Family Matters (51 page)

She strokes his hair. “Are you happy, Yezdaa?”

He smiles a sad, melancholy smile. “As happy as a soldier of Dada Ormuzd can be, fighting against Ahriman.”

This type of vague answer with a spiritual flavour is his way of avoiding serious conversation. But she’ll never be able to bring herself to say he should pray less. That, to her, would be blasphemous. So she blames his extremes, his new beliefs and practices on his new friends in the societies he has joined.

The League of Orthodox Parsis and the Association for Zarathustrian Education meet once a week. He returns from their sessions to tell us in detail about the agenda considered and the action taken, the petitions circulated and injunctions filed, the campaigns to be waged against films or publications that have given offence. All this provides more fodder for Murad.

Yesterday, Daddy told us over dinner that the League had discussed the 1818 case of a Parsi bigamist – married a non-Parsi woman in Calcutta, then moved to Bombay and married a Parsi. “For his crime he was excommunicated by the Panchayat,” said Daddy, raising his hand to signify the gravity of the punishment. “And his father was told to disown him or he, too, would be.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Mummy. “Why excommunicate the father?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t want to be known as the father of such a scoundrel. But the bigamist reacted by insulting the high priests and the Panchayat, who went to court against him. Then things became so serious, he got scared, and asked to make a formal apology to end the matter. An Anjuman was called, where he had to confess his crime and humiliate himself by taking a pair of shoes, one in each hand, and striking his head five times with them. Right before the assembly.”

“Were they brand-new shoes or old dirty shoes?” asked Murad.

“That wasn’t noted in the Panchayat records. The point is, our committee members have agreed unanimously to challenge the Reformist propaganda – we will campaign to reintroduce a strict policy of excommunication. Parsi men and women who have relations with non-Parsis, in or out of marriage, will suffer the consequences. Excommunication will be reversed if they repent publicly with the shoe punishment.”

There was silence around the dining table for almost a minute. Jal Uncle fiddled with his hearing aid, looking as though he wanted to speak but dared not. Most of his day he spends in his room, only joining us for meals. He no longer goes to the share bazaar. Sometimes, when Daddy is out, he will sit in the drawing-room to read the newspaper. He tries to keep to himself as much as possible.

He and I began to laugh now because Murad ducked under the dining table, emerged with his slippers, and started hitting the top of his head with them. Mummy pressed her lips tightly together, doing her best to smother her amusement. But her face could remain straight for no more than a few seconds.

For Daddy, hers was the ultimate betrayal. “Purity and pollution is not a laughing matter. Your son behaves like a jackass and you encourage him.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Yezdaa,” she soothed him. “I’m laughing at this clown.”

“Just practising, Daddy, in case I have to take the punishment someday.”

Murad’s jokes are like the ones Daddy himself used to crack when we were small. I remember once, long ago, we’d all gone to fire-temple on Khordad Sal, and after we came home Daddy had imitated a man we’d seen sliding along the walls of the main hall, kissing every photo-frame and portrait his lips could reach. And I also remember conversations Daddy and Grandpa would have, about the silliness of slavishly following conventions and traditions.

Grandpa died a year after we moved to Chateau Felicity. I think it was very lonely for him to have his own room again. In Pleasant Villa, in the front room, there was always someone near his settee.

At first we made an effort to keep him company, sitting by his side, talking to him and to one another. Sometimes I took my homework to his room. But it was not the same. Especially with a hospital ayah who did everything for him. The day he overheard Jal Uncle and my parents having a discussion about hiring her full-time, he became very upset. He began to cry, No ayah! Please, no ayah! I don’t think they understood.

Her name was Rekha. Mummy explained her duties and demonstrated exactly how she wanted things done, in the hygienic manner to which she and Grandpa were accustomed. Rekha followed the instructions when she was being watched. But Mummy often caught her skipping steps if she came upon her without warning. Usually, it was the urinal – she would not rinse it clean each time Grandpa used it. I remember, once, Mummy found her proceeding to fetch Grandpa’s soup from the kitchen after emptying the bedpan, not bothering to wash twice with soap and water.

“Your toilet hands you use to carry food?” shouted Mummy. “Not even once did you apply sabun!”

“Aray, bai, I forgot this time.”

“I’ve seen you lots of times, taking shortcuts!”

Rekha’s way with Grandpa bordered on roughness in things like turning him, changing the sheets, plumping the pillows. Her brisk manner of wielding the cloth during sponge baths made Mummy wince. She often took it away from Rekha and finished the sponging herself.

When Grandpa’s mouth was scalded with hot tea from the feeding cup, it was the last straw. His scream made Mummy run to his room. I went too. Rekha pretended he had yelled in his sleep, there was nothing wrong. But Mummy noticed the unusual way Grandpa’s mouth was hanging open. She went closer and examined it, saw the red beginning of blisters, smelled tea on his breath, and discovered the hot feeding cup hidden behind bottles on the dressing table.

Rekha was sent packing. She had lasted two months. It took a few days to find someone new, during which Mummy and I looked after Grandpa again. He seemed more at peace then.

The replacement was a wardboy in his thirties, a gentle fellow called Mahesh. Mummy especially liked the delicate way he applied ointment to the two bedsores on Grandpa’s lower back, one on either side of the spine where the big bone, which Dr. Tarapore called the ilium, protruded. The sores had formed during Rekha’s employment, and Mummy blamed herself for trusting that careless woman to do the work.

By the time Grandpa died, his back was covered with sores. Some were horrible, big and deep. Every time I looked at them, I felt a sharp pain in my back. The smell of pus and the sulpha ointment was always in the room. Grandpa didn’t make a sound despite the agony he was going through. I wished he would scream. To see him lie quietly was more sad. Could he feel nothing?

Months passed under Mahesh’s care. Grandpa continued to shrink. And when Dr. Tarapore told us the inevitable was perhaps a day away, two at best, I remembered the promise.

I reminded my parents. Mummy couldn’t concentrate on what I was trying to say. She appreciated the doctor’s well-meaning attempt to prepare her, but now that the end was approaching, she was too distressed to listen to me. “Please, Jehangoo, ask Daddy, I don’t know what to do.”

My father’s opinion was that the promise wasn’t a serious one, more like a joke between Grandpa and the violinist, and it wouldn’t be fair to expect Daisy to keep it. Jal Uncle felt the same way.

“I think Grandpa was very serious,” I said. “So was Daisy Aunty. They even shook hands to make the promise.”

“But, Jehangla, look at Grandpa – he’s almost unconscious. How will it help, whether she comes or not?”

I kept pestering my father all day because I felt it was extremely important. In the evening he got fed up with me. “Fine,” he said. “You go and tell her if you want to. I can’t leave Mummy and Grandpa alone at a time like this.”

I walked to Pleasant Villa. It was faster than waiting for a bus, as they would be packed at this hour and the driver wouldn’t have stopped.

This was my first visit to Pleasant Villa since we’d moved. The entrance steps seemed smaller. I remember the sadness that came over me as I went in, thinking about our old flat upstairs, how it might look now, what kind of furniture Mr. Hiralal had put in the rooms. I knocked on Daisy Aunty’s door.

There was no sound of practising inside. I knocked several times, and just when I was giving up, Villie Aunty climbed the three steps and entered the building with her shopping basket.

“Hello, Jehangirji! What are you doing here?”

“I came for Daisy Aunty.”

I could see her wondering why, but instead of inquiring she asked, “How is everyone?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said quickly, knocking again.

“She went out with her violin,” Villie Aunty volunteered. “I met her as I was going to the market.”

“Do you know where?”

“Max Mueller Bhavan is what she said, for rehearsal.”

I knew where that was: near Regal cinema. Should I go? Daddy had given me permission only as far as Pleasant Villa. But waiting till next day could mean Grandpa dying without the promise being kept.

This time I took the bus, the distance was too much to walk. I pushed myself onto the 123 bus. A half-hour later I got off where it turned the traffic circle past the museum.

Crossing the road took a long time, the cars kept coming, no one was obeying the traffic signals. When there was a jam I managed to run through to Max Mueller Bhavan.

Inside the building I wondered where to go. The office was empty, everyone had left because it was after six. But I heard music, many violins playing together, and I followed the sound.

It led me to where they were practising. I opened the door and peeked. The hall was dark and empty though the stage was lit, and Daisy Aunty was sitting in the first chair on the stage, next to the conductor. The music went on and on, no one could see me. I was not sure what I should do.

I waited. At one point all the instruments became silent except for the two cellos. The music was so sad, I felt my heart would break.

Suddenly, the conductor waved his baton from side to side like a windshield wiper, as though it was saying, Stop that! Cancel that! Everyone went quiet. He began to discuss something. Daisy Aunty pointed to the page on her music stand. Checking in his own book, the conductor hummed and moved his hands funnily. “Molto sostenuto,” he said, and the orchestra nodded.

This was my chance, before they restarted. As I hurried towards the front I stumbled into a chair. It fell over. The entire stage looked startled, and the conductor said, “Yes? What is it?”

Then Daisy Aunty, who was peering into the darkness like everyone else, rose and came to the edge of the stage. “Jehangir? Is that you?”

“Yes, Aunty,” I answered softly.

“Come closer. Are you crying?”

I hadn’t realized I was. It must have begun while I was waiting in the dark. I quickly wiped my eyes. She got down on her haunches so her face came closer to mine – I was still quite short then, though now I’ve grown taller than her. She held the violin and bow together in her left hand and grasped my shoulder with the right. I liked her hand, her strong fingers made me feel better.

“What’s wrong, Jehangir? Your parents know you’re here?”

I shook my head and told her why I’d gone to Pleasant Villa. Her face became sad as I repeated Dr. Tarapore’s words about Grandpa.

“To be honest, I had completely forgotten the promise.”

I started to turn away.

“Wait, I’m glad you came. Give me a minute.”

She spoke to the conductor and vanished to the side of the stage, then reappeared with the case for her violin and bow. I wondered if she was going to leap down from the stage. It was so high, and she was wearing high heels. But she went to one corner where there were steps I hadn’t seen. She descended into the hall, waving to the conductor: “See you tomorrow, everybody.”

She walked very fast. I half-ran to keep up. She called a taxi, and since I only had bus fare, I let her know. She smiled, telling me there was enough in her purse, and gave the driver the address for Pleasant Villa.

“But, Aunty, we don’t live there any more!” I assumed she had forgotten in a moment of absentmindedness.

“I know. But I’ve to change my clothes first.”

My eyes discreetly scrutinized her outfit: a pair of light brown pants and a pale yellow blouse with long sleeves that she had rolled up to her elbows. Worried about not getting to Grandpa quickly, I assured her that her clothes looked very nice, there was no need to change.

“Thank you. But they are not suitable for the occasion.”

She asked the driver to wait, and we went inside. I sat in the front room while she disappeared to the back. There were lots of music books in the room, three music stands at different heights, two extra violins. It was an untidy room, but I felt comforted in it.

In a few minutes, I heard the sound of Daisy Aunty’s heels approaching, tick-tocking like a very loud clock, and I turned to look. I will never forget what she was wearing: a long black skirt, very beautiful, and a black long-sleeved blouse with something in the cloth that made it twinkle like stars. Her shoes were black too. A string of pearls clung to her neck.

I recognized these clothes, she would dress in them for the big important concerts of the Bombay Symphony Orchestra. I used to see her from our old balcony upstairs, when she would step outside with her violin case and call a taxi. I always thought she looked gorgeous, like a picture in a magazine.

And now she had dressed the same way for Grandpa. She was the most wonderful lady I’d ever met. My throat felt like it was choking. We got back in the taxi, and she told the driver to take us fast to Chateau Felicity.

The door opened with a frown, Daddy was looking quite upset. “Where have you been? At a time like this, making us worry.”

Then he saw Daisy Aunty standing to the side. Her lovely clothes had a calming effect on him, and he asked her to please come in. “I’m so sorry. Has he dragged you away from an important performance?”

“But this is the performance,” she said. “Shall we go inside?”

We went to Grandpa’s room, where everyone was gathered. Mummy sat by the bed, holding his hand. It barely shook now. Jal Uncle and Murad were standing behind her chair. Mahesh waited in the corner on his stool, fidgeting, wishing there was some work he could do for his patient.