Family Matters (47 page)

Jehangir frowned at his brother. “Mummy told you the electricity bill is very high when you use the fan.”

“But I’m sweating so much, how can I remember all these French words?”

Yezad said they could have it on for ten minutes. He set the control to
LOW
, the only setting that worked, and the air came to life in the room.

By and by, Nariman’s indistinct speech could be heard from the front room, drawing Yezad to his side. “How are you, chief?” He felt silly even as he asked the question. “Roxie’s gone out, but we’re all here.”

Nariman’s vocal efforts persisted, and Yezad returned to the boys. “I think Grandpa wants to say something. See if you understand.”

The three lined up alongside the settee, and waited.

“Maybe he wants to do soo-soo?” suggested Yezad.

“No,” said Jehangir. “For soo-soo you can make out he is saying ‘bottle.’ I think he needs to do kakka.”

Yezad’s heart sank. “Are you sure?” Leaning towards the pillow, he inquired gently, “Number two?”

Nariman groaned, and his relieved tone indicated an affirmative.

“Shall I get Villie Aunty?” asked Murad.

His father took a deep breath. “No. We don’t need her.”

His response stunned the boys. All they could think of was the absolute prohibition against touching the bed utensils, the many fights between their parents. Then approval for his decision showed on their faces.

“But I don’t know how,” said Jehangir. “It’s more complicated than the bottle.”

Murad nodded, the same went for him.

“We’ll figure it out,” said Yezad. “Can’t be that difficult.”

He lifted the sheet and pushed it aside to keep it from being soiled. The stale odour surrounding Nariman intensified. And this despite Roxie’s never-ending efforts, he thought, to keep him fresh with sponge baths and talcum.

“Okay, Jehangla, when Murad and I raise Grandpa, you can slide in the bedpan. Ready?”

“Wait, I just remembered – Mummy always puts an extra plastic first.”

The folded plastic was at the foot of the settee, tucked under the mattress. Jehangir shook it out.

“Ready?” asked their father. “Get set, go.” Jehangir slipped the plastic quickly over the white sheet, then placed the bedpan under his grandfather.

“Excellent,” said Yezad, as he and Murad lowered him. “Feels all right, chief?”

Nariman acknowledged it with a sigh of relief, and they stood back.

How did Roxana do it by herself, wondered Yezad, the lifting, the plastic, the bedpan, day after day? And instead of praising her strength, what had he done but rage and complain. She had needed his help, and all he could spew were his pathetic harangues. The mornings, the evenings and nights, his bitter frustration countered by her patience …

Overcome with shame, he barely noticed the smell of the bedpan, his fastidious nose uncomplaining.

Jehangir’s hand crept into his father’s. “Daddy, will you find a job soon?”

“God is great. If He wants me to, I’m sure I will.”

The boys looked away shyly, not accustomed to this new way of talking. Moments passed in silence broken only by Nariman’s groans and sighs.

“I know what,” said Yezad. “Tomorrow is a holiday. Why don’t you both come with me to fire-temple in the morning? You can pray to God, ask Him to help us.”

They nodded, feeling a little embarrassed. Such words used to come from Coomy Aunty, never from their father.

“I think Grandpa has finished,” said Murad.

“Ya ya yes.”

They lifted him slightly while Jehangir withdrew the bedpan and put on the lid. From under the sofa he picked up a basket filled with small squares cut out of old sudras and pyjamas. “To wipe Grandpa’s bum – Mummy said paper rolls are too expensive.”

Yezad blenched but took the basket from him. Then the front door opened, and Roxana was home.

“Oh Pappa, no!” she cried from the hallway where the smell reached her. “Did you spoil the bed?”

She entered the front room, saw them around the settee, the rags in Yezad’s hand, and understood. “Thank you,” she whispered, relieving him of the basket. “I’ll do that.”

“Thank Jehangir and Murad. Without them I could have done nothing.”

She smiled, and her eyes struggled to keep back the tears.

“I don’t know how you manage alone,” said Yezad.

“It isn’t hard. With practice I’ve got used to it.”

Not practice, he thought, love and devotion. Must be some truth in the saying that love could move mountains, it certainly let Roxana lift her father.

“Open that parcel, Yezdaa, see what Jal sent for you.”

He unwrapped the newspapered package and found a small silver thurible. Its exquisite shape replicated the huge five-foot afargaan in Wadiaji fire-temple. The round plate on top, where incense had been burned, was charred by coals.

He hefted the little afargaan in his hand and looked questioningly at Roxana.

“Mamma’s,” she replied. “Don’t you recognize it? We used to see Coomy with it during her evening prayers, taking the loban through the house.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Jal thought you might like it. Look, he even sent this packet of loban.”

He opened the plastic bag and sniffed the frankincense. He liked the afargaan, the shape, its feel in his hand, its lustre.

N
ext morning, after breakfast Yezad reminded the boys about the fire-temple. Murad refused, saying it was not Navroze or Khordad Sal. “Feels funny, going just like that. It’s not even exam time.”

“You don’t need a special occasion. God is ready to listen three hundred and sixty-five days.”

“Three sixty-six in a leap year,” said Jehangir. It had been a long time since he’d been out with his father, and he was eager to start. Reluctantly, Murad changed from his wear-at-home clothes into something better.

The streets were quiet as they walked to the fire-temple; shops and offices were closed for Republic Day. From time to time a car went by filled with people waving little paper flags. The boys said it would be nice to come out in the evening, after dusk, to see the illuminations.

Jehangir slipped his hand into his father’s and synchronized his stride to match. Every few steps, he took an extra skip to keep pace. Murad walked slightly ahead, independent for a while, before slowing down. When he drew alongside, his father took his hand as well and began to whistle.

Looking up, Jehangir wondered which song it would turn into, but his father kept whistling cheerful phrases, like a bird. Then he began a tune, the
Laurel and Hardy
theme, and Murad waddled podgily, with his stomach thrust out.

They soon reached the sandalwood shop, and the man, who knew Yezad as a regular now, said hello as he reached into the box of sticks: “Three today?”

Yezad shook his head, joking to cover his embarrassment, “One family, one sukhad.”

The man smiled. “Your sons?”

He nodded.

They put on their prayer caps and headed towards the veranda for ablutions. At the washing parapet Yezad opened the lid of the haando and lowered the silver karasio in it. Hitting the side accidentally, it rang like a bell. His arm disappeared to his shoulder before the karasio reached water. “Almost empty,” he whispered.

“This haando is so big, Jehangir could swim in it,” said Murad.

“As if I’m that short.”

He poured water over his sons’ hands, then washed his own. They shared his handkerchief to dry. “Once you start your kusti, no more chit-chat and jokes, okay?”

“Why not?” asked Murad.

“Because you’re talking to God when you pray. And it’s rude to interrupt.”

Murad made a face behind his father’s back to let Jehangir know he was only humouring Daddy, he didn’t believe any of this. They pulled out their shirts, tucked the tails under their chins, and began untying their kustis.

Yezad kept an eye on them so they wouldn’t skip any part of the sequence. From the corners of their eyes they watched their father, fascinated by his new skill with the nine-foot kusti. It was so elegant in his fingers, so graceful, the way he tied the knots, even the blind ones behind his back.

Leaving their shoes beneath the bench, they went inside, into the tranquil hush, where the fire was a glow of embers. Yezad knelt at the sanctum, and the boys followed. From his shirt pocket he drew out the sandalwood, hesitated, took Murad’s hand and put it on the offering, reached for Jehangir’s and did the same. Three hands placed it in the silver tray.

Still kneeling, he gathered a pinch of ash, smeared some on their foreheads and the rest on his own. Holding their shoulders, he pressed down. They understood they must bow to the fire, and bent till their brows touched the marble threshold.

Between them, he lowered his own head … O Dada Ormuzd, bless my sons, keep them healthy and honest, look after all our family according to Your will, help me do what is Your will …

He rose, and the boys rose with him. They began backing away from the fire, but it became a race between the two to see who was faster in reverse. They almost slammed into a priest.

It was the old dustoorji, the tall, thin one with the long white beard, who had spoken to Yezad that first time. He took the boys’ hands into his and inquired with a twinkle in his eye, “Did you recite everything properly? No gaapcha in your prayers, hanh?”

They nodded shyly.

Laughing, the dustoorji said to Yezad, “It always makes me happy to see young people here.” He continued inside to fulfil his duties to the fire.

They returned to the veranda and retrieved their shoes, where Murad observed that if this dustoorji was fat and wore red robes, he could easily look like Santa Claus.

“And if Santa Claus lost some weight,” said Yezad, “and wore white clothes, he would look like the dustoorji.”

“You know what I was worried about, Daddy?”

“What, Jehangla?”

“That someone would steal our shoes while we were inside.”

Yezad said he didn’t think that was likely in a fire-temple. He asked if they had enjoyed the visit.

They answered yes. “But it would be more fun if we could enter where the big afargaan is, and put sandalwood ourselves on the fire,” said Murad.

“I used to think the same when I was your age.”

B
utter, jam, biscuits, cheese, bottles of chutney and achaar, and two packets of sev-ganthia tumbled out of the large parcel of provisions. In a separate bag there were oranges and a bunch of green grapes. Murad and Jehangir unpacked it all eagerly, arraying the food on the dining table, their eyes glittering as they examined the labels.

Their pleasure fuelled Yezad’s unhappiness. He guessed Roxana had told Jal that Bombay Sporting no longer needed him. And here he was, come to spread his largesse. “We have not yet registered as a charity.”

Jal pressed his finger to his earpiece, and Roxana hoped he hadn’t heard.

But he had caught the last bit. “I brought it with love,” he protested, adjusting the setting. “If you use such a word for my gift, how harshly must you think about me and Coomy.”

Then he was penitent. “We deserve it. For shifting Pappa here.” He lowered his voice so Nariman wouldn’t overhear.

“Now that was a gift-and-a-half. The kind that changes people’s lives forever.”

“Please let’s not argue,” said Roxana, indicating the settee.

Jal sat still with his hands in his lap. “Your anger is justified. It was a terrible thing she – we did.”

“She: you were right the first time,” said Yezad.

“But I let her. I let her convince me. I should have stopped her.”

“Could you have?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. She believed Pappa was responsible for …” He shook his head, reminding himself not to think of those unfortunate years. “How much better forgiveness would have been.”

“Poor Coomy,” said Roxana. “Too late for her.”

He nodded sadly. “You know, I was doing a little cleaning in the drawing-room yesterday, putting away some knick-knacks in the showcase. And it reminded me of Pappa’s birthday party. I thought to myself, that was the last time we were all in that room together.”

“It was a nice party,” said Yezad.

“I think Coomy also enjoyed herself,” said Jal.

They assured him she had. “Everyone had a good time. And such a tasty dinner she cooked.”

“Yes, she loved to cook. And I was thinking yesterday, Why couldn’t we have had more happy times together? It was possible to – it is possible, we don’t have to continue in the same way, believe me. And regarding Pappa, I …”

They remained silent till he started again. “Believe me, I’ll make things right between us. Please have patience a little longer. Two more weeks.”

Jal kept his promise, returning a fortnight later to announce he had good news. They watched as he tore open a fresh pack of Longlife Batteries and inserted the two cells in his hearing aid. Snapping the cover shut, he turned on the switch and adjusted the volume.

“Let me guess,” said Yezad. “You’ve found someone with a miracle cure for Nariman.”

The sarcasm bounced harmlessly off Jal, prompting only a little smile. “Sorry, Yezad, there isn’t a cure for Parkinson’s disease yet. My plan is entirely practical. Provided you both agree, and like it enough to cooperate.”

“You hear that, Roxie? Needs our cooperation.”

She pressed her lips together and wished Yezad would hear Jal out without baiting him.

But Jal’s composure was undisturbed. His voice stayed soft, so as not to disturb Nariman. “You remember I came here one day, fed up with Coomy? And you were so kind, you said if you had a big flat like Chateau Felicity, you would let me live with you?”

Yezad’s heart sank. Surely Jal didn’t want to — ! He waited tensely, nodding, yes, he remembered the evening.

“That’s what gave me the idea. Suddenly I realized – I have a big flat! This one is too small for you, even if Pappa were not here. And that one is huge for me alone.”

Yezad nodded again, guardedly.

The solution, said Jal, was for the whole family, along with Pappa, to move into Chateau Felicity. It would be the best thing for all of them. Also a way to honour Coomy’s memory – something good at last after years of unhappiness. From up there, he said, possessed of the knowledge and wisdom that came with dying, Coomy would surely approve.