Family Matters (52 page)

Mummy looked over her shoulder and, seeing Daisy Aunty, began to apologize like Daddy for my inconsiderateness.

“Please, I promised,” was all she said.

“Oh Daisy! Poor Pappa – I don’t think he can even see you.”

“That doesn’t matter.” While she moved to the side and tuned the violin softly, I could see Jal Uncle looking at her, wanting to go up to her but feeling awkward.

Then she approached the foot of the white hospital bed, glittering in her black clothes. I remember that she bowed solemnly to Grandpa before starting. Mahesh watched with great interest; he must never have had a patient for whom a splendidly dressed woman had played the violin. Daddy said in my ear it was the
Serenade
by Schubert. I knew that; she had played it before, many times, for Grandpa. Her eyes were closed. I kept mine open, I wanted to see and hear everything around me.

Maybe it was the mood in the room, but I don’t think she’d ever played more beautifully in front of us. I looked at Grandpa, and felt he could hear the music, because his face had a contented expression.

Then Daisy Aunty began the Brahms “Lullaby,” which Grandpa loved so much. Daddy whispered that he used to sing this tune for Murad and me when we were babies, he said it was also a Bing Crosby song that his father would sing to him. He hummed the words under his breath, “ ‘Lullaby and good night …’ ”

Daisy Aunty heard it, and turned sharply. I thought she would be annoyed, but she said, “Sing it louder.”

And Daddy stood up and sang it, and I saw tears running down his cheeks too, like Mummy’s. “Excuse me,” he said at the end of the piece, and took out his handkerchief.

Daisy Aunty played for over an hour, till Dr. Tarapore arrived, as he had promised that morning. She ended with Grandpa’s favourite song, “One Day When We Were Young.” When she finished she stood quietly for a moment, bowed again, then put away her violin.

There was a hush in the room. It lasted till Doctor said he wanted to check Grandpa, see if there was anything more he could do to make him comfortable. He took the blood pressure, as though, like Mahesh in the corner, he too needed something to occupy him. The wrap around Grandpa’s arm puffed up as the rubber bulb was pumped. The column of mercury rose, dancing up and down. Then the air was let out, and Doctor murmured to Mummy that the professor was resting quite peacefully.

He sat with us for a few minutes, speaking some words to Jal Uncle and Daddy, patting Murad and me on the back, giving us cheerful smiles. Then he packed his bag and shook hands with everyone, including Mahesh in the corner. The last thing he did was to take Grandpa’s hand in both of his and whisper, “Good night, Professor.”

After Daddy had seen him to the door, Daisy Aunty said she had a bit of good news to share. She spoke as though she was addressing Grandpa and he was listening. He was right, she said, she was going to get her wish, and would be performing the Beethoven concerto with the
BSO
later that year, at the
NCPA.

My parents congratulated her. Jal Uncle edged forward as though he would shake her hand, then held back shyly.

She told us the date and took out some passes from her purse. Looking around to count us, she separated five from the wad. Now Jal Uncle went closer, to receive them from her hand. He said he would attend, definitely, and put the passes safely in his pocket.

Daisy Aunty clicked her purse shut, kissed Grandpa’s cheek, and left.

Very early the next morning, Daddy came to wake me. Grandpa had died a short while ago. “Come,” he said.

The sun was just rising as we passed the window. I slowed down to see the colour of the dawn sky. Not yet cerulean, I thought. Daddy’s hand on my shoulder drew me along. Murad was up already, he was with Mummy in Grandpa’s room.

The clock in the passageway struck six. I stood at the foot of the bed and looked at Grandpa. A small oil lamp had been lit on the table beside his head. It was strange to see his hands and feet absolutely still. For as long as I could remember, they had always trembled.

“Come,” said Daddy again, and led me next to the pillow.

I kept moving my eyes away from Grandpa’s face. On the other side of the bed sat Mummy, crying silently with her hands joined as though she was praying. Murad and Jal Uncle left the room now, and Daddy told me to give Grandpa a kiss, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch him later, after the prayer ceremonies began. I asked if Murad had kissed him.

Mummy nodded from across the bed to encourage me. I leaned forward, a little scared, and, without putting my arms around him as I used to, kissed him quickly. It did not feel like I was kissing Grandpa.

And suddenly I understood what dying meant. Nothing would ever be the same, Grandpa was gone forever. I began to cry.

Daddy held my arm and led me away from the bed. I squirmed in his grasp as though to escape, but I didn’t know where else I wanted to be. Mummy held out her hand and I ran into her arms. She said that Grandpa was happy now, no more pain or sickness for him.

Her crying made her choke on the words, and Daddy gently patted her back. He lifted my face from where it was buried in her shoulder, and hugged us both together, Mummy and me.

He led me closer again, right next to Grandpa. He told me to look at the face, see how serene was the expression on it.

I looked. I wasn’t sure what I saw. A little later, the hearse arrived from the Tower of Silence.

After the funeral and four days of ceremonies, after Mummy finished the vigil and came home from Doongerwadi, she no longer cried – as though it didn’t matter to her any more that Grandpa was dead. I remember how much I resented that.

Then the rented hospital bed was sent back, the urinal and bedpan scrubbed and put away in storage. Bit by bit, all signs of Grandpa began to vanish.

Mummy told me I, too, should stop crying now, or it would make Grandpa’s soul unhappy. “Think of the good memories, Jehangoo. Remember the first day when Grandpa came to us by ambulance?”

I nodded.

“And you fed him lunch, doing aeroplanes with the spoon?”

I tried my best to smile.

“He used to have so much fun playing with you, no? How he laughed at your aeroplane noises.”

“I spilled some food on his shirt. You scolded me.”

“Yes, I had to, I’m your mother. But it was beautiful to see you feeding Grandpa. And how you and Murad used to stroke his bald head and squeeze his chin.”

My fingers still remember the feel of Grandpa’s jujube chin. It was such a unique sensation, the combination of tiny stubble and rubbery skin.

Mummy kept trying to cheer me up, and I kept nodding. But next day, while I was growing used to the absence of the white bed in Grandpa’s room, all his medicine bottles were taken away from his dressing table, for donation to the charity hospital.

“Why can’t you leave Grandpa’s things alone?” I protested.

“Grandpa is in heaven, Jehangla,” said Daddy. “He doesn’t need them any more. Dada Ormuzd is providing for him now. Clothes, ice cream, pudding, everything.” And Mummy smiled, agreeing with this jolly idea of God’s tailoring and catering services.

I think I scowled back at them. I knew they were trying to be humorous to make me feel better, but I wasn’t in the mood for it.

Grandpa’s smell stayed in his room though his things were gone. I went there often. After a few days even that disappeared.

When Jal Uncle reminded us of Daisy Aunty’s concert with the Bombay Symphony Orchestra, Mummy said it was only three months since Grandpa’s funeral and she did not feel right about going. Daddy said he felt the same way.

I disagreed, saying they had encouraged me to think happy thoughts, and here was something nice we could enjoy, the music that Grandpa liked the most. What sense did it make to waste the passes Daisy Aunty had given us?

They tried to explain the convention of mourning, the observance of social proprieties, the expectations of the community. I refused to accept any of it.

Eventually, Mummy said that she and Daddy weren’t going, that was final. And Jal Uncle and Murad and I could do as we wished.

Now that the responsibility for the decision was on my shoulders, I no longer felt so confident. All through the week I kept agonizing over it, wondering what Grandpa would have wanted me to do.

On Friday morning, the day of the concert, I made up my mind. Before leaving for school I told Jal Uncle I wanted to go.

So we went, just the two of us. That evening he wore his best suit and tie. I ironed a long-sleeved shirt and long pants for myself. It was an enormous auditorium, much bigger than Max Mueller Bhavan, where I had seen the orchestra practising. The sign told me what NCPA meant: National Centre for the Performing Arts. It seemed such an important place, I was almost reluctant to enter.

The foyer was crowded with beautifully dressed people. Some women’s saris looked more expensive than Mummy’s wedding sari. I smelled perfume, and it reminded me of Miss Alvarez, though hers was much nicer, it didn’t feel like a headache the way this did. Jal Uncle and I were very alone in the excitement around us. Everyone except us seemed to know everybody else.

But once the bell rang and we were in our seats, the lights dimmed and I didn’t care about other people because the orchestra came out to the stage, then Daisy Aunty came out with the conductor, and I knew her – the most important person there. She was wearing the beautiful black clothes she had worn for Grandpa.

Taking her position to the left of the conductor, she put the violin under her chin and checked its tuning. The conductor signalled to the orchestra, and all the instruments played one note. He seemed satisfied with the sound. Raising his baton, he nodded at Daisy Aunty. The concert began.

I felt a great surge of pride when her solo part entered the score. For me, that was the most thrilling moment of the concerto. I’m sure Jal Uncle and I clapped more loudly than anyone in the auditorium.

At the end of the concert, after the encore, Jal Uncle suggested saying hello. We were swept up the aisle along with the rest of the audience, out into the foyer. There, we followed the corridor to get behind the stage.

People had surrounded Daisy Aunty, saying congratulations, a magnificent interpretation, so fresh and energetic. Some of them gave her flowers. We stood back, and waited our turn.

Then she saw us, and broke through the crowd to shake Jal Uncle’s hand and give me a hug. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked.

I nodded, smiling, though I wanted to say something, not stay dumb like a shy little boy. I also wanted to tell her that I was feeling good for the first time since Grandpa died.

Meanwhile, Jal Uncle managed to murmur that the concert was wonderful, before becoming tongue-tied again. He too kept smiling, gazing with admiration at Daisy Aunty.

“It was very nice of you to come,” she said, and prepared to return to her fans.

It was now or never. “Not at all,” I said, “the pleasure was all mine.”

Daisy Aunty beamed; I could see she was delighted with my answer. Now she and Jal Uncle talked a little more. She asked him if he would like to go to another concert – she had passes for something called the Bolshoi Ballet. He said yes at once.

I was disappointed she didn’t invite me, but I knew it would be better for the two of them to be alone. I was sure Mummy would also like that.

Then, as she was getting ready to leave us, she stopped suddenly and came closer. “You know, just before I came out on stage this evening, I was thinking of Professor Vakeel. I was imagining him in the audience.”

I wanted to say that I too had been thinking of Grandpa. But I think she already knew that.

D
addy has caught Murad kissing a girl in the stairwell. He comes in grim-faced and announces it to Mummy, whose first concern is if it’s someone from the building, anyone we know.

“She is a non-Parsi,” he answers in a doom-laden voice, and leaves the room. Mummy hurries after him, inquiring anxiously if words were exchanged downstairs, how did it end, does he need his angina medicine?

“I would not give a parjaat girl the satisfaction of seeing me argue with my son. At least he had the shame to leave, the moment he saw me. But just wait till he’s home.”

The threat, and his tone, makes Mummy fear that a big fight is looming. She spends the next hour in the kitchen, cutting and chopping, preparing dinner, fretting, shaking her head, till the doorbell rings. She wipes her hands and rushes to the drawing-room, father and son must not be left alone.

As she goes in, Jal Uncle puts down his newspaper and returns to his room. I can see Mummy wanting to tell him, Stay, it’s your house too, but she thinks better of it.

“So what do you have to say?” begins Daddy as Murad enters.

“About what?” he asks innocently.

“That girl. Who is she?”

“Oh, you mean Anjali – she’s in my college. We were just waiting for some friends.”

“So you always kiss girls when you’re waiting for friends?”

Then Daddy stops himself and lowers his voice. He sits on the sofa, asks Murad to sit in the chair opposite. “I don’t want us to shout at each other. This is very serious, please listen carefully. This friendship of yours …”

He pauses to clear his throat, searching for words. “Your relationship with this girl is not possible.”

“What relationship?” laughs Murad. “We’re just friends, I told you.”

“A girl you kiss in that way cannot be just a friend. Either she’s your girlfriend, which is unacceptable, or you’re having your fun with her, which is even more unacceptable.”

“We’re both having fun.”

Daddy clutches his forehead. “A child thinks playing with matches is fun. But we still have to stop it. This will go nowhere, it cannot have a happy ending.”

“We’re not thinking in those terms, okay?”

“You see?” he appeals to Mummy. “He listens to nothing. From the trivial to the most significant matters of life, he listens to not a word.”

He turns to Murad again. “I’m warning you, in this there can be no compromise. The rules, the laws of our religion are absolute, this Maharashtrian cannot be your girlfriend.”