Such A Long Journey (18 page)

Chapter Ten

i

Gustad sat with the scrap of paper before him, seeing not words or calligraphy, but an incomprehensible betrayal, feeling that some vital part of him had been crushed to nothingness. Years of friendship swam before his eyes and filled the piece of paper; it taunted him, mocked him, turned into a gigantic canvas of lies and deceit. What kind of world is this, and what kind of men, who can behave in such fashion?

He knew he must arise and go now to the coal-storage alcove. Jimmy Bilimoria had trapped him, robbed him of volition. If I could let the rotten world go by, spend the rest of life in this chair. Grandpa’s chair, that used to sit with the black desk in the furniture workshop. What a wonderful world, amid the din of hammering and sawing, the scent of sawdust and sweat and polish. And in Pappa’s bookstore, with its own special sounds and smells, the seductive rustle of turning pages, the timeless fragrance of fine paper, the ancient leather-bound volumes in those six enormous book-filled rooms, where even the air had a special quality, as in a temple or mausoleum. Time and the world stretched endlessly then, before the bad days came and everything shrank. And this is how my father must have felt, in this very chair, after the profligate brother had destroyed all, after the bankruptcy, when there was nothing left. He, too, must have wanted not to move from this chair, just let what remained of time and the shrunken world go by.

‘You finished praying already?’ Dilnavaz emerged from the kitchen, her water chores done. The front and sleeves of her nightgown were soaked as usual. ‘Is the vinca all right today?’

‘The vinca is all right,’ he said. But the habit of twenty-one years, to share all with her, was too powerful. He could not block out of his voice or keep from his face the brokenness he felt.

‘What has happened?’ He handed her the scrap of paper. ‘O my God,’ she said feebly. ‘Jimmy…?’ Gustad nodded.

‘But to us…?’ He nodded again.

‘Maybe the taxi-driver…?’

‘That makes no difference.’

She squeezed her wet nightgown desperately, as though wringing out the water would rid them of this painful treachery. ‘I think we should take the money and go to the police, tell them the whole story,’ she said. ‘How you got it, what you were told to do with it, the rat and the cat, everything.’ Proposing righteous action lent her strength as she tried to fill the empty space inside with spurious baggage. ‘Give them Major Bilimoria’s address also—the post office box number. He can burn in
jhaanum
! He and his national security!’ The ruthless edge creeping into her voice surprised her. ‘Or tell Inspector Bamji. Then he can look after everything.’

Gustad shook his head. He resisted the temptation to join in her way of filling the emptiness. ‘You don’t understand. Inspector Bamji, the police, have no power over RAW.’ He shook his head again. ‘We are dealing with heartless people—poisonous snakes. It could have been Roshan and Darius instead of the bandicoot and cat.’ He crumpled the note vehemently, tossing it from him with loathing. ‘I suppose we should be grateful to Jimmy for that.’

‘
Owaaryoo,
’ she said, frantically snapping her fingers towards the door, outwards, away from her home and family.

‘There is only one thing to do.’ He removed his prayer cap. She followed him to the kitchen where he got on his knees by the
choolavati
and pulled out the package. He opened a corner of it, enough to insert a hand, and withdrew one bundle. She watched anxiously, hoping he would not notice the limes or Sohrab’s application forms. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I will be careful. After twenty-four years I know the place and procedures inside out. One bundle for deposit every day. Ten thousand rupees. More than that will be suspicious.’

‘But it means to finish the whole parcel will take…’

‘One hundred days. I will write and tell him that’s the best I can do.’ He put the money in his briefcase. ‘I don’t understand this world any more. First, your son destroys our hopes. Now this rascal. Like a brother I looked upon him. What a world of wickedness it has become.’

ii

The air-raid siren started its keening lament as Gustad got off the bus at Flora Fountain. Like some gigantic bird of mourning in the skies above the city, circling, diving and wheeling, it drowned the traffic noises. Ten o’clock already, he thought. Should have been at my desk by now.

For several weeks the threnodic siren had been wailing every morning at exactly ten o’clock: a full three-minute warning, followed by the monotonic all-clear. There had never been any official announcement, so the public assumed that in preparation for war with Pakistan, the government was checking to see if the air-raid sirens were in working order. Others believed it was to familiarize people with the dirge-like sound—they would not panic when an air raid was signalled in the middle of the night if they became acquainted with the wail during their daylight hours. Cynics said it seemed more like a conspiracy, because if the Pakistanis ever wanted to carry out a successful bombing raid, all they had to do was make sure they reached the skies overhead at exactly ten o’clock. But perhaps the most wishful explanation was that the siren sounded to let people check their watches and synchronize them at ten, as part of the pre-war effort to improve punctuality and productivity in government offices.

With ten thousand rupees in his briefcase, Gustad was tense as he walked with the crowds flowing from bus stops to office buildings. Some scuffling suddenly broke out at the corner, and he tightened his grip on the briefcase. That was the corner where the pavement artist worked with his crayons. Gustad had often stopped to admire his portraits of gods and saints.

The pavement artist did not restrict himself to any single religion—one day it was elephant-headed Ganesh, giver of wisdom and success; next day, it could be Christ hanging on the cross; and the office crowds blissfully tossed coins upon the pictures. The artist had chosen his spot well. He sat cross-legged and gathered the wealth descending from on high. Pedestrians were careful with this square of pavement, this hallowed ground, as long as it displayed the deity of the day. They flowed around the image like a stream of ants, diverging and converging automatically around it.

Sometimes, accidents happened, like the one this morning. Someone stumbled and left his shoe-print on the drawing. Justice was dispensed summarily. The crowd refused to let the hapless fellow depart till he had made reparation by leaving a generous gift for the god. Then the artist took his crayon and touched up the god’s shoe-printed face. And watching the artist, Gustad suddenly perceived a mutually beneficial proposal in the holy drawings. But he was late for office; he would speak to him one evening when it was not so crowded.

The all-clear faded as he climbed the steps into the bank. He stopped by Dinshawji’s desk and whispered, ‘Meet me outside in the lunch break. Very urgent.’ Dinshawji nodded, pleased. He loved secret compacts, privileged information, clandestine conversations, though they came his way far less often than he would have wished.

Three months had gone by since Dinshawji’s return to work after his illness, and it troubled Gustad that he still looked as pale and washed out as on the night of Roshan’s birthday. But how jolly his conduct had been, singing and laughing and joking as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. Who would have thought he had recently come out of hospital then? Gustad wondered if he was taking proper treatment. Anyway, hats off to Dinshu, for going on so cheerfully, without ever complaining.

At one o’clock they met as arranged. Dinshawji had cauliflower sandwiches, and noticing Gustad’s briefcase, asked, ‘You also got dry lunch today?’

‘No, no, something more important than food. I will have to miss my lunch.’ Whereupon Dinshawji insisted that he have a cauliflower sandwich. He accepted.

‘And what is the urgent matter?’

Gustad told him everything, from Major Bilimoria’s letter about the guerrilla operation, to the money package from Ghulam Mohammed. But he left out the bandicoot, the cat, and the rhyming couplet. Scaring Dinshawji would not help anything. Instead, he emphasized how their effort would help the Mukti Bahini’s liberation struggle, which Dinshawji found very stimulating. The more enthusiastic he became, the worse Gustad felt at having to dupe his sick friend who was now willing to break banking laws and jeopardise his job and pension this close to retirement.

At the end, Dinshawji was so inspired, he would have agreed to join a bayonet charge against Pakistani soldiers. ‘Absolutely,
yaar.
One hundred per cent we will help the Major. Somebody has to do something about those bastard butchers.’

‘That’s how I feel,’ said Gustad.

‘And did you read today about what America is doing?’ Gustad confessed he hadn’t read the papers for the last three days. ‘
Arré,
CIA bastards are up to their usual anus-fingering tactics. Provoking more killings and atrocities.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s obvious,
yaar.
If there is more terror, then more refugees will come to India. Right? And bigger problems for us—feeding and clothing them. Which means we will have to go to war with Pakistan, to solve the refugee problem.’

‘Right.’

‘Then, the CIA plan is for America to support Pakistan. So India will lose the war, and Indira will lose the next election, because everyone will blame her only for the defeat. And that is exactly what America wants. They don’t like her being friends with Russia, you see. Makes Nixon shit, lying awake in bed and thinking about it. His house is white, but his pyjamas become brown every night.’

Gustad laughed and opened the briefcase. ‘Time to get back,’ he said, and handed over the money in a plain envelope.

Dinshawji wrapped his empty lunch bag around the bundle. ‘Yes. Have to be on the dot these days. Remember the olden times? When they took attendance just by counting the jackets hanging on the chairs? No bloody time-book nonsense.
Arré,
they trusted you in those days to do your work. Honour system. Jacket on the chair, hat on the rack, and you could go out for one-two hours, take a nap. Nobody minded. Age of honour and trust is gone for ever now.’

Gustad checked if the lunch-boxes were still there. ‘You go in,’ he said. ‘I’m just coming.’ He scribbled a note to Dilnavaz: ‘My Dearest, Everything OK with Mira Obili. But did not have time to eat. Love & xxx.’ The aroma from the tiffin box intrigued his nose. He pulled out the rack of containers and saw pumpkin
buryani.
His mouth watered. Never mind. I can taste some tonight. And Darius will have the rest—he always likes rice at night, in addition to the main dish with bread. Needs it, too, with all the body-building.

It was three minutes to two. Dinshawji was utilizing the time around Laurie Coutino’s desk. He had become bolder over the weeks, egged on by the other men. Now he was insisting that she dance with him. He sang ‘Rock Around the Clock’, prancing about her chair as she sat demurely, waiting for the lunch-hour to end. The beads of sweat were not long in appearing on his bald pate. He wiggled and jiggled, waved his arms, threw back his head, and added a pelvic thrust occasionally.

Gustad looked on, concerned that trapped under the spell of his pitiful clownery, Dinshawji would forget the crucial envelope on Laurie’s desk. Day by day, he worried more and more for Dinshawji, for his ailing appearance, the face like parchment, the eyes battling to hide pain. But he also despaired about his embarrassing ways and the demise of his self-respect. Dinshawji was acting with abandon, in the manner of a medieval plague victim who knew that since the last vestige of hope was lost, clinging to dignity and other precious luxuries affordable by the healthy was of little use.

He stopped singing, and said, panting, ‘Laurie, Laurie, one day I must introduce you to my little
lorri.
’ She smiled, ignorant of the Parsi slang for the male member. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued, ‘you will love to play with my sweet
lorri.
What fun we will have together.’

She nodded pleasantly, and around them, the men guffawed, digging one another in the ribs. Gustad winced. Dinshawji was going too far. But Laurie smiled again, a little puzzled, and uncovered her typewriter.

People drifted reluctantly to their work-stations as the minute hand crept upwards. Gustad followed Dinshawji, and reminded him as they parted, ‘Don’t forget. Bring me the deposit slip for initialling.’

The scheme worked perfectly. ‘All done without a hitch,’ said Dinshawji next day at lunch. Gustad passed him the second bundle, and suggested slowing down with Laurie while they were helping the Major, just to avoid drawing attention.

‘On the contrary,
yaar,
on the contrary,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Safest thing is to behave this way. As long as I do my nonsense, I am the normal Dinshawji. If I become serious, people will start watching and wondering what’s wrong.’

Gustad had been ready to tell him he was a stupid old fool. But when Dinshawji said what he did, Gustad did not have the heart to scold. How true, he thought. And the more ill he becomes, the harder he will work to be the normal Dinshawji.

So Gustad let him continue in his way, praying that nothing would go amiss with the deposits. Slowly, the package in the coal-storage alcove emptied. Sometimes he wondered what else Major Bilimoria would demand once the money was deposited. But he did not dwell on that; instead, he looked forward to the day when the black plastic would collapse completely upon itself.