Family Matters (46 page)

The man who came to deliver the note stared at the glass in Yezad’s hand when he answered the door, at the dentures submerged in water. He looked at his mouth, as though trying to determine if there was room there for any more teeth.

Yezad, who had been scrubbing the dentures, laughed. “Not mine,” he clarified for him. “I have my own, these are old father’s.”

“I was wondering,” said the man. He remembered his errand and handed over the letter.

It was from Mrs. Kapur. Three weeks had passed since her husband’s death. Yezad put the glass down and opened the envelope.

The servant waited till he finished reading. “Memsahab said to bring back your reply.”

“Please say I will come tomorrow at ten o’clock as she wants. Should I write it down?”

“No, no, that much I can remember.”

The servant left, and Roxana rejoiced at the news – it could only mean one thing. And Yezad would certainly get paid tomorrow. She hoped Mrs. Kapur would not deduct for the time the shop had been closed. “After all, you were willing to manage the place by yourself. At the most, she can cut one or two days for Coomy.”

“Yes, we’ll see.”

A touch of fatigue in his restrained answer bothered her. “What’s the matter, Yezdaa?”

“Nothing,” he said, though he dreaded the thought of entering the shop again. He couldn’t burden Roxana with it. That was now between God and himself.

W
HEN YEZAD ARRIVED AT
the Bombay Sporting Goods Emporium, the steel shutters were down though the door was unlocked. The servant who had delivered Mrs. Kapur’s note the day before was inside. He pointed silently to the office at the back.

As Yezad went around the counter, he could hear the air-conditioner roaring, and the open door revealed Mrs. Kapur in her husband’s chair. He felt she occupied the seat as though it had always been hers … come through her ordeal quite unscathed … No, that was unkind, the human spirit was a powerful thing, she was to be commended. Still, she did look a bit too comfortable behind that desk, he thought. He envied her appearance of well-being and strength.

“Good morning, Mr. Chenoy, please take a chair.”

“Thank you.” The other day she had called him Yezad, he thought uneasily.

“I will come straight to the point. Bombay Sporting won’t be reopening.”

He wondered why he experienced no shock, no surprise. If anything, a strange sense of relief. He heard himself ask, “Are you selling the shop?”

“Why? Would you like to buy it?” Her bright smile did not obscure the message that it was none of his business.

He shook his head foolishly, and she proceeded, “Besides the wages owing, I am giving you one month’s extra salary.”

She slid a slim envelope across the desk. He left it there, reviewing the equation: fifteen years of dedicated service, worth one month’s pay to Mrs. Kapur.

“Please, take it,” she said, misreading his stillness for reluctance. “I’m sure Vikram would have wanted you to.”

“Thank you.” He moved it closer to him on the desk. Was this it, should he get up now and pocket the envelope? He shifted to the chair’s edge, ready to leave.

“By the way, Mr. Chenoy, you know the suitcase that used to be here?” she continued with the same bright smile.

“Yes?”

“Whenever Vikram mentioned it, he would praise you. He would say he never had to worry about a single rupee from the cash sales. Every evening you turned over all the money to him.”

“What else would I do?”

She barked a laugh. “I could give you lots of examples. It’s so difficult to find honest employees. If not for you, I’m sure the suitcase would be much smaller than it is.”

And that’s why she rewards me with a month’s salary, he thought.

“Vikram used to call it our personal pension plan. My poor husband – he never got to enjoy it.” She paused. “You know, some months ago he had this crazy idea of joining politics. He wanted to spend the suitcase for the election. I put my foot down.”

“It must have disappointed him.”

She shook her head. “My Vikram was like a child in many ways, wanting to try all sorts of silly things. I had to point out the problems. Sometimes I wonder how he ran the business without me.”

“He was very good at it.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you – such a loyal employee. Which reminds me, do you know how much is in the suitcase?”

“No. I don’t think even Mr. Kapur kept an exact figure.”

She smiled. “He didn’t, but I did. Every night he came home and told me the amount he had put in. We have a Punjabi saying: Bakshis can be a hundred thousand rupees, but accounts must be correct to the last paisa.”

And what about black money and tax evasion, was there a saying for that, he felt like asking.

“Last night I counted the suitcase. And here is the problem. There’s thirty-five thousand less than there should be.”

So that’s where this pleasant chat was leading, the smiling spider trying to weave a web for him. “Didn’t Mr. Kapur tell you?” he asked politely.

“Tell me what?”

“About Shiv Sena. You know how they go to businesses, demanding their so-called donations for —”

“They’ve never bothered us,” she interrupted sharply.

“They did this time.” He told her of the Mumbai name-tax that Mr. Kapur had agreed to, to keep Bombay in his shop sign. “Which is why he took thirty-five thousand from the suitcase.”

“I see. And did they provide a receipt for the payment?”

“That was the whole confusion on Christmas Day – two other fellows came, saying no exemption allowed. The first two never returned for the payment.”

“Oh, I see, never returned. And what happened to the money?”

“It’s still in my desk.” He gestured behind him, towards the shop. “Unless the thieves stole it on Christmas Day.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Nothing was touched, Mr. Chenoy, the thieves ran off when Husain screamed. By the way, I couldn’t find the duplicate keys to your desk. Shall we look?”

He groped for the key ring in his pocket and they left the office. His hand was shaking as he unlocked his desk. He pulled open the drawer slowly, thinking of his father, of the clock in the kitchen, the question of honour and good name …

Without emotion he handed her the envelope. She bent down to peer, to see what else might be in the drawer.

“Better count it, Mrs. Kapur. Accounts must be correct to the last paisa, as you said.”

“I still don’t understand.” Her tone was nakedly suspicious now, the hostility palpable. “Why was the money in your desk?”

“Mr. Kapur wanted me to deal with it. He said it made him sick to talk with the crooks.”

“This whole business is very strange. Why did Vikram want an exemption instead of just changing the name? A new sign would have cost much less than thirty-five thousand.”

“Mr. Kapur didn’t calculate everything in terms of money,” said Yezad, struggling to keep a level tone. “As you know, the name meant a lot to him. Bombay was the world to him.”

She shook her head. “My Vikram was not so sentimental. Anyway, you should take your personal items from the desk, so you don’t have to come again.”

How little she knew her husband, he thought, as he opened the drawers, one by one, and sifted through the contents. There was not much of his in them. A few magazines, letters of appreciation from clients, Divali and New Year cards from business associates over the years.

Mrs. Kapur stood beside him to supervise, scrutinizing each article that went into his briefcase. She craned and shifted to keep things in view at all times.

Yezad did not rush, pretending to examine his files carefully, as though she weren’t looking over his shoulder. But his mind was playing host to a childhood memory, come unbidden, of a servant, suspected of stealing … Henry, about fifteen, three or four years older than he, dismissed for some trivial reason. And Henry’s father, full of shame, had come to take his son away. The boy’s small trunk, rusting and dented, was ready by the back door, along with his skinny roll of bedding. But before they could leave, Henry had to empty the trunk and unroll the frayed, patched-up bedding for his employers, demonstrate that nothing was being smuggled out, while Henry’s father, mortified, looked on …

And Yezad wondered if his own father was now watching his son’s humiliation. He finished, pushed in the drawers, gave her the key.

“Thank you, Mr. Chenoy. On Vikram’s behalf also I thank you. Now. Is there anything in the shop you would like to have for a souvenir? Something small, to keep in Vikram’s memory?”

Perhaps she was trying to atone for her suspicions, he thought. He was about to refuse the offer, when he remembered.

“Actually, Mr. Kapur gave me a Christmas gift. I forgot to take it that day, in all the Shiv Sena commotion. Three photos of Hughes Road – he must have put them back in his desk for me.”

“Oh, I know where they are, Mr. Chenoy. But those are very valuable.”

He looked in her eyes. “Mr. Kapur gifted them to me,” he repeated, keeping his voice steady. “On Christmas morning.”

“I don’t think it’s possible. They are part of Vikram’s collection. One of his hobbies. But I’ll have to sell it – as a widow I have to be careful with money. Is there something else you’d like? Maybe that Santa Claus? Or a football?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Okay, bye-bye then.”

Yezad’s mind was blank as he left the shop. He touched the entrance keys in his pocket – she’d forgotten to take them back. He glanced behind him as he shut the door: no, she hadn’t – both locks had been changed.

Walking along the kerb, he reached into his pocket again, fished out the keys, and dropped them in the gutter. Fifteen years. He heard the tinkle as they landed.

A scavenger sifting garbage nearby saw the keys fall, and dived to retrieve them. Scooping them out of the muck, he added them to a sack containing his metal collection.

Past the Jai Hind Book Mart, Yezad could hear his name being called. He pretended not to have heard, and kept walking. He did not stop till he reached Wadiaji fire-temple.

H
e went through the old handbag with the broken zip in which Roxana kept important documents, receipts, medical information, the children’s report cards. His high-school certificate, B.A. degree, sales and management diploma, and a fifteen-year-old version of his résumé were in there too.

He spread everything out on the dining table. He updated the résumé and made a handwritten copy. Roxana looked on encouragingly, admiring his penmanship.

“Lovely as ever, Yezdaa, your pearls on paper. With writing like yours, it’s an advantage not to have it typed.”

He smiled.

“I think you’ll easily find a new job. Better than the old one.” She kissed the top of his head and withdrew.

He finished the résumé and organized his briefcase, including in it the clients’ letters of appreciation that he had brought back from Bombay Sporting. Then he went to the corner shop to get photocopies.

For three days he made the rounds of the major sports equipment outlets in the city. The managers and owners, aware of the misfortune befallen his previous place of employment, took his application sympathetically, promising to let him know if an opening came up. But Yezad couldn’t help noticing their discomfort. They shook hands gingerly, as though they would prefer not to have contact with one so closely connected with a murder.

On the fourth day, he left in the morning at the usual time and walked to the fire-temple. His train pass had expired. He prayed for over two hours, then walked home. It was only one o’clock when he let himself in.

“Yezdaa? Back so soon?”

“There aren’t any sports shops left to visit.”

“Won’t you look in other places?”

“What are you suggesting? That I’m lazy because I came home early today?”

“I was only wondering what your plan was.”

“Don’t wonder. All these people I’ve been to, they need time to offer me something. God will decide when it’s my turn.”

She left him alone, but later that afternoon asked if it would be all right for her to go out for a while, if he was staying in. “Jal wants me to sort out Coomy’s clothes and shoes and things. He wants to donate them to the old people’s home and the widows’ chawl.”

“Sure. Sooner the better – poor people can make use of it.”

Before leaving, she gave her father the urinal without being asked. Her hissing told him what was required. He obliged by dribbling a few drops into it.

“Is that all, Pappa? Try again, so you won’t need it till I get back.”

Nariman groaned, tried again, managed a bit more. She drained it into the toilet and washed out the urinal. Reassuring Yezad that Pappa had been having a nice quiet day, she left.

Yezad paused for a while in the front room. He watched Nariman’s fluttering hands, and his eyes, restless under closed lids. But it was his silence, grown almost complete in recent weeks, that saddened Yezad the most.

He went out to the balcony to lean at the railing, remembering his childish resentment of Nariman when he first came here four months ago. He thought about the times he had enjoyed with Nariman, his wit, his conversational vigour, ranging from a few telling words to a torrent of persuasion. All down to a barely noticeable trickle. Like the fan of multiple speeds in the back room, down to just a slow swishing … In itself, that too was worth savouring, except that it foreshadowed the approaching stasis. End of all movement, all words …

He put the kettle on when the boys returned from school. He could tell that they enjoyed the novelty of their father being home at this odd hour, making their tea when he normally would be at work. He stayed with them while they drank it.

“Now to your books.”

They went to the little desk in the back room, and he sat on the bed. The boys’ foreheads shone with sweat. Not even the end of January, he thought, and the weather turning already. He asked what homework they had.

“I’ve got this French traduction,” said Murad.

“I remember some of my French, if you need help.”

“Merci, Pappa.”

“What about Jehangla?”

“Arithmetic. But the sums are so stupid. This one says Mrs. Bolakani went to the market with Rs 100.00. She spent Rs 22.50 on eggs, Rs 14.00 on bread, Rs 36.75 on butter, and Rs 7.00 on onions. How many rupees were left when she came home?”

Yezad asked why it was stupid, and Jehangir said no one would buy so much butter all at once, Mrs. Bolakani did not have a good set of envelopes like Mummy’s.

They laughed, and he squeezed their shoulders affectionately. Murad asked if he could have the fan on.