Family Matters (5 page)

“I agree with you, chief. A person could go crazy.”

“Oh, you agree? And do you know what happened yesterday? I didn’t want to say it on Pappa’s birthday, but now I will. No, Jal will. Tell them, Jal.”

He cleared his throat, adjusted his hearing aid, and said in a mild voice that the night before Pappa had had an accident.

“Nonsense,” said Nariman. “I stumbled and twisted my foot, that’s all.” He pulled up his sleeve to show the band-aid. “This is the enormous wound they are worried about.”

Yezad’s laughter and Roxana’s relieved smile made Coomy feel helpless. “Please listen to me,” she pleaded. “Next time Pappa might not be so lucky. It’s no joke at his age, going out alone.”

“Maybe you should go together, a walk will be healthy for everyone,” said Roxana.

“You want to injure all of us in one shot?” Coomy turned to her brother, “Again you’ve become quiet. Must I do the arguing and seem like the bad person always?”

“It’s his hearing aid,” said Yezad. “Makes it difficult to participate. You know, Jal, nowadays with advanced technology, the new gadgets are very powerful. And so small, you hardly notice them.”

“Forget it,” said Coomy. “If he can’t hear with this big one, how will he manage with a tiny one?”

“The streets are a death trap,” began Jal. “Footpaths are dug up, pedestrians have to compete with traffic, dozens of fatalities daily. We told Pappa to stroll around the flat for exercise, it’s big enough. For fresh air he can use the balcony. Why risk life and limb on those murderous pavements?”

“I think you are overreacting,” said Yezad. “I agree you have to walk cautiously, not rely on traffic signals. But it’s still a civilized city.”

“Is that so?” said Coomy. “In that case, why were you trying to leave for Canada?”

Yezad didn’t like being reminded of it. “That was years ago. And not just because of traffic and pavements.”

Then Coomy said that since, in their opinion, there was nothing wrong with Pappa’s walks, she wouldn’t worry herself about it. But if, God forbid, something terrible happened, she and Jal would deliver him straightaway to the Chenoy residence.

“The chief is welcome,” said Yezad. “Just make sure you bring us one of your extra rooms. We live in a two-room flat, not a seven-room palace like this one.”

“Laugh all you like, but I am serious.” There would be no other choice, she declared – an ayah or nurse would be unaffordable, and a nursing home out of the question. “Jal will tell you how hopeless the share bazaar is, Mamma’s investments make barely enough to let us eat dar-chaaval. And you know better than anyone, Pappa used up all his money to pay for your flat.”

“But this lovely place is for you,” said Roxana. “Why do you keep envying us?”

“Lovely place? A haunted house, fallen to rack and ruin! Look at these walls, not a coat of whitewash in thirty years! What we will do if the roof leaks or the last remaining toilet breaks, I don’t know. To think we could all have lived happily together, right here, one family. But you insisted on leaving us.”

“Now wait,” said Nariman, “don’t blame her. It was my decision.”

“Why are we discussing ancient history?” asked Roxana. “All because you don’t like Pappa’s birthday gift?”

“The walking stick is a sign of how inconsiderate you’ve become. Never were you like this, not till you got married and left. Now you have no concern for how we live or die. And that hurts me!”

She turned away to dab at her eyes. Roxana watched for a few moments, feeling awful, then put her arm around her. “Come on, Coomy, don’t be silly. Every day I think of you and Jal and Pappa. Please stop crying.”

She led her to the sofa, sitting her down between Yezad and herself. Sniffing, Coomy complained that she still hadn’t heard a word about the shirt she and Jal gave Pappa.

“It’s a lovely shirt,” Roxana assured her.

“They complimented me on it when they came,” her father covered for her. “You were still in the kitchen.”

“Look, chief,” said Yezad. “How about a jigsaw puzzle instead of the walking stick? I’m sure Jehangir would be happy to give you one of his. Or some of his Famous Five books.”

“On one condition,” said Nariman. “Every evening Coomy and Jal must read aloud to me about an adventure.”

“You’ll be the Famous Three,” said Jehangir, at which everyone laughed, including Coomy.

She called them to the table and offered the usual apology for its inadequacy: she’d done her best, but what with the shortages, and the prices in the market, and the good quality stuff being exported, it was so difficult to cook a decent dinner.

“It smells fantastic,” said Yezad.

“Yum-yum,” said Murad, as his aunt pointed him to one of the two chairs at the end. Jehangir tried to make a break for a place closer to their grandfather, but she thwarted him, putting him next to his brother.

With everyone seated, Nariman inquired why the good dishes were not laid out. Coomy clutched her forehead.

“Each year you ask the same question, Pappa. What if something breaks or chips?”

“She’s right, Pappa,” said Roxana. “We don’t use them in our house either.”

“Be that as it may, tonight I want the fine china.”

Jehangir repeated the phrase softly to himself, be that as it may, relishing the combination of words. His father whispered that Grandpa’s English was the best in the family.

“Don’t be difficult, Pappa, please!” pleaded Coomy. “If something cracks, how will we ever replace it? The whole set will be spoiled.”

“We’ll have to risk that. Life will go on. Locked away unused, eventually it will age and crack in the sideboard. What use is that? Better to enjoy it.”

“Fine,” said Coomy. She unlocked the cabinet and took one dinner plate from the stack. “Happy? You eat from that.”

“I want the full set. Dinner plates and side plates for everyone, the big rice platter, the serving bowls.”

“But the food is already served. You want me to empty it? And wash twice? I’m sorry, I cannot do that.”

“In that case, you’ll have to eat without me.”

He tried to leave the table amid general protest, while Coomy, close to tears, appealed to the others. She said this kind of cranky behaviour was what she had to put up with all the time.

“You know, chief, in my experience food tastes better in ordinary dishes,” said Yezad. “Good ones distract you with their elegance.”

Jehangir and Murad said their plates were beautiful, and offered to exchange with Grandpa, holding them up to display the Peter Pan scenes painted on them. Jal mumbled something about eating from banana leaves and following the fine old traditions. Roxana promised to arrange another dinner for her father, served in the good dishes, if he started eating now. But Nariman could not be persuaded.

“What’s the use,” said Coomy. “I surrender.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long,” whispered Roxana as they brought out the bone china. “And I’ll help you with washing.”

Jal, Yezad, and the boys were shooed away from the table. The place settings were removed and replaced, the food transferred into the Royal Doulton, and everyone called back.

“Thank you, Coomy,” said Nariman. “The table looks splendid.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, gritting her teeth and serving him first. He enjoyed fish heads, and she spent a moment to locate the two pomfret heads lurking in the paatiyo’s depths.

As the dishes travelled around the table, if something clanged or was set down heavily, Coomy flinched. The journey of the large rice platter was the most trying. When the spoon slipped from Murad’s fingers, striking against the edge, she cried out, “Careful!”

“The dhandar-paatiyo is delicious,” said Roxana, and her praise lit up Coomy’s face.

“Quite hot, though,” noted Jal.

“Paatiyo has to be hot, or it doesn’t deserve the name of paatiyo,” said Yezad, his napkin patting away the chili-driven moisture on his brow. He suggested putting on the ceiling fan.

“No, no,” said Coomy. “Pappa will get a cold.”

“In this weather?” said Nariman. “Heat stroke, more likely.”

“Fine. I’m not going to argue.” She rose and turned on the switch.

There were sighs of appreciation as the air began to move. But the fan, unused for months, had collected layers of dust on its blades. Little grey clouds were soon swirling over their heads.

“Look,” pointed Murad, first to notice the impending disaster.

“Quick, protect the food!” said Coomy, shielding her plate by leaning over it.

“Duck for cover!” shouted Jehangir.

“Hit the dirt!” yelled Murad.

“Actually, the dirt is about to hit us,” said Nariman. “What have you two been reading? Cowboy comics?”

Meanwhile, everyone copied Coomy, bending over their plates as Jal sprang to the fan switch.

“Nobody move till the dust settles,” said Roxana.

“How are you managing, chief?”

“Quite well,” said Nariman. “Bent is a natural posture for me. And I’m enjoying a close look at my dinner. The pomfret has a baleful countenance.”

“Maybe some dust fell in its eyes,” said Yezad, and the boys laughed as their grandfather sang to his fish heads, Dust Gets in Your Eyes.

Coomy burst into tears. “Are you happy now with your fan? You ruined the dinner on which I wore out my backbone in the kitchen!”

Roxana said nothing was ruined, everything was perfect, the dust had been foiled by the prompt action. “I can’t wait to eat more of this delicious dhandar-paatiyo.”

Looking up and around, Jal announced that the air was safe again. So they raised their heads and, to comfort Coomy, resumed with busy noises. The clatter of cutlery was the only sound at the table.

Then the whine of a power tool tore through the quiet, and Coomy flung down her napkin. Enough was enough, a little hammering was one thing – this kind of unearthly screeching at night was beyond tolerance.

She stuck her head out the window: “Mr. Munshi! Stop that noise! Hai, Edul Munshi! It’s Pappa’s birthday dinner! Have some consideration and stop your idiotic noise at once!”

The tool ceased, and she returned to the table, frowning at her plate. Jal said that Edul’s wife, Manizeh, was a good woman – it was probably she who made him stop.

“Give credit where credit is due,” said Nariman. “Coomy knows how to get results.”

They finished eating without further interruptions. The cutlery fell silent; no one could be persuaded to another helping. Roxana asked the boys to carry the plates to the kitchen, and before Murad could protest, Jehangir slid off his chair to collect them. He knew Mummy was being nice to Coomy Aunty, and also trying to show off, that her sons were good boys.

Nariman excused himself, something was stuck in his dentures. Jehangir followed him to the bathroom and watched him pop them out for a scrub.

“You know, Grandpa, I wish my teeth could also be removed. Would be easier to brush them, reach all the tricky places.”

Nariman laughed gummily, sniffed the plates to check for odours, then reinserted them in his mouth.

After a dessert of falooda, everyone trooped to the balcony. It had stopped raining, and the air smelled clean. They slapped one another’s backs to dust off their clothes, Jehangir taking the opportunity to thump Murad harder than the dusting warranted. The earlier unpleasantness faded into the background. Edul Munshi’s hammer was thudding again, but softer now in deference to the late hour.

“Chalo, time to go home,” said Roxana. “Tomorrow is a school day.”

“Be that as it may,” said Jehangir, “let’s stay a little longer.” He beamed, thrilled that he’d been able to use the phrase.

Laughing, his grandfather ruffled his hair. “Yes, sit for a while.”

“You don’t know this boy,” said Yezad. “Tomorrow morning he will be glued to his bed – head is aching and stomach is hurting and bum is paining.”

“We’ll come back soon,” said Roxana, and kissed her father’s cheek.

The sad look of loneliness returned to Nariman’s face, as Jal fetched the raincoats and umbrellas from the bathroom.

Securing the front door against the night, Coomy said that each time the Chenoy family visited, she felt exhausted, as though a whirlwind or a vantolio had passed through.

“That’s strange,” said Nariman. “To me it feels like a fresh breeze has stirred the stale air.”

“You never miss a chance to snub me, do you?”

“It’s not a snub, Coomy,” said Jal wearily, “just a difference of opinion.”

T
hey were the only ones at the bus stop, where a large puddle had collected on the broken pavement. The wet road was glossy black in the street light, shimmering and hissing under the wheels of passing traffic.

“Pappa talked very little tonight,” said Roxana.

“Except when he wanted to bug Coomy,” chuckled Yezad. Lowering his voice, he added that Dr. Tarapore had warned them about the symptom.

Jehangir asked who Lucy was, and his mother said she used to be a friend of Grandpas.

“Girlfriend,” said Murad, smirking, and she told him not to be silly. But Jehangir persisted with the topic, wanting to know why Coomy Aunty was so angry about Lucy.

“You’ll know when you’re older.”

“There’s nothing to hide,” objected Yezad. “Might as well tell him.”

Reluctantly, Roxana explained that Grandpa had wanted to marry Lucy, but couldn’t, because she was not a Parsi. So he married Uncle and Aunty’s mother. “Who was also my mother, I was born to her.”

For Jehangir, the answer did not explain his aunt’s anger. He asked if there was a law against marrying someone who wasn’t a Parsi. His father said yes, the law of bigotry, and his mother said exasperatedly that he was confusing the child.

Then Yezad helped to change the subject, teasing Roxana that if she hadn’t married him, she’d still be playing with toys in her father’s house. The boys pretended to wind each other up. They mimicked the robotic drinking and drumming of the monkeys.

“Poor Jal and Coomy,” she said. “So sad.”

“Why?” asked Jehangir.

“Because they never got married, they don’t have a family like us.”

“And it always feels gloomy in their house,” said Murad.

Two men unsteady on their feet approached the bus stop and stood behind the Chenoys. Laughing and continuing their noisy argument, their breath heavy with liquor, one gave the other a shove, making him stagger against Roxana.