Such A Long Journey (41 page)
Read Such A Long Journey Online
Authors: Rohinton Mistry
iv
A stench still hung in the air around the work area cordoned off by police, where the
morcha’s
barrel of sewer sludge and slime had been overturned. Malcolm sputtered and quavered, unable to find the words. His hands shook like crippled bird wings. ‘You won’t believe it! Crazy! Bloody crazy, I am saying. Absolute madness!’
Gustad put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You want to come inside? Drink tea or something?’
‘Just imagine it! Bloody thing hits me in the face! Big, furry, smelly thing! Imagine it! Rotting stinking rats, right in my face! Aagh! Chhee! Thoo!’ Malcolm clutched his head as though it was going to explode. ‘What if I catch plague or something?’
He refused Gustad’s offer to wash up. ‘I at once opened a hydrant. And I’ve already promised a candle for Mount Mary. Some of those bloody bandicoots were still alive!’ He shuddered again. ‘I am also going to my doctor.’
But first he had to await replacements for the injured workers. ‘Bastard police, taking their own sweet time. I bet you anything it was a bloody municipal plot. These crooks all work hand in hand.’
‘I believe you,’ said Gustad. ‘Nothing is beyond the government. Ordinary people like us are helpless against them.’
The workers had started chiselling out the mortar between the stone slabs. Malcolm hurried to supervise, shouting instructions. ‘O baba,
arya ghay
! Carefully,
arya, arya
!’ The labourers set up a vigorous chant, full of muscle and vitality: ‘Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato! Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato!’ A truck of gravel and sand was being unloaded. The unmistakable crunching rose over other noises and reached Gustad’s ears. Crunching, grating, rasping, as men with shovels trampled through the gravel. The sound made Gustad freeze for a moment.
Presently, the first huge block of black stone, the one with the Trimurti, was levered off with crowbars and sent crashing to the ground. As the dust settled, the pavement artist awoke from his trance of despair. He rose and went to Gustad. ‘I am very grateful to you for providing me with the wall’s hospitality. Now it is time to go.’
‘Go? But where? Have you made any plan?’
‘Where does not matter, sir.’ The tumbling Trimurti had restored all his philosophical buoyancy. ‘In a world where roadside latrines become temples and shrines, and temples and shrines become dust and ruin, does it matter where?’ He began putting his things together. ‘
Sir,
one request. Is it OK if I take some twigs from your tree? I like to control the creation, preservation and destruction of my dental health.’
‘Take as many as you want.’ The artist broke off seven small branches and put them in his satchel. ‘Good luck,’ said Gustad, shaking his hand.
‘Luck is the spit of gods and goddesses,’ the artist replied, and slipped out through the gate, padding softly in his bare feet.
Gustad noticed the large box of oil paints and brushes leaning against the pillar. ‘Wait, you are forgetting your things.’
The pavement artist about-faced. He smiled and shook his head, walking backwards for a moment. ‘I have taken everything I need for my journey.’ He patted his satchel. ‘My box of crayons is in here.’ Then he bent by the kerb to pick something up. ‘I think this is yours.’ He tossed it towards the gate.
‘Thank you,’ said Gustad, catching his trampled prayer cap. The black velvet pile was crushed, coated with mud, and he did not put it on again.
The artist quickly disappeared from sight. It was well past noon, and the air was rank with the smell of diesel fumes. A shrunken shadow of the solitary tree crouched to one side. Two men were working on its trunk with a crosscut saw.
Gustad left the sun-flooded compound and entered the flat. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he slapped the prayer cap against his leg; a little dry mud flaked off. He dropped the cap on his desk, fetched a chair, and closed the front door.
Much of the noise from the road was shut out, save the persistent crunch of gravel. He stood upon the chair and pulled at the paper covering the ventilators. As the first sheet tore away, a frightened moth flew out and circled the room.
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