Such A Long Journey (35 page)

Chapter Nineteen

i

For good measure Dilnavaz left the lizard under Sohrab’s
dholni
three hours past sunrise. When it was time to visit Miss Kutpitia, she picked up the box gingerly and shook it. A reassuring rustle came from within.

What possible conjunction of Tehmul and the lizard would bring Sohrab back, she could not even begin to guess. Strange, that in Miss Kutpitia’s presence, inside that flat, doubts vanished so easily, and all her remedies became paradigms of sound, judicious action. And yet, I must be going mad, to have begged her to do this.

She pushed open the front window to look for Tehmul. He was waiting for her. ‘Limejuicelimejuice. Veryveryverytasty.’

‘No, no. No more lime juice. But Miss Kutpitia has something very nice for you. Go, she is calling.’

‘Phonephonephoneupstairs.’

‘Right, where the phone is. Go, I am also coming.’

‘Goinggoingverytasty.’ Grinning hard, he set off, right hand under left armpit. She let him have a head start of roughly two minutes before following with the box.

An air of impatience surrounded Miss Kutpitia. She bustled them inside. ‘Come on, come on, shut the door,’ she muttered. ‘Where do you think I do these things, on the staircase?’

Dilnavaz awaited her instructions. Now that the time was here, she felt trapped (helpless, she thought, as the lizard in the shoe-box). Events were already in motion; she could but watch them gather momentum and manifest the promised end. Grinding spices on the
masala
stone was one thing, grinding events to a halt was another. It needed a different sort of strength.

In a daze, she watched Miss Kutpitia go to one of the two closed doors and unlock it with a key from the bunch around her neck. There was a gleam in the old woman’s eyes as, in the manner of an artist unveiling the
pièce de résistance,
she threw open the portal and bade them enter the forbidden chamber.

The windows were shut tight, the heavy curtains drawn. Thick, stubborn odours of mildew and disuse loomed in the doorway. But Dilnavaz was reluctant to penetrate the room’s gloomy secrets. With the palpable truth behind years of rumours and stories awaiting her, she lingered timidly in the passage. Tehmul, wide-eyed and perspiring, scratched nervously.

Miss Kutpitia became impatient with the dawdling twosome. ‘Nothing will get done if you hover by the door all day!’ She pushed them inside and slammed her hand over the wall switch. A weak light came on.

Dilnavaz gasped. She was unable to decide whether to look, or look away; both desires were equally strong. So she did neither, waited till the room and its contents (with the look of things which had never been looked at) began to register gradually upon her consciousness.

Shades of grey and white shrouded everything. Cobweb wreaths and layers of dust made it difficult to identify objects, except for the ghostly furniture. But as her senses adapted to the eerie stillness and the crepuscular glow of the dim, dust-coated light bulb, the shadowy chamber started grudgingly to yield its secrets. She was now able to see that the rags hanging on the clothes-horse had once possessed the crisp, starched form of a boy’s shirt and short pants, perhaps a school uniform. From the lower rod, two dark, holey rags dangling like moults of mysterious reptiles were definitely the remains of socks. And what seemed to be a strip of shrivelled leather had been a belt of the finest snakeskin. Yes, it was clear.

Yes, she could see now, this must have been the room of Miss Kutpitia’s nephew Farad, who had once filled her cup to overflowing. The one who had died with his father in the car accident on the mountain road. And when their broken bodies were recovered from the ravine, Miss Kutpitia’s cup had shattered, as irreparably as their bones—beyond the reach of any bonesetter’s art, beyond miracles.

But Miss Kutpitia had been trying to mend and fix, ever since, in her own peculiar way. Her three and a half decades of reverently observed isolation had allowed the tropical climate to work its rot and ruin. The damp of thirty-five monsoons, rampant humidity-loving fungi, numerous types of variegated moulds—all played their clammy, smeary parts in the process of decay and disintegration. There was the boy’s desk, with an exercise book lying open, its pages curled and yellow. Next to it, a stack of textbooks, the one on top brown-paper-covered, with the title penned by a boy’s yet-to-mature hand, in fading ink that had defied the intervening years:
High School English Grammar and Composition
by Wren & Martin. Fountain-pen and inkpot, dry as dust. A warped, cracked ruler. Pencils. Erasers like little chunks of hardwood. Draped over a chair, a green raincoat covered with fuzzy, grey growth; under the chair, black gumboots, gone furry grey. On the bed, the mattress’s black-striped ticking showed through gaping holes in the bed-clothes where generations of moths had feasted for ten thousand nights. But the sheet and blanket were neatly arranged, the pillow in position, awaiting the occupant’s return.

The door to the adjoining room was open too, and Dilnavaz could glimpse parts of its interior. That must have been the room of Farad’s father. His lawyer’s robe, in shreds more grey than black, was suspended from the door latch on a wire hanger. Sheaves of legal documents, bundles of court papers, each tied correctly with pink cloth ribbon, were in neat piles on a metal desk. A hairbrush, shaving kit, attaché case, magazines, occupied a bedside table. And everywhere, the cobwebs hung densely, wreathing the light fixtures, curtains, doorframes, windows, cupboards, clothes-horses, ceiling fans. Like
tohruns
and garlands of gloom, the cobwebs had spread their clinging arms and embraced the relics of Miss Kutpitia’s grief-stricken past.

‘Stand aside, Tehmul,’ she said, irritated for no reason. ‘Don’t keep coming in my way.’ She took the box from Dilnavaz and placed it on Farad’s desk, opening the lid just a crack. In due course the lizard poked out its tongue-flicking snout. Miss Kutpitia promptly whacked it over the head with the warped ruler. She turned the box over on the desk, and, pinching the lizard’s wriggling tail between her thumb and finger, snipped off about two inches of the appendage with a pair of blunt, rusty scissors.

Dilnavaz blanched; like Tehmul, she watched in fascination. Everything Miss Kutpitia needed was at the ready in this room. Like a regular cotton wick, the tail was inserted into a wick-holder, dipped in oil, and floated in the lamp glass. Loaded with its strange cargo, the holder rocked on the oil surface as the tail continued to writhe and wiggle, but managed to stay afloat.

‘Now,’ she said to Dilnavaz, picking up her box of matches. ‘You go and stand outside. You,’ she said to Tehmul. ‘You want to have some fun?’

‘Funfunfunfunfunfun.’

‘Then sit down and pay attention to this glass.’

Tehmul giggled at the squirming tail and sat. The rotted wicker seat gave immediately. He sank, his bottom sticking out below and rendering him helpless. ‘Fallingfallingfalling,’ he appealed with a drowning man’s outstretched arms.

Dilnavaz helped to extricate him before she left the room. Outside the door, a whiff of acrid fumes told her Miss Kutpitia had struck the match. Within seconds the latter emerged, shutting the door behind her.

‘Very dangerous to look at it once it is burning,’ she said. ‘That’s why I had to send you away.’

‘But what about you? You must have seen it.’

‘Never. You think I am crazy? I know how to light it without looking.’ For five minutes they listened to Tehmul’s giggles through the odours of burning lizard skin and flesh. Then Miss Kutpitia opened the door and called him out.

He was reluctant to leave. ‘Twistingburningtwistingburning.’

‘Enough now,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘go play in the compound.’ She would wait a little longer to clean the glass, she whispered to Dilnavaz, because she wanted to take no chances. Even a smouldering bit of tail could have devastating consequences. Like that (she snapped her fingers) you could lose your mind.

Dilnavaz immediately took a good look at Tehmul to see if there was any change. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘it needs a few days.’

‘Oh,’ said Dilnavaz, relieved and disappointed.

‘Twistingtwisting,’ said Tehmul. He descended the stairs, leading with his good leg and letting the lame one drop heavily. ‘Twistingtwistingfireturning. Funfunfunfun.’ He waved and disappeared from sight, but his voice came from the stairwell below: ‘Burningburningburningburning.’ That the lizard tail had wriggled its way out of the glass and on to Farad’s tattered exercise book, he left unsaid.

ii

As Gustad stepped off the bus from Victoria Terminus, he could see that the compound wall’s last vacant spots had been filled while he was away. Pictures of prophets, saints, swamis, babas, seers, holy men and sacred places, in oils and enamels, covered every square inch of black stone. The bright colours glistened in the late morning light.

On the pavement, flowers had been left by the faithful: singly, or in posies and bouquets. There were thick garlands, too, of roses and lilies,
gulgota
and
goolchhadi,
filling the air with their heavenly fragrances. He could smell them as far away as the bus stop, faint as the touch of the woman’s veil at Mount Mary. And the closer he came, the richer grew the sweet aromas. Zinnias, marigolds,
mogra, chamayli, goolbahar,
magnolias,
bunfasha,
chrysanthemum,
surajmukhi,
asters, dahlias,
bukayun, nargis
enveloped his senses in a fantastic profusion of colour and scent, making him smile dreamily and forget his exhaustion from two nights on the train.

What an amazing contrast to the wall of old, he thought. Hard now to even imagine the horrid shit-and-piss hell it was. Dada Ormuzd, You are wonderful. Instead of flies and mosquitoes buzzing, a thousand colours dancing in sunlight. Instead of the stink, this glorious fragrance of paradise. Heaven on earth.

Weeks had gone by since he last examined the wall properly. Everything in crayon had been erased and done over in oil, including the inaugural Trimurti of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. What a miraculous transformation. God is really in His heaven, and all is right with Khodadad Building.

Gustad remembered the evening, almost two months ago, when he had been surprised by the perfume of an
agarbatti
wedged in a pavement crack. Today there were bunches of them, in
agarbatti
holders, sending up their fragile wisps of white, sweet-scented smoke. Nearby, in a little earthen thurible,
loban
smouldered with its unique, pleasantly pungent fragrance. Candles and oil lamps were lit at intervals. And there was even a stick of sandalwood before the portrait of Zarathustra. The black wall had verily become a shrine for all races and religions.

‘Your idea was great, sir,’ said the pavement artist. ‘This is the best location in the whole city.’

‘No, no, credit goes to your talent. And with your new oil paints, the pictures look even more wonderful than before. But what is all that stuff in the corner?’ Gustad pointed to the far end of the wall, where a few bamboo poles, corrugated metal sheets, pieces of cardboard and plastic were stacked.

‘I am planning to build a small shelter for myself. With your permission, sir.’

‘Sure,’ said Gustad. ‘But you used to say that you like sleeping on your mat under the stars. What happened?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said the artist, embarrassed. ‘Just for a change. Come, let me show you the new ones I painted.’ He led him by the arm. ‘See there: Parvati with Garland Awaiting Shiva; Hanuman the Monkey God Building the Bridge to Lanka; Rama Killing the Demon Ravana; and next to that, Rama and Sita Reunited. And here: Upasani Baba, Kamu Baba, Godavari Mata. And this world-famous church, St Peter’s, designed by Michelangelo, you must have heard of it.’ Gustad nodded.

‘Some more Christian paintings over here. Baby Jesus in the Manger with Three Wise Men; Madonna and Child; Sermon on the Mount. And these are Old Testament: Moses and the Burning Bush; Parting of Red Sea; Noah’s Ark; David and Goliath; Samson Between the Pillars Pulling Down the House of Philistines.’

‘Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.’

‘And here is the famous Blue Mosque. Next to it, Haji Malung’s Durgah in Kalyan. That’s the Kaaba. Over here, the two great synthesizers of Hinduism and Islam: Kabir and Guru Nanak.’

‘What about these, on this side? You missed them.’

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you had seen them before. This is Agni, God of Fire; Kali, the World-Mother; and Goddess Yellamma of the
devdasis.
’

‘Yellamma?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

‘Yes. The deity of
devdasis
—you know,
rundees, vaishyas,
whores—same thing, for all practical purposes. They call her Protector of Prostitutes,’ explained the artist, and now Gustad remembered. Long, long ago, during his school days. He had heard the name in the stories of Peerbhoy Paanwalla.

‘And this one. You should recognize this one,’ said the pavement artist, smiling mischievously.

Gustad looked closely at what seemed a very familiar place. ‘Looks like our wall,’ he said tentatively.

‘Absolutely correct. It’s now a sacred place, is it not? So it rightfully deserves to be painted on a wall of holy men and holy places.’

Gustad bent down to get a better look at the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a…

‘That’s everything,’ said the artist. ‘Except for one more. I saved it for the end.’ He led Gustad to the section which used to be shared by Zarathustra, Dustoorji Kookadaru and Meherji Rana. A fourth figure had been added, also in the garb and head-dress of a Parsi priest.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Gustad sharply.

‘That’s the surprise. Being a Parsi yourself, I was thinking you will find this incident very interesting. You see, few days back, a gentleman who lives in your building—one with the small white dog—’

‘Rabadi,’ said Gustad.

‘He said to me that since I was doing drawings of holy men and prophets, he had a request. I said sure, there is room for everyone on this wall. He showed me a black and white photo, said it was Dustoorji Baria, Very Holy Man for Parsis. Does lots of miracles to help the sick and suffering, he said. And not just restricted to spiritual problems, because the philosophy of Zoroastrian religion encourages material and spiritual success.

‘I knew all this. But I did not want to tell him that besides my Art School diploma I had degrees in Ancient and Present-Day World Religions. You never know when you will learn something new. So I listened. He said that Dustoorji Baria was famous for helping people with health problems, pet problems, stock-market problems, business-partnership problems, job-finding problems, merchant-banker problems, problems of distinguished civil servants, problems of chairmen of many committees, problems of industrial lords, problems of petty contractors, and so on.

‘OK, I am convinced, I said to him, and took the photo. Began to draw the picture. When the sketch was finished, I started with the oil paint. But then in the evening, that police inspector who lives here went by in his car—’

‘Inspector Bamji,’ said Gustad.

‘He went by, looking at the new drawing. Suddenly he braked hard and reversed, began shouting at me to stop painting. I was quite frightened, you see, I have had enough trouble with police. No appreciation for art they have—treat me as a vagrant or beggar. With very much humility I told him, please sir, the man with the small white dog has respectfully requested it, because this is a Parsi Holy Man.

‘The Inspector began to laugh. Holy man? he said,
arré,
that fellow is a charlatan and a disgrace to the Parsi priesthood. Fooling desperate people, selling his photo-frames and amulets and rubbish. That sort of thing is absolutely not encouraged in Zoroastrianism, said the Inspector.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Mr. Rabadi came out for dog-walking. He heard the Inspector and began to argue: Dustoorji Baria had never made one single paisa of profit from his Holy Powers, those who said so were filthy jealous dogs, lazy idle loafers unfit to lick the sacred soles of his
sapaat.
Besides, this was a secular country, people had the right to believe what they wanted to, and Dustoorji Baria had a right to be on the wall as much as anyone else.

‘I had to agree with his last point. The Inspector must have felt embarrassed about squabbling in public. He said, do what you like, a charlatan will remain a charlatan even if you put him among prophets and saints. Then he went away.

‘Mr. Rabadi told me that there were lots of sceptics and maligners like Inspector Bamji but they would all see the truth one day. He said he had proof of Dustoorji Baria’s saintliness. When his big dog, Tiger, died a few years ago, tears fell from the eyes of a framed photograph of Dustoorji Baria that he has in his house. Amazing.’

‘But do you believe it?’ asked Gustad, smiling broadly.

‘You see, I don’t like to weaken anyone’s faith. Miracle, magic, mechanical trick, coincidence—does it matter what it is, as long as it helps? Why analyse the strength of the imagination, the power of suggestion, power of auto-suggestion, the potency of psychological pressures? Looking too closely is destructive, makes everything disintegrate. As it is, life is difficult enough. Why to simply make it tougher? After all, who is to say what makes a miracle and what makes a coincidence?’

‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. ‘But this wall is the kind of miracle I like to see, useful and genuine, rather than tears from a photograph. A stinking, filthy disgrace has become a beautiful, fragrant place which makes everyone feel good.’

‘And it will get better and better, now that the war has started. At such times people become more generously religious.’

‘True,’ said Gustad. ‘Look, that sandalwood has stopped burning. You got matches?’

The pavement artist had a box. While Gustad attempted to rekindle the stick, a fire-engine clanged past, slowed, and turned into the compound. He abandoned the sandalwood and hurried inside. Firemen were unwinding the hose as he got there.

Tehmul was watching them, engrossed. He waved excitedly: ‘GustadGustadGustad. Dingdingdingdingdingding. Funfunfun. Twistingtwistingturningfire.’

‘Not now, Tehmul,’ he said impatiently. Smoke was emerging from Miss Kutpitia’s flat. He wondered if she was all right.