Family Matters Read online

  “You think they’ll run off with him?”

  In the lobby a dirty, faded cardboard sign hung upon the lift: OUT OF ORDER. Coomy grumbled that she couldn’t remember the last time they had been able to use it, and it was tragic that for a flat in this broken-down building, Pappa had spent all his savings.

  “Looks too small for the stretcher anyway,” said Jal, peering between the bars into the tiny cubicle, dusty and cobwebbed.

  Taking the stairs gave them time to rehearse their strategy. He was to describe the events, starting with the fall and ending with the doctor’s warning. She would join in if he forgot something; her trump card would be held in reserve.

  They were out of breath as they reached the top. His hand went to the doorbell, but she made him desist till they stopped panting. After a minute she nodded her assent; he rang; they waited.

  “Hallo,” said Roxana. “What a surprise.” More than surprise, she felt a vague anxiety. It had been years since her brother and sister had just dropped by.

  “Can we come in?” asked Coomy.

  “Of course.” She stepped aside to make way. “Everything all right? Pappa okay?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  She had to excuse herself, the pressure cooker was calling again. On her way back from the kitchen she told Jehangir, snuggled in bed, to come and greet them.

  “There’s a very important matter to discuss,” began Jal, after she sat down.

  “Shouldn’t Yezad also be present?”

  “Preferably, yes, but it’s urgent. You see, a week ago, Pappa had an accident.”

  Roxana’s hand flew to her face as he described the evening, the ghatis lifting Nariman out of the ditch and carrying him home, the taxis to Parsi General, the X-ray, the plastering of the broken ankle. She was in tears as she imagined the harrowing hours for her father.

  Coomy put an arm around her, stroking her hair, while Jal explained that Pappa was slipping into depression, according to Dr. Tarapore, and it was hindering his recovery. Roxana’s tears turned to anger.

  “Why didn’t you let me know at once? All of us would have come to keep him company. Why did you wait so long?”

  “We didn’t want to worry you,” said Coomy. “And frankly, there hasn’t been one spare minute.”

  “But the bad days are over now,” said Jal. “We are here now, and Pappa needs your help. Let’s concentrate on that.”

  “Of course,” said Roxana. “Yezad and I and the children will visit him every evening.”

  Coomy shook her head. “That’s no good. He’ll be happy when you arrive, depressed when you leave. Up and down like a yo-yo he will go, even worse off.”

  “The scariest time for him is in the night,” said Jal. “After midnight he weeps the most – so intensely, it wakes us up.”

  “Don’t cry,” said Coomy, kissing Roxana’s cheek. “There’s an easy solution. If Pappa stays here for a few weeks, in your happy, homely atmosphere, he’ll soon be smiling again.”

  “How lovely that would be.” She paused to wipe her eyes with her fingers, then dried the fingers on her skirt. “How I wish I could do that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “You have to ask? Don’t you see the size of this flat?”

  “I’m sure you can make space if you try.”

  Roxana considered in silence. “You’re right. Let’s look around and find a place for Pappa.”

  She began pointing out the few items that filled up the small room, explaining their function as though they were arcane museum pieces: “The daytime settee, on which you two are sitting, is Jehangir’s bed at night. Under it, Murad’s cot. There,” she lifted a corner of the counterpane.

  “Nice and low, comes out at night, slides back in the morning. Next to it, one armchair, and a Formica teapoy, which Murad moves aside when he pulls out his bed. And our huge dining table for two, with four chairs. Shall we go to the back room now, where Yezad and I sleep?”

  Feeling uncomfortable, Jal demurred, that there was really no need, they had no business poking and prying.

  “Not at all,” said Roxana. “You’re family, you are helping.”

  The sight of Jehangir in bed surprised them, as though they had not bargained for a witness. “No school for you?” exclaimed Coomy.

  “Upset stomach,” said Roxana. His uncle and aunt patted his shoulder, told him to get well soon and not eat too many mangoes.

  Besides the small double bed, there were two cupboards and two clothes horses. A little desk and chair were squeezed into the corner by the bed, where the boys did their homework. She showed the furniture like a tourist guide presenting the sights.

  “Any suggestions?”

  Jal was apologetic. “It wouldn’t be right for us to reorganize your home. You should decide.”

  “You think so? Wait, there’s still the kitchen, the bathroom, the toilet to inspect. And don’t forget the passage by the wc – could be a place there, near the rice and wheat and sugar and kerosene.”

  “Listen, Roxana, you can stop being silly now,” said Coomy.

  “What about you two? You keep Pappa’s accident a secret for the whole week, then you come suddenly in the middle of the day when Yezad is at work —”

  “Why do you need Yezad? This is your house, your father’s money paid for it. Besides, you already have Yezad’s permission.”

  “What?”

  “Remember Pappa’s birthday? The walking stick you gave him? That day I said to you and Yezad, if Pappa has an accident on one of his walks, I will bring him straight to Pleasant Villa. And with his big mouth Yezad said sure, welcome any time. Now how welcome is your attitude?”

  “Aren’t you ashamed to say that? You know I would do anything for Pappa. But to twist a joke like that?”

  “Everything is jokes for you and Yezad,” said Coomy. “You are experts at laughing and having fun.”

  “That’s exactly why Pappa needs to be here,” pleaded Jal. “Yezad’s talent for laughter is the medicine for Pappa.”

  “It won’t be a laughing matter if the depression finishes him,” said Coomy darkly. “Dr. Tarapore told us, with old people depression kills before illness or injury. And it will be on your heads. Your laughing heads.”

  “Please, no fighting,” said Jal. “Let’s discuss calmly.”

  “Well,” said Coomy, “there’s nothing left to discuss, thank you very much.” The time was right to play her trump card. “We’ll just have to turn the ambulance around.”

  Roxana ran confusedly to the balcony, froze to the railing for a moment, and ran inside again. “That ambulance – you mean Pappa is in it? You left him alone in his condition?”

  His mother’s sobs got Jehangir out of bed. A big loop of his pyjama string was showing. He tucked it away and went to the front room to stand beside her, slipping his hand in hers, fixing his uncle and aunt with what he hoped was a reproachful stare.

  “Don’t overreact, Roxie, Pappa is very comfortable, we paid for a top-notch ambulance,” said Coomy. “Sit down for a minute.”

  Tears blurring her eyes, Roxana shook her hand free of Jehangir’s and started down the stairs at full speed. Descending with more caution, Jal called frantically to please slow down.

  “All we need is for you to break your ankle!” shouted Coomy.

  Jehangir shut the door after them and went to the balcony. On the third floor directly opposite, the green parrot in its cage was shuffling and swaying dementedly from side to side. He whistled to it, inspecting the rooms he could see into. Other people’s homes always seemed happier, more fun than his own.

  He looked down at the waiting ambulance. A few neighbours had gathered on the pavement, including Villie Cardmaster from next door, whom Daddy called the Matka Queen because everyone went to her for advice about which Matka numbers to play. Mummy said Matka was a bad thing; she thought it terrible that a woman should not only gamble openly, but encourage others. She didn’t like Villie Aunty very much.

  He saw
his mother emerge from the building and run past the little group. He saw Villie Aunty’s arm go out as though to reassure her. His mother ignored it, wrenched open the rear door of the ambulance, and disappeared inside.

  Kneeling beside the stretcher, Roxana held her father’s hand and stroked his head.

  “Don’t worry, my child. I’m all right.”

  She bent her head to kiss him. His pungent odour repelled her, but she fought the impulse to move away. She wondered how well they had been looking after him.

  “This idea was not mine,” he whispered. “They promised to talk to you and Yezad before bringing me.”

  “I know, Pappa.” She stroked his lightly stubbled chin and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  He smiled. “You too? What is it with my chin?”

  She squeezed again. “Sometimes our children teach us nice things.”

  Meanwhile, Jal and Coomy had arrived on the ground floor, where the gathering of neighbours was temporarily distracted by a stranger in the lobby whom they had surprised in the act of noting down names from the building directory. His furtive manner made them suspicious. Confronted, he said he was working for a company that conducted market surveys, then slipped away.

  Rubbish, they declared after he’d gone, he didn’t look like a market surveyor. Villie Cardmaster said he was most likely from Shiv Sena, listing names and addresses – that’s how they had singled out Muslim homes during the Babri Mosque riots. Probably planning ahead for next time.

  “Chalo,” said Coomy to the ambulancemen, loud enough to be heard inside the ambulance. “Take a U-turn, there is no space here for the patient.”

  Roxana jumped out from the back. “Wait,” she said to the driver. “Please take him to the third floor.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Coomy. “Have you decided where to put Pappa?”

  Roxana snapped at the men who were looking at Coomy for confirmation, “Come on, hurry.”

  Coomy nodded at them, pointing upstairs. Then one attendant climbed in, the other grasped the handles at the tail end, and the stretcher emerged from the vehicle. Nariman covered his eyes, squinting against the bright sky.

  “Sorry for the delay, Pappa,” said Jal. “We gave Roxie a scare, because it was a total surprise.”

  “She had every right to be scared,” said Coomy generously. “But there is not the slightest need to worry, Pappa is fine. See, Roxie?” She lifted the sheet to show her the cast. The hovering neighbours came closer with sympathetic murmurs.

  “Upstairs, double-quick,” said Jal. “Before these ambulancevalas fall asleep. If they drop Pappa, it will be like Humpty Dumpty.”

  He chuckled alone. Like a policeman directing traffic, he gestured to the men and they moved forward, noisy in their floppy chappals. Their steps were heavy on the stone stairs, the leather delivering a sharp slap with each footfall.

  On the landing halfway to the first floor, they discovered it was not wide enough for the stretcher to turn. They tried squeezing through by tilting the stretcher, and Nariman clutched hard at the sides as he shifted sharply.

  “Aray, watch it!” shouted Jal from behind. “You want to throw the patient down the stairs?”

  An argument broke out, the ambulancemen saying that the only way to continue was to pass the stretcher over the banister with the help of Jal and the women. Roxana thought this was extremely dangerous, and pleaded with Coomy to return home with Pappa, promising to spend every other night there to look after him, relieve her of the duties.

  But the stretcher was hoisted high, the pass made over the banister, and the manoeuvre completed. It was repeated twice more to reach the third floor. Jehangir was waiting at the door to receive them.

  “Move, dikra,” said Coomy. “Make way for the men.”

  “Is Grandpa okay?”

  “Yes,” she assured him with a pat on the head. “Go on, ask Grandpa, he can talk perfectly. Only his ankle is broken. Now, Roxie, where do you want to put Pappa? You must choose before these fellows leave, we can’t shift him later.”

  “Pappa will take Jehangir’s bed – the settee. Okay, Jehangir?”

  “Sure.” He thought Grandpa looked very small on the stretcher, and was relieved to see him smile and whisper thanks. “You’re welcome, Grandpa.”

  “My suitcase and bedpan are still downstairs,” said Nariman, addressing no one in particular.

  “I’ll fetch them,” said Coomy, anxious to be out of the way.

  The ambulancemen had difficulty getting Nariman onto the settee. It was narrower than a bed, and there was no room to position the stretcher for a smooth transfer. They had to leave it on the floor and lift him over.

  “Aah!” he cried, and Roxana’s hand sprang to her mouth. She shouted to be more careful.

  Jal paid the men and saw them to the door. He pulled up a chair next to the settee and took Nariman’s hand, stroking it comfortingly. “Hope it wasn’t too strenuous, Pappa. You know, Roxie, he is a brave soldier, not once has he groaned or moaned in all these days.”

  “Not so brave. I groaned quite a lot with the commode.”

  Roxana wanted to know what was this commode business, if Pappa was not to move from his bed?

  Breathless, Coomy entered with the suitcase and the newspaper-wrapped package of urinal and bedpan, cursing the broken lift. She was miffed by the question she overheard: “What do you think, we did it to torture Pappa? We were hoping commode would be more comfortable for him.”

  “It was a mistake,” said Jal. “Mistakes happen when you don’t know.”

  Before leaving, they explained the medicines for Parkinson’s disease, osteoporosis, and hypotension. Roxana decided to write down the dosage and frequency for the various pills and drops.

  “It’s okay, I know it by heart,” said Nariman.

  Coomy took her aside and whispered not to rely on him. “He forgets, and sometimes gets mixed up with his words.”

  They said goodbye with good cheer, Jal joking that in three weeks they would organize a race between Pappa and Jehangir. “We’ll have to give Pappa a good handicap, or Jehangir will stand no chance.”

  Coomy said it would be lonely in the big flat without him. “Come home soon, Pappa.” She kissed his cheek, then waved from the doorway.

  The first thing was to air out the room, said Coomy upon returning to Chateau Felicity. She felt the smell had reached every part of the house, including the kitchen.

  “How could it?” Jal tried to reason. “It’s not that strong.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your smelling power, along with your hearing. You should ask Doctor to check.” She opened the windows and doors of all seven rooms, and turned on every fan, dusty or not. Dust would be dealt with later.

  “How strange,” she said, after an hour or more had elapsed. “I still smell it – even in Mamma’s room, so far from Pappa’s.”

  “Probably stuck in your head. More psychological than real.”

  “If I can smell it and it bothers me, does it matter where it is?”

  “Yes. If it’s in your head, nothing will get rid of it. Like the damned spot on Lady Macbeth’s hand, remember? All the perfumes of Arabia, all your swabbing and scrubbing and mopping and scouring will not remove it.”

  She told him the smell was irritating enough without his silly comments. “You sound like Pappa, so gloomy and theatrical. Come on, help me with the work.”

  They spent the afternoon giving Nariman’s room a thorough cleaning. His bed linen was left to soak in a bucket of suds, the waterproof rubber sheet in another. The window curtains were taken down. Everything in the room – the night table, chest of drawers, cupboard, window frame, door, ceiling light-shade and bulb – all of it was wiped down with Dettol solution and dried.

  When evening came Jal said he had had enough. He sat in the twilit drawing-room while she worked on.

  Around eight, she came in to ask if eggs-on-potatoes would be okay for dinner. The room was almost in full darkness.

  “I’m
not hungry, just make enough for yourself.”

  But she didn’t want any either. “I know, let’s have my raspberry sarbut. We’re too tired to eat, a drink will be good for us.” She reached for the light switch on the way out. He requested her to leave it off.

  Back with the drinks, she thought she heard her brother sighing in the dark. She put the tray down and turned on a table lamp. “Jal? What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head.

  She sat across him and gave him a glass. “Come on, drink, it will refresh you. It’s the strain of these last few days, I feel the same way.”

  He shook his head again.

  “What have we done, Coomy?”

  “Nothing, we haven’t done anything. Stop being a sissy-baby.”

  But she was feeling equally wretched. By sheer force of will she swallowed a sip, then said, “It had to be done. We had no choice.”

  She ran out of words and switched off the table lamp.

  AFTER HER FURY AGAINST Jal and Coomy had abated, Roxana began to worry about Yezad. He enjoyed Pappa’s company and sense of humour, sure, but family get-togethers only occurred at modest intervals, lasted a few hours, nothing so demanding like three weeks of bed-bound convalescence.

  “Hope Yezad won’t mind,” said Nariman.

  “He won’t.” Could Pappa really read her thoughts, as he used to claim when she was a child? She moistened his face with a wet towel and dried it.

  “Grandpa, you smell like Murad does after playing cricket,” said Jehangir, wrinkling his nose.

  “Don’t be rude,” said his mother.

  Nariman smiled. “I’ve been clean bowled. Or maybe it was leg before wicket.”

  She apologized that there was not enough water for a full sponge bath, and promised to save a bucket for tomorrow.

  “I told you this morning, don’t force me to take a bath,” said Jehangir.

  “Oh, so you knew Grandpa was coming? Boy is getting too smart, Pappa. Good thing you’re here to straighten him out. Come on, you, stop laughing, get the talcum for Grandpa.”