Such A Long Journey (17 page)

iii

A grey drizzle filled the melancholy dawn. Gustad could not go outside for prayers. He opened the window a little. Swollen with water, it resisted, moaning ominously. A flock of startled wet crows half scuttled and half flapped their way to a safe distance. Some flew into the branches of the neem. He looked at the sky and concluded there was at least another day’s worth of rain in those clouds.

The bedraggled crows watched balefully, then began hopping back towards the window. By the time Gustad finished two cups of tea, the sky was lighter and the crows much louder. The shrieking and cawing finally got to Dilnavaz: ‘What
is
going on in the compound?’ He buttoned up his pyjama top, put on his rubber slippers and went out with an umbrella.

Crows had gathered from miles around. Besides the multitude teeming in the compound, there were clusters on the entrance steps, shaking out water from their feathers. Another disciplined black line perched along the awning. ‘Psssss!’ said Gustad, flapping his hands and stamping. He stepped around a large puddle outside the entrance, hissing and waving the open black umbrella like a giant crow. Then he saw the vinca bush, and his stomach turned. Bile-bittered tea rose to his mouth. The crows waited, wondering if they were about to lose their banquet. ‘Dilnavaz!’ he roared through the open window. ‘Come quickly!’

She was outside within moments, her feet flopping in Darius’s rain shoes which she had donned in her haste. ‘O God!’ she said, and covered her eyes. ‘Why ask me to look at it? What good is it to make me sick in the morning?’

A headless bandicoot lay in a dark, red-brown puddle that had collected at the base of the vinca. The cleanly severed head was beside the body. Despite the progress made by the crows’ beaks, it was immediately apparent that the cause of decapitation had been a sharp instrument of human design.

‘This is the absolute limit!’ said Gustad. Simultaneously, the two thought of Tehmul, of his fascination with rats. But Gustad said, ‘No, I don’t think so. Even if he did it, he would never throw it in the vinca. He would go to the municipality for his twenty-five paise.’

Dilnavaz was more anxious to be rid of the half-eaten carcass than to find the culprit. ‘I’ll call the
kuchrawalli
right now to sweep it away.’

‘Who is it that hates my vinca so much?’ wondered Gustad. ‘And where was that bloody Gurkha, what kind of watchman is he?’ Meanwhile, wakened by the noise, Darius came to the window. He was ordered to summon the Gurkha from the office building.

‘But I am in my pyjamas,’ said Darius.

‘And what am I wearing, a wedding dress? Go right now!’ Grumbling and frowning, Darius hurried through the compound, keeping well towards the inside so no one in the building saw him. Particularly the soft brown eyes of Jasmine Rabadi. If those melting, soft brown fourteen-year-old eyes were to spy him in his silly pyjamas, it would destroy his chances for ever, he was certain of that.

‘You know where the Gurkha sleeps in the daytime?’ Gustad called after him. ‘In the little room, next to the lift.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, scowling and jerking his head angrily. He returned shortly with the Gurkha, and conducted a cautious but dignified retreat.

The Gurkha was a small, bow-legged man whose calf muscles bulged powerfully, as did the sinews of his forearms. When he did his rounds at night for the office building next door, he included the compound of Khodadad Building in his circuit, and for his pains, each tenant paid him two rupees a month. He had not yet changed out of his uniform: khaki shirt and khaki short pants, with a khaki cap. Round his waist was the leather belt carrying the ceremonial Gurkha kukri: a short broad-bladed sword, and nestling near the hilt, two tiny daggers in their separate sheaths.

He saluted smartly, his almond-shaped Nepali eyes twinkling. ‘Salaam,
seth,
’ he said, and then to Dilnavaz, ‘Salaam,
bai.
How is baby?’ He was very fond of Roshan. Sometimes, when she was dropped off by the school bus across the road, he would, if he was awake, race over and escort her safely into the compound. Roshan called his family of daggers mummy-knife and the twins.

‘Baby is all right,’ said Dilnavaz.

‘And what is the meaning of this?’ said Gustad, pointing at the torn, crow-eaten bandicoot.

‘
Arré baap
! What a very big rat!’

‘That I know, thank you,’ said Gustad. ‘But who cut its head, who threw it in my flowers, that I don’t know. And that is what
you
should know, because you are night-watching in the compound.’ He paused. ‘Or are you taking money from us for sleeping all night?’

‘
Arré
no,
seth.
Not like that, never. Every night I walk here, banging my stick on the black wall. One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock. All night. But I heard nothing, saw nothing.’

Gustad looked at him disbelievingly. Dilnavaz said, from the corner of her mouth, using the Gujarati
asmai-kasmai
code so the Gurkha would not understand, ‘M
asm
ayb
ism
e h
ism
e w
asm
as sle
asm
ep
ism
ing be
asme
ca
usma
use i
smi
t w
asm
as ra
isma
in
ism
ing.’

So Gustad tried a different approach to the cross-examination. ‘How do you make rounds when it rains?’

The Gurkha smiled, revealing perfect neem-nurtured white teeth. ‘Office people have given me very good long raincoat. I wear that when rain is falling. And plastic cap, with flaps to cover the ears, which go like this, over the cheeks, then there is a button under the chin which—’

‘OK, OK. So last night you walked in your long raincoat and cap. But I heard no banging of stick.’

‘O
seth,
so much noise of rain and thunder, how can you hear my stick?’

Gustad had to concede the point. ‘But from now on, I want to hear the stick, rain or no rain. Bang harder, bang under my window, but bang, I am warning you. I must hear it every night.’ The Gurkha nodded vigorously to placate him, sensing that the matter was almost concluded. ‘And on your way out, tell the
kuchrawalli
to clean this at once.’

The crows began converging again when Gustad and Dilnavaz turned to go in. He decided to stay. ‘You will be late for work,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘I’ll wait till
kuchrawalli
comes.’

‘It’s OK. There is enough time.’ By now, he was feeling bad about having made her view the bandicoot’s torn entrails.

iv

It rained through Saturday but stopped during the night. Gustad lay awake to hear the Gurkha’s nightstick. By and by, the reassuring knock of wood against stone started to punctuate and measure out the hours of darkness. Satisfied that the scolding had worked, he turned over and fell asleep.

Sunday dawned with a clear sky. Gustad was wakened by a ray of light entering through a corner of ventilator glass where the blackout paper had come untacked. No rain, he thought. Prayers in the compound? It will still be soft and squelchy. Better stay inside, took too long to clean mud from slippers yesterday.

He sat up, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. The cawing started. Just one crow at first, as though it was calling the faithful to prayer, but soon joined by others, fervent recruits who lent their eager throats. Then the sound grew frantic, the entire assembly raising its voice in a strident chorus of ecstasy, and Gustad bounded out of bed.

The mattress lurched wildly in reaction, waking Dilnavaz. ‘What happened?’

He pointed to the window. ‘You can’t hear?’ The cawing made her sit up; she reached for her duster-coat.

The morning was windless, and the rain puddles were still as glass, reflecting a cloudless sky. But only a few feet away, by the vinca bush, was a different world. The competition was rough, and the crows, in their urgency, were flapping and pecking, sometimes attacking one another. A few withdrew now and then to gird their loins, then re-entered the fray. It was hard to see what was in the bush because of the frenetic, fluttering multitude of grey-black wings and feathers.

‘Aaaaahhh!’ roared Gustad, waving his arms wildly. ‘Caaaah! Caaaah!’ Like a black curtain lifting, the crows ascended and settled some distance away. He saw the dead cat: brown with patches of white, its eyelids not shut, and the eyes still unpecked. The mouth was slightly open, displaying a pink tongue. Wet whiskers skimmed the water surface. Were it not for the fact that the cat’s head, like the rat’s the morning before, was severed from its body, it would have seemed that the creature was thirsty, lapping water from the puddle. Gustad realized with detachment that this was how he used to imagine the sliced-off heads of dragons in his childhood
kusti
fantasies: intact, looking as if they were capable of continuing a separate existence.

‘Don’t look,’ he said to Dilnavaz, too late. She retched twice, then was in control. ‘What is going on, I’d like to know,’ he said quietly. ‘Darius!’

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Darius came. ‘What?’

‘Quick, call the Gurkha.’

‘I’m not going again in my pyjamas. Yesterday also you sent me,’ he protested. ‘It’s not fair.’ Besides, the map of his teenage lust, charted during the night, was printed starchily on the fabric over one thigh.

‘Don’t argue with me! Go right now!’

‘I’m not going!’ Darius yelled back, and returned to bed.

Gustad said to his receding figure, ‘You will have an unhappy life if you take your rascal runaway brother’s example and shout at your father! Remember that!’

‘Never mind,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘I will go.’

‘It’s shameful. How quickly he learns the bad things. But wait. Tehmul! My friend! Tehmul!’ It was the first time Gustad had seen him since that Friday after Chor Bazaar. He waved and smiled, coaxing him close, making no sudden moves lest he flee.

Tehmul approached shyly, scratching cautiously, and smiled at Dilnavaz. ‘GustadGustad.’

‘How are you, Tehmul? You enjoyed the rain?’ Tehmul spied the beheaded cat and burst out laughing. He edged closer and bent to pick up the head.

‘No, no, Tehmul, don’t touch. It’s bad, it bites.’ Tehmul drew back, grinning. ‘Will you do something for me? You know the Gurkha who sits in the building next door? Go and call him, say that Noble
seth
wants to see you.’

Tehmul scattered the crows with his hobble. When he returned with the Gurkha, he imitated the salute by slapping his forehead briskly with his palm. Gustad kept a blank face and pointed silently to the bush.

‘O Bhagwan,’ said the Gurkha. ‘What is happening?’

‘Why ask Him? You should know. What time did you fall asleep? Two o’clock? Three o’clock?’

‘
Arré,
Noble
seth,
all night I was walking.’

‘Lies!’ shouted Gustad, pointing to the evidence. ‘This will not do! Enough is enough!’ Windows opened and curious faces peered out. ‘Yesterday a rat with head chopped off. Today a cat! Somebody is doing mischief, and what are you doing? Not doing your job! What comes tomorrow? Dog? Cow? Elephant?’

‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat,’ said Tehmul. ‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat.’

‘I am warning you, I will stop your pay. And all the neighbours also, I will tell them to stop, that you are a useless watchman.’

The Gurkha panicked. ‘O
seth,
your feet I will touch, don’t do that. How will I put food in my children’s stomach? First-class night-watching I do, first-class. One more chance, please.’

‘R-a-tratc-a-tcatd-o-gdog.’

Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster turned into the compound and halted by the foursome. ‘What’s going on, bossie?’

Glad to see a figure of authority, Gustad appealed to him. ‘Soli. You say what you think. Somebody is throwing dead animals in my flowers. And this wonderful watchman does not know anything about it.’

The Gurkha stood at attention while Inspector Bamji got out and took a good look at the cat. Tehmul imitated the inspector’s hands-behind-back pose. ‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat,’ he said.

Inspector Bamji smiled a small, grim smile. It was a professional smile. ‘Somebody’s knife is very sharp. A very skilful knife. Anyone has a grudge against you, wants to harass you?’

Gustad shook his head, and looked at Dilnavaz. She reinforced his denial with hers, adding, ‘Sometimes people kill animals to do magic. They use the blood in
puja
or something.’

‘That’s true,’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘All kinds of lunatics out there. I think whoever is doing this, for whatever reason, is throwing it here because it’s a quiet, convenient place for disposal—in the bush, hidden by the black wall. If our watchman did some watching, the problem would be over.’

‘One more chance,
seth,
’ said the Gurkha. ‘Only one more.’

Inspector Bamji winked at Gustad and nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘One more chance. But no more sleeping.’

‘Never on duty,
seth,
’ he said. ‘Swear on Bhagwan’s name.’

‘Useless,’ said Bamji, meaning the fellow would never admit to it, and got into his car. The Gurkha threw a salute in his direction, then presented one each to Dilnavaz and Gustad. Tehmul saluted the Gurkha. ‘C-a-tcatr-a-trat,’ he said, and began following him to the gate. Halfway there, he switched to a yellow butterfly, stumbling to keep up as it glided gracefully before him. Sometimes it paused upon a blade of grass till Tehmul all but reached it.

Gustad watched him sadly, remembering Sohrab. With his butterfly net fashioned from a broken badminton racquet. On Sunday mornings I used to take him to Hanging Gardens.

Dilnavaz knew what he was thinking. ‘He will come back,’ she said. ‘Shall I tell him you want him to come back?’

He pretended not to understand. ‘Who are you talking of?’

‘Sohrab. Shall I tell him you want him back?’

‘Tell him what you like. I don’t care.’ She said nothing. It would have to wait till they were inside, for down the compound came Mr. and Mrs. Rabadi with Dimple.

The two were muttering between them, deliberately loud. ‘People think we are stupid. Fooling our little girl, saying fund-raising for refugees. God knows where the money goes.’

Gustad said to Dilnavaz, so the Rabadis could hear, ‘I cannot bother replying to every lunatic ranting by the roadside.’ When they were gone, he added, ‘Would not be surprised if that idiot was responsible for the cat and the rat.’

‘No, no,’ she said, clinging to common sense. ‘He does not like us, true, but I don’t think he would do this.’

And she was right. What Gustad found next morning put everyone in the building beyond suspicion.

Up bright and early, he was determined to say his prayers in the compound. A good way to start the new week. The Gurkha was by the vinca bush. ‘Salaam,
seth.
No dead animals in the flowers, not even an insect.’ His relief was great.

Gustad inspected for himself. He circled round, and noticed a piece of paper, curiously positioned. It was folded and inserted snugly between two adjacent branches, as though in a letter-holder. Not something done by a random breeze. He pulled it out. There were two innocuous lines written in pencil, a child’s rhyme that made the colour drain from his face:

Bilimoria chaaval chorya

Daando lai nay marva dorya.

The Gurkha looked over Gustad’s shoulder. ‘What language is that,
seth
?’ Since he had been forgiven, it would not hurt to solidify things with a little friendliness, he felt.

‘Gujarati,’ said Gustad shortly, wishing he would leave.

‘You can read Gujarati?’

‘Yes, it’s my mother tongue.’

‘What does it say, these funny-shaped letters?’

‘It says: “Stole the rice of Bilimoria, we’ll take a stick and then we’ll beat ya.” ’

‘Means what?’

‘It’s something that children sing when playing. One child runs, the others try to catch him.’

‘Oh,’ said the Gurkha. ‘Very nice. Salaam
seth,
time to sleep now.’

Gustad went inside with the rhyming couplet. There was no doubt now. No doubt at all about the meaning of the two decapitated carcasses. The message was clear.