Family Matters (41 page)

He noticed a stack of letters, cards, and photographs assembled next to the thurible and wondered what they were. Then he recognized them – Yasmin must have gone through his desk while he was on the terrace, ransacked the drawers.

“So you’re back?” she said. “Now you can tell me why you have been saving this trash.”

He remained silent.

“For all this time, you’ve said she is a nuisance, you’re doing your best to be rid of her, trying to convince her to go away So why keep all this? Were you lying to me? Answer me!”

His silence persisted.

“Be a man and admit it Admit that you still have feelings for her.”

“I no longer know what I have. Or for whom.”

“Then you won’t mind if I burn this.” She picked up a handful of papers and dropped them on the hot coals in the thurible.

He wanted to rush to the table, rescue the letters, but he willed himself to remain in his chair. The pages began to smoulder, then burst into flame. More was added from the stack, photographs of Lucy, birthday cards, cards written for no particular reason, the little notes Lucy used to send on a whim – he watched them, the mementos of their halcyon days, fed one by one to the burning coals, and he saw them become ashes.

Yasmin went through the lot without another word. The flames died down, and he turned away.

This gesture of his rekindled Yasmin’s earlier fury. “It’s all a hoax! Her trick to get you up there. To flirt with you because I stopped you running after her every morning with your bottom waggling. For her this is a competition. To show that she controls my husband, makes him dance whenever she wants.”

“Perhaps you are right. But what if you’re wrong, and she does jump on the day I don’t go?”

“Nonsense! People who really want to kill themselves never put on performances. There’s nothing the matter with her head – working too smartly for her own good.”

Then she lapsed into threats, swore she was leaving with all three children, he would never see his two-year-old daughter again. Rather than stay and be humiliated, she would starve to death with them before she suffered any more of his cruelty.

He could see that their mother’s wild fury scared the children. Jal and Coomy were used to the fights, but this time they both burst into tears, as though they knew now that their mother, whom they believed strong, was really weak, trapped by her marriage, with nowhere to go. And he could feel their hatred towards him growing by the minute.

“You’re a horrid man!” screamed Coomy. “Why are you treating Mamma so badly?”

Jal tried to quieten his sister, as she continued, “Just remember, God will punish you for what you’re doing!”

His heart ached, but there was nothing he could say to them, and he sat with his head in his hands. He watched the children go to their mother, hug her, and lead her to bed.

In desperation, he went to see Lucy’s family. It was Mrs. Braganza who came to the door, looked at him as though she’d met a ghost, and banged it shut. He kept ringing the bell. The door was opened again – by Mr. Braganza, who said he would call the police if he did not leave. Nariman began telling about Lucy, talking fast to describe the state she was in. He didn’t get far; the door slammed. He kept talking till he realized there was no one listening on the other side.

Could Mr. Braganza really not care about what happened to his own daughter? He tried to put himself and little Roxana in this situation, but found it impossible to imagine.

After a while people in Chateau Felicity paid almost no attention to Lucy. Hardly anyone gathered on the pavement or at their windows. He heard the talk in the building, that the occurrence was becoming routine: the ayah was a bit cracked, she liked to sing on the ledge once a week – and not even a different number each time, Khodai salaamat raakhay, but the same thing over and over – and then she came downstairs on Professor Vakeel’s arm, that was all. Nothingworth making a big fuss about.

Like the Arjanis, everyone now took it for granted he would continue to do his duty, restore Lucy safely to earth and into their flat. No longer did a sense of danger surround the occasion. And, gradually, he began to feel the same. To accept things as they were was perhaps the best way.

One evening, when the message came, summoning him to the terrace, Yasmin said it was she who was going up today. She would talk to the madwoman face to face, see how crazy she really was.

He begged her not to. He tried impressing upon her how terribly distraught Lucy was behind her singing and her docile demeanour. But
Yasmin said she would straighten out the woman once and for all, and nothing he said could dissuade her.

“Be careful, Mamma,” cried Coomy. “The madwoman might hit you.”

“Dont worry, my darling, I can hit back.”

Nariman followed Yasmin up the stairs, keeping a few paces behind. When she got to the roof, he stopped in the shadow of the water tank.

Now what? He couldn’t think for fear.

Dusk was falling, the evening was warm, still, without a breeze. A funnel of noise – car horns, screeching brakes – reached the terrace like an intruder. In a dream, he watched Yasmin approach Lucy on the twilit parapet.

“Hey, ayah!” he heard her yell, her arms akimbo. “What’s this nonsense? Get down from there and go to your kitchen. At once. Arjani seth is waiting for dinner!”

Frozen to the spot, he saw Lucy glance at Yasmin over her shoulder. She seemed not to recognize the woman shouting so rudely.

On the roof of the building across the road, a neon sign flashed red and blue, alternating the image of shoes with the manufacturer’s slogan: Take the World in Your Stride.

He heard Yasmin speak again, and once more saw her met with a blank silence. He watched as though in a trance, while Yasmin gathered her skirt, stepped up on the parapet herself, and tapped Lucy roughly on the shoulder.

“Hey! Deaf or what?” she kept tapping the shoulder. “At least look at me when I speak to you.”

He shook himself out of his stupor and crept forward. How to counsel reason, how to deal with two women on the ledge? Neon light bathed them in alternating blue and red.

“ ‘We laughed then, we cried then,’ ” sang Lucy, brushing away the hand from her shoulder.

At last Yasmin had got some reaction. But this was not the kind she had sought. “Who do you think you are!” she yelled.

He watched in horror as she grabbed Lucy’s arm with both hands, Lucy pulling away, trying to shake off her grasp, and the two women swaying dangerously on the ledge.

He ran towards them, his hands flying out to steady them, to hold them back. He did manage to take them both by their arms, but only for a second.

His grandfather screamed.

Jehangir sprang up on his elbow again, his heart pounding. He wondered what terror was stalking Grandpa in his dream. After a while he heard him sniffing. He got out of bed, careful about the noisy board, and asked in a whisper, “You need something, Grandpa?” He offered the spouted feeding cup. “Water?”

Grandpa shook his head, raising a hand to pat his face, and left it there. Jehangir felt it quiver against his cheek.

He clasped it with his own, and made a soft kissing sound. “I’ll hold your hand, Grandpa, go to sleep.”

H
ow good the air felt this morning, thought Yezad, taking a deep breath as he reached Bombay Sporting and let himself in with his key. Must be the December temperature, the slight drop.

Neither Mr. Kapur nor Husain had arrived, it was just coming up to nine. He put the envelope back in the drawer where it belonged, and locked the desk.

Whistling “White Christmas,” he began turning on all the lights in the shop, including the one for the neon signboard. He brought the long handle from the back and stepped outside, enjoying the smoothness with which the shutters rose to let in the sunshine. Something special about this moment, the windows waking up, opening their big eyes. And how well-oiled Husain kept the gears.

As he finished and disengaged the handle, the peon arrived, salaamed, and waited morosely in the doorway. Yezad wondered if it was going to be one of his depression days. “Kapur sahab will soon come, he’ll need chai.”

“Why are you doing my job, sahab?” Husain asked with an injured air. “I can make chai and open the windows.”

“Just for today, to help you,” he placated him. “You will be very busy like yesterday, welcoming the children.”

The reminder about his special assignment pleased Husain. He hurried to light the stove. Yezad switched on the display and decided to reposition the reindeer. While he crouched in the window, his back to the road, a knock on the pane startled him.

“Ho-ho-ho!” bellowed Mr. Kapur through the glass, looking immensely pleased to see him there. “You naughty boy!” He entered the shop and joined him in the window. “I thought you’d be home with your family.”

“Came to see Santa Kapur in action again.”

“Good. Great. I have a Christmas present for you. Had it ready yesterday, but in all the excitement I forgot.”

They went to his office, and Mr. Kapur unlocked his desk to get the gift. Its wrapping paper had bells and holly.

Yezad smiled, examining both sides of the flat package that felt like a cardboard rectangle. “So what is it?”

“Open it, go on.”

Yezad removed the paper and found a folder in which there were three cellophane sleeves. They held the three photographs of Hughes Road.

He looked at Mr. Kapur. “But … these are —”

“I hope you still like them.”

“Yes, but I … they’re so valuable, your collection …”

“But I want you to have them.”

Yezad swallowed, running his finger along the edges. “Thank you, Vikram. It’s too much, it’s …”

“You’re welcome, Yezad,” said Mr. Kapur, putting an arm around him, relieving him of the need for words. “I’m so happy I could give you something meaningful. And now I must wear my costume.”

While he got ready, Husain brought in two steaming cups, set them on the desk, and went to the front to prepare for visitors.

“Sahab, there are two people who want to talk to you.”

Mr. Kapur clicked his tongue. “I’m not dressed yet. Didn’t you show them the sign, Santa Claus begins at ten o’clock?”

“Sahab, they are two men, not children. I don’t think they came for sweets.”

“Then you should have said the shop is closed today.”

“You want me to talk to them?” asked Yezad.

“But they mentioned Kapur sahab’s name only,” said Husain, hesitating.

“Okay, I’ll see what they want.” In his socks and partial Santa outfit he went into the shop, followed by Yezad.

The visitors grinned, delighted by his attire. “Good morning, sir.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Sorry for disturbing, sir, but we saw your signboard.”

“Look,” said Mr. Kapur, “in the first place, we open at ten. And in the second place, Santa Claus is giving free sweets to children only. I don’t think you are children, are you?”

The young men smiled at the misunderstanding. “Not that sign, sir. Your shop sign. The one which is saying Bombay Sporting Goods Emporium.”

“Sporting Gods, actually.”

“Yes, sir,” they smiled. “We saw O is out of order.”

Mr. Kapur wondered if they were tradesmen soliciting work. “You want to fix my sign? How much will you charge?”

They smiled again. “No, no, sir, we are not electrical. We are coming from our local Shiv Sena shakha to kindly inform that sign should be saying Mumbai Sporting Goods Emporium, it’s a new rule for —”

“Oh, that. Yes, I know all about that.” Mr. Kapur’s face had gone dark, and he glanced at Yezad as though to say, Here they are finally.