Such A Long Journey (31 page)

And when the bookstore was bankrupt and the bailiff arrived, I remembered the broken bowl. Watching helplessly as the shelves were emptied and the books were loaded on lorries. Pappa begging and pleading in vain with the bailiff. The cleats on the bailiff’s shoes clattering brazenly on the stone floor. The men continuing their task, dismantling Pappa’s life, breaking it up into little pieces, feeding the pieces into the bellies of the lorries. Then rolling away, leaving in their wake a noxious smell. Diesel fumes. And I remembering the dinner-table in Matheran, the crunching down of the broken bowl—such a terrible, final act.

But what pudding was it that night? Lemon? No, it was pineapple. Or maybe caramel? Perhaps. Even memories do not stay intact for ever. Have to be careful, scrupulous, in dealing with them. And Dinshu is dead. Tomorrow, the vultures. Then, nothing. Except memories. His jokes. About the two men whose wives. And the other one, the bicycle pump. O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam…

Gustad closed his eyes, nodded. Jerked his head up. But down it went again. And up. His spectacles slid a little bit lower. The third time he did not struggle to raise his head.

A loud honking across the dark, damp grass silenced the crickets and cicadas in the foliage, and ended Gustad’s brief nap. He pushed up his spectacles. A car was blocking the hospital driveway; a van waited to get through. He stood up. The building lights illuminated the legend on the van:
HEARSE,
and then the rest:
Bombay Parsi Punchayet.
The unpainted body of the vehicle shone eerily, silvery-white in the darkness.

He hurried across the lawn. The chirr-chirr-chirr-chirr started up in the grass again, as the cicadas reasserted their shrill presence. Hearses can be impeded by cars and barricades, he thought. But death. Death gets through every time. Death can choose to be prompt or fashionably late.

The offending car drove away, and the hearse rumbled over the remaining few yards. He reached the entrance just as two men emerged and climbed the steps into the lobby. Alamai was waiting. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Where were you all this time, Gustadji? I was thinking that by mistake-bistake you forgot and went home.’

Who does she think she is speaking to? Her
mai-issi
Nusli? Outwardly calm, he said, ‘I saw the hearse just arriving. Are you ready?’

The hospital formalities were completed, papers checked and handed over, and the two
khandhias
went to work. Nusli stood by with Alamai’s handbag while she did some last-minute rummaging in Dinshawji’s trunk. She asked the men as sweetly and politely as she could, ‘Please, can you also put this little
paytee
inside? So we can drive by my house and leave it there?’

‘Maiji,
we are not allowed to do that. Straight back to Doongerwadi we have to go. Only one van is on duty.’

Alamai folded her hands meekly and bent her head sideways. ‘Look,
bawa,
a helpless old widow will give you her blessings if you can do this.’

But the two men were adamant: they had already glimpsed her true colours. ‘Sorry, not possible.’

She flung down her hands and turned away in a huff, walking stiff and straight as a ramrod to the door, muttering about the extra trip by taxi she would have to make. ‘Lazy, stubborn loafers, she said under her breath, to no one in particular. Nusli followed her with the handbag, then the
khandhias
with the bier of iron, and finally Gustad.

In the hearse, the bier was secured to one side. Along the length of the van was a bench seat for passengers. The driver started the engine, and Alamai motioned to Nusli to get in. Hunching his shoulders, he crossed his hands over his chest and backed away. ‘No, Auntie! Not me first! Please, not me first!’

‘You boy-without-courage! You will remain a
beekun-bylo
for ever.’ She pushed him away with the back of her hand. ‘Move aside,
muà
animal, move aside! I will go first.’ Ignoring the attendant’s hand waiting to help her up, she was inside in one bound. ‘Now
muà
coward! You climb now and hide under my petticoat.’

But Nusli turned to Gustad and asked him, with pleading eyes and imploring hand, to go next. Gustad obliged. Finally Nusli crept in, cringing, sitting as far back as possible. The man outside shook his head, slammed the van’s rear door shut and made his way to the front, next to the driver.

The journey was uneventful except when the van went over an extremely bumpy stretch. Everyone was badly shaken, and the bier received a rough jouncing. The dead man’s head moved around a bit, and Nusli shrieked in terror. This incident affected Alamai too in some way; she started to sniff and dab at her eyes with a little hanky, and Gustad was utterly disgusted. Better to stay quiet than to pretend. Shameless hypocrite. Have to hire mourners if she wants more tears. Thank God the quality of afterlife does not depend on the quantity of tears.

But he was wrong. After sniffing and dabbing for a while, Alamai showed how badly he had underestimated her histrionic capabilities. For as the hearse turned into the Doongerwadi gates and made its way up the hill, she was convulsed by a great sob that burst forth without warning. She rocked back and forth, her tall, thin trunk swaying alarmingly in the narrow space, as she clutched her head in her hands and wailed. ‘O my Dinshaw! Why! Why! Why! O Dinshaw!’ Like Tom Jones and his Delilah, thought Gustad. Dinshu would have enjoyed this. His domestic vulture, finally singing her torch song.

‘You have left me? Gone away? But why?’ Since Dinshawji refused to tell her why, she sobbed some more, then directed her efforts at the roof of the hearse. ‘O Parvar Daegar! What have You done! You took him away? Why? Now what will I do? Take me also! Now! Now and now only!’ and she smote her chest twice.

The driver slowed by the prayer bungalows on the lower level and, receiving no instructions, continued to the upper level. But Alamai had not made any arrangements. Gustad asked to return to the office.

‘These people,’ grumbled the driver to his companion. ‘They think they are out for a Sunday drive at Scandal Point, making me go round and round.’

Alamai was still wailing and beating her chest as Gustad led her into the office. ‘It is God’s will, Alamai,’ he said, a little weary of the business. He tried to calm her with all the
de rigueur
phrases he knew. ‘Dinshawji has been released from his pain and misery. Thanks to the mercy of the Almighty.’

‘That’s true,’ she moaned, the volume of her sobs quite respectable for one with so skimpy a chest. ‘He is released! At least from his suffering he is released!’ Then the man in the office offered information about rates and expenses.

‘Let us think of Dinshawji now,’ said Gustad. ‘Prepare for his prayers.’ He deftly guided his words in through little windows that opened between her sobs. ‘Do you want four-day prayers? At upper
bungalee?
Or one-day at lower
bungalee?’

‘One-day, four-day, what does it matter? He is gone!’

‘For upper
bungalee,
you will have to live here for four days. Can you manage that?’ He suspected that a question of a practical nature would stem the tears.

It worked. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Are you crazy? Four days? Who will look after my little Nusli? Who will cook his dinner, hunh?’ It was all very quick from here on. The time for the funeral next afternoon was scheduled, and Alamai agreed to have the announcement in the morning’s
Jam-E-Jamshed.
The clerk promised to telephone the newspaper before the presses rolled.

Once more, they occupied their places in the van. The driver took them to the allocated
bungalee.
It had a little verandah in the front leading to the prayer hall, and a bathroom at the back, where the deceased would be given the final bath of ritual purity. Alamai, Nusli, and Gustad took turns to wash their hands and faces before doing their
kustis.

Meanwhile, Alamai got into a passionate argument with the men who came to perform Dinshawji’s
suchkaar
and ablutions. She forbade them to follow the traditional method of sponging the corpse with
gomez.
‘All this nonsense with bull’s urine is not for us,’ she said. ‘We are modern people. Use water only, nothing else.’ But she insisted that the water be warmed first, because Dinshawji, it seemed, had a habit of catching a chill if he bathed with cold tap water.

Embarrassed, Gustad left her to do his
kusti.
Nusli gladly went with him. However, Alamai soon finished dealing with the
suchkaar
and followed them to the verandah.

Here, it was discovered that Nusli had forgotten to bring his prayer cap. ‘You boy-without-brain,’ she said, gritting her teeth, softly, in deference to the place and the occasion. ‘Coming to a place of prayer without prayer cap. To collect what dust, I am asking?’

Gustad tried to restore peace by pulling out his large white handkerchief. He folded it along the diagonal and showed Nusli how to cover his head with it. This was a perfectly respectable method. But Alamai uttered another imprecation: ‘
Marey em-no-em.
Which fire burned all his wits, I wonder,’ then decided to let the matter pass.

Gustad fled the verandah as soon as he knotted the last knot in his
kusti.
He did not know how much more of this woman he could tolerate. He went into the empty room and sat in a corner, in the dark. Two men entered with the body, white-clad now, and laid it on the low marble platform. The face and ears were left uncovered by the white sheet. A priest arrived and lit an oil lamp next to Dinshawji’s head.

How efficiently everything proceeds, thought Gustad. All routine. As though Dinshawji died every day. Alamai and Nusli took their seats. The priest picked up a sliver of sandalwood, dipped it in oil and held it to the flame. He transferred it to the thurible and sprinkled
loban
upon it. The fragrance of frankincense filled the room. The priest started to pray. For some reason, the quiet prayers made Nusli restless and fidgety. He kept squirming, adjusting the handkerchief on his head. But Alamai soon settled that wordlessly, by directing her elbow and knee into his person.

The
dustoorji
prayed beautifully. Each word emerged clear and full-toned, pure, as if shaped for the first time by human lips. And Gustad, lost in his thoughts, began to listen. It sounded so soothing. Such a wonderful voice. Like Nat King Cole’s when he sang ‘You Will Never Grow Old’. Soft, smooth, rich as velvet.

The
dustoorji
was not praying loudly, yet, little by little, in ever-increasing circles, his voice touched every point of the prayer room. Now and again, he added a stick of sandalwood to the thurible, or sprinkled
loban.
A dim bulb burned outside on the verandah. So dim, the bulb, it barely outlined the entrance, hazy behind the veil of fragrant smoke. Inside, the oil-lamp cast its soft glow on Dinshawji’s face, the flame wavering sometimes, moving with any slight breeze. And the soft glow on Dinshawji’s face moved in waves with the movement of the flame. On his face light and shadow played like little children, touching it gently, now here, and now there.

The prayers filled the dark room slowly. Slowly, the prayer sound was the dark room. And before he was aware of it, Gustad was under its gentle spell. He forgot the time, forgot Alamai, forgot Nusli. He listened to the music, the song in a language which he did not understand, but which was wondrously soothing. All his life he had uttered by rote the words of this dead language, comprehending not one of them while mouthing his prayers. But tonight, in the
dustoorji
’s soft and gentle music, the words were alive; tonight he came closer than he ever had to understanding the ancient meanings.

The
dustoorji
cantillated the verses of the ancient Avesta. And as the notes and syllables were intoned, they mingled with the sounds of night. Steadily, from the trees and bushes rose the voices of night and nature, and from all the lush vegetation that grew here on the hill, around the Tower of Silence. The murmurings of leaf-hoppers and tree-dwellers, winged and crawling, ascended Doongerwadi, up towards the Tower of Silence. Their murmurings blended with the sandalwood and
loban
and prayer music floating forth from the room with the oil lamp, and Gustad understood it all.

iii

Dilnavaz was asleep, her head thrown back on the sofa. He opened the door with his latchkey, waking her.

‘Is it very late?’ she asked.

The clock showed just after ten. The pendulum was still. He checked his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty.’ He opened the glass and felt for the key.

‘What happened?’

He wound the clock, telling her about Alamai, Nusli, the hearse, their arrival at Doongerwadi. ‘When I went to the
bungalee,
I was so tired and sleepy, I said to myself, I’ll leave in five minutes. Then the prayers started and…’ He stopped, feeling a little foolish. ‘So beautiful. I kept listening.’

He moved the minute hand, waited for the ten-thirty bong, then pushed it to eleven. ‘Dinshawji’s face. On the marble slab. Looked so peaceful. And you will think I am crazy…I moved my head this way and that. Changed my way of seeing. Thinking it must be the light. But…’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘There was no doubt. He was smiling.’ He checked his watch again, and adjusted the clock’s minute hand. ‘Go on. Tell me I am crazy.’

‘Prayer is a very powerful thing.’

‘I saw his face when he was still at hospital. Also in the hearse. But nothing.’

‘Prayers are powerful. Prayers can put a smile on Dinshawji’s face, or in your eyes.’

He put his arm around her. ‘I hope when I go there will be a smile like that on my face. And in your eyes.’ The clock was still silent. He pushed the pendulum gently, and shut the glass.