Such A Long Journey (29 page)

Malcolm nodded vigorously, he understood exactly. Gustad continued: ‘And the funny thing is, my father had the same kind of look in his eyes. Sometimes, when he was reading—a kind of sadness, that the book was finishing too soon, without telling him everything he wanted to know.’

‘That’s life,’ said Malcolm. The encroaching waves made them move again. Gradually, their conversation shifted to the present, to politics and the state of the nation. ‘Look at it. Indira has visited every country in Europe, they all say they sympathize. But nobody does a damn thing to make Pakistan behave decently. What is left but war?’

‘That’s true. This Refugee Relief Tax is terrible,’ said Gustad. ‘It’s killing the middle class.’ He described how, working at the bank, he could see the trend: more and more people had to draw on their savings. Then he asked what it was like to work for the municipality.

‘Very boring,’ said Malcolm. ‘Not worth talking about.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ready to go?’

But the rush of the approaching tide, the blue-pink sky filled with comforting white shapes, the dancing foam and sea-glistened rocks, the touch of salty breezes on his face: all this was working to bestow gently upon Gustad a serenity he had not known for a very long time. He decided to stay. Malcolm had to leave for a piano lesson, but they promised to keep in touch, and shook hands on that. He thanked Malcolm for bringing him to Mount Mary; Malcolm replied it was his pleasure.

Alone, Gustad gazed at the horizon. There, the sea was calm. The tidal hustle and bustle could only be perceived near the shore. How reassuring, the tranquillity at the far edge, where the water met the sky. While the waves crashed against his rock. He felt an intense—what? joy? or sadness? did it matter? Like the sonata. Or dawn in the old days, the rising sun, its rays streaming happy golden tears into the compound, the sparrows chirping in the solitary tree.

The sun sank in the ocean, its journey done for the day. And all things that mattered in life were touched by this sweet, sad joy. One after another he remembered them. The workshop, the cheerful sound of tools, but also the silence of the end of day. Rides in his father’s four-horse carriage with the shiny brass lamps, it did not matter where to, for it was magic just to go clip-clop, until the ride ended and the horses were led away to the stable. Pappa’s wonderful parties, the food and music, the clothes, the people, the toys. And yet, always, at some point in the evening, the thought would surface—that the food would be consumed, the guests would leave, the music would stop playing, then he would have to go to bed and the lights switched off.

The opening bars of the sonata continued to obsess him, and the tears he could not permit now scalded his eyes. A wave touched the tip of his shoe, barely wetting it. The next one soaked both toes. If a person cried here, by the sea, he thought, then the tears would mix with the waves. Salt water from the eyes mixing with salt water from the ocean. The possibility filled him with wonder. He stood watching till the sea covered his rock. Then he followed the directions Malcolm had left him to get to Bandra station.

Later, as he emerged at Grant Road to walk home, the word came to him. ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’ He repeated it softly. He would amuse Dinshawji with it tomorrow. Make up for missing today’s visit.

Chapter Sixteen

i

Dilnavaz answered the door without checking the peephole, as it was Gustad’s time to return from Parsi General. She was startled by the bearded man. When he introduced himself as Ghulam Mohammed, her first impulse was to slam the door in his face, lock and bolt it from inside.

‘Mr. Noble, please?’

‘He is out.’ Such everlasting woes that
bhustaigayo
Major dumped on our heads. When will it end? ‘He has gone to hospital to visit a very sick friend.’ Not that I need to explain to this
sataan.
But maybe he will feel sorry. If he has a heart.

‘I will wait in the compound.’ Good, she thought, don’t want him in my house. How dare he come here so shamelessly, after the things he did to us.

But she changed her mind: ‘You can sit inside.’ That way, I can warn Gustad at the door.

‘I am grateful. Thank you.’

She stayed in the kitchen, casting nervous glances into the front room. If she could only tell the black-bearded thief exactly what she thought of him. He smiled politely towards the kitchen door, curious about the black-out paper on the ventilators and the glass everywhere.

‘GustadGustadGustad,’ Tehmul yelled through the window. ‘PleasepleaseGustadplease.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘I think someone is asking for Mr. Noble.’

She went to the front. ‘Yes?’

‘GustadGustadplease.’

‘Gone out.’

He scratched his armpit, deliberating, then remembered the rest of his message. ‘Phonephonephone. Veryimportantphone.’

‘Miss Kutpitia sent you?’ Tehmul nodded, using both hands under his arms like claws. ‘Stop it!’ she said, and the hands dropped. ‘Say that Gustad will come later.’ Cannot leave this black-bearded scoundrel alone. But who can be phoning on Sunday?

She did not have to wonder long, for shortly after, Gustad arrived. At the door, she whispered about the visitor. ‘Shall I stay here or go for the message?’

‘You go,’ said Gustad. ‘Better if I talk to him alone.’

Ghulam Mohammed stood up when he entered. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Gustad said, ‘Last time I made it clear. I want nothing more with you or Mr. Bilimoria.’

‘Please don’t get upset, Mr. Noble, I am sorry to disturb you and your wife. Promise, this is the last time. But remember you said you would consider Bili Boy’s request? To go to Delhi?’ He spoke appeasingly, almost cajoling. No trace of threat or hardness. ‘More than six weeks I waited for you, Mr. Noble.’

‘No, it’s impossible to go, I—’

‘Please Mr. Noble, let me show you this.’ He opened his briefcase. Not another newspaper, thought Gustad. It was.

Ghulam indicated the article. ‘About Bili Boy. If I tell you, you will think I am lying. See for yourself in the paper.’

It was still light outside, but the covered glass had let darkness overtake the room. Gustad switched on the desk lamp:

SENTENCING SOON IN RUPEES-FOR-RAW CASE

Following the recent judgement in the case of voice-impersonator Mr. Bilimoria, the RAW officer who defrauded the State Bank of sixty lakh rupees, the defendant’s request for a retrial was denied yesterday.

It is now learned that the head of the Special Investigation Team, appointed to determine if a retrial was necessary, had asked for more time to conduct a thorough review of the evidence. Soon after, he was killed in a car accident on Grand Trunk Road.

His replacement has brought the investigation to a rapid conclusion. The report finds that a retrial is not necessary. Sentencing is expected to follow shortly.

Gustad folded the newspaper and handed it back.

‘It was his last chance,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. ‘But the courts are in the pockets of the ones at the top. Those bastards think we are stupid, that we don’t understand what it means when the chief investigator suddenly dies in a car accident.’ He clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘Now it’s just a matter of time. Please go and meet Bili Boy. Before they finish him off. Please.’

‘Why do you keep saying finish him off? This is not Russia or China.’ But something funny going on, for sure.

Ghulam shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know how to convince you, Mr. Noble. But it’s true.’

‘OK, suppose it’s true. Does it matter whether he sees me?’ Gustad tried to sound hard. ‘He did not care about me, lying, and using me for his purposes.’

‘You are wrong, he did care. He made sure you did not get into trouble after he was arrested.’

‘But it’s impossible to go to Delhi. My office—’

‘Mr. Noble, please,’ he pleaded. ‘Three days is all it will take. You leave by train, arrive next morning, and go to the prison. I will arrange for the visit. You will be back on the third day.’ He pulled a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and held it towards Gustad.

‘What’s that?’

‘Return ticket. Please.’

Gustad opened the envelope and saw a sleeping-berth reservation for Friday. The prison address, too. He pushed it back at Ghulam. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Please, Mr. Noble. For the sake of your friend. Who still loves you like a brother.’

Like a brother. Yes. That’s how I loved him. All these years in the building. Our prayers at sunrise, the children growing up, so many kindnesses, the fun and laughter we shared. And what has it all come to now? Jimmy sitting in jail. Asking for me. What can I say?

‘OK.’ He accepted the train ticket. And as he said the word, his hatred of Ghulam sublimated as well.

‘Thank you, Mr. Noble. Bili Boy will be so happy to see you. But one thing. Please don’t tell him what I said. If he still has some hope, please let him keep it.’

On his way to the door he noticed the empty bottle of Hercules XXX on the sideboard. Gustad had not been able to throw it away.

‘That was Bili Boy’s favourite. Right from the very old days, in Kashmir.’

‘I know,’ said Gustad. ‘He gave me that bottle.’

Dilnavaz returned from Miss Kutpitia and let herself in. She was surprised to hear them chatting pleasantly as Ghulam left. ‘What did he want?’

Gustad explained. She was suspicious about the whole arrangement but did not argue, as the telephone message was very urgent: ‘Parsi General phoned. They could not get Alamai’s number.’

He looked up, and knew. ‘Dinshawji…?’

She nodded. ‘About one hour ago.’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘Poor Dinshu. Was it peaceful? Did they say?’

‘He became unconscious late in the afternoon.’

He stood up. ‘I must go at once. If they could not get Alamai, it means he is alone.’

‘But I don’t understand. You were there. What time did you leave him?’

His lie, his attempted half-truth, was no longer of any consequence. ‘I did not go to Dinshawji today. I went to a church in Bandra. Mount Mary.’

It baffled her. ‘Church? All of a sudden?’

He sat again, supporting his chin. ‘Don’t worry, I have not converted or anything. I met Malcolm Saldanha at Crawford Market this morning. It was amazing—we talked like we never lost touch.’ He narrated the story of Mount Mary. ‘And Malcolm says miracles are still happening every day.’

She understood perfectly. After all, Gustad and she desired the same destination, only their paths were different.

‘But,’ he said bitterly, ‘one thing is sure. There was no miracle for Dinshawji.’

She touched his shoulder gently. ‘You tried your best. It’s not your fault.’

Her attempt to comfort struck like the arrowhead of an accusation. He thought of the illegal deposits, of Laurie’s complaint, and then Dinshawji’s silence. It
was
my fault. Everything changed when Dinshu became quiet. I silenced him.

‘He was sickly for so long,’ Dilnavaz tried again. ‘Remember how he looked when he came for Roshan’s birthday?’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Thussook-thussook, my cart rumbles along. Over and over he heard it in his mind, thussook-thussook, my cart keeps rolling. Now, finally, the cart had come to a rest, its wanderings halted. Peace at last, my Poet Laureate.

‘It’s all right if the crying comes.’ She leaned against his chair to put her arm around him. He raised his eyes, burning with the tears that could not flow. He lifted his eyes defiantly to her face, so she could see them dry, observe them dry and unblinking. Only then did he put his arm around her. And while they were thus, Roshan entered the room and rejoiced to see her parents hugging. She tried to encircle them both with her skinny arms. Gustad lifted her into his lap.

‘How are you feeling, sweetoo?’

‘OK.’ She examined their faces. ‘But why are you looking so sad, Daddy?’ She put her fingers to the corners of his lips and tried to stretch them into a smile, giggling at her efforts.

‘Because we received some sad news,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You know Dinshawji who came for your birthday?’

Roshan nodded. ‘He kept tickling me and making me laugh, with
gilly-gilly-gilly.
He said, “I wiss you health, I wiss you wealth, I wiss you gold in store.” ’

‘What a memory. My clever little
bakulyoo.
’

Dilnavaz continued: ‘He was very sick, in hospital. Today he passed away and went to Dadaji, to heaven.’

Roshan considered this gravely. ‘But I’m also very sick. When will I go to Dadaji?’

‘What idiotic-lunatic talk.’ Gustad used the phrase of anger to mask his dread. ‘You are not very sick, you are much better. First you will grow up and get married, have children. Then they will marry and have their children, and you will be an old, old
dossi
before Dadaji is interested in calling you to heaven.’ He looked at Dilnavaz reproachfully: she should not have spoken like that. He hugged them both again before leaving for the hospital.

In the compound, Cavasji’s voice was ringing: ‘Tomorrow is Monday morning, do You know that? And the Tatas will have their board meeting! When You bestow Your bounties on them, remember us also! Be fair now!
Bas,
it is too much for—!’

Mrs. Pastakia screamed: ‘Shut up, you crazy old fellow! My head is bursting into a thousand pieces!’ Gustad wondered where her husband was, allowing her to talk this way to his father.