Such A Long Journey (13 page)

ii

He needed to get his bearings in the maze of narrow lanes and byways that was Chor Bazaar. Where to begin? And so many people everywhere—locals, tourists, foreigners, treasure hunters, antique collectors, junk dealers, browsers. Away from the crowds’ swirls and eddies, he stopped by a little stall selling a variety of used sockets and rusty wrenches. There were other tools as well: pliers, hammers with rough wooden handles, screwdrivers, a planer, worn-out files. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ said the shopkeeper, picking up a hammer and swinging it demonstratively before offering it to Gustad who declined. The man gathered up a bunch of screwdrivers with multi-coloured wood and plastic handles. ‘All types and sizes,’ he said. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ and held them out like a posy.

Gustad shook his head. ‘Why so crowded today? What is happening?’

‘Bazaar is happening,’ said the tool-seller. ‘Friday is always the biggest bazaar day. After
namaaz
at the mosque.’

Then, among the tools, Gustad spied something familiar. Red, rectangular metal plates with holes along the borders. And green perforated strips. ‘Is that a complete Meccano set?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the man eagerly. In a trice he disentangled the pieces from the jumble of tools and placed them in Gustad’s hands.

And as Gustad felt the metal under his fingers, smelled the metallic smell of rust from the little wheels and rods and clamps, the years fell away. He saw a little boy holding his father’s hand and walking timidly down these lanes. His father talking enthusiastically about antiques and curios, pointing, describing, explaining. The shopkeepers calling, Mr. Noble see this vase, you will like it, Mr. Noble, very rare plate, saving it just for you, very cheap. And his father saying quietly in his ear, Listen to them, Gustad, listen to the thieves. And the little boy saying, Pappa, look, a Meccano set, such a big one. His father pleased, patting his head, saying, Yes, at least a number ten, sharp eyes you have, just like mine. Then his father bargaining, offering a preposterously low figure, haggling and dickering, are you crazy, walking away, come back sir, come back, yes, walking back, no, go to hell, please take, honest price, in God’s name, don’t blaspheme, final figure, truthfully sahab, OK you thief—and thus, the bargain sealed.

They took the Meccano home wrapped in newspaper, where, under Grandpa’s supervision, Gustad made a wooden box for it, with sections to hold nuts and bolts, fishplates and right-angled brackets, discs and tyres, pulleys and flywheels, tie-rods and cranks, platforms and curved plates, all in their separate compartments. Afterwards, to the delight of the parents and grandparents, various models emerged from Gustad’s room: fire-engine, crane, racing car, steamboat, double-decker bus, clock tower. His greatest triumph was a drawbridge that could be raised and lowered. Every time he completed something, Pappa would say, this boy will make the name of Noble great.

‘Excuse me?’ said the stall owner. ‘You want to buy the Meccano?’ He touched Gustad’s shoulder.

‘Oh,’ said Gustad. ‘No, no. Just looking.’ He handed back the set, ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the series of lanes running perpendicular to the main road, all littered with a miscellany of goods, as though a convoy of lorries had symmetrically spilled their loads. Much of it was metal and glass, gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Worthless junk lay side by side with valuable objects: chipped cups and saucers, Meissen ware, Sheffield cutlery, vases, brass lamps, Limoges porcelain, solder-repaired cooking utensils, ewers, wind-up gramophones with shining conical horns, silver trays, walking-sticks, weights and measures, cricket balls in varying stages of wear, refurbished cricket bats, umbrellas, crystal wineglasses.

He picked a lane at random and entered. An earwax remover was busy at the corner, his customer wincing occasionally as the slender silver instrument entered, explored, and emerged. Gustad stepped carefully around them. What would happen, he wondered, if someone jostled the man’s arm while he was excavating? The thought made him shudder.

And what had become of the Meccano set? Lost with everything else, no doubt, during the bankruptcy. The word had the sound of a deadly virus, the way it had ravaged the family. All because of one proud man’s stubbornness. Pappa putting off his operation for months, finally having to be rushed to hospital. And before going under the anaesthetic, handing charge of the business to his younger brother, against everyone’s advice. For Pappa hated being given advice.

The brother had a formidable reputation for drink, and for frequenting the racecourse. The speed with which he mortgaged the assets and fuelled his vices was astonishing. Gustad’s father emerged from hospital to the shambles of what had once been the finest bookstore in the country, and the family never recovered. The strain of it all sent his mother to hospital. And then, there was no money to pay for a private room and nurse, nor for Gustad’s second-year college fees. His father called him to explain and fell to pieces. He wept and begged forgiveness for failing him. Gustad did not know what to say. Seeing his once invincible father behave in this broken manner did something strange to him. He began to utter scornful things, while silently swearing to himself, then and there, that he would never indulge in tears—not before anyone, nor in private, no matter what suffering or sorrow fell upon his shoulders; tears were useless, the weakness of women, and of men who allowed themselves to be broken.

It was a tough vow to make at seventeen, but he had kept it. True to his word, he did not cry for his mother when she lay in the general ward, uncomplaining and uncomprehending, nor when she died after her brief sojourn there. His father had gone so far as to ask him, ‘Not one tear for Mamma?’ and Gustad had stared back in stony silence, although his eyes were on fire. The final ignominy for his father was that he could not afford even the four days of prayer at the Tower of Silence.

One thing that gave Gustad some satisfaction during this time was the death of his dissolute uncle, whose liquor-marinated liver, scarred and cirrhotic, finally succumbed. But Gustad’s father had insisted on looking after the worthless brother as best as his impoverished state permitted, which again raised Gustad’s scorn.

He came to the corner of the lane without passing any bookstalls. How little it took, he thought, to wake up so many sleeping memories. ‘
Chumpee-maalis! Tayel-maalis
!’ called a voice at his elbow. The man fell in step beside him, swinging his little rack of oils and unguents, a towel slung over his shoulder: ‘Head
maalis
? Foot
maalis
?’ Gustad shook his head and quickened his pace to discourage the roving masseur.

Working his way through the crowds, he came at last upon two bookstalls spread out on the pavement. Next to them, a barber clipped away vigorously, oily black locks descending hard and fast on to the white sheet. Gustad stopped, but the titles were in Hindi, Gujarati, or scripts he was unable to identify. ‘No
Angrezi
books?’ he asked a man who sat on a trunk.

‘Oh yes,
Angrezi
books.’ He rose and opened the lid of the trunk. Inside were issues of
Life
dating back to the early sixties, tattered Superman comics,
Reader’s Digests,
and
Filmfare.

Gustad looked at his watch: past three. Had to hurry. Between two and four, Jimmy had written. The next lane had several stretches of book-strewn asphalt. Mainly paperbacks: westerns and romances. The remaining stalls were selling motorcar parts, glass jars, and wooden stools, so he turned the corner into the next lane and came upon a collection more respectable than any he had seen so far. A richly bound
Great Dialogues of Plato,
volume seven of the
Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics,
edited by James Hastings, and Henry Gray’s
Anatomy of the Human Body
caught his eye. He picked up each in turn and leafed through it.

‘Very good books,’ said the owner. ‘Very difficult to find. Only in Chor Bazaar you can find.’

Gustad bestowed a studied disregard upon him, remembering his father’s bargaining style. He badly wanted the three books. What a wonderful way to augment my small collection. How fine they will look in the bookcase that Sohrab and I…that I will build. ‘How much?’ He waved vaguely at the books.

‘Different-different prices,’ said the man.

Smart fellow. Going to be difficult. Gustad pointed at random to various titles to confuse him. When the performance was over, his three selections came to nine rupees. He tossed them back disinterestedly and turned to leave: ‘Too much.’

‘Why walk away? You say how much.’

‘Four rupees.’

The man stooped to pick up the books, and Gustad thought he had won. ‘Listen,
seth,
listen to me. Make a
boni
with me. Seven rupees.’

‘Four rupees.’

The man pointed to the sky. ‘By the light of the sun, in the shadow of the mosque, I tell you honestly my last price. Less than that I cannot go, or what will I feed my children?’ He paused. ‘Six rupees.’

Gustad paid. ‘Are there others selling English books?’

‘Oh yes. One new fellow came recently. Good stock. At the end of this same lane, keep walking straight.’

Gustad’s arm encircled the three books. The mass of the weighty volumes began to tell reassuringly, and he felt less guilty about spending the money. What was six rupees for three classics. Must visit Chor Bazaar regularly from now on. One or two books at a time, and eventually I will have enough to fill that bookcase. It’s all a family really needs. A small bookcaseful of the right books, and you are set for life.

At the corner, he saw a tea stall. Next to it was the bookstand. Scores of volumes were in wooden crates, with the spines facing up, and more were displayed on a plastic sheet upon the pavement. He went closer. At the rear, leaning against a packing crate, bound in red cloth with gold lettering, stood
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

iii

He looked around nervously and peered inside the empty tea stall. This corner of the lane was strangely quiet, compared to the chaos and hubbub he had wandered in for over an hour. A boy stood by the bookstand. Gustad bent to get the volume, but the others under his arm made it difficult. ‘Which one?’ the boy asked. He followed Gustad’s finger, skipped nimbly over the front rows and retrieved it.

Gustad knew he was at the right place. He opened the volume to
Othello,
nevertheless, and turned to the end of act I. Yes, there they were, underlined in red, all five repetitions: ‘Put money in thy purse.’ Thorough as usual, was Jimmy.

He shut the book, looked up and saw a man with a white turban watching from the shadow of the tea stall. Gustad’s pulse skipped a beat. He stepped out of the shadow, and now Gustad observed that the turban was not a turban at all, but a heavy bandage of white surgical gauze. And as the man approached, he recognized him despite the bound head. What a coincidence! He went forward eagerly, raising his hand in greeting.

‘Mr. Noble. It is good to see you again.’ He was a tall man, as tall as Gustad, and clean-shaven.

Gustad shook his hand joyfully. ‘You remember me? For nine years I have waited to thank you for your kindness. If I had known that you and Major Bilimoria—’ What a tough man, he thought, to be up and about, hale and hearty after such a nasty crack on the head. The way he had flown over the handlebars of the Lambretta—made him shudder just to think of it.

‘And how is the hip?’

‘Almost good as new. Thanks to the Major, we went to Madhiwalla Bonesetter. A gifted man, performed a miracle for me. But,’ puzzled Gustad, ‘that day, when I had my accident—you and Major Bilimoria—in the taxi…you said nothing. You did not know him in those days?’

‘Oh, I knew him. Sometimes, though, we have to pretend, because of the kind of work we do. Sometimes it is safer to be just a taxi-driver and passenger.’

Gustad understood. ‘But it looks like you also had an accident recently?’

‘Yes. Not exactly an accident. Come, let’s have a little tea.’ He led him inside.

‘I am sorry, I know your face so clearly, but I have forgotten your name.’

‘Ghulam Mohammed.’

‘Now I remember. In the taxi you told my son.’

‘And how is Sohrab?’

Gustad was amazed. ‘You remember his name even?’

‘Of course. How can I forget? Major Bilimoria has always talked to me about your family. Says it’s like his own. Even before your accident I knew about you. Any friend of Bili Boy is a friend of mine.’

Gustad chuckled. ‘Bili Boy. That’s a nice name for Jimmy.’

‘In the army all his friends called him Bili Boy.’ Ghulam Mohammed paused, looking into the distance. ‘We had some good times then. It’s all very different now, in RAW.’

‘You both joined RAW at the same time?’

‘Yes. Wherever Bili Boy goes, I go. He will always have me with him. Least I can do for the man who saved my life in ‘48. Kashmir, you know.’

‘He never told me about that.’

‘Well, that’s Bili Boy, never likes to boast. Yes, he came alone, looking for me after orders to retreat were given. Or I would be lying in the hills in seventeen separate pieces, nicely carved up by those tribesmen.’ The tea arrived in glasses; Ghulam took one and sipped. ‘That’s the story. And that’s why Bili Boy can always depend on me. His friend is my friend.’

Then Ghulam Mohammed put down his tea, leaning forward so his face was very close. ‘And his enemy,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘will have to answer to me. Anyone who harms him, I will go after them, whatever it takes: knife, gun, my hands, my teeth.’ He bared his clenched teeth and spoke through them.

Gustad moved back uneasily: ‘He is lucky to have a friend like you.’ Strange fellow. One instant warm and friendly, the next, chilling my spine. He reached for his tea. The hot, steaming liquid was murky through the transparent glass. Tea leaves, ground almost to a powder, rose to the top and returned to the bottom, riding the convection current. He braved a sip. It was bitter. ‘But what about your accident?’

‘Not an accident. They were aiming for my scooter.’

‘Really?’ Gustad could not help feeling a thrill of excitement. ‘Who do you suspect, Pakistani spies?’

He laughed. ‘Nothing so simple. Let’s just say, occupational hazard.’ He drank some more and pointed to Gustad’s glass. ‘You are not drinking?’

‘Needs more sugar.’ Ghulam Mohammed waved. A woman appeared from the back, listened, and returned with a bowl of sugar. Gustad added some and tasted. He nodded approvingly. ‘You are leading a really dangerous life. But what about Jimmy, is he OK in Delhi?’

‘We don’t need to worry for Bili Boy. He is smarter than you and me put together.’

Gustad wanted to hear more about Jimmy, but knew from the tone of Ghulam’s voice that no information would be forthcoming. ‘What happened to your taxi, why were you on a scooter?’

‘Sometimes taxi, sometimes scooter. In RAW you have to do all kinds of things. Today I am a bookseller. Tonight, I leave Bombay to do something else for one week.’ He laughed and drained his glass of tea. ‘OK. I better give you the parcel that Bili Boy sent.’

He stepped outside to the bookstand and opened a crate. Inside was a bulky package the size of a large overnight bag, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick string looped at the top to form a handle. ‘That’s it,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. He eyed Gustad’s three volumes. ‘But you have a lot to carry.’

Gustad was thinking the same; it would be tricky on the bus. ‘This is yours,’ he said, handing back the Complete Shakespeare. Then, ‘Mr. Mohammed, since today you are a bookseller, will you sell me that one?’

Ghulam laughed. ‘Sure, sure.’

‘How much?’

‘For you, compliments of the management.’

‘No, no, I must pay you something.’

‘OK, the price is your friendship.’

‘But that you already have.’

‘In that case, you have already paid for the book.’ They both laughed and shook hands heartily. ‘Wait, I will get the boy to wrap all four in one parcel. Easier to carry that way.’

While the package was being prepared, Ghulam Mohammed wrote an address where Gustad could reach him. ‘You know where it is?’

‘House of Cages,’ read Gustad. ‘Yes, Dr. Paymaster’s dispensary is in the same locality. Our family doctor.’

‘A man sells
paan
outside the House. Peerbhoy Paanwalla, he is called. You can leave a message with him any time.’

Gustad knew who Peerbhoy Paanwalla was. The man had been selling
paan
for as long as Dr. Paymaster had practised medicine, perhaps longer. Childhood illnesses had enabled Gustad to observe Peerbhoy at his trade, during periodic visits to the dispensary for measles, chicken-pox, mumps, vaccinations and booster shots. And later, during his schooldays, Gustad sometimes used to sneak away from class with his friends and hang around the House of Cages to listen to Peerbhoy Paanwalla. Peerbhoy’s droll histories of the place, about the encounters between the ladies of the House and their clientele, entertained his
paan
-buying customers endlessly.

‘Very reliable friend,’ said Ghulam. ‘Any message will get to me from him.’ The boy returned with the book parcel. Gustad noticed that it was tied in the same way as Jimmy’s, with the clever handle of twine at the top.

After shaking hands again with Ghulam Mohammed, he retraced his steps through the lanes. The streets were gradually being cleared of tools, sockets, plates, lamps, dynamos, rugs, vases, utensils, watches, cameras, electric switches, stamp collections, transformers, magnets, and all the nameless, numberless assortments that covered the asphalt. The earwax remover was still working, cleaning out the orifices of one final client. As Gustad passed them, the man extracted the long, thin, silver instrument and held it up for the customer to see. A glistening brown pellet, the size of a pea, was perched in the tiny scoop.

‘
Sabaash
!’ said the customer, proud of his ear’s performance. Like an impresario, he turned the other ear to the instrument, eager to show what this one could produce. Gustad was tempted to stand and watch, but that would have been rude. Besides, Jimmy’s package was quite heavy, the twine handles were cutting into his fingers.

The bus arrived, very crowded, and Gustad had a hard time of it. Negotiating with his loads, he accidentally prodded a woman in front of him. She turned with a stream of angry words. ‘What is he doing, not watching where he is going. Coming on the bus with his big-big packets, poking disrespectfully, just like that. With so much luggage he should take a taxi, no? Why come on bus and harass us. Poking and pushing us as if we are not buying a ticket and he is the only one buying a ticket…’

Gustad was in such good humour after meeting Ghulam Mohammed that it did not bother him. He bowed deeply to the woman and said, as elegantly as he could, ‘I am so sorry, madam, for the inconvenience. Please accept my apology.’ He smiled charmingly at her scowling face.

The woman, who had probably never been called madam or received so gallant a bow, was flattered and mollified. ‘That is all right,’ she said, cocking her head to one side, ‘please don’t mention.’ During the rest of the journey they exchanged smiles whenever their eyes met. ‘Bye-bye,’ she said when her stop arrived, which was one before his.

Tehmul-Lungraa was waiting impatiently in the compound. ‘GustadGustadletme. Gustadletmehelpletmecarry.’

He gladly handed over the book parcel. Tehmul was proud of the honour. ‘Thank you,’ said Gustad when they reached the door, and took it back before turning the key.

Tehmul raised a finger to his lips: ‘Gustadquietveryquiet.’

‘What?’

‘QuietquietGustad. Notwellnotwellsleepingnotwell.’

‘Who is not well?’

‘RoshanRoshanRoshanissleepingRoshan. Nonoisequietnotwell.’ Gustad frowned and waved him away as he opened the door with his latchkey.