Such a Long Journey

by Rohinton Mistry

  Malcolm and his mukaadam nodded, gulping nervously.

  She swung the tool, describing a circle in the air below the mens’ bellies. The sun glinted on the short, nasty blade. ‘You spoil that picture, you break any part of this wall, and I promise you, I will make hijdaas out of you all,’ she said, once again lunging blood-thirstily with the tread-cutter.

  The men lurched backwards, involuntarily covering the fronts of their striped shorts and dhotis. They were too embarrassed to retaliate. Silence, golden as the sound of Peerbhoy’s brass tray, hovered over them for a few brief seconds.

  ii

  Easing the black velvet prayer cap away from his forehead, Gustad hurried homeward after Ghulam’s taxi disappeared in the traffic. He was anxious to change out of his dugli and leave for the bank. But why all these big crowds and strict police bundobust, he wondered. And the street noisy as a festival day, like Ganesh Chaturthi or Gokul Asthami, packed from pavement to pavement.

  He reached the gate of Khodadad Building in time to see Hydraulic Hema flourish the razor-sharp instrument. Malcolm spotted him: ‘Gustad! Gustad!’ he waved, then his voice was drowned by the uproar following the grisly threat, as the offended workers reached for crowbars and pickaxes. The policemen shuffled their feet and gripped their lathis, making a show of alertness. The sub-inspector, taking no chances, asked his jeep driver to radio the police station for urgent reinforcements.

  Gustad craned impatiently – what was Malcolm doing in the middle of a rowdy morcha? One moment he saw him, the next he had disappeared. But he did not want to venture through the thick of it in search of him. Later, when things calmed.

  Then Gustad spotted the woebegone pavement artist behind the gate; Tehmul was there, too, eagerly watching the unfolding drama. ‘GustadGustadGustad. Bigbigbigmachine. Bhumbhumbhum. BigbigloudloudmachinebigshoutingbigGustad.’ He was unable to stand still, weaving, waving his arms wildly, swaying with delight and excitement. What with the colourful morcha, the labourers and their intriguing equipment, the policemen and their lathis, Tehmul was utterly exhilarated. Now, on top of all that, his beloved Gustad had arrived. ‘GustadGustadGustad. Somuchso-muchsomuchfun.’

  ‘Yes, very nice,’ said Gustad. ‘And very smart of you to stay inside the compound. Well done.’ He patted his back, relieved that Tehmul had not wandered out into the maelstrom. No telling what might happen, given the present mood of the crowd, if the dressed-for-business prostitutes fanned his urges. What were the women doing here anyway?

  The pavement artist, awaiting his turn to speak, said despondently, ‘Please, sir, they are telling me I have to give up my wall.’ Gustad had gathered this from the new notice on the pillar, the cement-mixers, and the waiting lorries. For the briefest of moments he felt the impending loss cut deeply, through memory and time; the collapse of the wall would wreck the past and the future. Helpless amid the noise and turmoil, he searched for words with which to console the artist. Then suddenly, he caught a glimpse of Dr Paymaster. In the middle of the mob? First Malcolm; and now the doctor? He went out after him, into the sea of angry faces.

  Tehmul promptly followed. ‘No, Tehmul. Be good now. Very dangerous, stay inside only.’ Crestfallen but obedient, Tehmul returned to the compound.

  Upon Gustad’s fourth bellow, Dr Paymaster turned around. It took some strenuous wading to close the distance. ‘What a powerful morcha we have produced!’ said the doctor, pumping Gustad’s hand vigorously. His initial regrets and misgivings had converted to conviction and confidence – he would have been willing now to tilt at windmills: ‘Seeing is believing! The greatest morcha in the history of our city!’

  Gustad had never seen him in such genuine high spirits. All his spontaneous emotions, bottled up for God knows how long (like those green, dusty flasks of potions and pharmaceuticals at the rear of his dispensary) were suddenly popping their corks.

  ‘Almost the whole of our neighbourhood is here!’ the doctor boasted, like a rebel general who has succeeded in turning the army against the tyrant. ‘Onward we march! To the municipality! We will show them who is boss. We, the people!’

  Gustad managed to steer him gradually to the pavement, away from the over-excited throngs, as Dr Paymaster explained what had led to the confrontation between the morcha and the construction workers. ‘But that was not part of our programme. That was what might be called an act of God.’ He chuckled: ‘Or an act of artistry. Which comes to the same thing.’ He waved and set off, anxious to rejoin his comrades in arms.

  Gustad returned to the gate, where the morcha had attracted neighbours from the building. Inspector Bamji, Mr Rabadi with Dimple, Mrs Pastakia, and Miss Kutpitia were debating excitedly, trying to predict the outcome. Police reinforcements had not yet arrived. Gustad wanted no part in their speculations, but at a suitable moment he asked the Inspector, ‘Soli, you think it would help if you try to persuade these people? Using your police seniority?’

  Inspector Bamji laughed, shaking his head. ‘Bossie, one thing I learned from working with these Maratha buggers is to freely say: umcha section nai. Without a guilty conscience.’ Sohrab emerged from the flat and walked towards the group. He fleetingly met his father’s eyes, then turned away.

  Gustad was surprised to see him. After seven months he looks upon his father’s face. Does he have the courage to …

  ‘Bossie, are you listening or no?’ The Inspector tugged at Gustad’s sleeve. ‘To answer your question, I never interfere when off duty. Enough maader chod headaches I have on duty.’ Then he remembered the women’s presence and playfully covered his lips with his fingers, as though to stuff the mother-offending word back into his mouth. ‘Sorry ladies,’ he said, smiling suavely, not repentant in the least. ‘Bad habit I have, speaking me-be all the time.’

  Miss Kutpitia sternly looked askance. Mrs Pastakia giggled her forgiveness. And a sheepish simper covered Mr Rabadi’s face; not used to foul language, he tried hard to pretend he was.

  Tehmul watched their expressions, listening intently to every word. After a minute passed in silence and Bamji’s lapse was forgotten, he grinned at everyone and repeated gleefully: ‘Maader-chodmaaderchodmaaderchodmaaderchod.’ He would have kept going had Mrs Pastakia not turned a horrified face to Bamji.

  The Inspector cut him off with a wallop to his head. ‘Scrambled Egg! Shut your bloody mouth!’

  Tehmul retreated, nursing the spot. Gustad transformed his contempt for Bamji into a veiled barb. ‘Poor fellow, he has no brains. Only repeats what others say.’

  Thick-skinned as ever, Bamji replied, ‘This will teach him repetition is bad for his health.’

  Gustad was groping for words to cut deeply but courteously, when Malcolm Saldanha materialized on the pavement. Gustad hurried out: ‘Where did you go? I saw you for one second, then you vanished.’

  ‘Had to find a telephone,’ said Malcolm. ‘To let the office know what is happening.’

  ‘What office?’

  ‘Municipality. You see, I am in charge of this bloody project.’

  So this was Malcolm’s fate. My college friend, who used to summon the notes like magic. From the realm between wakefulness and sleep. For Chopin’s nocturnes. Those evenings, so long, long ago. Now supervising pickaxes and churning concrete. ‘And what did the office say?’

  ‘That the municipality cannot back down before a mob, the work of the city must go on. Bloody idiots don’t know how dangerous this is.’

  ‘You better stay in the compound, much safer.’

  ‘Oh, I will be all right,’ said Malcolm. ‘See you later.’ Before Gustad could dissuade him, he slipped back into the crowds and headed for the lorries.

  Old Cavasji, from his second-floor vantage, silently saw him go. Then he turned his face to the sky, his half-blind eyes unmindful of the sun’s glare: ‘No other place You could find? Here only all the trouble, always? The darkness, the flood, the fire, the fight? Why not Tata Palace? Why not Governor’s mansion?’ Inspector Bamji and the others looked up in am
usement, but Cavasji’s further reprimands were drowned by bloodcurdling screams from the road. The verbal assaults, genealogic insults, theological challenges being exchanged between the morcha and the workers had abruptly given way to savage fighting.

  ‘O God,’ said Gustad softly. He was thinking of Malcolm and Dr Paymaster.

  ‘Net practice is over,’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘Now the test match begins.’

  iii

  The construction workers were outnumbered, but, with their pickaxes and crowbars, were formidably armed. Some of the morcha crowd’s work implements also converted readily to close-combat weapons. Others scoured the roadside for projectiles: stones, bricks, broken bottles, whatever they could lay their hands on, while those near the four carts resorted to the contents of the barrels. The police leaned on their lathis, awaiting reinforcements.

  Tehmul watched spellbound. As the missiles began to fly, his heartbeat quickened. His head swivelled from side to side, not wanting to miss a thing, and he edged closer to the gate.

  ‘Tehmul!’ warned Gustad.

  Tehmul waved excitedly and moved back one step, his fists clenched. ‘GustadGustad. LooklooklookbigrocksGustadbig. Flying-flyingflying.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Gustad sternly. ‘That’s why you must stay inside.’

  ‘InsideinsideIknowGustadIknow. YesyesyesyesGustad.’ He moved his hands through the air in swooping, darting motions, an out-of-control Bharat Natyam dancer. ‘Wheewheewheewhee.’

  But outside was too much of an enticement. He shuffled forward again, and before Gustad realized it, was on the pavement where the view of flying objects was much better. Tehmul trembled with excitement. What fun. What an immense game of catch-catch. With a thousand players. Even better than the children playing in the compound. Naughty children, teasing him. Throwing the ball his way, laughing, watching him stumble and fall.

  He clapped his hands with glee as a rock landed by the gate. What fun it would be to catch one. With his own hands. What fun. Just like the children catching the tennis ball. So much, so much fun.

  He swung off towards the road, positioning himself for the next delivery. Gustad turned and saw him then: ‘Tehmul! Come back!’ Tehmul grinned and waved reassuringly. He was determined to get one of these things that zoomed by so hypnotically.

  ‘Tehmuuuul!’ yelled Gustad.

  A brick sailed towards Tehmul, and he was deaf to the world. Entranced by airborne things, things that could soar and swoop and dive, agile things made to glide or dart or arch through the air, nimble things that could flit and float on soft feathers or gossamer wings: enchanted as always by all such things, Tehmul hobbled to catch the brick. And, as always, his twisted body let him down.

  The brick caught him on the forehead, and Gustad heard the crack. Tehmul dropped without a sound, his figure folding gracefully. The dance was over.

  For a moment Gustad stood paralysed. Then ‘Tehmul!’ he howled, and charged out the gate. A rock glanced off his back but he barely felt it. He bent to grab the unconscious frame under the arms. His prayer cap slid off and fell to the ground as he dragged Tehmul into the compound.

  ‘A doctor! Quickly!’ he shouted to Inspector Bamji and the women, before remembering: ‘Dr Paymaster! Hurry, Sohrab – in the morcha!’ As Sohrab ran, he heard his father call after him, ‘Be careful, but!’

  ‘Ambulance is definitely needed,’ said Inspector Bamji, and Miss Kutpitia went to use her telephone. Blood gushed wildly from Tehmul’s forehead. Gustad tried to staunch the flow with his large white handkerchief. Precious minutes ticked by, and he looked around in desperate anger. What was keeping that bloody doctor? He and his godforsaken morcha. The handkerchief was soaked through; Bamji gave him his. Gustad could feel, through the cloth, that the bone had staved in.

  Sohrab returned with Dr Paymaster who was panting and sweating greatly, all his recent fiery enthusiasm doused. Born so very late in life, it had also died early, drowned in the sea of violent humanity raging outside the black wall. And it had taken something else with it: the professional veneer of wry humour and cynicism. Stripped bare, his pain was exposed for all to see.

  He shook his head in despair. ‘O God! What is the meaning of this? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Terrible!’ With great difficulty he got down on his knees. He took a large wad of cotton wool out of his black bag and asked Gustad to press it over the forehead, while he administered an injection. ‘Too much blood loss. Too much,’ he muttered. It was disconcerting for the others to watch his distress. A doctor was supposed to reassure, and put things right, not be troubled by blood and suffering, like mere mortals. What kind of medical man was this?

  While Dr Paymaster was bandaging the forehead, Tehmul’s eyes fluttered open. He whispered, ‘Gustad. Thank you, Gustad.’ A smile passed over Tehmul’s face, and his eyes closed.

  The doctor continued with the bandage. Gustad waited anxiously, looking from Tehmul’s face to the doctor’s, searching for some sign of encouragement. ‘We have called the ambulance,’ he blurted, to break the silence.

  ‘Good, good,’ murmured Dr Paymaster absently, and completed the dressing. He felt for a pulse, then fumbled urgently with his stethoscope. ‘Quick, open the shirt!’ A second injection was prepared while Gustad tore at Tehmul’s clothes, exposing his chest for the long needle. The doctor finished and flung aside the syringe to check the blood-pressure again.

  He pulled off the stethoscope and dropped it in the bag. His head shook slowly, answering the question Gustad was about to ask.

  ‘But hospital?’

  ‘No use now.’

  Gustad turned away and went to the black wall. He gazed out upon the road, at the vicious brawls being fought by people who seemed to have gone mad. Dr Paymaster returned his things to the bag. He made a half-hearted attempt to struggle to his feet, then held out a hand to Sohrab who leaned back and helped him up. The doctor dusted his pants. ‘I will give the death certificate, of course,’ he said, laying his hand on Gustad’s shoulder. ‘There will be no need to –’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ Behind Gustad, the others were already making plans for Tehmul. He found it intolerably offensive. Couldn’t they wait a little?

  Miss Kutpitia said, ‘Maybe I should go and cancel the ambulance, phone the Tower of Silence instead.’

  Inspector Bamji’s advice was to let the ambulance come: ‘Lots of injuries outside, it will be needed.’ What about Tehmul, though, for the hour or so that the hearse would take to collect the body?

  ‘It does not look right, the ruvaan lying like this near the gate,’ said Miss Kutpitia. People were watching from the windows of the tall office buildings on either side. Come for the riot, some of their attention was now focussed on the compound. ‘We must do Something,’ insisted Miss Kutpitia. But the idea of carrying the heavy body two floors up to Tehmul’s flat was daunting. To make matters worse, his brother was still out of town.

  ‘Maybe the best thing to do is just move him a little. To the tree, under the shade,’ said Mrs Pastakia. ‘And I can bring a white sheet to cover till the hearse comes.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Bamji, ‘sun is very hot. The Tower of Silence might take a long time, with this tamaasha outside.’

  The tree was only about fifty yards away, a more welcome proposition than climbing two flights. Dr Paymaster also nodded his assent. Then Bamji glanced at Gustad to see if he would help. But his broad impassive back offered no indication, and Bamji was reluctant to ask. He looked at Mr Rabadi instead: ‘OK, bossie, can you take the feet?’

  Mr Rabadi blushed with self-importance. For once, the entire building would see him do something other than walk his dog. He held out Dimple’s leash for Mrs Pastakia.

  The Inspector and Mr Rabadi rolled up their sleeves slowly, queasily preparing for the task. But before they could lift the body, Gustad turned. He crouched beside Tehmul. The others exchanged looks: now what?

  Without a word, Gustad slipped one arm under Tehmul’s shoulders and the other under
his knees. With a single mighty effort he rose to his feet, cradling the still-warm body. The bandaged head lolled limply over his forearm, and he crooked his elbow to support it properly.

  ‘Wait! Bossie, wait!’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘He is very heavy, we will help, don’t-’

  Gustad ignored him and began walking down the compound, away from them all, towards the stairway to Tehmul’s flat. They looked in silence now, too ashamed to follow. Sohrab gazed after his father with fear and admiration.

  People watched from their windows as Gustad strode under their eyes without faltering, as though he and Tehmul were all alone, as if the dead weight of the grown man in his arms was nought but a child’s. Some of the neighbours covered their heads and folded their hands together when the ruvaan passed by.

  Without a trace of his limp, without a fumble, Gustad walked the length of the compound, past the flats near the gate, past the compound’s solitary tree and his own flat, past Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster, till he reached the end. When he gained the entrance to the stairs he stopped and turned around to look, once, at the group at the other end. Then he continued.

  On the stairs, the weight in his arms made his feet come down heavily at every step. The sweat poured freely off his face, splashing on Tehmul’s blood-soaked shirt. At the landing he could sense that people were watching through their spyholes.

  The door to Tehmul’s flat was closed. Locked? He still had the key. But the neighbour’s door opened; she scurried out and tried Tehmul’s door; it was unlocked. She ran back inside, her courage exhausted, preferring to observe the other way. Gustad heard the click of her spyhole cover reopening. He entered sideways, taking care that Tehmul’s head did not knock against the frame. He kicked the door shut behind him and went inside to the bedroom.

  Tehmul’s dangling feet brushed aside the faded organdie curtain. The brass rings tinkled. The naked doll lay across the bed. He rested Tehmul on the edge of the mattress and freed one hand to nudge the doll aside. The warmth was slowly leaving the body, he realized, as he buttoned up the shirt, straightened the legs, and folded the arms together. He unlaced Tehmul’s shoes and pulled them off, then the socks. Two rupee notes, folded very small, fell out. He put them under the pillow and covered Tehmul with the sheet.