Family Matters (54 page)

“Lucy.”

“Right. She died instantly. But your grandmother was conscious, managing to speak a little. And all the confusion was due to one word in her sentence: did she say ‘he’ or ‘we’?”

“What do you think she said?” I inquire meekly.

“Oh, I know what she said. She said, ‘What did we do!’ But there were other people gathered around. Some of them heard, ‘What did he do!’ and they claimed it incriminated Nariman.”

Dr. Fitter gestures to indicate he doesn’t believe it. “People don’t bother to think clearly. A last cry of regret, about their miserable marriage, their wasted lives – that’s what it was.”

“But what made them fall?” I ask.

“All I know is, Nariman and Yasmin and Lucy followed their destinies as they were engraved on their foreheads. That’s all. All there ever is.”

Mrs. Fitter brings back the tray with a small mound of sugar on it. I thank her and cover it with the peacock cloth. They both come to see me to the door, making me promise to visit again.

I return the tray to Mummy in the kitchen, who is delighted to find the sugar that acknowledges the mithai. “Was it Mrs. Fitter?” she inquires, and I confirm her guess with a nod.

I go to my room and lie on the bed. I think of all the things I’ve heard, over the years, about Grandpa and Lucy and my grandmother. And the picture is still not complete. Like some strange jigsaw puzzle of indefinite size. Each time I think it’s done, I find a few more pieces. And its form changes again, ever so slightly.

My old jigsaws, including the beautiful Lake Como puzzle, are still on my shelf. And my Enid Blyton books, though I can’t bear to even open them. I wonder what it was about them that so fascinated me. They seem like a waste of time now.

Jumping off the bed, I gather the whole lot in a box and carry it to the passageway where Jal Uncle has stacked the clothes, shoes, crockery to be donated to Daisy Aunty’s
BSO
charity drive. My contribution of books and jigsaws goes on top of the pile.

There is only one puzzle worth struggling with now.

My father has at last decided about the holy pictures. He must have consulted his Orthodox League friends. He returned this afternoon from the meeting and said that all the non-Zarathusti images must go – in a Zarathusti home, they interfere with the vibrations of Avesta prayers.

“It’s no wonder there is so much quarrel and fighting in this house. Once the pictures are gone, my prayers will be more efficacious. Understanding will come to Murad.”

He said they should be disposed of properly, in keeping with the Zarathustrian tradition of respect for all religions, which, he explained to me, went way back to Cyrus the Great, the founder of the Achaemenian dynasty, who set the example when he conquered Babylon, liberated the Jews who were there in captivity, and even helped them rebuild their Temple, earning him the title of God’s Anointed in the Hebrew Bible.

“We’ll make a packet of the pictures, along with flowers, and offer it to the sea, to Avan Yazat, for safekeeping.”

He sent me to buy the flowers – a garland, he specified. He wrapped the holy pictures in brown paper and looped the garland around the packet, a ribbon of marigolds.

I went with him to Chowpatty. We walked till we reached the firm wet sand and the shimmering water. A mild foamy surf teased our feet. The tide was going out, the waves were spent. And the gulls were loud, wondering if we’d brought anything edible.

My father touched the packet to his forehead and asked me to do the same. Then he tossed it into the sea, into the protecting arms of Avan Yazat.

We sat on the sand for a while, looking out to the horizon, where the sun was slowly slipping into the water. We sat in silence, Daddy with his secret burdens and me with my countless questions about him locked in my head. I wanted to tell him I still loved him, but couldn’t understand the new person he had become, I much preferred the father who made jokes, who could be funny and sarcastic, who could be angry one minute and laughing the next, as loving as he was headstrong, and able to stand up without clutching at religiousness for support. I wanted to ask him about his childhood in Jehangir Mansion, and to hear again the stories he used to tell about the neighbours, and the friends he played cricket with, and his teachers at St. Xavier’s, especially the Gujarati master they called Ayo, and the Madrasi one with the funny pronunciations whom they had nicknamed Vada.

There was so much I wanted to ask and tell my father, all the things that filled my head whenever I was alone. But with him beside me, they remained frozen on my tongue.

Some children scampered past, raising sand with their feet. A sugar-cane vendor stopped to tempt us. He moved on when my father shook his head.

“Shall we go? The sun has set – time for the Aiwisruthrem Geh. I must recite it before dinner.”

I checked the receding waves for the packet of holy pictures and flowers. It was nowhere in sight. We walked across the beach towards the road. I liked the sinking feeling, the labour of trudging in the soft sand.

Daddy has passed the menstruation laws. At least, that’s what Murad calls them.

The decree states that Mummy must not enter the drawing-room at all while she has her period. She will sleep in the spare bedroom on those days, and avoid the kitchen. The cook will take her meals to her.

The servant, Sunita, who comes half-a-day to sweep and dust, wash the dishes, clean the bathrooms, will not enter the house during her time of the month. It’s Mummy’s job to monitor Sunita’s cycle, which she finds very awkward.

“He’s gone over the edge,” says Murad. “Deep into the abyss of religion.”

Daddy ignores him and goes to his room, his instructions complete. Mummy follows, trying to reason with him. “You’ve never believed in these things. Why start now?”

“Because it’s the right path. It is standard procedure in an orthodox household.”

“Orthodox households I know all about, Yezad – my mother’s family followed those same practices. But you and I have never lived like that.”

“I was ignorant before. Now I have studied the religion, attended the lectures of learned men.”

They don’t know I am listening to their conversation. As always, I see and hear everything. Sometimes it becomes so depressing, I wish I could turn a deaf ear to it.

My father promises to throw Murad out of the house if he does not live by his rules. My mother says not to make threats he wouldn’t carry through.

“Just watch me,” he replies. “If your son won’t stop his nonsense with that girl, he and you will both find out.”

She cries that it’s easy for him to say such horrid things. “But I’m his mother. I carried him inside me for nine months and brought him into the world with the pain of childbirth. You might as well kill me if you are going to throw my child out of the house.”

Jal Uncle intervenes and makes matters worse. He offers to let Murad stay in his part of the flat, in his room, out of his father’s way, till things settle down, the crisis blows over, and Yezad and Murad learn to get along.

“Is this why you asked us to come and live here?” shouts my father. “So you can interfere in our life? So you can have the pleasure of driving a wedge between father and son?”

Jal Uncle tries to point to the illogic of his accusation. “I’m doing just the opposite, Yezad. You want to chuck him out, I am saying I’ll keep him safe for you, till you and he are ready to be friends again.”

“Mind your own business,” says my father, and goes to prepare the coals for the evening loban.

My mother grieves by herself about the ceaseless quarrelling and bitterness that has taken hold. She confides in me that Grandpa, during those last days at Pleasant Villa, had tried to warn her not to move to Chateau Felicity, into his house of unhappiness. She is sure of it now, certain that that was what Grandpa had tried to tell her, and she did not heed him.

Daddy is dismissive, saying a house is only bricks and mortar, it is up to us to be unhappy or happy in it.

But my mother isn’t convinced: “Learn from this, Jehangoo. Listen to the advice of elders. When we grow up, we think we know everything. We assume old people are not right in their heads. Too much pride we acquire with our years. And then it brings us down.”

My mother repeats this regret over and over. Her conscience hurts, she says, because she did not do everything she could for Grandpa.

When my father overhears, he gets very annoyed. He says she is addicted to melodrama, deliberately distorting the events of five years ago, when she was a virtual slave to her father. “If anything, you went to the other extreme, neglecting the rest of us because of him.”

The accusation leaves her aghast. “Is that how you feel?” She turns to me. “I neglected you?”

I shake my head, and Daddy says, “Don’t ask Jehangir, he was too young then to understand what was going on.”

“I was nine years old, I understood everything.”

“Sure. You don’t even remember half of it.”

“Ask me anything,” I challenge him. “I remember exactly what happened.”

“Ah, we all think we do,” says Daddy.

But Mummy is certain that Grandpa would have lived longer and been happier if she had continued to care for him instead of hiring strangers. “The proof is in the bedsores. For almost a year I washed Pappa and kept him clean and dry, and he was fine. Soon as the ayah and wardboy came, the bedsores appeared.”

“Nonsense,” argues Daddy. “In bed for so long, he would have got sores no matter who was nursing him. Just coincidence.”

“You say there is no such thing as coincidence,” she points out. “You call it another word for the Hand of God.”

He waves her away. Then she pleads again for Murad and Anjali, begs Daddy to let her come to dinner, gives the example of Grandpa and Lucy, and how it led to lifelong strife and misery for so many. The stronger the attempt to separate them, the more stubborn they could become. “For all you know, they’ll make new friends and this will fizzle out.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” asks my father. “What if it becomes more serious? One more nail in the coffin of the Parsi komm. And you will be responsible for hammering it in.”

A compromise has been reached. Daddy agrees to let Anjali come to the birthday dinner, provided there is a special rearrangement of the furniture in the drawing-room. It must be deployed to form a barricade at the appropriate distance from the prayer cabinet.

This takes care of Daddy’s main worry, that someone might pollute the prayer space. Tomorrow, Murad and I will move the sofa, chairs, and tables to erect this
cordon sanitaire,
as my brother calls it.

Jal Uncle says to me, “Wouldn’t it be nice if Daisy also came for dinner?”

Taking the hint, I mention it to Mummy, and she agrees right away. I think she is still hoping they’ll start chirping like two lovebirds, though Jal Uncle has been content just to go to concerts with Daisy Aunty and leave it at that.

Yesterday, Mummy ordered more boxes of sweetmeats from Parsi Dairy Farm: jalebi, sooterfeni, burfi, malai-na-khaja. They will be delivered tomorrow morning – the English calendar birthday. She wanted to send a box for Villie Aunty too, but Daddy said that that old life was finished, there was no need to keep in touch with people in Pleasant Villa any more.

We assemble near the prayer cabinet. The floor, prepared by Mummy early in the morning, is decorated with chalk patterns. She has used a fish motif stencil because fish are auspicious. They are of white chalk powder, their eyes are imprinted in red.

Jal Uncle waits by the record player for his cue. At a signal from Daddy he starts the “Happy Birthday” song, an instrumental version. We provide the lyrics. Mummy enters the drawing-room with the round silver tray that holds everything she will need for the ceremony. She sets it down on the table and motions to Murad to come forward.

“With your right foot,” she reminds him.

Murad steps gingerly into the chalk patterns, his feet among the fish, and smiles at us. And while we sing to him, there he stands in his prayer cap, borne aloft on the backs of the fish who oblige because it is his birthday.

From the silver tray Mummy picks up the garland of roses, lilies, and jasmine. Murad lowers his head so she can slip it round his neck. Next, she places in his hand all the symbols of good luck and prosperity: betel leaves and betel-nuts, dates, flowers, a coconut. She dips her thumb in the little silver cup of vermilion and applies the paste to his forehead in a long vertical teelo. Finally, she takes grains of rice in her palm and presses them against the teelo, making a few stick to his forehead. She takes more rice and sprinkles it over him, her hands moving in a lovely arc that could be part of a dance.

She holds him in a long hug, whispering things in his ear that I can’t hear. The rest of us are still singing. Then she steps back, and it’s Daddy’s turn.

He goes to the silver tray, gathers rice in his hands, and sprinkles it too. There is a new wristwatch in the tray, Murad’s birthday gift. Mummy has left it for Daddy. We wait, wondering how he will deal with it. She puts her fingers over her mouth to hide her anxiety.

He reaches for the box, hesitates, leaves it in the tray, and takes Murad’s left wrist. He unbuckles the strap of the old watch and puts it aside, then picks up the new one from the tray. It has a metal band, and he passes it gently over Murad’s bunched fingers, settling the dial on the wrist before turning his hand over to snap shut the clasp.

Still keeping Murad’s hand in his, Daddy finally looks into his face. For a few moments they hold each other’s unwavering gaze. Now Daddy places his right hand on Murad’s head, over the prayer cap, and I think he is saying a prayer. Murad waits without rolling his eyes or displaying any sign of impatience.

Then Daddy relieves him of the flowers and betel leaves and nuts, returns them to the tray, and hugs him. Murad responds by putting his arms around Daddy.

Jal Uncle and I have stopped singing, feeling silly about repeating the verse more than three times; besides, the record has ended. We can hear Daddy whispering, “Happy birthday, my son. Live a long, healthy, wealthy life, and lots of happiness.”