Such A Long Journey (36 page)

iii

After the firemen left, everyone agreed it was a miracle Miss Kutpitia’s flat had come through largely unscathed. That there had been more smoke than flame was easily overlooked.

Through tellings and retellings, the smoky little fire became a roaring blaze, then grew into an uncontrollable conflagration. Khodadad Building had been on the verge of turning into a morsel for the belly of the raging inferno. But divine intervention had come to the rescue, it was fervently affirmed.

Others ascribed the good fortune to the wall: with people stopping to pray, to utter their invocations and thanksgivings, they said, it undoubtedly created endless vibrations of a propitious nature. How could it be other than that goodness and virtue reside here, in constant compassionate watch over this exalted place?

Inside Miss Kutpitia’s flat, the damage was confined to the locked rooms. The precious grief-nurturing reminders of her beloved nephew and brother had perished within the brick walls of those reliquaries. Grey ash now lightly lay, covering the floors and the furniture, mingled with the dust of thirty-five years. The soggy ash coated everything, as though a sackful had been bought from the
raakh-bhoosa
man and spread by diligent human hands to scrub and scour the two rooms.

Miss Kutpitia and Dilnavaz assessed the damage, the latter promising to get Darius to help clear the mess. She was surprised that Miss Kutpitia accepted the outcome so matter-of-factly. In fact, Dilnavaz found her positively cheery, looking forward to the chores that lay ahead, enjoying the sympathetic attention of people who had decided to forget her reputation for meanness and crankiness. It was tacitly accepted now that a person so providentially delivered from the jaws of fiery death must have forces of goodness on her side.

Only Miss Kutpitia understood the mystery of the benign fire. For thirty-five years, the very essences of all the hoarded mementoes had worked like a gentle salve upon the unkind gashes of her sorrow. They soothed her grief with their secret marrow, and Miss Kutpitia understood this well.

But she also knew that the qualities which made these objects special, made them glow with the aura which their owners had imparted to them, were not eternal—that one day they would lose their luminescence and become worthless. When that happened, she would be on her own.

Now, with the fire, it was evident that the day had arrived. The fire’s conduct made it plain—all that was healing and life-giving in her treasures had already been drawn forth by her, leaving feathery husks too insubstantial to feed the flames. It was no great matter of puzzlement for Miss Kutpitia that the fire died in such a docile fashion.

In between helping Miss Kutpitia and doing her own cooking and chores, Dilnavaz heard Gustad tell Jimmy’s story. She was happy and light-hearted for the first time in months. All the terror and shame and guilt of dabbling in unspeakable things with Miss Kutpitia was cremated in the fire, along with Miss Kutpitia’s past.

Gustad wished she would sit still and listen. He tried to convey his anguish at witnessing Jimmy’s wretched condition. ‘You know the wooden presses that roadside juicewallas use? To squeeze the fruit? When I walked into Jimmy’s room and saw him, it felt like my heart was being pulped in one of those presses.’ His voice shook, but Dilnavaz did not notice. The softening veil of hustle-bustle and relief that descended in the wake of the lizard-tail mishap blurred and distorted things, held out generous promises of happy endings.

She was certain that Jimmy would recover and come back to Khodadad Building after four years. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Gustad preferred to say nothing. He turned to Roshan. ‘Now, my little monkey. Just because you are feeling better does not mean you should run around all day. Little by little, as you get stronger.’ He rose and stretched. ‘So sleepy. Two nights on the train. But such a lot of work to do.’

‘You don’t have to come to help Miss Kutpitia,’ said Dilnavaz.

‘That is not what I meant at all. The war has started.’

‘So what work for you if the war has started? My husband will take a gun and go to fight?’ She threw her arms around his neck and, laughing, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Roshan’s recovery, Gustad’s safe return, Miss Kutpitia’s bright new demeanour—what more could she ask for? The days of gloom and worry were far behind. Except, of course, for Sohrab’s absence. But even that, she felt, would now somehow be put right.

‘Very funny you are becoming,’ said Gustad sternly. ‘Total blackout has been declared from tonight. I have to prepare for that, and for air raids.’

‘They are not going to come all the way to Bombay at once,’ she said, still laughing.

‘All the way? Do you know that with modern jet fighters the Pakistanis could be here in minutes? Or do you think they will send you a postcard when they want to drop a bomb?’

‘OK, baba, OK,’ she said good-humouredly. ‘Do whatever you think is necessary.’

He said it was a good thing he had not removed the blackout paper, at least that was one less job. He reminded her how she had kept nagging about it nine years ago, after the China war, nagging on and on. But in ‘65, when there was war with Pakistan, was it not convenient to have the paper already in place? ‘Same thing again. History repeats itself.’

‘OK, baba, OK, you were right.’

He carried a chair to the front door to inspect the paper. ‘Leave Darius with me,’ he said, as she prepared to go with the long-handled broom and various assorted
jhaarus
and
butaaras.
‘I’ll need his help for a little while.’ There were several places where mending was required. Darius stood by to hand him the hammer, nails, and paper patches. Gustad climbed up and realized there had been no air-raid siren at ten o’clock this morning. From now on it would sound only for the real thing.

When the front door was done they moved the chair to the window by the black desk. ‘I’ll do this one,’ said Darius. He climbed up and put out his hand for the hammer. But his father was caressing the dark brown wood of the handle, a faraway smile on his face.

‘OK,’ called Darius, to get his attention.

Gustad felt a great surge of pride as Darius’s fingers closed round the handle. ‘You never got to see your great-grandfather. But this is his hammer.’

Darius nodded. He had listened when Gustad used to teach Sohrab carpentry. He hefted the ball-peen hammerhead by its perfectly balanced handle, and knocked in the nails. When he gave it back, the handle felt slightly damp to Gustad. From Darius’s palms, he thought. But how bountifully my grandfather used to sweat. Even in the prosperous days, when there were others to do it, he loved the heavy work. And the runnels pouring off his forehead, coursing down his face and neck. Deep in the midst of a job, two huge patches under his arms, and his vast shirt all soaked at the back, clinging to his skin, the wet appearing in the shape of a big heart. Then it was off with the shirt and
sudra.
The sweat flowing in great streams now, falling on pieces of wood, on the work table, on tools around him, sprinkling the layers of sawdust, which turned dark where the drops landed like life-giving water, like parched soil vitalized by a gardener. And the sweat from Grandpa’s palms, soaking the handle of this hammer. To darken and burnish the wood. His hands first, and then my hands. Making the handle smoother and smoother. Sohrab should have…but Darius will. He will add his gloss to the wood.

What did it mean when a hammer like this was passed from generation to generation? It meant something satisfying, fulfilling, at the deep centre of one’s being. That was all. No need to wrestle further with the meaning of the words.

They moved to the next window, the next ventilator, mending the tears, patching the gaps, while he told Darius about the workshop in the days before power tools, where men expended sweat and muscle, and sometimes even blood, to transform wood into useful, beautiful things; about Darius’s great-grandfather who was a huge, powerful man, kind and gentle, but with an unswerving sense of justice and fair play, who had once lifted his own foreman by the collar till his feet swung clear off the ground, threatening to toss him out in the street, because the foreman had mistreated one of the carpenters.

They worked their way from window to window, from ventilator to ventilator, while Gustad remembered, opening the fenestrae of his life for Darius to look through. Darius had heard all the stories before, but somehow, with Great-Grandpa’s hammer in his hand, they sounded different.

After the blackout paper was mended, they made shades of stiff cardpaper for the light bulbs hanging bare. They switched on the bulbs to check that the light fell in neat circles on the floor. Next, Gustad decided that underneath the huge four-poster bed would be the air-raid shelter: the pure ebony of its construction, and solid one-inch Burma teak slats, would be able to withstand the rubble if the worst were to happen.

‘It took two men with a crosscut saw a whole day. A whole day’s work, just to cut the ebony beams for the bedsteads and posters. That’s why the main frame of this old bed is strong as any old iron,’ he said. But the four-poster was next to the window. ‘It won’t do, has to be on the other side.’ The cupboard and dressing-table were pushed out of the way. Then they struggled with the bed’s immense weight, moving it inch by inch.

Dilnavaz returned from Miss Kutpitia’s and saw them grunting and labouring. ‘What are you doing? Stop! Your
aanterdo
and liver will burst! Stop, listen to me!’

‘Do you know how strong your son is? Show her, Darius. Show her your muscles,’ said Gustad.

‘Touch wood, baba, touch wood,’ she said, reaching frantically for the bedstead, and let them complete the task.

The mattress from Sohrab’s
dholni
was spread under the four-poster. Dilnavaz caressed the place where Sohrab’s head used to lie. Gustad frowned at her. He rolled up two blankets and stored them underneath, along with a torch and a water bottle. In an old biscuit tin he placed a phial of iodine, another of mercurochrome, a tube of penicillin ointment, cotton wool, adhesive tape, and two rolls of surgical gauze bandages. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘whenever there is a siren, we must go under.’

Just like a young boy, thought Dilnavaz. How he enjoys all this excitement. Taking advantage of his good mood, she said, ‘If you are finished, Miss Kutpitia is requesting your help.’ The firemen had forced open her windows which had remained shut for thirty-five years. Now they would not close, not one of the three, and she was concerned because of the blackout.

Gustad and Darius went readily to tackle the swollen windows, taking a chisel, sandpaper, two screwdrivers and the hammer. When they returned after an hour, Gustad remarked how Miss Kutpitia had changed. ‘Smiled at me, even made a joke, saying it was time I brought another rose for her. Earth-and-sky difference in the old woman.’

And in you too, thought Dilnavaz happily.

The evening grew dark earlier than usual. By the gate, the lamppost stood lightless, and the pavement artist extinguished all candles,
agarbattis
and thuribles at sundown. The main road resembled a street under curfew. A solitary taxi went by, passengerless, headlights blackened. With its eyes closed, thought Gustad, like a somnambulist. Even the crows and sparrows, usually raucous at this hour, seemed disoriented by the unlit city.

The grey compound exhaled an air of hopeless melancholy around the blacked-out flats. Gustad inspected his windows from the outside: no chinks, no cracks of light. He walked along and looked up at Tehmul’s windows. The older brother was in town, he had done the necessary work. But tomorrow he would leave on another of his sales trips. An extra key in case Tehmul got locked out was now with Gustad—Tehmul’s next-door neighbours refused to keep it any longer; they said he was driving them crazy.

‘What news, bossie?’ called Inspector Bamji. ‘Ready for the war?’ He was applying lampblack to the headlights, leaving only a thin slit.

Gustad went up to him. ‘Night duty?’

Bamji nodded. ‘That’s why this
maader chod
black stuff.’ He wiped his hands on a rag. ‘Bastards want to fight, now they will get a fight. Bloody
bahen chod bhungees
think they can just come over and bomb our airfields. What did they expect, our planes would be sitting outside? Our boys are damn smart, bossie, damn smart. Everything in underground concrete hangars. Now they will be clean bowled—off stump, middle stump, leg stump—nothing left standing.’

Gustad pointed up at the building. ‘Looks like all our neighbours have done a good blackout.’

‘True,’ said Bamji. ‘But bossie, on first day everyone is enthusiastic. Then they get careless. And we get complaints at the police station. Same thing happened in ‘65. Any time a light is seen shining, it’s a Pakistani spy.’ The wet rag would not remove the black stuff off his fingers. He went home to try something stronger.

Chapter Twenty

i

Mr. Madon issued guidelines and directives concerning air raids and sirens. Wardens were appointed in each department to ensure, among other things, that those handling cash locked up before leaving their positions when the siren sounded. Employees were to retreat beneath their desks—only one person under one desk. Exceptions would be made for those sharing a desk if they were of the same sex; if not, they were to pair up with the nearest appropriate staff member. Wardens would supervise the propriety of the pairing. Mr. Madon wanted no flirting-below-desk-scandal to arise and stain his bank’s escutcheon.

The instruction list, like everything else at the bank, reminded Gustad of his departed friend. Dinshu would have had a field day in the canteen, mimicking Mr. Madon. And speculating on the thrills of going under a desk with Laurie Coutino, mini-skirt and all.

Now there were no jokes in the canteen, or song sessions. Instead, people talked endlessly about the war, repeating grim, gruesome stories of what was happening across the border. Rumour, fact, fantasy—all were devoured with equal zeal.

The debauched and alcoholic president of the enemy was said to be organizing unceasing bacchanals to keep his ministers and generals occupied: he feared an ouster if they regained their senses for too long. Thus did the crazed syphilitic cling to power, growing ever more desperate as he saw, through his haze of liquor, the unyielding worm gnawing contentedly at his brain.

Stories about the demoniacal occupation of Bangladesh were balanced by accounts of the Indian Army’s gallantry. On the radio and in cinema newsreels, the Jawans liberated towns and villages, routed the enemy, and took prisoners by the thousands. There was report after report of the citizenry’s generous support for the fighting men: about an eighty-year-old peasant who travelled to New Delhi, clutching her two gold wedding bangles, which she presented to Mother India for the war effort (some newspapers reported it as Mother Indira, which did not really matter—the line between the two was fast being blurred by the Prime Minister’s far-sighted propagandists who saw its value for future election campaigns); about schoolchildren donating their lunch money, their faces scrubbed and shining as they posed with a splendidly rotund Congress Party official; about farmers chanting
Jai Jawan! Jai Kissan
! and pledging to work harder by growing more food for the country.

Of course, in the newsreels, no mention was ever made of dutiful Shiv Sena patrols and motley fascists who roamed city streets with stones at the ready, patriotically shattering windows that they deemed inadequately blacked-out. Or the unlucky individuals mistaken for enemy agents and beaten up with great relish by personal enemies. Or the number of homes burgled by men posing as air-raid wardens come to inspect the premises. In short, no effort was spared to inform the country of its invincibility, unity and high morale.

So high was the morale that when, six days into the war, the USA heeded General Yahya’s call and ordered its Seventh Fleet to the Bay of Bengal, the populace was ready to take on even the mighty Americans. The nuclear-powered aircraft-carrier
Enterprise
moved out from the Gulf of Tonkin and led the Seventh Fleet through the Strait of Malacca. Its glorious mission: to frighten a cyclone-ravaged, war-torn province into submission. No one was greatly surprised by this, for mighty America always did like having military dictators for buddies. But as the Fleet drew closer, the names of Nixon and Kissinger became names to curse with, names which, if uttered, had to be followed by hawking and spitting. The illiterate could not read about the latest villainy but they learned to recognize the two villains’ pictures in the papers: the scowling one with rat’s eyes and the bespectacled one with the face of a constipated ox.

Old Bhimsen the office peon brought fresh news from the slums to Gustad and the others at the bank. He lived in a little
kholi,
in a
jhopadpatti
near Sion. During pauses between fetching tea or coffee, he told them how, in the slums, where children squatted over newsprint inside their shacks (because they were too young to go out alone and find a spot in an alley or a ditch), mothers took great delight in searching through discarded papers for the faces of the rat and the constipated ox to place under their babies’ behinds. The closer the Seventh Fleet came to the Bay of Bengal, the harder it was to find unadorned copies of the two pictures. Bhimsen decided to help his slum neighbours with their anti-imperialist toilet-training. He requested all bank employees to give him their daily newspapers whenever pictures of Nixon or Kissinger appeared. No one refused. They were happy to assist the war effort and keep morale high.

But it was not morale alone that dealt with the Seventh Fleet. Close on the heels of the US ships came an armada of Soviet cruisers and destroyers, sailing earnestly from the pages of the Indo-Soviet Treaty of Friendship. And true to the spirit of the treaty, there was no violence. Not even a harsh word. For the Soviets merely wanted to remind the Americans of the roles and identities which they had rehearsed for so long on all the important international stages: that Americans were a kind and friendly people, champions of justice and liberty, supporters of freedom struggles and democracies everywhere.

And the Soviet reminder worked. The Americans did not forget. There, in the Bay of Bengal, by the dawn’s early light, as the sun’s rays made the rippling blue sea to shimmer and the December sky to turn a perfect pink, they remembered every single one of their globally-famous, ever-sparkling virtues. With patriotic tears in their eyes, they put the dust-covers back on their mighty American guns and cannons.

When Gustad returned home through the darkened evening, he knew Cavasji’s blood-pressure was high again. Allopathic medicine was just not as efficacious as the
subjo
-on-a-string that Cavasji used to wear. He was leaning out to shake his fist against the black sky. Any more vehemence, feared Gustad, and the old man would topple over.

But Cavasji maintained his equilibrium. Only the light, a beacon of reproach, tumbled willingly from the open window into the compound, framing his disapproving silhouette. ‘I am warning You now only! If You let a bomb fall here, let one fall on Birlas and Mafatlals also!
Bas
! Too much injustice from You! Too much! If Khodadad Building suffers, then Tata Palace also! Otherwise, not one more stick of sandalwood for You, not one sliver!’

Gustad debated whether to go upstairs and point out to someone that the blackout was being violated. But a figure appeared behind Cavasji. It was his son. He took his elbow and gently led him away, shutting the papered-over window.