Such A Long Journey (34 page)

‘She put me in charge. Training and supplying the Mukti Bahini…tough fighters, Bengalis. Learned quickly. Factories sabotaged…bridges toppled…railway tracks—’

‘Hai!’ Jimmy suddenly broke off, looking over Gustad’s shoulder. He had barely raised his voice, but compared to his feeble whispers it seemed like a yell. ‘Swine! Get out! Not your bloody latrine!’

Gustad understood. He leaned forward and patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Jimmy, everything is OK,’ he said, as Jimmy drifted back into the comfortable past.

‘Gustad, what time?’ he panted. The effort had taken a lot out of him. ‘Time for
kusti
?’

‘Not yet, Jimmy, rest a little.’ He continued to pat his shoulder till he was ready to resume the story.

‘There was a ceremony…birth of Bangladesh. Invited the press to Kushtia district, not far from our border…village renamed Mujibnagar. New flag…green, red, gold, in the mango grove. Singing…
sonar Bangla.
And Pakistani artillery not far away.
Joi Bangla
…proud moment for everyone. But bloody foreign press printed name of the village…Pakistani Air Force destroyed it next day…’

Without knocking, a sharp-faced nurse entered the room. It was time for Jimmy’s next injection. Her forearms were sinewy, the veins standing out like braided rope. She roughly turned him on his side, carried out her task, and left wordlessly.

‘Again it will start. Then how will I talk to you?’

‘Don’t worry,’ comforted Gustad. ‘There is lots of time. Rest. I will wait.’ He looked at his watch and was surprised: almost one already. How much time and precious effort Jimmy had expended saying these few words. As though each one was being sculpted painstakingly, out of stubborn granite that deflected his strokes, blunted his chisel. But he persisted, and after the long wrestle, presented them to Gustad. One by one. Who received them reverently, with anguish, because of the pain that went into their making.

‘Money. Money was the main thing for Mukti Bahini. Without money, no supplies, no explosives, no guns…nothing. We needed a regular allocation, a budget. I told her at next meeting…operation would shut down…We were alone, but she not attentive…as if dreaming of something else. Strange woman…very strong woman…

‘I thought she had lost interest, Mukti Bahini finished. But I gave her my full report. Suddenly she said, I understand the situation, I will arrange more funds. She went inside…to her small private office. Gave me instructions. Next morning to go to State Bank, meet chief cashier, ask for sixty lakh rupees.

‘She started explaining, when aid officially sanctioned, amount will be replaced. I thought, whysh…why she telling me all this, none of my bi-bi-bish…bisnesh.’

The injection was gripping his tongue in its pincers again. Gustad wished he would stop and rest; he leaned closer, till his ear was inches away from Jimmy’s lips.

‘She said…don’t tell chief cashier name or RAW identity. Only, Bangladeshi Babu…come for sixty lakh.

‘Next morning, got the m-m-money. Amazing…sixty lakh, just like that. Then, in a few days, she sent m-mess-message…Now ja-ja-just listen carefully…her pe-plans. Hu-how she was arranging. To protect herself…ta-ta-trrrap me…’

Jimmy closed his eyes; the mouth continued to make small movements but no sounds emerged. He fell into an unquiet state resembling sleep. Gustad pulled the sheet up to cover him properly and went outside, exhausted. Jimmy’s agonizing struggle had drained him.

The policeman asked, ‘How is he? Lot of pain?’

‘Yes. But sleeping now.’ The policeman said there was tea and snacks in the canteen downstairs. He pronounced it snakes.

ii

The
bhaiya
had been reluctant to let Dilnavaz have an extra quarter litre of milk: ‘
Arré bai,
you should have told me yesterday. Suddenly how to produce more?’

Others quickly jumped in, taking her side. ‘Leave all your acting-facting,
muà.
We know you will just add quarter litre of water, soon as you are out of here.’ Protesting the charge indignantly as usual, he let her have the milk.

Dilnavaz took it home and separated the extra quarter for the mixture. First came the
taveej
from over the front door. She sliced the lime into thin wedges, chopped the chillies, then proceeded to grind it all to a fine paste. The round stone rumbled and groaned as she dragged it back and forth over the flat slab.

The paste blended well with the milk, giving it a pretty pale green tint. Next she measured seeds into the mortar—anise, bishop’s-weed, poppy, fennel, mustard—and pestled them to powder. The remaining ingredients were already in powder or liquid form:
kunkoo, marcha ni bhhuki, harad, dhanajiru, papad khar, shahjiru, tuj, lavang, mari, ailchi, jyfer, sarko, garam masalo, andoo, lassun.
She stirred briskly; everything must be well-mixed, Miss Kutpitia had insisted.

Now for the mouse droppings. Dilnavaz was sure she could find the required amount, thanks to Gustad’s black paper; even this nuisance finally had its use. Lifting the corners, she soon gathered a teaspoonful. In the pan the black bits remained suspended no matter how much she stirred. She let the mixture stand, and proceeded to procure the final ingredient: a spider’s round white egg-case. Amazing, the things Miss Kutpitia knew.

Dilnavaz located a large black-brown specimen near the ceiling, where the paper met the top of the ventilator. She lunged with the long-handled broom. The paper tore away, while the spider glided floorward in graceful stages on silken thread. She waited, poised over the predictable landing spot, to finish the job with her slipper.

But the queasy part still lay ahead—the dead spider’s several legs were folded rigidly over the abdomen, and the round egg-case was locked behind a radial grid of dark furry appendages. They reminded her of Inspector Bamji’s hairy legs, in the old days when he wore short pants, before his promotion.

Using paper and a pencil from Gustad’s desk, she bent back the legs, one by one. Some sprang closed again, and had to be held down. Many broke off at the thorax or a midway joint. The cocoon, soft and slightly sticky, though not as clingy as a web, was disengaged after a little poking with the pencil.

She put the pan on the stove. The mixture warmed and became a dark-brown homogeneous compound. Even the obdurate mouse droppings co-operated to blend with the rest. Finally, the carefully preserved alum shape was crumbled and added.

Dilnavaz was ready for the dogwalla idiot.

On Saturdays, Mr. Rabadi always took Dimple for a midday stroll through the compound, supplementing the morning and evening walks. Aware of this extra airing, Dilnavaz had rehearsed her strategy. She reheated the thick mixture and added a spoonful of milk. Yes, that was the right consistency.

Shortly after one o’clock, Dimple’s shrill bark was heard, faintly, from the far end of the compound. Dilnavaz tensed. Now if only her luck held and the stairs were clear. Timing was important. She waited till Mr. Rabadi got closer to the bushes, then nipped out the back and up the stairs.

Her calculations were perfect. She peeked over the balcony. Dimple had called a temporary halt to sniff, searching for the right spot, and Mr. Rabadi looked on approvingly. Dilnavaz extended her arm and turned over the pan.

Mr. Rabadi’s roar resounded through the compound. She primly descended the stairs and returned home by her back door, cautious about claiming success. There was no evidence that his scalp had been anointed; Mr. Rabadi would shout no matter where it landed—even if it fell harmlessly on the ground beside him. She longed to look but had to be content with listening.

‘
Junglees
!’ he yelled. ‘Living like animals!’ Hearing her master hold forth, Dimple added her voice to his. ‘Thousands are starving! And shameless people throw curry in the compound!’ Dilnavaz grew optimistic; it must have fallen close enough for him to at least smell it.

Then shrieks of pain entered the angry litany of complaints, as traces of
marcha ni bhhuki, andoo, lassun, garam masalo
and other fiery spices trickled down Mr. Rabadi’s hair and forehead, into his eyes. ‘Aaaaa! It’s killing me! Aaaaaa! Dying,
bas,
I’m dying!’ Now Dilnavaz was certain she had been on target.

‘Ohhhh!
Mari chaalyo
! Blinded! Blinded completely! Look, you shameless animal! Whoever you are! Look at me! Eyeless in the compound! Blinded by your curry! May the same thing happen to you! And to your children, and your children’s children!’ He made his way to his flat, cursing, howling, calling on the world to witness his cruel fate. Dimple pranced and leaped around him, enjoying his unusually animated state.

Dilnavaz returned to the kitchen. It had gone exactly according to plan. Miss Kutpitia would be proud of her, she felt, as she scrubbed the pan clean of its magical
mélange.

‘Was that the dogwalla idiot shouting, Mummy?’ asked Roshan.

Dilnavaz started, she had not heard her coming. ‘Yes, but you shouldn’t say such things. And why are you out of bed?’

‘I’m tired of sleeping all day. Can I do something else?’

‘OK, sit on the sofa and read your book.’ She rinsed the
raakh-bhoosa
off the pan. It emerged shining from water. Was it possible? So soon? It was no less than a miracle! Or coincidence. But what did it matter, the result was the same. Besides, was there a person alive who, at one time or another, did not find it difficult to disbelieve completely in things supernatural?

Before Miss Kutpitia could fully savour the victory, Dilnavaz moved on to the next item of business. ‘I know I have to be patient,’ she said. ‘But you must help. I cannot go on like this, my head is so full of worries all the time.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sohrab. My head is spinning and spinning because of the worries. You had said there was another remedy. A final remedy. We
must
do it now, please!’

‘Must-bust nothing!’ said Miss Kutpitia, miffed. ‘How much do you know about these things? Don’t tell me what to do!’

Dilnavaz retreated meekly: ‘Never would I think of telling you what to do. But this is the only chance, it seems to me.’

‘You don’t know what you are asking. Terrible things could happen.’ Miss Kutpitia’s eyes narrowed, her voice dire, full of unspeakable events. ‘And not all your sorrow or regret later on will do any good, or change one single thing.’

‘Then my son is lost for ever?’

Miss Kutpitia was familiar with the sorrow for a lost son. ‘That is not what I am saying. If you insist, we will do it. But on your head will be the
parinaam,
on your head the weight of all the consequences.’

Dilnavaz shuddered. ‘For my son’s sake I take the risk.’

‘Then it is settled. Wait.’ She became businesslike. From a pile of cardboard boxes, tins, newspapers and torn clothes, she fished out an old shoe-box. ‘This will do. Now we need a lizard. Can you manage?’ Dilnavaz’s face radiated no confidence.

‘Never mind. I will get one, wait.’ Miss Kutpitia opened one of the two locked doors and shut it behind her. There were sounds of scampering before she emerged triumphantly, panting a bit, and handed over the box. ‘Be careful with the lid, or it will run away. Wait, better tie some string.’ From the heap where she found the shoe-box, she extracted a length. ‘Good. Now leave it till sunrise under the bed where Sohrab used to sleep. Below the head. And bring it back tomorrow.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘One step at a time. Do this much first.’

She knew Miss Kutpitia would not satisfy her curiosity. ‘Is ten o’clock all right?’ No later than that: Gustad could return any time after noon, depending on the train.

‘Ten, eleven, anything. Bring the box, and bring Tehmul, that’s all.’

‘Tehmul?’

‘Of course.’ Miss Kutpitia was annoyed at the silly question. ‘Without him the lizard is useless.’

Imagining bizarre possibilities around the Tehmul-and-lizard combination, Dilnavaz passed Dimple and Mr. Rabadi in the compound, and thought she caught a whiff of garlic as he scratched his scalp. She was relieved he had not suffered permanent damage. His eyes were fine, glaring fiercely at her.

She placed the shoe-box below Sohrab’s
dholni.
How long it has been, she thought, since he rolled it out from under Darius’s bed. The ache in my heart will not leave. Not till I hear again, each night, the rumbling of the castors.

iii

Jimmy was still in the grip of the injection when Gustad returned from the canteen. He soundlessly drew the chair close and waited. Again, the hand was first to stir. ‘Gustad?’

‘Yes, Jimmy.’ He stroked the hand. ‘I am still here.’

‘Makes me thirsty…injection.’ He reached for the water. ‘Till where…did I tell you?’

‘Prime Minister called you again to her office. You said she had made plans to protect herself.’

‘Protect herself…yes…trap me.’ Once he located the place, he proceeded as though he had not stopped. ‘She said, I arranged for money…because Mukti Bahini must be helped…but. Having second thoughts. She said, I have enemies…everywhere. If they find out about this money, they will use the information against me. No difference to them that money is for a good cause…our country will suffer if government destabilized. Very dangerous border situation…CIA, Pakistani agents…

‘It made sense. Shall I bring the money back, I asked. She said no, Mukti Bahini must not suffer…should be another way.

‘She said, only problem is my telephone call to chief cashier…he might talk. Must correct that. How, I asked, he had heard her voice. She said, yes, but he did not see me speaking…we can always say someone imitated my voice.

‘Very clever woman, Gustad. She said, if my enemies try to make trouble, all you have to say is…you imitated my voice. I laughed…who would believe this? But she said, under the proper conditions, people will believe anything. She promised…nothing would happen to me.

‘Like a fool I agreed…trusted her. Then she said, maybe we should make our plan watertight…you can write a few lines just now. A confession. That you imitated my voice…because you wanted to continue helping Mukti Bahini. This way, she would be prepared in advance…if any politician tried to make mischief. Any allegations, and she could stand up in Parliament with the written confession…that she was aware, and government was in control of the situation.

‘What can I say, Gustad? Even to this…I agreed. She gave me a blank sheet of paper and her own fountain-pen. I wrote my confession…like an idiot. My respect for her…grown so much over the months. Such a strong woman. Trusted her completely.’

It baffled Gustad. The worldly-wise Jimmy Bilimoria, the cynical Major he had known for so many years, whose motto in life was: when in doubt, keep doubting. Could he really have done the foolish things he is describing? What kind of woman is she?

‘Sorry Gustad…talking so much, forgot about your lunch. You want to eat?’

‘No, I had some tea while you were sleeping.’

Jimmy smiled, but upon his wasted face the smile became a painful grimace. ‘So often I have thought of Dilnavaz’s
dhansak
…those Sunday afternoons.’ He stared into the distance, his eyes cloudy. With a visible effort he began whispering again.

‘So my operation was in full swing, I thought…sent the good news to Mukti Bahini commander. But few weeks later…when I went to visit, total disappointment on his face. What happened to new financing, he said. Took me for inspection. I saw for myself. Ragged condition…bare feet, torn clothes, no helmets. A few had guns…rest drilling with sticks, branches. Something terribly wrong…I hurried back to Delhi…

‘Did some checking, through my private channels. Ghulam also investigated…at his end. They tried to finish him off on his Lambretta. Their favourite way, traffic accident. He was asking too many questions. But we discovered something impossible to believe. I checked again…Ghulam also. It made no sense…why this way, all she has to do is ask me…’ He choked and began coughing violently. Gustad supported his head till it stopped. He held up the glass of water but Jimmy waved it aside.

‘I have seen so much…bribery, double-cross, blackmail. This one…’ He paused, and now took the water.

‘What happened to the money?’ asked Gustad.

‘Money I was disbursing for supplies…intercepted. By Prime Minister’s office. Rerouted. To a private account.’

‘Are you sure of it?’

Jimmy made a gesture of despair: ‘Wish I could say no.’

‘But for what?’

‘That I am not sure of. One possibility—to finance her son’s car factory. Or could be for election fund, or maybe…’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Not what I should have done…but something very stupid. Should have exposed the whole thing. Told the press, opposition parties. Started an inquiry. But I thought, everything is controlled by her. RAW, the courts, broadcasting…everything is in her pocket, all will be covered up…’

Suddenly, Jimmy screamed, covering his face with his hands. ‘Stop! Please stop!’ He thrashed around, legs kicking air. ‘Stop! Aaaaa!’ Gustad tried to hold him but Jimmy kept him off with his flailing arms. He subsided of his own accord in a few moments, then lay panting, cold sweat running down his face, knees drawn up to his stomach.

Shaken, Gustad knew it was the telling that brought back the prison nightmare. He put his arm around him: ‘It’s OK, Jimmy. No one will hurt you, I’m still here.’

Gradually, Jimmy unclenched his fists and let his legs straighten. But he continued to shiver, and Gustad soothed him till it passed. He opened his eyes. ‘Gustad? Water, please.’ Gustad propped up the pillow again.

‘Whole day and night I sat in my flat. Doing nothing…just thinking. What hope for the country? With such crooked leaders? Whole day and night…I sat thinking of all the people I had come across in my life…men in the army, good men. And my Ghulam Mohammed. Khodadad Building…the families living there. You and Dilnavaz, the children, the ambitions you have for them. And those bastards, those ministers and politicians, those ugly buffaloes and pigs…getting fatter and fatter, sucking our blood…’ Jimmy trembled, choking with vehemence.

‘It drove me crazy to think of all this. But I decided—if they can profit from the sixty lakh, why not us? Her son, his Maruti car factory, whatever they use it for…we can also use some. You, your family, Ghulam, me. Why not? I put aside ten lakh, told Ghulam to expect a delivery…our usual channels in Chor Bazaar.’

As gently as he could, Gustad asked, ‘But why did you not tell me what was really happening?’

‘Gustad, I know you…your principles. Would you have agreed…if I told you the truth? My plan was to complete my assignment, resign. Return to Bombay and divide the money. You, Ghulam Mohammed, me. It was wrong, I know, two wrongs don’t make a right. But I was disgusted. And I was absolutely sure…if fifty lakh reached PM’s office…no one would bother about missing ten. Every pipeline has leaks.

‘But…I was mistaken. They came for me…arrested…made a case based on my confession. What they really wanted was the ten lakh. You know how it is in our jails when you refuse to…’

‘And you refused.’

‘Had to protect you and Ghulam…did not want any trouble for you. Once money was returned, everything fine. Transferred to hospital, proper treatment…’

Jimmy fell silent, and Gustad sensed he wanted to hear his reaction. ‘What shall I say, Jimmy? All this suffering. But can you not still talk to lawyers, or newspapers, tell them the truth about your ten lakh, and about the whole bloody crooked—’

‘Gustad, it has been tried. Everything is in their control…courts in their pockets. Only one way…quietly do my four years…then forget about it.’

‘Everyone knows there’s corruption,’ said Gustad. ‘But to this level? Hard to believe.’

‘Gustad, it is beyond the common man’s imagination, the things being done by those in power. But I did not call you here to make you worry…feel sorry for me. What has happened has happened. I just wanted to talk to you. To make sure you don’t think I tried to trick you. You were so angry, Ghulam told me…in your place I would also have been. But I was hoping…you will forgive me now.’

Gustad held his gaze. He saw his friend’s need for absolution, the pleading in his eyes. ‘Do you forgive me?’

There was only one answer to give: ‘Rubbish. Nothing to forgive, Jimmy.’

Trying to reach Gustad’s hand, Jimmy raised his, shaking with the effort. Gustad clasped it firmly. ‘Thank you, Gustad. For everything…for coming, listening…’

For a while they were silent. Then their conversation was of the old times, when the boys were still very little, when Major Uncle taught them how to march, left-right, left-right, and how to present arms, using rulers for rifles.

The nurse came to administer another injection shortly before it was time for Gustad to leave. The sinewy woman turned Jimmy over—the other side, this time—and plunged in the needle.

They managed to finish what they were talking about, say goodbye, before the drug silenced him. Gustad sat awhile on the edge of the bed, listening to the troubled breathing. He pulled the sheet up, tucked it in, then bent over and kissed his friend lightly on the forehead.

While Gustad slept propped up between his fellow travellers, the Prime Minister, in a special radio broadcast, told the nation that Pakistani Air Force planes had just bombed Indian airfields in Amritsar, Pathankot, Srinagar, Jodhpur, Chandigarh, Ambala, and Agra. She said it was an act of naked aggression; and consequently, India was now at war with Pakistan. By the time the train neared Bombay, everyone aboard had heard the news, having picked up bits and pieces of information mingled with rumour at stations along the way. At Victoria Terminus Gustad tried to buy a paper, but the few remaining copies were going at five times the normal price, and he turned it down.