Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  Malcolm Saldanha studied the plans and drawings, checked a few calculations, then skimmed through the rest of the file. The project was to commence today under his supervision. He yawned twice in quick succession. Bloody boring municipality. How he hated his job, but was also grateful for it – steady income, thanks to Uncle’s influence. This bloody city, turning into a harsh, merciless place. Regular salary was a powerful lure. No bloody security with piano tuitions, no telling when students could vanish. Children these days pampered with too much bloody freedom, discipline gone completely from the face of the earth.

  And the beautiful music was gradually disappearing too, as surely as discipline. It was like watching the slow death of a loved one. Thank God for the Time and Talents Club, thank God for the Max Mueller Bhavan, for the British Council, for the GDR Cultural Centre, for the USIS. Or the music would have died a long time ago. But these were the last gasps – the golden age of Western classical music in this city was definitely over. And that poor parent yesterday, so embarrassed to say that his son wanted a bloody Bullworker instead of piano lessons …

  Malcolm sat up with a jolt. The word ‘demolition’ had caught his eye, and clanged like a warning bell. So far the bloody file had seemed fairly routine. Better concentrate. The story of a former projects supervisor was well-known. Misunderstood his orders, the wretched man. Demolished the wrong structure, and with it, his hopes of retiring with a pension.

  So Malcolm stopped day-dreaming and started at the beginning. He read carefully, step by step, taking nothing for granted, jotting crucial features, making note of matters which could be easily overlooked when the workers were in full flush.

  Then it was time to meet the crew at the depot, collect the equipment, and set off. Well, almost time. Five minutes to spare for a tea in the canteen. The musty smell of the rexine tablecloth rose to his nostrils. He lifted the saucer to his lips and blew to cool the tea. As the deflected steam condensed on his spectacles, the project’s location surfaced from the morass of technical jargon in the file. The name of the building danced before his fogged lenses.

  The address flitted familiarly through his head, coming close to but never touching the vital memory that would have made the connection. Khodadad Building, he repeated silently as he made his way to the depot. Khodadad Building.

  The lorry set off. Malcolm’s mind was soon occupied with planning details of a more immediate nature.

  iv

  As usual, Sohrab made certain of arriving during his father’s office hours. Dilnavaz greeted him with joy and relief. She tore herself away for a moment to stir the rice and turn down the stove, then hastened back. She hugged him fervently, pressed her hands upon his cheeks, lamented he was losing weight for lack of proper nourishment. ‘How long it has been! Won’t you come back now? Haven’t you tortured me enough?’

  Sohrab shook his head and turned towards the window. What was the sense in repeating everything each time he came. He felt like saying that that was the reason why the time between his visits lengthened progressively.

  ‘The house seems so empty. Do me one favour at least,’ she said, touching his brow and brushing back his hair. ‘Daddy will be home in a little while. Just talk to him nicely and then –’

  ‘Home now?’ Sohrab was perturbed at the prospect of coming face to face with his father. But he was also concerned about what could be wrong that kept him away from work.

  Dilnavaz realized there was so much he did not know of, so much about Dinshawji and Ghulam Mohammed and Jimmy that had happened in the weeks since Sohrab’s last visit. She started at the beginning, and could see the shock on his face as she got to the end. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we were all shocked.’

  Repeating the details brought back the grief; she swallowed hard and continued, coating every word with loathing and bitterness. ‘It’s a shameless, wicked deed. A terrible, evil thing done by the government.’ Her voice shook. ‘Murderers! They took Major Uncle’s life!’ Her lips began to quiver as her mouth distorted, ready to cry, and it was all she could do to keep back the tears. ‘But God is watching everything!’

  ‘Where is Daddy gone now?’

  She told him about the funeral announcement. ‘We thought the same name was a coincidence. But how to say for sure? So Daddy went.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I have to go in a little while with Roshan’s lunch. Her first school day, I did not want to give her dry lunch. But Daddy should be back soon. Just talk to him nicely. Please.’

  Sohrab rubbed the nape of his neck, the way he did when he was unsure of something. ‘It’s no use. I spoilt all his dreams, he is not interested in me any more.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ she said sharply, then softened again. ‘He is your father. He will always love you and want the best for you.’

  ‘You know we will start fighting as usual.’

  ‘No!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t be stubborn.’ She took his hand. ‘So much has happened since you left. Daddy has changed. It will be different now.’

  He continued to gaze out the window, refusing to meet her eyes. Proud and strong-willed, she thought. Another Gustad. ‘Trust me. I did not ask you before. But now it is different.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, still not looking at her. ‘If it makes you happy.’

  v

  As Gustad approached the taxi, he had no doubt. He recognized the man instantly; and then it struck him: he had arranged Jimmy’s funeral!

  Overwhelmed, Gustad still had to ask the question, to let him know he knew and was grateful. ‘You …’ he started, pointing behind at the Tower of Silence.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ghulam Mohammed.

  Thank you for … thank you, I –’

  ‘Please.’ Ghulam brushed aside the thanks, gesturing abruptly with his hands. ‘All the prayers are over now?’ His voice seemed to strain and choke.

  Gustad nodded. He had seen many sides of the man: jovial, threatening, callous, cajoling, sarcastic. But never like this, never so emotional.

  Ghulam raised his face, up towards the hill, up where the vultures were circling. Then he dropped his head and closed his eyes. Gustad waited. When he looked a few seconds later, Ghulam was weeping. Gustad averted his gaze and stood in silence.

  Ghulam wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He said, his voice steady now, ‘Your Parsi priests don’t allow outsiders like me to go inside.’

  Gustad nodded guiltily. I feel Jimmy’s loss too, he wanted to say, but I cannot cry. He offered his hand. Ghulam took it, then drew him forward to hug him, kissing both cheeks. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Noble,’ he whispered, ‘or Bili Boy would have been alone. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Gustad. ‘But why didn’t you come and tell me? I would never have known if my wife hadn’t seen the paper.’

  ‘I had to take a chance. When I gave you the train ticket, I promised it was the last time I would bother you.’

  ‘That was different. I would never refuse this.’

  Ghulam took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, then put on his dark glasses and gestured at the taxi. ‘I can drive you home. No charge.’ He smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gustad sat in the front with him. Ghulam made a U-turn and waited by the gate for a break in the traffic. ‘So you are driving a taxi again after nine years?’

  ‘Oh, that’s normal when working in RAW. Sometimes bookseller, sometimes butcher; even gardener. Whatever is necessary to get the job done.’

  Gustad heard and accepted the confession. ‘But you are going to continue in RAW? After what they did to Jimmy? And they even tried to kill you, on your Lambretta.’

  ‘You know about that? Of course, Bili Boy told you. Still, much safer for me to be inside RAW than outside.’ He said softly, ‘Bili Boy was a brother to me. When someone kills my brother, I get very upset. Someone will pay for it.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, definitely. And by staying in RAW my chances are much better of collecting that payment.’ His words were cold fingers tracing shivering li
nes down Gustad’s spine. It was not empty talk.

  ‘Timing is important, that’s all. And there’s no hurry. I may collect my payment tomorrow, or next year, or after ten years. From whoever is responsible. If it’s the car manufacturer, he will have to pay. Lots of possibilities – his car might explode, for instance. He also likes to fly aeroplanes, so: bhoom, crash, the end. As I said, whatever is necessary to get the job done.’

  Gustad responded by smiling weakly. Ghulam continued: ‘And his Mummy herself has many enemies. Makes more and more every day, from Punjab to Tamil Nadu. Any one of them could do it. I am a patient man. Her life is as easy to snuff out as Bili Boy’s, let me tell you. Like that,’ and he snapped his fingers under Gustad’s nose.

  It frightened him to hear Ghulam Mohammed talk this way. He preferred to remember him in his moment of grief, he decided, as the taxi stopped under a policeman’s outstretched arm. The intersection was blocked solidly by traffic, and the policeman was directing cars to alternate routes. ‘It’s OK,’ said Gustad, ‘not far from here. I can walk.’ They shook hands. Gustad knew with certainty that they would never meet again.

  The door slammed and the taxi drove away from the traffic jam. He stood watching till it turned the corner.

  TWENTY-TWO

  i

  Malcolm Saldanha, aboard the first lorry to arrive at Khodadad Building, saw the painted wall and realized why the building name had sounded so familiar. Wondering which was Gustad’s flat, he proceeded to display the court order repealing the landlord’s injunction, gluing it over the municipal notice, in tatters now, that he had affixed to the pillar several months ago.

  The pavement artist under his little lean-to observed the ominous presence of lorries and men and machines. When Malcolm broke the news to him, he crumpled. He gathered up his paints and brushes, boxes and belongings, and dropped them in the compound. There he sat, cross-legged, unable to summon up even a trace of the resources that had fuelled his wanderings in the old days.

  Reluctantly, Malcolm gave orders for the workers to proceed. The flimsy lean-to was knocked out of the way. Theodolites and tripods and levels were set up to demarcate the requisite areas. It was discovered that the neem fell within the municipality’s latest land acquisition, obstructing the project. Two men were dispatched to cut down the tree. More equipment was unloaded; the surveyors squinted through their instruments, pointing here and there; and Malcolm scouted around for an Irani restaurant that could supply tea for the team.

  Meantime, the morcha entered the lane with banners and placards. Slogans and cheers began drifting down over the din of city noises, then the marchers came into view, and crowds gathered to watch.

  The morcha had almost been denied the opportunity to march with work implements, for the police sub-inspector in charge of crowd control classified these objects as potential weapons. But the morcha directors prevailed: Gandhiji, said Peerbhoy, used to appear in public meetings with his charkha, always spinning khadi. If policemen of the British Raj could permit that, why should a sub-inspector of Free India do otherwise? The tools of the morcha were no more weapons than was the Mahatma’s charkha.

  Thereupon, the column was allowed to proceed. One group chanted in unison: ‘Nahi chalaygi! Nahi chalaygi!’ Will not do! Will not do! Another section responded, on the upbeat: ‘Municipality ki dadagiri nahi chalaygi!’ Municipality’s bullying will not do!

  The old staple of every demonstration: gully gully may shor hai, Congress Party chor hai – the cry goes up in every alley, Congress Party is a rogues’ gallery – was also very much in evidence. But there were several originals as well. The Fernandes brothers, twins who ran a small tailoring shop and knew the rhetorical value of repetition, held identical posters: Give Us This Day Our Daily Water Supply. The mechanics, on a more melodramatic note, unfurled a long, wide banner: Havaa-paani laingay, Ya toe yaheen maraingay, an air-and-water variation on ‘give me liberty or give me death’.

  The cinema employees had procured an old hoarding advertising the film Jis Deshme Ganga Bahti Hai, and modified it to: The Land Where the Ganga Flows – and the Gutter Overflows. The hero’s face was slightly altered: a clothes pin clung to his nose, pinching both nostrils shut. And the names of the actors, actresses, producer, director, screenwriter, music director were labelled over with names of municipal corporators and leading politicians.

  ‘Nahi chalaygi! Nahi chalaygi!’ rang out repeatedly, as the morcha approached Khodadad Building. Malcolm, his mukaadam, the labourers and surveyors, downed their tools and lined up at the curb. People leaned out of the office towers, customers and shopkeepers evacuated their shops, and the entire street suspended its business for the morcha.

  The marchers drew abreast with the wall. A fresh vitality animated their slogans now. With a captive audience, their steps discovered a renewed bounce, their waving arms extra vigour.

  Suddenly, one of the morcha directors signalled the column to a halt with three bongs on Peerbhoy’s paan-vending brass tray. The tray had been selected over numerous other contenders: a hub-cap struck with a tyre iron, Dr Paymaster’s silver desk bell, the local monkeyman’s drum, the snake-charmer’s piercing flute. All were rejected, for none could compare with the sonorous dignity of Peerbhoy’s tray.

  The shining reverberations of the three strokes soared in the air like birds of paradise, shimmering over the marchers’ heads. ‘Brothers and sisters!’ the inspired morcha director called out. He raised his arms to appeal for silence, then repeated, ‘Bhaiyo aur baheno.’ A hush settled over the marchers.

  ‘You are asking: why have we stopped now, before reaching the municipality? And in answer I say to you: what better place than this sacred wall of miracles to pause and meditate upon our purpose? The wall of gods and goddesses. The wall of Hindu and Muslim, Sikh and Christian, Parsi and Buddhist! A holy wall, a wall suitable for worship and devotion, whatever your faith! So let us give thanks for past success! Let us ask blessings for future endeavours! Let us pray that when we reach our destination we will achieve our purpose! Let us pray that in the spirit of truth and non-violence we will defeat our enemies!’

  The procession roared its approval, surging towards the wall. The municipal workers stood clear as queues formed before each portrait. At the painting of Zarathustra there was only one person: Dr Paymaster. Laxmi, the goddess of wealth, commanded the longest line. Genuflections, prostrations, head-bowings, hand-foldings, eye-closings, invocations, supplications, adorations, all followed fervently. Many concluded by leaving a coin or two.

  A municipal worker said, to no one in particular, ‘Save your money, yaar, the wall will soon be destroyed.’

  Wall destroyed! The words percolated through the morcha and trickled through the crowds of bystanders. Wall destroyed?! Disbelief turned to indignation, then to outrage that surged through the congregation and swelled into a tidal wave, making the ground tremble as it galloped for the shore.

  Impossible! said the wave with ten thousand mouths, raging and rumbling. The wall of gods and goddesses cannot be broken! We will see that not one finger is raised against the deities! We will protect them with our blood if need be!

  The situation was fast deteriorating, and the morcha directors immediately summoned Malcolm. ‘Is it true,’ they asked him, ‘that your men are to break down this wall and destroy the gods and goddesses?’

  Malcolm had never learned to prevaricate. He nodded briefly. The morcha howled, the tempest raged and threatened – there was no misunderstanding, the satanic scheme had just been confirmed! But the morcha directors requested silence with a single mournful stroke of the brass gong.

  ‘My friend,’ said the chief director to Malcolm. ‘What you are saying is foolish. It is foolish because it cannot be done. Here is a place of prayer and worship. Look for yourself. Neither man’s wish nor government’s orders can change that. Look at the pictures of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Look at Rama and Sita, Kali Mata, Laxmi, Jesus Christ, Gautama Buddha, Sai Baba. For every reli
gion this place is sacred.’

  The morcha cheered, the bystanders applauded, and the chief director gained momentum. ‘See Nataraja and Saraswati, Guru Nanak and St Francis of Assisi, Zarathustra and Godavari Mata, and all the paintings of mosques and churches. How can you demolish such a holy place?’ He spied the tiny silver crucifix on a chain around Malcolm’s neck. ‘You are a good man. Fall on your knees before this wall. Utter the Lord’s Prayer, say a Hail Mary, confess your sins. Pray for a miracle if you like, but do not attempt to destroy the wall.’

  ‘Really, I don’t want to,’ said Malcolm uncomfortably, finding his voice at last, and the people cheered. ‘But,’ he continued, as the cheers died, ‘my men and I don’t make the decisions. We just follow the orders of the bosses at the municipality.’

  The municipality! That loathsome name again! The morcha, like a maddened monster sprawling in the road, seethed with renewed anger and hatred. They harass us in our neighbourhood without water supply! Without sewers! With gutters that stink! With bribes that empty our pockets and fill theirs! And now they want to destroy our sacred wall! ‘Nahi chalaygi! Nahi chalaygi! Municipality ki dadagiri nahi chalaygi!’ the cry rang out, again and again, from every throat.

  The loyal mukaadam felt he had to take Malcolm’s side. He shouted over the clamour, ‘We are also religious people! But we are poor, just like you! If we don’t follow orders, we lose our jobs! Then how to feed our wives and children?’

  The other labourers rallied round the mukaadam. ‘That’s right! You have jobs for us if the municipality kicks us out?’

  Hydraulic Hema, tall and powerful, wearing her best and tightest garments, stepped forward from the House of Cages delegation. She snatched a tread-cutting tool from one of the tyre retreaders and brandished it before her. In her sandpaper voice she addressed Malcolm, the mukaadam and his men. ‘You see that painting? Yellamma, Goddess of Prostitutes?’