead, and let them complete the task.

  The mattress from Sohrab’s dholni was spread under the four-poster. Dilnavaz caressed the place where Sohrab’s head used to lie. Gustad frowned at her. He rolled up two blankets and stored them underneath, along with a torch and a water bottle. In an old biscuit tin he placed a phial of iodine, another of mercurochrome, a tube of penicillin ointment, cotton wool, adhesive tape, and two rolls of surgical gauze bandages. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘whenever there is a siren, we must go under.’

  Just like a young boy, thought Dilnavaz. How he enjoys all this excitement. Taking advantage of his good mood, she said, ‘If you are finished, Miss Kutpitia is requesting your help.’ The firemen had forced open her windows which had remained shut for thirty-five years. Now they would not close, not one of the three, and she was concerned because of the blackout.

  Gustad and Darius went readily to tackle the swollen windows, taking a chisel, sandpaper, two screwdrivers and the hammer. When they returned after an hour, Gustad remarked how Miss Kutpitia had changed. ‘Smiled at me, even made a joke, saying it was time I brought another rose for her. Earth-and-sky difference in the old woman.’

  And in you too, thought Dilnavaz happily.

  *

  The evening grew dark earlier than usual. By the gate, the lamppost stood lightless, and the pavement artist extinguished all candles, agarbattis and thuribles at sundown. The main road resembled a street under curfew. A solitary taxi went by, passengerless, headlights blackened. With its eyes closed, thought Gustad, like a somnambulist. Even the crows and sparrows, usually raucous at this hour, seemed disoriented by the unlit city.

  The grey compound exhaled an air of hopeless melancholy around the blacked-out flats. Gustad inspected his windows from the outside: no chinks, no cracks of light. He walked along and looked up at Tehmul’s windows. The older brother was in town, he had done the necessary work. But tomorrow he would leave on another of his sales trips. An extra key in case Tehmul got locked out was now with Gustad – Tehmul’s next-door neighbours refused to keep it any longer; they said he was driving them crazy.

  ‘What news, bossie?’ called Inspector Bamji. ‘Ready for the war?’ He was applying lampblack to the headlights, leaving only a thin slit.

  Gustad went up to him. ‘Night duty?’

  Bamji nodded. ‘That’s why this maader chod black stuff.’ He wiped his hands on a rag. ‘Bastards want to fight, now they will get a fight. Bloody bahen chod bhungees think they can just come over and bomb our airfields. What did they expect, our planes would be sitting outside? Our boys are damn smart, bossie, damn smart. Everything in underground concrete hangars. Now they will be clean bowled – off stump, middle stump, leg stump – nothing left standing.’

  Gustad pointed up at the building. ‘Looks like all our neighbours have done a good blackout.’

  ‘True,’ said Bamji. ‘But bossie, on first day everyone is enthusiastic. Then they get careless. And we get complaints at the police station. Same thing happened in ’65. Any time a light is seen shining, it’s a Pakistani spy.’ The wet rag would not remove the black stuff off his fingers. He went home to try something stronger.

  TWENTY

  i

  Mr Madon issued guidelines and directives concerning air raids and sirens. Wardens were appointed in each department to ensure, among other things, that those handling cash locked up before leaving their positions when the siren sounded. Employees were to retreat beneath their desks – only one person under one desk. Exceptions would be made for those sharing a desk if they were of the same sex; if not, they were to pair up with the nearest appropriate staff member. Wardens would supervise the propriety of the pairing. Mr Madon wanted no flirting-below-desk-scandal to arise and stain his bank’s escutcheon.

  The instruction list, like everything else at the bank, reminded Gustad of his departed friend. Dinshu would have had a field day in the canteen, mimicking Mr Madon. And speculating on the thrills of going under a desk with Laurie Coutino, mini-skirt and all.

  Now there were no jokes in the canteen, or song sessions. Instead, people talked endlessly about the war, repeating grim, gruesome stories of what was happening across the border. Rumour, fact, fantasy – all were devou
red with equal zeal.

  The debauched and alcoholic president of the enemy was said to be organizing unceasing bacchanals to keep his ministers and generals occupied: he feared an ouster if they regained their senses for too long. Thus did the crazed syphilitic cling to power, growing ever more desperate as he saw, through his haze of liquor, the unyielding worm gnawing contentedly at his brain.

  Stories about the demoniacal occupation of Bangladesh were balanced by accounts of the Indian Army’s gallantry. On the radio and in cinema newsreels, the Jawans liberated towns and villages, routed the enemy, and took prisoners by the thousands. There was report after report of the citizenry’s generous support for the fighting men: about an eighty-year-old peasant who travelled to New Delhi, clutching her two gold wedding bangles, which she presented to Mother India for the war effort (some newspapers reported it as Mother Indira, which did not really matter – the line between the two was fast being blurred by the Prime Minister’s far-sighted propagandists who saw its value for future election campaigns); about schoolchildren donating their lunch money, their faces scrubbed and shining as they posed with a splendidly rotund Congress Party official; about farmers chanting Jai Jawan! Jai Kissan! and pledging to work harder by growing more food for the country.

  Of course, in the newsreels, no mention was ever made of dutiful Shiv Sena patrols and motley fascists who roamed city streets with stones at the ready, patriotically shattering windows that they deemed inadequately blacked-out. Or the unlucky individuals mistaken for enemy agents and beaten up with great relish by personal enemies. Or the number of homes burgled by men posing as air-raid wardens come to inspect the premises. In short, no effort was spared to inform the country of its invincibility, unity and high morale.

  So high was the morale that when, six days into the war, the USA heeded General Yahya’s call and ordered its Seventh Fleet to the Bay of Bengal, the populace was ready to take on even the mighty Americans. The nuclear-powered aircraft-carrier Enterprise moved out from the Gulf of Tonkin and led the Seventh Fleet through the Strait of Malacca. Its glorious mission: to frighten a cyclone-ravaged, war-torn province into submission. No one was greatly surprised by this, for mighty America always did like having military dictators for buddies. But as the Fleet drew closer, the names of Nixon and Kissinger became names to curse with, names which, if uttered, had to be followed by hawking and spitting. The illiterate could not read about the latest villainy but they learned to recognize the two villains’ pictures in the papers: the scowling one with rat’s eyes and the bespectacled one with the face of a constipated ox.

  Old Bhimsen the office peon brought fresh news from the slums to Gustad and the others at the bank. He lived in a little kholi, in a jhopadpatti near Sion. During pauses between fetching tea or coffee, he told them how, in the slums, where children squatted over newsprint inside their shacks (because they were too young to go out alone and find a spot in an alley or a ditch), mothers took great delight in searching through discarded papers for the faces of the rat and the constipated ox to place under their babies’ behinds. The closer the Seventh Fleet came to the Bay of Bengal, the harder it was to find unadorned copies of the two pictures. Bhimsen decided to help his slum neighbours with their anti-imperialist toilet-training. He requested all bank employees to give him their daily newspapers whenever pictures of Nixon or Kissinger appeared. No one refused. They were happy to assist the war effort and keep morale high.

  But it was not morale alone that dealt with the Seventh Fleet. Close on the heels of the US ships came an armada of Soviet cruisers and destroyers, sailing earnestly from the pages of the Indo-Soviet Treaty of Friendship. And true to the spirit of the treaty, there was no violence. Not even a harsh word. For the Soviets merely wanted to remind the Americans of the roles and identities which they had rehearsed for so long on all the important international stages: that Americans were a kind and friendly people, champions of justice and liberty, supporters of freedom struggles and democracies everywhere.

  And the Soviet reminder worked. The Americans did not forget. There, in the Bay of Bengal, by the dawn’s early light, as the sun’s rays made the rippling blue sea to shimmer and the December sky to turn a perfect pink, they remembered every single one of their globally-famous, ever-sparkling virtues. With patriotic tears in their eyes, they put the dust-covers back on their mighty American guns and cannons.

  *

  When Gustad returned home through the darkened evening, he knew Cavasji’s blood-pressure was high again. Allopathic medicine was just not as efficacious as the subjo-on-a-string that Cavasji used to wear. He was leaning out to shake his fist against the black sky. Any more vehemence, feared Gustad, and the old man would topple over.

  But Cavasji maintained his equilibrium. Only the light, a beacon of reproach, tumbled willingly from the open window into the compound, framing his disapproving silhouette. ‘I am warning You now only! If You let a bomb fall here, let one fall on Birlas and Mafatlals also! Bas! Too much injustice from You! Too much! If Khodadad Building suffers, then Tata Palace also! Otherwise, not one more stick of sandalwood for You, not one sliver!’

  Gustad debated whether to go upstairs and point out to someone that the blackout was being violated. But a figure appeared behind Cavasji. It was his son. He took his elbow and gently led him away, shutting the papered-over window.

  ii

  For the third night in a row the air-raid siren howled through the city. It was shortly after midnight. The wailing roused Gustad and Dilnavaz immediately. The first time, he had taken a little while to realize it was not a dream about the former ten a.m. practice siren.

  ‘Should I wake Roshan and Darius?’ wondered Dilnavaz. ‘Or will it be like yesterday, all-clear in five minutes?’

  ‘Cannot take a chance like that.’ He switched on the zero watt night-light while they took their places below the four-poster. Guiding his way with the torch, he went to the rickety main switch and flipped the lever to the off position, as recommended by the authorities.

  The siren’s mournful wail died after he joined them under the bed. Roshan took the torch from him and held it under her chin, pointing upwards. ‘Ghooost!’ She burst out with peals of laughter, then jumped as the shelling began.

  It startled everyone. ‘Anti-aircraft guns,’ said Gustad confidently, taking back the torch. ‘Ours.’

  ‘Pakistani bombers must be coming,’ said Darius.

  ‘Oh, I hope Sohrab is safe!’ whispered Dilnavaz.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he? He is not stupid to stand in the street. Anyway, our guns will chase the planes away.’ But the thought of Pakistani aircraft over the city made Gustad uneasy. What if some idiot in the building got nervous because of the guns, and decided to put on the light? Or opened a window to see what was going on? He raised his head, bumping it against the Burma teak slats.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Dilnavaz fearfully, as he switched on the torch and eased out. The guns boomed four times.

  ‘Outside. To check the building.’

  She wanted him to stay right here, under the bed, but knew he would not listen. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Darius.

  ‘No. You stay here with them.’ He found his slippers and keys, keeping the light aimed low. With one hand on the latch, he switched off the torch before opening the door.

  There was a new moon in the sky, a mere paper-thin sliver. The crescent would be no help to the Pakistanis, he thought with satisfaction. The guns boomed again. Seconds later, a beam of light swept the sky. Then another, and another. Searchlights, crisscrossing, seeking, raking the night. Standing by the tree, he watched the display, almost forgetting why he had come.

  Another volley, longer than any so far, reminded him. He strode down the compound towards the gate: the windows were dark, including Cavasji’s. He walked back towards the tree, checking the other half of the building. His own flat, Kutpitia upstairs, Bamji, the dogwalla idiot … all OK. But then, through the br
anches, a narrow rectangle of light appeared and disappeared as a breeze played with the leaves: a half-open window at the far end. Tehmul’s! The stupid! The bloody -! And why is he up so late anyway?

  As Gustad ran, his limp exploded in an ungainly hobble. He bounded up the stairs and raised his hand to deliver a furious knocking. Then he remembered. Tehmul’s brother left the key with me. He located it by touch upon his chain, its unfamiliar shape greeting his exploring fingers, and inserted it silently. Good to give Tehmul a fright. Teach him to be more careful.

  He entered, then stopped to listen, mystified by the faint sounds from within. Of panting, heavy breathing. A low moan. Muted. Panting again. Tehmul? What was he doing? Gustad tried to shut the door noiselessly behind him, but the latch tumbled. A loud metallic click pierced the verandah darkness like a needle. He flinched, standing still.

  The sounds started again. He crossed the verandah, stepping softly towards the lighted bedroom. A threadbare curtain of faded yellow organdie hung in the open doorway. He could see the room floating behind the gauze-like material, dreamlike and ephemeral. Like the mosquito net, through which I used to see my mother, in Matheran, when she came to say goodnight-Godblessyou. Far away, beyond my reach, fading …

  With an effort, he pushed the curtain aside. At once, everything ethereal or impalpable about the room vanished. Without the magic film of organdie, the place turned solid, sordid, smelly. The curtain rings tinkled against the tarnished brass rod. The soft ting-ting continued as the curtain swayed.

  Tehmul did not notice anything. His back to the door, he was stooping over the white-sheeted bed, lost to the world. A dirty cream-coloured rajai with red and black embroidery along the borders was gathered at the centre of the mattress. He was naked except for his brown cross-strapped leather slippers. The sweat was glistening on his back.