Such A Long Journey (33 page)

iii

In the wake of Gustad’s early-morning departure, one disaster after another had followed Dilnavaz. The milk boiled over, she burnt the rice, the kerosene overflowed the funnel when she filled the stove—the kitchen was a ghastly mess.

She was worried about Gustad, wished he had not decided to go to Delhi. But it’s the only way to find out the truth. Or he will never know peace. And to be honest, neither will I. All the same, the thought of Gustad entering a jail, even as a visitor, was frightening.

And besides, she had not yet done what Miss Kutpitia had prescribed for Roshan’s illness. Roshan was much better now, but Miss Kutpitia had repeated her warning: not to be lulled into a false sense of security, because that’s how the dark forces worked, lurking like poisonous snakes, striking when least expected. I did everything else her way, no sense stopping now.

But why for Sohrab does she always say patience, patience? What is that final remedy she is so reluctant to tell? I can take it no longer, lying awake all night worrying about Sohrab, and it’s affecting Gustad too, though he will admit nothing, keeps saying, I have only one son, with his pain showing in his eyes every time I look.

If Miss Kutpitia’s instructions were to be carried out, now was the time. And still she vacillated, till, later that evening, Mr. Rabadi finished walking Dimple in the compound and rang the Nobles doorbell. The Pomeranian commenced with a series of shrill yips as Dilnavaz opened the door. ‘
Choop ré,
Dimple!’ scolded Mr. Rabadi, ‘be nice to Noble Auntie.’ He was nervous. ‘Your husband is there?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ he said, at a loss, but also relieved. Just before ringing the doorbell, he had recited Dustoorji Baria’s latest Prayer to Strengthen the Righteous. ‘I can talk to you then?’

‘I am listening.’

Her curt response left him a little flustered. ‘See, fighting-bighting I am not interested in. We live in one building, and it’s not looking nice. I am talking straight, and I am hoping you will listen straight and stop your son.’ His confidence grew in proportion to the number of words he spoke.

Dilnavaz shifted her weight to the other foot. ‘Stop our son? From what?’

‘Please,
khaali-pili
don’t do acting. Your son holds the bicycle seat and runs after my daughter. The whole building is watching and that’s not looking nice.’

‘What idiotic-lunatic talk is this?’ Gustad’s favourite phrase fit quite precisely, she realized. ‘I don’t understand one word of your rubbish.’

‘Rubbish? Then ask your son only! I am a fool or what? He holds the seat, and whole building watches him run after my Jasmine with his hand touching her buttocks! That is not looking nice, let me tell you now only!’ He waggled a finger which upset Dimple; she started yapping again.

Darius emerged from the back room to see if his mother needed help. When Gustad had left early in the morning, he put his hand on Darius’s shoulder and said, half-joking and half-serious, ‘Listen, my Sandow. You are in charge, look after your mother and sister.’

‘There he is!’ yelled Mr. Rabadi. ‘Ask him now only! Ask him if he put his hand on her buttocks or not! Now only, in front of me!’

Enough was enough, decided Dilnavaz. ‘If you ask me, you should leave now only. Too much nonsense we have heard from you.’ She tried to shut the door.

‘
Khabardaar
!’ protested Mr. Rabadi, pushing against it. ‘Show respect for your neighbour! I have not finished talking and—’

Darius, taking his father’s trust very seriously, heaved the door shut. Outside, Mr. Rabadi was hurled back, tripping over Dimple. He dusted himself off and threatened through the door to lodge two complaints at the police station: one for assault, the other for molesting his Jasmine. He also made a mental note to visit Dustoorji Baria at the first opportunity and narrate the contretemps.

‘You shouldn’t have shut it like that,’ said Dilnavaz, secretly quite proud. ‘But what is he saying about his
jaari-padayri
daughter?’

Darius looked a bit bashful: ‘She’s not really fat. She just needed help to learn bicycling. To balance while she pedalled. The other boys all got tired in only one round. No stamina, so she kept asking me.’

‘You know what Daddy told you. Rabadi is a crackpot and we don’t want trouble with him.’ More than a crackpot, she thought, capable of anything. ‘Promise me you will not go near her or her father. Especially her father.’ The way he had looked when Darius came to the door—my God. What a crazy look.

And now it made sense! Roshan had been getting thinner and thinner, and where was all her health and weight going if not to the dogwalla idiot’s daughter? Who got fatter and fatter, day by day! Miss Kutpitia was right, the alum pointed squarely at Rabadi!

The needle of suspicion had sewn up the case to Dilnavaz’s satisfaction. She made her plans. First the mixture to prepare. That was easy. But Miss Kutpitia said his scalp must be wetted with it. That was the tricky part.

iv

After midnight, Gustad was awakened by a hand tapping his shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ said the luggage-rack man. ‘You want to lie up there?’

‘What about you?’

‘I slept enough. I will sit in your seat.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gustad. With his limbs fast asleep, aching in every joint, it was difficult to climb to the rack. The man helped; Gustad swung up successfully and stretched out. He wondered sleepily about the fellow’s groping hands. But it felt good to lie down. The stiff bones relaxing. The train rocking, soothing. Reminds me of another train. Long time ago. With Dilnavaz. On honeymoon…

He slumbered, drifting in and out of sleep. Half-dreaming and half-imagining he was in the coupé with Dilnavaz, twenty-one years ago. The day after their wedding. Impatient in their little mobile bedchamber, not willing to wait till their destination and hotel…

A hand stroked Gustad’s thigh. It moved to the crotch, discovered his dream-stiffened member, and was encouraged to go further. Fingers groped, fumbled with his fly-buttons, pried and squeezed one through the buttonhole. Did the same with the next. And Gustad realized he was not dreaming any longer.

Pretending to be asleep, he grunted, turned over, and while turning, lashed out with his elbow. He was not disturbed for the rest of the night.

Towards dawn it got cold. The train had left behind the warmth of the lower latitudes. Wishing for a blanket, wishing he was home in bed, he wrapped his arms around himself, drew his knees into his stomach and fell asleep again.

Sunlight through a ventilation grill woke him. Feeling the rays upon his face transported him to another time. Suddenly, all his doubts about coming to Delhi vanished like the night left somewhere down the tracks. Jimmy and I in the compound, saying our prayers. With the first light bathing us. At last everything will be put right between us.

The engine could not devour the remaining miles quickly enough for Gustad. At the next station he alighted, rubbing his cold hands. Some passengers had got off during the night, and there was more room in the compartment. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the luggage-rack man, who had a black eye. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, it’s OK. In the night I was going to WC and tripped over a suitcase or something. Banged my face.’

‘These crowded trains, what to do. But thank you very much for your bed. I had such a good sleep,’ said Gustad.

A chaiwalla passed with glasses of steaming tea in a metal rack. Gustad took two. The luggage-rack man reached for money, but Gustad paid. The hot glass warmed his hands. Poor fellow, he thought. Forcing himself to select a wife, to please his parents. And the poor woman, whoever she will be.

The warning whistle blew. The chaiwalla came back for his glass. Gustad held it out, unfinished. ‘Drink, drink,’ said the chaiwalla. ‘Still time.’ The whistle blew again, and the train moved. He began running alongside: ‘Drink, drink. Little more time.’ Gustad took a few hurried sips, more anxious to return the glass than the chaiwalla was to get it back. The glass changed hands at the end of the platform.

Chapter Eighteen

i

Oh what a pleasant ache, to walk again, thought Gustad, left-right, left-right. But Jimmy in jail must feel…And soldiers again. Left-right, left-right in the railway station. With their immense backpacks, leaning forward to balance. Huge tortoises going erect. Would be quaint if not for their guns.

He ran his fingers through his hair—hard as unwieldy wire—and looked down at his dusty clothes: reddish-brown, from the miles of countryside the train had come through. He tried to brush it off but it was everywhere. Under the collar, under the cuffs, sleeves, watch-strap. Stuck up my nose—hard and dry inside, sitting like a big fat
cheepro.
Throat feeling raw. Everywhere itching desperately. Inside my socks, inside my
sudra.
Gritty grains crawling busily, exploring the skin with countless little feet and claws, coarsely announcing their chafing, scratching, raging omnipresence. Like questions about Jimmy in my mind.

He entered the waiting-room and went to the back, to the lavatories. Skirting the dirty puddles made by leaky pipes, overflowing toilets and general carelessness, he waited his turn for the wash-basin.

The ice-cold water of Delhi’s December morning stung sharply. But it was wonderfully invigorating.
This is the way we wash our face, wash our face, wash our face
…He cleared his throat and spat…
This is the way we spit out dust on a cold and frosty morning
…Good thing Dilnavaz overruled my hanky, insisted on a towel. He rubbed it over the chest and back. Felt good, picked up some still-clinging dust. He put on a fresh
sudra
and shirt, left the waiting-room, and got into an auto-rickshaw.

The three-wheeler swerved in and out of traffic, changing lanes willy-nilly, tossing him from side to side. Forty minutes of agitation later, they stopped at a nondescript grey building. The ride had churned his insides as thoroughly as the thoughts of Jimmy, his mind. ‘This is the place?’

‘Yes, sahib, this only,’ the driver replied. Gustad stepped out unsteadily and paid, slightly nauseous. He felt very alone as the auto-rickshaw rattled away. Wish I was inside it. Heading back to the railway station.

At the reception area he consulted the note Ghulam Mohammed had given him, and asked for Mr. Kashyap. He was told to wait.

After half an hour a peon arrived and said, ‘Sahib is calling you.’ Gustad rose and followed him down a stone-floored hallway, past dirty yellow walls, to a door with a name plate on it: S. Kashyap. The door was ajar.

‘Come in, Mr. Noble.’ The man rose to offer his hand. ‘Mr. Bilimoria was expecting you many weeks ago.’ Mr. Kashyap was thickset, with a face whose propensity was to smile regardless of what was being said.

‘I have been very busy.’

‘Unfortunately, Mr. Bilimoria is not here any more.’ The smile on the man’s face gave his words a sinister slant.

‘Not here?’

‘No, no, what I mean is, he is not in this building in his regular cell, we had to move him to the hospital section.’

‘What happened?’

‘High fever, and lot of weakness. Must be a jungle sickness.’ He kept smiling his wide, meaningless smile. ‘His duties took him into the jungles very often.’

‘But can I still meet him?’

‘Yes, yes, certainly. Whether hospital, jail cell, solitary—I only have to approve all visitors, so no problem. We can go now.’

A cold bleak corridor connected the main building to the hospital. Mr. Kashyap had metal cleats on his heels, and his steps rang out on the stone floor. The footfalls echoed in Gustad’s memory. A feeling of profound loss and desolation, of emptiness, swept over him.

Mr. Kashyap had a word with a guard in the hospital lobby. ‘OK,’ he said to Gustad. ‘Please wait here, someone will be coming for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mention not,’ said Mr. Kashyap and departed, smiling at the dirty yellow walls. Soon, a white-jacketed official arrived to escort Gustad upstairs. They passed large, smelly wards and some single rooms outside which policemen were on duty.

‘You are a friend of Mr. Bilimoria?’ Gustad nodded. ‘Very very unfortunate, all these legal problems. And now infection. He becomes delirious sometimes. Don’t worry if it happens when you are there, we are treating him for it.’

Gustad nodded, finding it hard to believe. Jimmy’s mind, sharp as a Seven O’Clock stainless-steel razor blade, delirious? Not possible.

‘How long are you staying? Visits are only thirty minutes.’

‘But I came all the way from Bombay. My train leaves at four p.m.’

‘Mr. Kashyap told me you were a special case.’ He considered. ‘Till three o’clock?’ They stopped outside a room where a policeman sat on a wooden stool with a long, heavy rifle he was clearly weary of holding. The medical person gave instructions, and Gustad entered hesitantly.

The room was stifling, its single window bolted shut. The figure on the bed seemed asleep with face turned away. Gustad could hear the laboured breathing. Not wanting to wake Jimmy with a start, he moved cautiously to the foot of the bed. Now he could see clearly. And what he saw made him want to weep.

On the bed lay nothing more than a shadow. The shadow of the powerfully-built army man who once lived in Khodadad Building. His hairline had receded, and sunken cheeks made the bones jut sharp and grotesque. The regal handlebar moustache was no more. His eyes had disappeared within their sockets. The neck, what he could see of it, was as scrawny as poor
behesti
Dinshawji’s, while under the sheet there seemed barely a trace of those strong shoulders and deep chest which Gustad and Dilnavaz used to point out as a good example to their sons, reminding them always to walk erect, with chest out and stomach in, like Major Uncle.

All this in a year and a half? This the man who once carried me like a baby? Into Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s clinic? Who could beat me at arm-wrestling as often as I beat him?

Jimmy’s right hand lay outside the sheet, emaciated like his face. It twitched twice, then his eyes fluttered open. He looked bewildered and shut them. His lips produced a weak, croaking sound: ‘Gus…’

O God. Can’t even say my name. ‘Yes, Jimmy,’ he said reassuringly, taking his hand. ‘It is Gustad.’

‘Injec…jec…injhecshun,’ he whispered, slurring badly. ‘Wait. Soon…little…better.’

‘Yes, yes, slowly. I am here only, Jimmy.’ He pulled the chair close without letting go of his hand. What kind of sickness is this? What have they done to him?

Anger, accusations, demands for explanations emptied from Gustad’s mind. Only a monster could harass a broken man for answers. He would wait, listen to what Jimmy wanted, comfort him, offer his help. Everything else had to be forgotten. And forgiven.

For thirty minutes he sat with Jimmy’s cold, trembling hand in his. Finally Jimmy opened his eyes again. ‘Gustad. Thank you. Thank you for coming,’ he whispered. The slurring was less, though his voice shook with the effort.

‘No, no. I am happy to come. But what happened?’ Then, remembering his resolution, ‘It’s OK, don’t strain yourself.’

‘The injections they give…for infection. Makes it difficult…to speak. But. After an hour…better.’

The words formed and faded like wisps of smoke in a breeze. Gustad moved his chair closer still. ‘What is the infection? Do they know what they are treating?’

‘Something. Caught in Sundarbans. First…yellow fever, they said, then typhus, malaria…typhoid…God knows. But I think…getting better. Injections…terrible…’

He was silent for a bit, his chest heaving. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said again. ‘You will stay?’

‘They gave me permission till three o’clock.’ Gustad looked at his watch. ‘So we have four whole hours.’

‘Have to hurry…’

‘Now listen, Jimmy, talking can wait. What’s happened has happened.’

‘But I want to. I feel no peace. Thinking about it…thinking about what you must be thinking,’ he whispered.

‘It’s OK, what’s happened has happened.’

‘Tell me first about yourself…Dilnavaz and children…’

‘Everyone is fine. We were very worried when you disappeared, that’s all. Then your letter came, and we were happy that you were all right.’ Gustad chose his words carefully: nothing must sound like an accusation. He remembered the decapitated rat and cat; the rhyme:
Bilimoria chaaval chorya;
the vinca, rose and
subjo
slashed to bits. He did not mention Sohrab, or Roshan’s illness, nothing to give Jimmy cause to worry.

‘How I miss Khodadad Building…wish I never took Delhi posting. But I can come back…in four years.’

‘Four years?’

‘Yes, my sentence.’

Gustad remembered Ghulam Mohammed’s advice: if Bili Boy is hopeful, let him hope. ‘Plus you can use your influence.’

‘No, Gustad, this is one case where influence won’t help. Goes to the very top…the dirty work.’ Despair filled his eyes again. ‘But…you know what I miss most…since I left?’

‘What?’

‘Early morning.
Kusti
and prayers together, in the compound.’

‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘I also.’

Jimmy raised himself on one elbow to reach the water on his bedside table. He sipped a bit. ‘Let me tell you what has been going on…it’s hard to believe…’

The injection’s numbing clutches loosened, letting his words grow clearer, but he could still produce no more than a painful whisper and, coughing frequently, had to pause often. The damage inside, viral or man-inflicted, had left its mark. It made Gustad wince to watch and listen.

‘The offer was so exciting…difficult place to join. Prime Minister’s office called me.’

‘You worked there?’

‘My letter came from there. For the Research and Analysis Wing…in direct charge.’

Again Gustad was puzzled. ‘You were in direct charge of RAW?’

‘No, she was,’ he whispered. ‘Surprised me.’

After the first little while, Gustad learned to rearrange Jimmy’s words and understand his slow, disconnected, rambling fragments. He remembered, sadly, the Major’s thrilling stories which used to captivate Sohrab and Darius for hours.

‘In RAW…new identity. Management consultant. I could not lie…to you. Just went away. I am sorry, Gustad. Really sorry…how are the children?’

‘Fine, fine. Everything is fine, Jimmy,’ he said, patting his hand. ‘So you went to Delhi and joined RAW.’

‘Big surprise…she was using RAW like her own private agency. Spying on opposition parties, ministers…anyone. For blackmail. Made me sick. Even spying on her own cabinet. One of them…prefers little boys. Another takes pictures of himself…doing it with women. Bribes, thievery…so much going on, Gustad. RAW kept dossiers. On her friends and enemies. Where they went, who they met, what they said, what they ate, what they drank…’ Jimmy broke off, gasping. Despite his condition, his fondness for rhetoric would not let him trim the story beyond a certain point of leanness. Some fat had to remain, the way he used to insist with Gustad about
dhansak
meat—
charbee
in the right proportion added to the flavour.

‘Her friends become enemies and her enemies become friends…so quickly. So often. Blackmail is the only way she can keep control…keep them all in line. Disgusting. I was fed up. Not what I came to Delhi for. I applied for transfer.’

He drank more water, propping up his pillow to keep his head raised. Gustad held him under the arms and pulled him up. The sheet slipped a little. He saw how hollow Jimmy’s chest was, as though the lungs had collapsed.

‘Remember the cyclone last year…in East Pakistan? Thousands killed…bastards in West Pakistan no help. Showed the Bengalis once and for all. West only wants their sweat. And in December elections Sheikh Mujibur Rahman won. Absolute majority.’

‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘Bhutto and the generals would not let him form the government. Yahya Khan sent in the army when the Bengalis began civil disobedience.’

‘Soldiers slaughtered thousands of demonstrators. Refugees came…My superior told me our government will help guerrilla movement. Right away I said I was interested. So Prime Minister’s office called me for interview…What close control she keeps on RAW. Strong woman, Gustad, very strong woman…very intelligent. People say her father’s reputation made her Prime Minister. Maybe. But now she deserves—’ The pillow slipped, and he did not wish to raise it again. He cleared his throat feebly. ‘Sohrab? How is Sohrab?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘And Darius? Body-building?’

‘Solid muscles,’ said Gustad. ‘The Prime Minister.’

Jimmy was grateful for the reminder. ‘She came to the point. She said…your record is excellent, Major Bilimoria, and you understand our objectives. Her voice…so calm, such confidence. Not like her political speeches…yelling and screaming. Hard to believe now she could be in such crookedness. Maybe people around her…who knows.’ Gustad wanted to ask what crookedness, but waited. All in good time, at Jimmy’s pace.