Family Matters (6 page)

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he giggled.

Yezad began edging towards the drunks to interpose himself between their boisterousness and his family. But when his manoeuvre was complete, they noticed the change.

“Bhaisahab, I already said sorry to your wife!”

“Yes, it’s okay.”

“Don’t be scared, let her stand next to us!”

“It’s fine,” murmured Yezad.

“Aray, bavaji, we are not bad people! Little bit of bevda we drank, now we are feeling happy, so happy, so happy!”

“Good,” said Yezad. “Happiness is good.”

Ignore them, Roxana mouthed the words silently.

Then one of the men began singing “Choli Kay Peechhay Kya Hai.” He sang it with an exaggerated leer, and the crude question in the song, directed at Roxana, made her stiffen, fearful about Yezad’s reaction.

She said, with silent lips again, Just ignore them, Yezdaa.

Murad and Jehangir, who understood the popular lyric’s double entendre, took their mother’s hand in a confusion of shame and anger.

Their father waited a little, then turned to the drunks. “Shut up,” he said quietly.

“Don’t threaten us, bhaisahab, don’t spoil our happy mood! What’s wrong, you don’t like Hindi film songs?”

“Not that one.” He kept his tone even, to contrast with their intoxicated braying. “You want to know what’s behind the blouse? I’ll show you what’s behind my fist.”

“Stop it, Yezad!”

“Stop it, Yezad!” they shrieked in falsetto, and stumbled about, hysterical with laughter, clutching each other for balance. “Don’t tingle-tangle with us, bavaji! We are Shiv Sena people, we are invincible!”

To Roxana’s relief a bus rattled into view, route number 132: theirs. The drunks did not get on.

“Bye-bye, bye-bye!” they waved, as the bus carried the Chenoys away. Another shriek of “Stop it, Yezad!” was followed by drunken laughter floating in the dark.

After he bought their tickets, she chided him about his two Scotches, they had clouded his judgement. And he was setting a bad example for the children, they would also be tempted to fight in school.

“Daddy and Murad and I could have given them a solid pasting,” said Jehangir.

“See what I mean? You shouldn’t react to such loafers. Especially two together.”

“Two drunks are two half-men. Besides, when I’m angry I get very strong.” Then, in her ear, “And when I’m aroused I become very long.”

“Yezad!” she blushed.

“I’d have straightened them out with my karate chop. I used to break bricks with it.”

She knew he could, she’d witnessed it a long time ago, when they were still unmarried. They had been strolling near the Hanging Gardens late one evening, past a deserted construction site, where the watchman dozed in a secluded corner. There was a stack of fresh bricks awaiting the mason. Let me show you something, said Yezad with all the confidence of youth out courting. He formed a trestle of two bricks, placed a third across them, and broke it with a blow of his hand. Show-off, she exclaimed, then was sceptical: You must have picked a cracked one. Okay, you select. She did, and he broke that one too.

She looked at him, smiling at the memory. “You were young then. Your hand has become soft now.”

“Still hard enough to break their necks.”

Murad said he had never seen Daddy chop a brick in two, and his brother said, Yes, Daddy, yes, please show us, which annoyed their mother. “Are there any bricks in this bus?” To Yezad she repeated, “Ignoring low-class drunkards is the only way.”

“Some things can’t be ignored. Maybe Jal is right, Bombay is an uncivilized jungle now.”

“You should try again for Canada, Daddy,” said Jehangir.

“No. They don’t need a sporting goods salesman. You try, when you’re older. Study useful things – computers, M.B.A., and they’ll welcome you. Not useless things like me, history and literature and philosophy.”

As the bus approached the Sandhurst Bridge turn to Hughes Road, the boys pushed their faces closer to the window. They were about to pass their father’s childhood home.

“There it is,” said Jehangir, “my building!” as Jehangir Mansion came into view.

They laughed, and the boys stared at the ground-floor flat where their father had spent his youth. They tried hard to get a glimpse through its windows, as if that would tell them more about their father, about his life before he was Daddy. But some of the rooms were dark, and curtains on the others concealed the secrets of the flat.

“Can we go in one day?”

He shook his head. “You know it was sold. There are strangers living in my house now.”

The bus completed the turn, and the boys craned their necks to keep Jehangir Mansion in sight. The ensuing silence was touched with sadness.

“I wish you had kept on living there after marrying Mummy,” said Jehangir. “Then Murad and I could also be there now.”

“Don’t you like Pleasant Villa? Such a nice home?”

“This looks nicer,” said Murad. “It has a private compound where we could play.”

“Yes,” said Yezad. A wistful look passed over his face as he remembered childhood years, and friends, and cricket in the compound. “But there wasn’t room for everyone in that house.”

“And Daddy’s three sisters didn’t like me,” added Roxana.

“Now,” protested Yezad, then let her continue, for he was the one always saying no need to keep secrets from the children.

Youngest among the four, Yezad had been the recipient of his sisters’ unrelenting adoration. It was a fierce and jealous love, the three doting on their baby brother with a zeal that verged on the maniacal. In childhood, such a love posed few problems; it was considered cute and charming. During the teenage years, he was their guardian, their knight-at-arms. Many were the fights he got into when schoolboy teasing and off-colour remarks happened to include his sisters. In college, it was more serious; during his first year he thrashed two louts who were harassing his youngest sister in a part of the back field.

Then other girls became part of his circle of friends at college, and his sisters’ fierce love turned oppressive, the first hint of trouble ahead. That women who were nothing but strangers should presume to share their brother’s attention was unthinkable. Their reactions ranged from indignation to anger to bitterness; Yezad often had to choose between peace at home and an evening out with friends.

“And when Daddy and I got engaged, it was too much for them,” said Roxana. “They treated me so rudely, they wouldn’t take part in any of the wedding ceremonies. I was stealing their baby. No matter who Daddy married, they would have treated her the same. Isn’t that right, Daddy?” She patted Yezad’s hand, and he nodded.

“Maybe if you had stayed, they would have become friendlier,” said Murad.

Yezad shook his head. “You don’t know your aunties, it would have meant years of fights and quarrels. When Grandpa gave us Pleasant Villa, that was the best thing for us.”

Jehangir said he always wondered why they had only Jal Uncle and Coomy Aunty, whereas his friends had so many uncles and aunties. “We never go to see the others.”

Then Yezad said they had learned enough family history for one evening, what with all the things Coomy Aunty was upset about, and now this discussion about his sisters. And Jehangir said he was going to write a big fat book when he grew up, called The Complete History of the Chenoy and Vakeel Families.

“As long as you say only nice things about us,” said his mother.

“No,” said Yezad. “As long as he tells the truth.”

T
HERE WAS NO KNOCKING
, no doorbell, only a muffled thud, making the hairs on the back of Coomy’s neck stand on end. She kept her head inside her newspaper, but racing through her mind were recent reports of daylight robbery, thieves forcing their way into homes, killing occupants, looting flats.

She and Jal were alone. Nariman, taking the opportunity of a lull in the rain, had ventured out for a short walk. The monsoon had been unrelenting for the last fortnight, and he had refused to pass up this fine evening.

The sound came again, louder, so that Jal heard it too. “Shall I go?” he asked.

“Wait by the window – in case you have to shout for help.”

She approached the door on tiptoe to look through the peephole. Anything suspicious and she could withdraw, pretend no one Was home. There was urgent shouting in Hindi to open quickly. First one voice, then another: “Darvaja kholo! Jaldi kholo! Koi gharmay hai kya?”

She retreated, gathered her courage, went forward again. Dreading she might see what she saw in bad dreams, she looked. And she knew, in that instant, that it was the other nightmare, the one concerning her stepfather, upon which the curtain was rising.

From the arms of two men hung Nariman, a helpless dead weight. One was carrying him at the knees; the other had passed his arms under the shoulders, fingers interlaced over Nariman’s chest. The man gripping the knees was hitting the door with his bare foot, producing that muffled thud.

When Coomy flung the door open in mid-kick, he almost lost his balance. Nariman’s birthday gift was hooked onto the man’s shirt-front. Its weight made the button strain at the hole.

“Jal! Jal, come quick!”

The two men were panting, and sweat poured off their faces. They smelled terrible, thought Coomy, recognizing them from the ration shop, where they carried bags of grain home for customers, their muscles for hire. Mustn’t be strong ghatis, she felt, if the weight of one medium-built old man tired them.

“What are you waiting for?” said Jal, frantic. “Chalo, bring him in! Nahin, don’t put him on the floor! Sofa ki ooper rakho! Wait, maybe inside on the palung is better.” He led them to Nariman’s room. “Theek hai, gently, that’s good.”

The four of them stood around the bed and looked at Nariman. His eyes remained closed, his breathing laborious.

“What happened?”

“He fell into a khadda and we pulled him out,” said the man with the walking stick dangling at his chest. Exhaustion made him succinct. He lifted his shirt-tail and wiped his face.

“The stick, Jal, the stick,” whispered Coomy. Her brother understood her concern – the sweat would soil it – and plucked it off the shirt.

“It was a khadda dug by the telephone company,” said the second man. “The old sahab’s leg is hurt.”

Nariman groaned, “My ankle … it may be broken.”

They were relieved that he had regained consciousness. The sound of his voice made Coomy feel it was all right now to scold a little. “Every day we warned you about the danger, Pappa. Are you pleased with yourself?”

“Sorry,” said Nariman feebly. “Wasn’t on purpose.”

“These fellows are waiting,” whispered Jal. “We should give them something.”

She consulted her stepfather: how far had the ghatis carried him? She wanted to calculate the amount by applying the ration-shop standard of payment. But hovering on the edge of consciousness, Nariman was not precise.

“Just give them a decent bakshis and let them go,” said Jal. “They haven’t delivered a sack of wheat, it’s Pappa they rescued from a ditch.”

She disagreed; what difference did it make, in terms of labour, whether they were lifting Pappa or a gunny of rice or furniture? Load and distance were the main thing. “And just because Pappa is hurt doesn’t mean money grows on trees.”

She had a better idea: the ghatis could carry Pappa across the road to Dr. Fitter’s house. “Remember how obliging he was for Mamma? He took care of death certificates and everything, from beginning to end. I’m sure he’ll help us with Pappa.”

“You’re not thinking straight, Coomy. That was more than thirty years ago. Dr. Fitter is an old man now, he has closed his practice.”

“Retirement doesn’t mean his medical knowledge evaporates from his head. He could at least tell us how serious it is, whether to go to hospital.”

They argued back and forth till Jal said the men should wait while he went to inquire. If Dr. Fitter was willing, he could just as easily examine Pappa here, not put him through the agony of being manhandled across the road.

The doctor didn’t recognize Jal, and seemed annoyed at being disturbed at dinnertime. But when Nariman Vakeel’s name was mentioned, he remembered the long-ago incident at once, and asked him to step inside.

“How can I forget such a tragedy?” He hesitated. “So unfortunate for you and your two poor little sisters …”

“It’s Pappa,” interrupted Jal, “he’s hurt his ankle,” and elaborated on the circumstances.

“Whenever your father leaves in the evening, I watch him from my window. He suffers from Parkinson’s, doesn’t he?”

Jal nodded.

“Hmmph,” the doctor grunted. “I could tell from the way he takes his steps.” He paused, becoming angry. “You people have no sense, letting a man of his age, in his condition, go out alone? Of course he’ll fall and hurt himself.”

“We told Pappa, but he just won’t listen, he says he enjoys his walks.”

“So one of you cannot go with him? To hold his hand, support him?” He glared reproachfully, and Jal, unable to meet the accusing eye, stared at the doctor’s slippers. “Now the damage is done, what do you want me to do?”

“If you could please take a look,” pleaded Jal, “see if it’s broken …”

“A look? Who do you think I am, Superman? I didn’t have X-ray vision in my youth, and I certainly don’t have it now.”

“Yes, Doctor, but if you could just —”

“Just-bust nothing! Don’t waste time, take him to hospital right away! Poor fellow must be in pain. Go!” And he pointed to the door, out of which Jal hurried, glad to get away.

Dr. Fitter secured the latch and went to grumble to Mrs. Fitter in the kitchen that Parsi men of today were useless, dithering idiots, the race had deteriorated. “When you think of our forefathers, the industrialists and shipbuilders who established the foundation of modern India, the philanthropists who gave us our hospitals and schools and libraries and baags, what lustre they brought to our community and the nation. And this incompetent fellow cannot look after his father. Can’t make a simple decision about taking him to hospital for an X-ray.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Fitter impatiently. “Now tell me, Shapurji, do you want your egg on the kheema or on the side?”

“On the side. Is it any wonder they predict nothing but doom and gloom for the community? Demographics show we’ll be extinct in fifty years. Maybe it’s the best thing. What’s the use of having spineless weaklings walking around, Parsi in name only.”

He kept complaining, pacing between kitchen and dining room, till Mrs. Fitter told him to sit. She brought the dinner to the table and served him a generous helping. The aroma of her masala mince, and the egg beaming with its round yellow eye, cheered him up at once.

“Whatever’s going to happen will happen,” he said after chewing and swallowing his first morsel. “In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry. Absolutely delicious kheema, Tehmi.”

Dr. Fitter’s lack of cooperation outraged Coomy, and she was not convinced by the sense of urgency Jal carried back with him. “If it’s that serious, why didn’t he come to help? Before we rush to hospital we should call Pappa’s regular doctor.”

“But even Tarapore will need an X-ray. We’ll end up paying for his visit here, and then again in hospital.”

Eventually, they agreed to go to Parsi General. The two men put Nariman, who was semi-conscious again, in the back seat of a taxi, and she rode in front with the driver. Whenever the wheels hit a bump in the road or went through a pothole, Nariman groaned in pain.

“Nearly there, Pappa,” said Coomy, reaching over her seat to take his hand.

His fingers clutched hers like a frightened child’s. She almost snatched her hand back, but the impulse passed, and she left her hand in his. After a moment, she gave his fingers a comforting squeeze. Through the rear window she could see the second taxi in which Jal was following with the ghatis.

The X-rays were studied and Dr. Tarapore consulted with a specialist, for the fracture was complicated by osteoporosis and Parkinsonism. Surgery was ruled out. Nariman’s left leg was encased in plaster of Paris from his thigh down to his toes.

The assistant who performed the task wore glasses that speckled with white dots as he proceeded. He kept up a constant stream of chatter, hoping to distract the old man from his pain. “How did this misfortune happen, sir?”

“I slipped into a trench.”

“You are having difficulty with your bifocals, I think?”

“My spectacles can’t be blamed. There was no barrier around the trench.”

“That is so shameful.” The assistant, whose name was Rangarajan, paused to check the consistency of the plaster in its receptacle. “Yes, pavements have become a serious peril. Every few feet, dangerous obstacles are threatening life and limb of the citizenry.”

Nariman thought the chap would get on well with Jal and Coomy, he shared their phobia of pavements.

Then Mr. Rangarajan chuckled, “With so much daily practice, we could all become gold medallists in the obstacle race, we Bombayites. Or should I say, Mumbaikars.”

He lowered his voice, but only half-jokingly, “These days you never can tell who might be a Shiv Sena fanatic, or a member of their Name Police. It is my understanding that some Shiv Sainiks have infiltrated the GPO, subjecting innocent letters and postcards to incineration if the address reads Bombay instead of Mumbai.”

He started to layer the paste, wetting it as necessary to ensure gradual induration. “May I please inquire about something, Professor Vakeel?”

Nariman nodded. He was enjoying the touch of archaism in the educated South Indian’s diction, and grateful for his garrulity.

Mr. Rangarajan asked if he had any friends or colleagues in foreign countries who might help him find a job, because he was trying to emigrate. He had sent applications to several countries including U.S.A., Canada, Australia, England, New Zealand. “Even Russia. Although after the collapse of the Soviet Union, welcome for Indians is not as warm as before. In the old days there was love between us – how many Russian boy-babies were named Jawahar, girl-babies named Indira. Nowadays, I don’t think any Russians are naming their children Narasimha or Atal Behari.”

“Nowadays,” said Nariman, “they probably name their children Pepsi or Wrangler.”

Mr. Rangarajan laughed and wiped up a stray dab of plaster. “The age when great leaders flowered among us is gone. We have a terrible drought.”

“The problem is worldwide,” said Nariman. “Look at U.S.A., U.K., Canada – they all have nincompoops for leaders.”

“Nincompoops,” repeated Mr. Rangarajan. “That is too good, Professor Vakeel, I must remember the word. But it’s more tragic for us, in my opinion. This five-thousand-year-old civilization, nine hundred million people, cannot produce one great leader? How much we need a Mahatma these days.”

“All we get instead are micro-mini atmas,” said Nariman.

Mr. Rangarajan giggled endearingly, scraping the bottom of the plaster container. He returned to the topic that had engendered this digression. “I used to work in a Kuwaiti hospital. But after Gulf War everyone was kicked out. George Bush killed the Iraqis, and killed our jobs. Now my main objective is to go somewhere else for better prospects. And U.S. is best.”

And what about his soul’s prospects, thought Nariman. Would they improve in a foreign land?

When Mr. Rangarajan finished, his hands and arms and apron were as white as a pastry chef’s. Nariman was wheeled away on a gurney to his bed in the male ward.

Later in the day, the doctor came to see him again.

“How are you feeling, Professor Vakeel?” he asked, taking his pulse as he spoke.

“My wrist is fine. The problem is in my ankle.”