Family Matters (31 page)

Their eyes, with dark circles under them, met over their teacups. She looked wretched, thought Yezad, with her haggard face and slumped shoulders, and it lacerated his heart.

But his doubts had been routed by the morning light. Soon he would be able to tell her the truth, explain his actions. With the stack of sixty-three thousand and whatever-it-was rupees in his hands, forgiveness would be easy to secure.

He left before nine, following the usual drill to get to Villie’s door. Would she have collected the winnings from the bookie? He resolved to take the money to Roxana straight away and end her misery. He’d be late for work, but it wouldn’t kill Mr. Kapur to unlock the shop himself.

He knocked. No answer. He knocked louder. Nothing. Where was the silly woman – she knew how anxious he was. Maybe this was her revenge for his rudeness last night. But he had apologized. Perhaps she was at the bunya even now, counting his money – such a large sum, taking more time.

He knocked again, and fished for his handkerchief to wipe his sweat. His thumb, moistened with a little spit, laboured to erase the calculations he had scribbled on Villie’s door. The pencilled numbers became a leaden smudge. He knocked once more, then gave up and started for work.

Time crawled. He remembered the snail Jehangir had brought home from the school garden, inspired by his grandfather’s stories of the animal-lover. It had crawled about on the balcony – whatever had happened to it? … This day was moving slower than the snail, it would never be closing time.

But the hour did come when the shop closed. He ran to the station and fought his way into the first train to arrive.

His feet flew along the pavement to Pleasant Villa. Too exhausted for circumspection, he took the lift to the third floor, ascending through the evening smells of dinners being cooked in Pleasant Villa. His mouth watered … mutton chops frying somewhere. He didn’t care who saw him at Villie’s, it was all going to turn out well, in a few moments he would put the money in Roxie’s hands.

While he imagined their happy reconciliation, the door opened. Instead of the jovial Matka Queen, before him stood a stricken woman, her demeanour pleading for consolation.

“Yezadji!” she wailed softly. “What a sad, sad day for me!”

His first thought was a death in the family – her ailing mother. “I’m so sorry, Villie. What happened?”

“You haven’t heard? Where were you all day?”

“At work.”

“So? All Bombay knows about it. Every lane and every gully is buzzing with no other talk – police have shut Matka down.”

“When?”

“Early this morning.” She said that at midnight, as usual, she had stood by her window for first-floor Sampat to stop under the lamppost and tell her the closing. “He held up eight fingers.”

Yes, he thought. Yes, my troubles are over.

Without reacting to his relieved intake of breath, she continued, “Police raids started a few hours later. Our own poor Lalubhai was arrested around four-thirty.”

“But this has happened before, no? A big shor-shaar closes Matka for a few days, then everything calms down and it starts again.”

“Not this time.” Those previous raids were pre-arranged among the Matka chiefs, police, and politicians, she said, only some small bookies ever went to jail. Last night was a surprise to everyone. “And this time they have smashed Matka completely. All day I have spent at Lalubhai’s shop, with his sons, who are trying to get bail for him.”

She said the police were arresting people from top to bottom – big bookies and small, kingpins and little safety pins. Rumour was that since those terrorist bombs had blown up the stock exchange and shattered Bombay, they had to do something about Matka. Even the crookedest politician didn’t want Bombay to be the next Beirut.

“No Matka, no Lalubhai, nothing left for me. What will I do with my dreams?”

“Never mind, Villie.” He made a feeble attempt at consoling her, nudging playfully with his elbow. “Your powerful dream came true. You finished with a bang. Like a cricketer’s century in his final innings before retirement.”

“You know, Yezadji, when I heard about the raids, you were first in my thoughts. I wish you had let me cancel your bet.”

His hands went cold. “The result was eighteen! That’s what we played – eighteen pieces of Cadbury chocolate!” His voice had risen, he realized, and he lowered it. “The raid was not till after midnight, the number was already declared.”

“So? Everything is confiscated. Lalubhai’s sons don’t have one paisa left.”

“Surely …” he tried, and was dumb. Then he clutched at words weak as straws: “Surely a receipt, a record … something to show? To prove …?”

“Think before speaking. Matka is illegal – how can there be receipts and account books? And if there was, where would you take it? Police station? You want to join Lalubhai in his jail cell?”

Without another word, he dragged his feet out of her flat and into his own.

In the back room, Yezad sat on the bed to remove his shoes. He called to Roxana, and Jehangir came as well.

Yezad told him to go: “I’ve to talk to Mummy in private.”

His son looked at her, and she nodded. Yezad shut the door after him and got the envelopes out of the cupboard.

“Sit,” he said, and put the envelopes in her lap. She began checking inside them, and fear flooded her face.

“Yes, they’re empty,” he said dully. “All of them. I took the money.”

Starting with his first secret Matka wager weeks ago, he told her everything. She began to seethe, but her anger was soon subdued by worry, by the sound of his voice that was drained lifeless. She almost wished he was raging again.

She set the empty envelopes aside and moved closer till their shoulders touched. At once he leaned towards her, and she put her arm around him.

He promised to replace the money with an advance from Mr. Kapur against future commissions – schools and colleges would soon be ordering new equipment, the loss would be easily made up. As for Villie, he never wanted to talk to her again, she and her powerful dreams could go to hell …

As he unburdened himself, Roxana blessed their good fortune that they were past the middle of November – the major expenses, school fees, electricity had already been paid.

O
n his way to work Yezad noticed that Christmas decorations had appeared in many shop windows. Till last week their Divali displays were up. Now it was cotton wool and plastic holly and tinsel.

This would be the morning to ask Mr. Kapur for the advance, he resolved. And an increment – he needed it now, more than ever. Mr. Kapur was bound to be in a great mood, his new Christmas display was arriving. For days, he’d been as excited as a child.

But it was curious, thought Yezad, that Shiv Sena hadn’t yet made Santa Claus a political issue, considering the tantrums thrown by their mobs over Valentine’s Day. Since coming to power they’d been in a constant fit of censorship and persecution. Top of the list were Muslims, their favourite scapegoat as usual, he felt. Then the Sena had destroyed the work of famous Indian artists, deeming it disrespectful towards Hindu gods and goddesses. Men’s magazines, endangering Indian morals with nudity and sex and vulgarity, had their offices set on fire. And women weren’t allowed to work in bars and discos after eight o’clock because it was against Indian family values.

What a joke of a government. Clowns and crooks. Or clownish crooks. Santa Claus with mask and machine gun would be a fitting Christmas decoration for the Shiv Sena. Or any other party, for that matter.

He acknowledged Husain’s greeting and unlocked the shop door, wondering what Christmas trappings Mr. Kapur had planned. Usually, the window was left to Husain: a basic string of lights, a silver star, a Season’s Greetings sign in letters of red and green, their serifs and descenders sporting snowflakes and icicles. When done, a beaming Husain would invite Mr. Kapur and Yezad to admire his perennial masterpiece.

But this year Mr. Kapur had been hinting at something grand: “Wait and see, our new display will be the talk of the town. It’s coming soon, Yezad. Are you in the Christmas spirit?”

If he only knew what was happening at home, thought Yezad, and how precarious his financial position. He hoped they weren’t in for anything too garish or religious – there were enough mangers, Jesuses, Marys, Josephs, Santa Clauses, and flashing lights all over the city already.

A honking at the kerb summoned Husain to unload the car. Yezad followed, and found a grinning Mr. Kapur waiting by the open trunk. “I went to my carpenter’s shop to pick it up personally because —”

He broke off to caution the peon: “Aray Husain, sambhaalo! Bahut delicate hai, na.”

At once Husain showed extreme concern and cradled the packages like babies. He took them inside the shop, one by one, and deposited them gently on the counter, as though tucking them to sleep in their cribs. Mr. Kapur started unwrapping.

“Are you ready? Tan-tan-tana!” he sang a fanfare and ripped off the paper.

Revealed in all its antlered splendour was a reindeer dressed in cricketer’s whites, a peak cap squeezed between the horns. The two-dimensional plywood figure, about eighteen inches high, was fitted with a base so it could stand on its hind legs. There were five such reindeer, each in a slightly different pose, plus the wicket-keeping reindeer, tougher-looking than the others, with an intimidating glint in its eyes – one mistake and it would whip your bails off.

“Fielding side,” said Mr. Kapur. “So? What do you think?”

“Fantastic,” said Yezad mechanically. His mind, preoccupied with money matters, was calculating the best possible moment to make the appeal.

Then he realized that Mr. Kapur was eyeing him curiously, and he began to show more interest. “Fantastic,” he repeated. “But why not a full team?”

“Our window isn’t big enough for eleven. I’ve got one more in here, though.”

Mr. Kapur unwrapped the last package, the biggest, and lifted out a Santa Claus with his bat ready to drive the ball to the square leg boundary. He was not in whites, having retained his red uniform; his pads and gloves were red too. Nariman would never approve, thought Yezad.

“Chalo, Husain, make room in the window,” said Mr. Kapur excitedly. “Let’s set it all up. Oh, wait, I forgot to show you the most important thing.”

His hand disappeared inside his attaché case and emerged with a small, specially modified electric motor. He connected the device behind Santa’s shoulder, on the unpainted side, and switched it on. The bat began to rise stiffly, as though the joints were plagued by acute rheumatism. When the plywood arms were almost vertical, the bat paused, then started its painful swing downwards.

“All the way for four runs!” said Husain.

They laughed and began arranging the display, arguing light-heartedly about the field-placing. “We’ll take turns,” said Mr. Kapur. “Tomorrow you be in charge of the fielders.”

Next came what he called the accessories: the plywood stumps, artificial turf for the wicket, white tape to mark the creases. And there was the usual holly and cotton wool to toss around.

“Cricket at the North Pole,” said Mr. Kapur, beaming with pleasure. “First time in the history of the MCC.”

Watching him, Yezad thought his boss looked like a little boy playing with a mechanical Santa. Was this a man preparing to run for election? He was on his hands and knees now, crawling among the turf and tinsel, moving it here, scattering it there, till things were to his satisfaction.

No, thought Yezad with a smile, impossible to see him in politics.

“Come on, Mr. Chenoy, stop smiling and help me with these decorations.”

Yezad entered the window to join in hanging up the baubles and miniature stockings. He yearned for the return of the ambitious entrepreneur bent on growth and expansion. If Mr. Kapur had any sense, he would put him in charge right away, regardless of election plans. He’d perform wonders with Bombay Sporting, he’d be able to —

“Hey, Yezad, it just occurred to me. I could rent a Santa Claus outfit, distribute sweets to customers.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Would be fun, no?”

No, thought Yezad, but Mr. Kapur was keen on it. And now was the time to make the loan request, while he was merry as the man whose red clothes he wanted to wear.

“I need a favour, Mr. Kapur,” he began, continuing in a confidential whisper: unforeseen circumstances, urgent expenses.

“Sure. Just make out the advance, I’ll sign it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kapur.” That was easy, he thought with relief. “By the way, how are the campaign plans for the election?”

“Superb. Lots of support from friends and neighbours.”

“You know you can rely on me to run the shop.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“And you know, Mr. Kapur, I was thinking – no need to wait, I can take on more responsibility right away, to relieve you. You’ll have more time for your planning, as well as for these Christmas celebrations.”

“Thanks, Yezad. But I think I can manage for now. When campaigning begins full-time, of course you’ll be in charge.”

“Maybe we should finalize —”

“Sahab!” called Husain urgently from the pavement; he had been scrutinizing the window from outside.

“What?” asked Mr. Kapur, and hurried to the door. Cursing the interruption, Yezad followed.

“Sahab, big problem! There is bat, wicket, fielders, wicket-keeper. Sub kootch hai. But no ball only.”

Mr. Kapur slapped him on the back with affection. “See, Yezad, how sharp is my Husain miyan. Even you didn’t notice the ball was missing.”

“So where is it?”

Still being crafted, he said, and it would arrive in a few days. He warned them to stay ready for another fabulous surprise.

B
EFORE THE END-OF-DAY
prayer, Miss Alvarez called Jehangir to her desk. He could smell her perfume as she handed him an envelope. Knees unsteady, he returned to his seat and slipped it into his school bag.

The Catholic boys closed their eyes and made the sign of the cross, a few others imitated them indifferently, the rest put their hands together. The class began chanting, “We give Thee thanks, Almighty God …”

Jehangir trembled, forgetting the words he repeated every day. He was sure the note could be about one thing only. Teacher had said, Please give this to your parents. He’d heard sadness in her voice. Yes, Teacher, he’d mumbled.

But he didn’t give it to his mother on getting home. He waited, and was glad he did, for his father was in a good mood, which meant now she would be happy too, and things would be easier with the note. It frightened him to think what might have happened if Daddy had been like he was that day when he threatened to tie Mummy up. He pushed the sealed envelope at him.

“What’s this?”

“From Miss Alvarez.”

“Why?”

“Open it, Yezdaa, you’ll find out,” said his mother, prompting him as one would a child. “Probably Jehangoo has come first again in a test or something.”

He turned to the balcony to hide his face as his father tore open the envelope and read aloud:

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Chenoy,

I would be grateful if either one of you would be able to see me tomorrow. Besides regular class hours from 8.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., I will also be available for an hour before assembly.

Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience.

Yours sincerely,

Helen Alvarez

(Std. IV A)”

“Why is she calling us, Jehangoo?” asked his mother.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you hiding something?”

“No.”

“So will you go?” asked Yezad.

“How can I? Who’ll stay with Pappa?”

Sighing, he told Jehangir to let Miss Alvarez know he would be there tomorrow at four-thirty.

In the empty classroom Miss Alvarez’s high heels echoed sharply as she descended the platform and shook hands. “I’m sorry to make you come all the way, Mr. Chenoy, but it’s quite a serious matter.”

Her appearance reassured him: how serious a matter could he possibly hear about from one who looked so pretty? He thought of his own school days – they hadn’t invented such lovely teachers then. His time at St. Xavier’s was filled with fierce masters named Mr. Lobo and Mr. Mascarenhas and Mr. Monteiro, big-moustached disciplinarians. Nothing resembling a Helen Alvarez.

Jehangir lingered in the corridor outside, and she called him in. “I still find it hard to believe that my best student was involved with those other boys,” she started reluctantly.

Yezad smiled, wondering what sort of mischief the youngsters had been up to, part of him pleased that Jehangla was in it with his peers. No sense being goody-goody all the time. Childhood, boyhood wasn’t complete if the rascals didn’t get into trouble. He’d been the same, during his own years in this school …

And the classrooms had hardly changed. Rows of empty desks stretched behind Miss Alvarez, he could see them over her shoulder. That schoolboy smell of sweat and youthfulness and foodstuffs was in the air, ammoniac, mingled with traces of ink, snacktime biscuits, lunchtime sandwiches, puri-bhaji, ragdaa patties. Permeating everything, occupying the room as solidly as the furniture, a timeless smell …

Suddenly, Yezad’s own youth was upon him. Memory began to populate the empty benches with faces from the past. Those happy days, when a week of school was a lifetime, rich and complete; in a week, strangers might become dear friends, battles could be lost and won, whole kingdoms acquired, for time worked differently then. How slowly the seasons changed then – from one monsoon to another seemed an eternity, the skies pouring endless rain, the only bright spot the chance of a holiday if the roads got flooded. And when that happened, you were always warned to stay away from the kerb, keep to the inside of the footpath, because drain covers could be missing – stolen and sold for scrap – and every year children were swept away in the sewers. The buses and cars, half-submerged, looked like strange boats navigating an inland sea. And it was an adventure to wade through the perils of waist-high water, through the murk and floating rubbish, pretending it was the Amazon where the anaconda lurked. Performing feats of unimaginable bravery, you reached higher ground, finding civilization when you arrived home to hot tea and a snack and a holiday …

“So you see, Mr. Chenoy, it’s my most important project,” said Miss Alvarez.

His name pulled him back into the present – she was talking about Homework Monitoring. He remembered Jehangir explaining it at Nariman’s birthday party. Barely four months ago … seemed so much longer …

He faked a concerned nod: “It sounds very interesting.”

“And I had such high hopes for the class. But now I have to suspend the project. You see, three boys who didn’t do their homework gave money to the Monitor to get good marks.”

Jehangir scrutinized his father’s shoes, his own, and Miss Alvarez’s, which revealed her toes, each crowned with a lovely little ruby. Then the tears made his eyes blurry, and the rubies became one long crimson smear.

Meanwhile, Yezad tut-tutted and shook his head to show disapproval. He wondered what was Jehangla’s role. Not the bribing, he had no money; besides, his homework was always done, and he was a Homework Monitor —

The incipient thought froze in his mind. “Did you catch the three?”

“Yes. Also the Monitor who took the money.” And as she spoke, her arm went up and embraced her pupil’s shoulders; she was able to make it a gesture of identification and protection.

Yezad’s eyebrows rose as he looked at his son, then at Miss Alvarez.

She nodded sadly.

“I don’t know what to say.” The classroom smell nauseated him now as he looked again at Jehangir for explanation. But Jehangir’s eyes were still studiously examining footwear.

“I was just as shocked when I found out,” said Miss Alvarez. “Not by those three, they’re such duffers.” She blushed at her word. “I mean, they’re hopeless in their studies because they don’t care, they come from rich families, parents who think money will get them everything in life. But Jehangir was my golden boy.”

She swallowed. “When I discovered that every week he was taking sixty rupees, twenty from each of the three, I was so upset, I —”

Sixty. She had said sixty. Yezad stopped listening. Sixty was the difference between what he put in the envelopes and what Roxie found.

“—and I wanted to lay a firm foundation for my boys, make honesty a permanent part of their character. So they would be able, as adults, to resist the corruption in our society. Especially those who might enter politics or the
IAS.
Instead, that very evil has already infected my classroom. How will things ever get better for our country?”

Yezad mumbled how sorry he was, and promised to make sure Jehangir learned his lesson from the incident.

“This morning I woke up feeling I should give up teaching,” said Miss Alvarez. “What’s the use, I asked myself, if my best pupil can be tempted into doing wrong.”

“You must never give up, Miss Alvarez. You are a wonderful teacher, Jehangir has told us all about you, and how much he likes you. He says you are the best teacher he’s ever had.”

Now Jehangir began to cry, silently first, then with sobs that made his shoulders convulse. “I’m sorry, Teacher,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I think I will keep on teaching. And I hope you will learn from this big mistake.”

Yezad assured her nothing like it would ever happen again, he gave her his personal assurance. She said she wished all parents were as cooperative, and thanked him for coming.

The wait was agonizing. He wanted them to punish him quickly, get angry with him. Instead, his father kept squeezing his shoulder, saying things like, It’s okay, Jehangla, don’t worry, and his mother pressed him to her side and said my poor child, he frets just like a grown-up. It was her fault, she insisted, for letting him see the envelopes, she was to blame for his finding out how little money there was.

That was all – no scolding or slaps. And it left him feeling horrible.

Then they began bickering between themselves, laying the blame where it wouldn’t quite fit. To listen to them hurt each other because of what he had done was going to be his punishment, Jehangir realized.

“See what your disgraceful half-sister and – brother have done,” said Yezad. “A child of nine has to take part in bribery and corruption.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Roxana. “Some bad boys offered Jehangoo money, and he accepted it to help his family, end of story. No need to twist it and turn it and make it into something ugly.”

“But it is ugly. And there’s only one way to explain it. The same corruption that pollutes this country is right here, in your own family, in Jal and Coomy’s shameless trickery and betrayal. Think of the example they have set. Is it any wonder Jehangla took the bribe?”

“Do you know what nonsense you are talking? Can you hear yourself? Our son did not take money to buy bubble gum or ice cream for himself. He did it to help his parents with food, and with his Grandpa’s medicines.”

“So it’s all my fault. Because I cannot provide enough to run this deluxe nursing home for your father.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Then Yezad said if ten years ago he could have looked into the future, he would never have given up on his Canadian dream. He would have tried again and again, that racist immigration officer could not have blocked his way forever. And they would all be living happily right now in Toronto, breathing the pure Rocky Mountain air instead of the noxious fumes of this dying city, rotting with pollution and garbage and corruption.

And Roxana said did he think Canada was a land of living saints? And so far as she knew, the Rocky Mountains were still in Alberta, unless the government had quietly shifted them to Ontario one night.

The slip embarrassed Yezad, and he said very good, full marks in geography, and now he wanted to talk no more about this, he would go to the balcony for some peace and quiet. No, not balcony, he corrected himself, they didn’t have one any more, they had a jhopadpatti.

“Why do you say needlessly nasty things?” she appealed. “Why must you call the children’s tent, something they enjoy, a jhopadpatti?”

“Just look at it: Villie’s smelly old plastic tablecloth. Go to any slum, you’ll find plastic is the building material. What can I call this but a jhopadpatti?”

“Call it what you like, I’ve no time to argue. I still have to go to market, buy potatoes, cook dinner.”

“What were you doing all afternoon?”

“Ballroom dancing! What do you think? Pappa needed a sponge bath. You know how long that takes? And changing the sheets with him in the bed? If I don’t do it you complain about smell.”

“The room is still smelling. Non-stop he farts. What do you feed him?”

“Same thing I feed you. But his stomach doesn’t work as well. You’ll see when you get old.”

“Now put a curse on me.”

“Why is it a curse? You’re never getting old? Murad! Jehangir! Open your books. I want to see your homework finished when I get back.”

On the balcony Yezad saw Roxana emerge from the building with her basket, his eyes following her the way hers used to follow him when he left for work every morning, when they still would wave to each other. She stepped off the footpath and he almost shouted, Wait! There are cars coming!