Such A Long Journey (23 page)

iii

The
dubbawalla
had departed with the lunch-boxes. To let Dilnavaz know he would be late, he telephoned Miss Kutpitia. The connection was bad. ‘Hallo! Hallo, Miss Kutpitia! This is Gustad Noble!’ No one paid any attention to the bellowing. With the roulette wheel of the telephone exchange, the odds of getting a bad connection were as good as they were bad for getting a good connection. He hung up, then remembered his promise to Roshan about dressing the doll. Now I am going to be late, and she will think I forgot. Which I did. His head began to hurt, a sharp pain, as though something was trying to break through the skull. He realized what Mrs. Pastakia meant when she described her migraine for all and sundry: like someone poking about inside with knitting needles.

He returned to his desk, kneading his forehead. It was becoming too much to bear, Roshan’s sickness, Dilnavaz blaming him for potassium permanganate, Jimmy’s treachery, Dinshawji’s stupidity, Laurie’s complaint, Sohrab’s betrayal, nothing but worry and sorrow and disappointment piling up around him, walling him in, threatening to crush him. He moved his massaging hand from the forehead to his nape and closed his eyes.

When he reopened them, rubbing them like a sleepy, tired child, Dinshawji was leaning against the desk. The fist he had wanted to slam on the restaurant table, he indulged now, upon the desk. Bhum! it came down, and Dinshawji took a great leap backwards, alarmed. ‘Easy, boy, easy!’ His sudden movement was painful. He clutched his sides and winced.

Gustad put his elbows on the desk, face resting in his hands. At least the danger of bursting a blood vessel had been averted, he thought. He spoke softly, and Dinshawji had to draw close again in order to hear. ‘You make the blood in my brain start to boil, you stupid fool.’

Dinshawji was hurt. ‘How are you talking,
yaar.
What’s wrong? First at least tell me my crime.’

‘I will. I promise you I will. Meet me under the portico at six.’ He turned his chair away, kneading his forehead again. Dinshawji waited a few moments, quite forlorn, then left.

For the rest of the day Gustad could do no work. Having enumerated his worries, disappointments, and betrayals, he was tormented by them. When he thought of Roshan, his heart went cold: for a second, he imagined the worst, then mentally performed Dilnavaz’s
owaaryoo
gesture which he had often ridiculed. How can she blame me, potassium permanganate worked so well all these years. Jimmy said they always used it in the army. Damn Jimmy, the bastard. Once like a brother…and now? Those Bible stories, that Malcolm used to tell me. When we went to Crawford Market. One about Cain and Abel…Fairy tales, I used to think. But from the distance of years, how true. My own father’s case. His drunken, gambling brother who destroyed him as surely as crushing his skull. And Jimmy, another kind of Cain. Killed trust, love, respect, everything. And that other story, about Absalom, son of David. By now Sohrab would have been finishing his first term at IIT, if only…

What was left, he asked himself, after the very purpose he had struggled and worked and waited for all these years—after that very purpose was callously shattered by his own son, and the shards kicked aside, dropped clattering in the rubbish-pail, like his application forms. All I wanted was for him to have a chance at a good career. The chance wrenched away from me. Now what is left? What is left in life? Tell me, Dada Ormuzd, what?

And so it went all afternoon: from Sohrab to Roshan, then back to Jimmy, and Dilnavaz, and Laurie, and Dinshawji. Circles, U-turns, reverse circles, till he was dizzy with thought, exhausted from anxiety, and close to being broken by despair.

But at six o’clock he was saved by anger. He saw Dinshawji under the portico, and his fury returned. The stench from Dinshawji’s mouth was unbearable. Good. Serves him right if he has been fretting and agonizing, now he will come to his senses.

Dinshawji smiled weakly. ‘Your smiles will vacate the premises,’ said Gustad, ‘when you hear what I have to tell you.’

‘You keep shouting at me,’ he complained. ‘All afternoon you have been drowning yourself in anger. But why not say what has left its sting poking in your heart?’

‘I want you to be able to enjoy your cup of tea first. It may be the last thing you will ever enjoy.’

Dinshawji laughed, a poor copy of his usual incorrigible laugh. ‘What suspense you are creating,
yaar.
Taking tuitions from Alfred Hitchcock or what?’

They walked past the great circle, past the traffic of vehicles and humans. Like a vast river that had reversed its direction, the current was speeding northward—northward, the flow of tired humanity, from banks, insurance companies, shoe shops, textile shops, accounting firms, manufacturing offices, opticians, advertising agencies—northward, the weary flow, by crush of bus, by squeeze of train, by rattle of bicycle, by ache of feet—northward to suburbs and slums, to houses, hovels, apartments, tenements, one-room flats, corrugated-metal shacks, street corners, pavements, cardboard huts—flowing north till the current petered out, its waters still but not restful, lying in darkness, trying to scrounge enough strength to prepare for the morning tide southward, and the repetition of the endless cycle.

They waited for their tea. ‘You know why I was not in the canteen for lunch?’ asked Gustad.

‘If you tell me I will know why.’

‘Because Laurie Coutino wanted to talk to me privately. So we came here. Upstairs, to a private room.’

‘Go, go! Really?’ Dinshawji grinned. ‘You lucky bugger.’

‘No, you are the lucky bugger. Because the whole time she talked about you.’

‘You are joking!’

Gustad minced no words, wanting them to be as deadly as the
goaswalla
’s knife that went bhup! Dinshawji’s pale countenance lost its last trace of colour; his mouth fell open, fetid breath billowed across the table. ‘But there is more,’ said Gustad mercilessly. Dinshawji gazed blankly at his hands in his lap, too ashamed to look up, too dazed to speak. ‘Luckily, Laurie does not believe in your secret service and ten lakh rupees and guerrillas. She laughed when she told me. But if it reaches Madon’s ears? And he gets suspicious about our deposits? What are we going to do then, you bloody fool?’

‘What can I say, Gustad?’ said Dinshawji feebly. ‘You are absolutely right, I’m a bloody stupid idiot.’ He worried the handle of his teacup with his forefinger: ‘What shall we do now?’

‘It’s in your hands. If you stop bothering her she won’t go to Madon. She told me.’

‘Of course I will stop. Whatever you think is best.’ He gulped from his cup. ‘But…’

‘But what?’

Dinshawji took another swallow, choked, and had a coughing fit. ‘If I suddenly stop fooling with her, everybody will wonder what’s wrong. Don’t you think?’ He coughed some more. ‘Then they will start poking their noses to find out what happened. It won’t be good if they see you giving me a packet every day.’

‘I have thought about that, I have a plan. What you must do is stop your jokes and teasing with everyone. At the same time, I will start telling people that poor Dinshawji’s health is not good again, he is feeling completely under the weather.’

‘I would prefer to be feeling under Laurie’s skirt.’ The attempt at humour was frail, but it was a hard habit to break.

‘No more jokes, you agreed,’ said Gustad sternly.

‘Sorry, sorry
yaar.
Just with you, privately.’

‘OK. So I’ll spread the story tomorrow. All the fellows will be sympathetic, everything will be fine. Can you manage it?’

‘Of course. Let me tell you, it’s more difficult to be a jovial person all the time than to be a quiet, sickly one.’ The truth of Dinshawji’s words was sharp and cruel. They finished their tea silently and left.

From the next morning, Dinshawji changed utterly. Everyone’s heart went out to the grave individual, suddenly fragile and spent, who greeted them with only a quiet hallo. When Gustad came across him later in the day, he was surprised at how authentically Dinshawji projected his new image. Till he remembered that it seemed authentic because Dinshawji was no longer playing a role; reality, at last, had caught up with him; and Gustad felt awful for confiscating his mask.

iv

The tap was re-soldered to the bunghole. Gustad walked home from the Horaji’s repair shop with the water drum upon his shoulder. Dilnavaz was waiting anxiously to tell him about the visitor who would call again at nine p.m. ‘He was asking for you,’ she said. ‘Would not tell me anything. Very strange fellow. Barefoot, and all paint on his hand, as if he was playing Holi with coloured powder. But Holi festival is seven months away. I hope that shameless Bilimoria has not sent him with more troubles for us.’

Gustad could guess who it was. Later, he was able to reassure Dilnavaz, when the man returned as promised: ‘Don’t worry, I told him to come. To fix that stinking wall.’

He went with the pavement artist into the compound. ‘So. You finally made up your mind to leave Flora Fountain?’

‘What to do,’ said the pavement artist. ‘After the trouble that day, police began harassment. Making me move from here to there, this corner to that corner. So I decided to come and see the place you were telling about.’

‘Good,’ said Gustad, ‘you will like it.’ They went outside the gate and the artist inspected the wall. He ran his hand over the surface, feeling with his fingertips. ‘Smooth black stone,’ said Gustad encouragingly, ‘perfect for your pictures. Wall is more than three hundred feet long. And lots of people pass by every day.’ He pointed to the twin towers next to Khodadad Building: ‘To go to those offices. Then there is a bazaar also over there, further down. With expensive jewellery shops. Lots of rich people travel this road. On that side, about twenty minutes away, there are two cinemas. Monday will be no problem, I can guarantee.’

The pavement artist completed his inspection by taking a crayon from his satchel and sketching briefly. ‘Yes. Quite good.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But stinks very much.’

‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. He had been wondering how long before the artist said something. ‘Shameless people treat the wall like a roadside lavatory. Look! There’s one now!’

At the far end, a figure stood motionless in the shadows, silent except for a soft hiss. From his centre flowed a liquid arc glinting by the light of the street lamp. ‘Hai!’ shouted Gustad. ‘
Bay-sharam budmaas
! I’ll break your
huddi,
you rascal!’ The arc terminated abruptly. The man’s hand shook twice and performed a deft movement in his trousers before he slipped away.

‘You saw?’ said Gustad. ‘Shameless. That’s the reason for the stink. But once you draw your holy pictures, no one will dare.’ He glimpsed hesitation on the other’s face and hastened to add, ‘First we will have the whole wall washed and cleaned.’

The pavement artist thought for a bit, then agreed. ‘I can start tomorrow morning.’

‘Good, good. But one question. Will you be able to draw enough to cover three hundred feet? I mean, do you know enough different gods to fill the whole wall?’

The artist smiled. ‘There is no difficulty. I can cover three hundred miles if necessary. Using assorted religions and their gods, saints and prophets: Hindu, Sikh, Judaic, Christian, Muslim, Zoroastrian, Buddhist, Jainist. Actually, Hinduism alone can provide enough. But I always like to mix them up, include a variety in my drawings. Makes me feel I am doing something to promote tolerance and understanding in the world.’

Gustad was impressed. ‘How do you know about so many religions?’

The artist smiled again. ‘I have a BA in World Religions. My speciality was Comparative Studies. Of course, that was before I transferred to the School of Arts.’

‘Ah,’ said Gustad. They agreed to meet next morning, very early, when the street-sweeper arrived. Later that night, he said to Dilnavaz, ‘Tell that worthless son of yours who kicked IIT in the face. Tell him when he comes next time to visit you—that poor wandering pavement artist has two BAs.’

At dawn, after the street-sweeper cleaned up the nocturnal deposits, Gustad convinced him with the help of a five-rupee note to wash down the wall. He got him a stiff wire brush to scrub it well. The artist arrived with his satchel, a Petromax lamp, and a small roll of bedding. ‘The sun will come out now,’ said Gustad, ‘wall will soon be dry.’

Three hours later, as he left for the bank, the artist was hard at work on his first drawing. He watched, trying to identify the subject, and finally interrupted, ‘Excuse me. Which one is that, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Trimurti. Of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, the gods of creation, preservation and destruction. If that is all right with you, sir? Or I can do something else.’

‘Oh no, it’s fine,’ said Gustad. He would have preferred a portrait of Zarathustra to inaugurate the wall, but realized that this triad would have a far-reaching influence in dissuading the urinators and defecators. When he returned in the evening, the artist had lit the Petromax. The Trimurti was complete, as well as a grim, sanguinary Crucifixion. A representation of the Jumma Masjid was in progress—since Islam prohibited portraits, he restricted himself to drawings of the famous mosques.

‘Hope it does not rain,’ said Gustad. He tested the air with a deep breath. ‘So far, no stink.’ The artist nodded without looking up from his work. ‘But you will have to be careful tonight. It’s the first night, people do not know yet that there are holy pictures here.’

‘That’s OK, I will warn them,’ said the artist. ‘I am going to work all night.’ He set down a green crayon which started to roll away down the pavement. Gustad stopped it, replaced it in the box. ‘Excuse me sir. Please, one request. Is it OK if I break a twig from your neem every morning? To brush my teeth?’

‘Sure,’ said Gustad. ‘Everybody does that.’

During the night, the artist completed two more pictures: Moses descending with the Ten Commandments, and Ganpati Baba. As the sun was rising he added some flourishes to the latter’s flesh-coloured proboscis, then took up his white crayon to write in the commandments on Moses’s stone tablets.

Over the next few days, the wall filled up with gods, prophets and saints. When Gustad checked the air each morning and evening, he found it free of malodour. Mosquitoes and flies were no longer quite the nuisance they used to be; with their breeding grounds drying up, the numbers diminished dramatically. And in Khodadad Building, Odomos became a thing of the past. Dilnavaz and Gustad put away the flat dishes,
khumchaas, tapaylis
from under the light bulbs; there was no further use for those mosquito traps either.

The holy countenances on the wall—some grim and vengeful, some jovial, some compassionate, others frightful and awe-inspiring, yet others kind and avuncular—watched over the road, the traffic, the passers-by, day and night. Nataraja did his cosmic dance, Abraham lifted his ax high above Isaac, Mary cradled the Infant Jesus, Laxmi dispensed wealth, Saraswati spread wisdom and learning.

But the artist began to have misgivings as the wall underwent its transformation. Bigger than any pavement project he had ever undertaken, it made him restless. Over the years, a precise cycle had entered the rhythm of his life, the cycle of arrival, creation and obliteration. Like sleeping, waking and stretching, or eating, digesting and excreting, the cycle sang in harmony with the blood in his veins and the breath in his lungs. He learned to disdain the overlong sojourn and the procrastinated departure, for they were the progenitors of complacent routine, to be shunned at all costs. The journey—chanced, unplanned, solitary—was the thing to relish.

Now, however, his old way of life was being threatened. The agreeable neighbourhood and the solidity of the long, black wall were reawakening in him the usual sources of human sorrow: a yearning for permanence, for roots, for something he could call his own, something immutable. Torn between staying and leaving, he worked on, ill at ease, confused and discontented. Swami Dayananda, Swami Vivekananda, Our Lady of Fatima, Zarathustra, and numerous others assumed their places on the wall, places preordained by the pavement artist; together, they awaited the uncertain future.