Family Matters (48 page)

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Yezad. “Didn’t I say we could rely on Jal? Happily ever after – inside a ruin.”

Jal laughed, refusing to take offence. Of course the flat was in terrible shape, unmaintained for decades. And neither he nor they had the money to fix it up.

“Glad you realize it,” said Yezad.

“But that’s where this flat comes in. Small though it is, it’s worth a lot because of the location. We can get at least forty lakhs.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“No, it’s the going rate. I’ve checked with some brokers.”

“Without a word to me, you get my flat appraised?”

“Sorry, Yezad, I had to, to make sure my plan would work. I didn’t want to come with half-baked ideas.”

Yezad abandoned his pique. “Forty lakhs is a serious figure?”

“Minimum.”

“Almost ten times what Pappa paid,” said Roxana in awe.

Some of that money, explained Jal, could be used to repair Chateau Felicity, the rest could be invested. “Even in fixed deposits, the interest will be enough for you, and enough for Pappa’s expenses – nurse, medicine, proper hospital-type bed. I don’t need a single paisa from it. All I want is you to come and make your home there.”

“Castles in the air. Talking like our problems will disappear tomorrow. Even if we want to move, finding a serious buyer will take months.”

Jal coughed. “Actually, I’ve got someone.”

This time Yezad was genuinely outraged. “I don’t believe this fellow! Getting an appraisal is one thing, but to line up a buyer without asking us? Have you also hired a moving company? Maybe the lorry is waiting outside for our furniture.”

Roxana hushed him, that Pappa would hear. Jal said please not to be upset, one of the brokers he’d met at the share bazaar just happened to mention the buyer when he was making inquiries.

After a few moments of sulking, Yezad asked, feigning indifference, “Who’s this buyer?”

“A diamond merchant from Surat. His son is getting married.”

Yezad mulled over the idea and came up with his next objection: “Let’s suppose your diamond merchant is serious. This will be a black-money deal, correct? So how can we trust him to give us the cash? And where will we live while the repairs are done to the big flat?”

Once again, Jal had the answers. “The system is: half in advance, half when you vacate. You’ll get twenty lakhs first, then we have a month for repairs, after which you move.”

Yezad smiled. “You know the biggest flaw in your plan? The repairs. They will cost so much, there’ll be nothing left to invest. We’ll be exactly where we started, no money for Pappa, me without a job. In fact it will be worse, we’ll have that huge flat to take care of.”

Jal got up to reach inside his trouser pocket. He extracted an envelope folded in half and handed it to Yezad.

On three typewritten pages was a detailed estimate and work order, binding for sixty days, written up by the very reputable firm of Hafiz Lakdavala & Sons. It was a list of all repairs necessary to make the Chateau Felicity flat a comfortable home.

As Yezad read, with Roxana looking over his shoulder, he realized Jal was right, the numbers could hardly be disputed. But he went through the pages, item by item: new toilets, new bathrooms, hot-water geysers, tiles, faucets, electrical work, painting, kitchen flooring and cabinets, replacement of broken windows, etc., etc.…

He disputed whatever he could. Even when he knew the answers, he raised his queries. Jal patiently explained away the doubts. “So you see, roughly ten lakhs will take care of renovations. Thirty lakhs to invest.”

Yezad arrived at the final item, and thought he was on to something; here was a figure that threw into question the reliability of the entire estimate.

“This is nonsense, even a layman like me knows it. How can they repair such serious damage for so little? With the beam rotten and everything?”

Jal got up to read the line where Yezad’s finger was pointing. “You mean the ceiling. It’s the easiest of the jobs. Just surface plastering.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, you sound like poor Edul. Have you taken over his handyman mania?”

Jal looked at his stepfather on the settee, then stared into his lap and squared his shoulders. “I know it because I’m responsible for it.”

“Listen, Jal,” said Yezad wearily. “You must stop blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens.”

“I was the one,” Jal repeated. “I borrowed Edul’s hammer, climbed on a stool, and broke the plaster.”

Roxana and Yezad gaped. But Jal kept nodding, saying yes, that was exactly what he’d done.

“Coomy’s idea, wasn’t it,” said Yezad dully.

Jal ignored the comment, reiterating that he was the one who had climbed up and wielded the hammer.

“But why did she want to do that?” asked Roxana, desperate to hear some reason less vindictive than the truth.

“To avoid looking after Pappa.” The answer’s blunt honesty left them mute for what felt like minutes, until Jal spoke again. “Now at least you understand the ceiling is solid, Edul was mistaken, the beam isn’t rotting.”

After such a confession, there was not much left to say. He prepared to leave. “Whatever you decide, I’m glad I had a chance … to tell you.”

They walked him to the door, uttering their goodbyes in a daze. They shut the door and went inside.

But within moments the bell rang again. It was Jal again.

“Sorry. I forgot a very important fact you should know: if you agree to the plan, we’ll go to the landlord and add your names to the flat. I want you to feel completely secure, not feel you are just guests in Chateau Felicity.”

The offer moved Yezad as profoundly as the confession had stunned. He muttered something about taking a couple of days to think, to talk it over.

“Take long as you like. If the diamond merchant goes elsewhere, there’ll be other buyers. A location like Pleasant Villa is in high demand.”

Shaking their hands, he said good night once more.

Yezad put the grate on the stove and arranged three lumps of coal on it. When they were red hot he transferred them with tongs into the small round bowl of Coomy’s afargaan.

Roxana’s heart was light as she took dinner plates to the table. The day she had brought the afargaan home, she had polished it with Silvo and left it on the shelf outside the kitchen where he would see it. Now the fragrance of frankincense would soon fill the rooms, she thought, the smoke would carry the grace of God …

As she returned with four glasses, she could hear her father trying to speak. In the sounds he made she heard her name.

“Yes, Pappa?” She bent closer.

Do not, my child. Do not do not do not.

“What, Pappa? Do not what?”

Inasmuch as. Inasmuch. Do not.

He kept clamouring for her attention. She felt it best to not make too much of it. But he got louder, his appeals more frantic.

She went to his side again and stroked his hand to soothe him. “Come here, Jehangoo, sit with Grandpa for a few minutes.”

Jehangir began reading to him from his history text: “ ‘Shivaji was born in 1627, and was the founder of the Maratha kingdom. He respected the beliefs of all communities, and protected their places of worship. In a time of religious savagery, Shivaji practised true religious tolerance.’ ”

Nariman would not be calmed. Jehangir leaned over and held his stubbled chin. Instead of chortling as usual, his grandfather got annoyed.

“Try something else,” said Roxana.

“Okay, okay,” said Jehangir. He stroked his grandfather’s head and sang, “ ‘I am a teapot, short and stout.’ ” He put his thumbs to his mouth to hoot like an owl.

“Nothing works,” he said to his mother, getting frustrated. “And you always call me, you never tell Murad to do anything.”

“Because Grandpa enjoys your company.”

“It’s all right, Jehangla,” said his father, entering with the afargaan and incense packet. “After my kusti, I’ll do loban and pray. That will calm his spirit, get rid of whatever bad thoughts are plaguing him.”

Roxana was a little doubtful, reminding Yezad that Pappa had never been one for prayer, he had abandoned even the perfunctory observations because of the way his parents had treated Lucy. “He used to call it the religion of bigots. He hasn’t stepped inside a fire-temple in forty years.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s never too late – look at my example. Besides, belief is not essential. The prayer sound itself will bring him peace and tranquility.”

She withdrew, reluctant to discourage him any further. She did not want to jeopardize the faith in prayer that had descended like a blessing upon him and their house.

Standing at the foot of the settee, Yezad started his kusti. Instead of the usual silent recitation, he chanted aloud, “Kem na mazda! Mavaite payum dadat, hyat ma dregvao!”

By the time he finished the segment, Nariman seemed quieter. Giving Roxana a triumphant glance, he picked up the afargaan, dipped his hand in the incense packet, and gathered a little in his fingers before proceeding to the front door.

She hurried ahead of him to open it. His fingers released a trace of the gritty powder onto the coals, and at once, with a crackle, a cloud of white fragrant smoke filled the doorway. He lifted the afargaan high, gliding it around in an arc, the way he remembered his father doing.

Next, he presented the afargaan to Roxana. Covering her head, she passed her fingers through the smoke, fanning it gently to bathe her face. She stroked the sides of the afargaan and clasped her hands together.

“It’s like angels and fareshtas floating through our house,” she murmured happily.

He carried the afargaan to the balcony for Jehangir and Murad. They looked up with a blank smile. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t break his thread of prayer, but made sounds through clenched teeth that made them laugh. He got annoyed. Their mother showed them the proper way to respect the fire.

Then he went into the front room, visiting every corner and circling around the settee. The incense made Nariman uncomfortable; he coughed and his hands seemed to want to push the smoke away from him.

Yezad scattered a final pinch of loban and pulled up a chair beside the settee to recite the Sarosh Baaj. “Khshnaothra Ahurahe Mazdao! Ashem vohu vahishtem asti,” he began, searching for the right pitch.

Nariman responded with a whimpering sound. Roxana watched as the tremble in his hands grew a little. “Pappa doesn’t like it,” she mouthed to Yezad.

He gestured back to be patient. “Pa name Yazdan Ahuramazda Khodai!” he sang. “Awazuni gorje khoreh awazayad!”

But the longer he prayed, trying to imitate the sonorous cantillation of dustoorjis he heard in the fire-temple, the greater became the agitation on the settee. Nariman continued with his same indistinct words, over and over.

“I wish Pappa would calm down,” said Roxana, appealing to Yezad again. “Can’t you see it’s bothering him? Be a little softer!”

“Shushum-hmm-quiesh-hmm-hmm!” he answered, admonishing her interruptions through clenched teeth. Behind their father’s chair, the boys grinned at the sounds, not daring to laugh aloud.

“Fravarane Mazdayasno Zarathushtrish!”

No no no! pleaded Nariman.

Roxana couldn’t bear it any longer. She put the pot back on the stove and asked Jehangir to go and get Daisy. He said he didn’t want to go anywhere. Not to Daisy Aunty, and not to Jal Uncle’s house either, it was always so sad and gloomy there.

“A house isn’t sad or gloomy,” said his mother, “that depends on the people who live in it. Anyway, we haven’t decided about moving.” But he continued to sulk, and she asked Murad to go instead.

For an instant, Roxana cast a critical eye upon the housecoat Daisy had wrapped hastily around herself. Then she welcomed her, apologizing for the bother, explaining that Pappa was in such a state this evening.

“No bother. He’s my most devoted audience.”

“Hmm-shtopsh-hmm-hmm!” Yezad turned fiercely on all the profane chit-chat.

Roxana whispered to Daisy not to mind him, so she tuned the violin and began a soothing rendition of Schubert’s
Serenade.
Yezad disregarded the competition for the first few bars, then ratcheted up his volume.

“Ahunem vairim tanum paiti!”

Daisy allowed more pressure on the bow, and the soundboard responded with greater amplification.

“Yasnemcha vahmemcha aojascha zavarecha afrinami!” continued Yezad.

Nariman wept.

Daisy switched to the chaconne from Bach’s
D Minor Partita;
Yezad vigorously commenced Ahmai Raescha.

“Why is nothing helping Pappa?” wondered Roxana in anguish.

A glorious cascade of sound from the violin momentarily drowned the prayer. Louder yet came the response: “Hazanghrem baeshazanam, baevare baeshazanam!”

Jehangir tapped Daisy on the back. Face squished against the chin-rest, she looked down at him questioningly.

“Aunty, do you know ‘One Day When We Were Young’? It’s Grandpa’s favourite.”

The violin paused. “Hum it for me,” she commanded.

He attempted the tune; the hint of it sufficed to remind her of the song from
The Great Waltz.
She abandoned the chaconne.

While she played, the sash of her housecoat came undone but the music did not stop. Roxana frowned a little, glancing at her husband to check if he was looking at Daisy’s petticoat. But his eyes were closed as he reached the concluding section: “Kerfeh mozd gunah guzareshnra kunam!”

After several repetitions of the verse and refrain, Nariman’s sobs subsided. Roxana wiped away the tears, and he drifted towards sleep.

Winding up with a final Ashem Vohu, Yezad opened his eyes. He held out his hands towards the settee to indicate the calm that the vibrations of his praying had wrought. Daisy put the violin in its case and, turning away from him, retied the sash firmly around her housecoat.