Family Matters Page 18

  “What?” exclaimed Jal in disbelief. “In that tiny flat? This is Pappa’s house.”

  “I can’t have him back, please don’t force me. I haven’t even found a servant to replace Phoola, the sweeping and swabbing is breaking my back. For days I’ve begged you to find a way out. Not one suggestion have you offered.”

  Which was not surprising, since Jal wanted to accept the inevitable, bring Pappa home. “Be reasonable, Coomy. We said three weeks, we must keep our word. If Roxana can look after him, so can we.”

  “We? You run off every morning to the share bazaar. And three weeks does not balance the fifteen years I’ve looked after him. If you’re feeling noble, stay home and nurse Pappa. Otherwise, use your head and think of something. Time is running out, the doctor comes today.”

  But he had no suggestions when they set off at six-thirty, and endured her in silence till they arrived at Pleasant Villa.

  Dusk had fallen, and the stairwell was half-dark. Jal tried to locate the switch in the lobby. He blundered into the wrong corner, into cobwebs, and retreated, clawing at his face to get the strands off. They began climbing in the gloom.

  As they rounded the first landing, the lights went on. They heard someone on the flight below, taking the steps two at a time. “They’re in a hurry, let them pass,” whispered Jal.

  “We’re first,” said Coomy. “Whoever it is will wait. Always you let people take advantage.”

  Behind them, Yezad was closing the gap. How like a long-married couple they were, he thought, rather than brother and sister. “Coomy’s right, Jal,” he called over the banister. “You must stand up for yourself.”

  “Oh! Yezad!” said Coomy. “Sorry, didn’t know it was you.”

  “Not at all, you have as much claim to the stairs as me. So how are you both? Come to take Pappa home?”

  Layering care and concern over her panic, she said, “We missed him. I hope doctor says he is all right now.”

  “Oh, he’s been all right for three weeks, hasn’t he?”

  She suffered the dart without response. They reached the top floor and he used his latchkey, calling out to warn Roxana, “Hello! Look who I found on the stairs!”

  Greetings were exchanged, familial niceties completed, and they stood at their stepfather’s bedside.

  “You seem much better than three weeks ago, Pappa,” said Coomy. “This visit has been good for you.”

  “And a lovely shave as well,” said Jal. “See those pink cheeks. Going on a date, Pappa?”

  “Yes, with destiny.”

  “But you’re still lying down,” said Coomy, staying in the lighter vein. “I thought Doctor might have taken you for a trial walk.”

  “And I thought you might have forgotten where you left me.”

  “What a thing to say, Pappa. I was just telling Yezad how much Jal and I missed you. Come, Roxie, don’t make us worry – what did Doctor say?”

  “What’s the rush, relax, have some tea first,” said Yezad, though he too was anxious to know. And Jal, smiling, moved towards the dining table.

  “Love to, but we are in a hurry,” said Coomy, before her brother could sit. “We want to go to fire-temple to offer thanks for Pappa’s recovery.”

  “Good, I’ll go with you,” said Nariman, “and then we’ll head for home.”

  “That’s lovely,” said Coomy, her smile a rictus of dismay. “That means Doctor gave the okay to get up? Have you tried out your crutches?”

  “Oh Pappa, stop teasing her,” said Roxana. She wished she could have shared the news alone with Yezad first, Dr. Tarapore’s explanation about the pills for Parkinson’s disease and its main ingredient, L-dopa, and the side effects. Dr. Tarapore had said they were not to worry, disconcerting though it may be if her father rambled incoherently. Stopping the pills would mean losing complete control of his limbs.

  She didn’t want to spout all this before Jal and Coomy, and stuck to the ankle. “Doctor told Pappa to wait till next week to get up. He removed some plaster today, look.”

  She lifted the sheet – the cast, which used to encase his leg from the thigh downwards, and the entire foot, was somewhat reduced at both ends. His toes were exposed, and the knee.

  Coomy began to sense a reprieve. “That must feel more comfortable for Pappa.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Yezad. “This week, I mean?”

  “Doctor needs Pappa at Parsi General for an X-ray in eight days. This week is up to us.”

  “Excuse me, it’s up to me,” said Nariman. “And I want to go home now.”

  “Really, Pappa, how insensitive,” said Coomy. “You want to offend poor Roxie and Yezad? This is home as well, isn’t it?” Meeting with silence, she continued, “You can come back with us now, Pappa. But that means calling one ambulance to take you from here to Chateau Felicity, a second ambulance next week to take you to hospital for X-ray. Then a third one to take you home again.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll share the expense,” said Yezad.

  “It’s not the money,” she protested. “It’s the risk, each time those junglee ambulancevalas grab Pappa and throw him on their stretcher. God forbid, if they twist something, imagine the pain and suffering, and prolonging of his recovery.”

  Everyone paused while this dire forecast hung in the air. Then, to her surprise, Coomy received support from an unexpected source.

  “She’s right, chief. You should stay on, it’s just eight more days.”

  Roxana looked gratefully at her husband while Coomy tried not to appear too relieved. “Is there enough medicine for a week?” she asked. “Or shall I get more?”

  They began counting the pills, and one fell to the floor. Coomy bent to her knees to retrieve it. The delay she wanted was hers, she thought, but the inevitable had merely been postponed by a week. After that, what?

  As she hunted for the fallen pill, she noticed the plaster removed by Dr. Tarapore. The bits lay on a sheet of newspaper under the teapoy, fragments large and small, some of them still holding the curve of Nariman’s leg.

  And suddenly it came to her. There was the solution – staring her in the face.

  “Yes, the medicine is enough for ten days,” announced Roxana, finishing the count.

  “Good,” said Coomy. “And Pappa will be home before then. Oh look, there’s the pill, under the chair.”

  She picked it up, then they said goodbye, making arrangements to meet at Parsi General in a week.

  “Don’t you appreciate the beauty of it?” Coomy asked, still trying a week later to convince Jal. “Isn’t it amazing that the plaster from his own leg gave me the answer to our problem?”

  “But it’s so deceitful, so destructive, so extreme,” he tried yet again to dissuade her.

  “You have another idea? Are you willing to do his bedpan and toilet from tomorrow?”

  “But he’s getting better.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. Pappa will never get better.”

  “How will we live with this on our conscience?”

  “We’ll get used to it. I’m sure conscience is easier to look after than Pappa. To be honest, I cannot bear the thought of him back – in this four-week gap, I have been remembering Mamma, and everything else, more sharply.”

  “I remember Mamma and her unhappiness too. But isn’t it time to forgive?”

  “Did Mamma have time to forgive him before she died, is what I’d like to know!”

  “We can’t really be sure what happened,” said Jal wearily.

  “You can think what you like – there is no doubt in my mind. You and I were both in the room when Mamma and Pappa had their last fight. We both heard Mamma’s words before she went up to the terrace.”

  He sighed. “The more time passes, the more I feel there is no sense blaming anyone – it was just a sad, unhappy mess. Sometimes, life is like that.”

  “Stop the philosophy and do what needs doing. Go to Edul Munshi.”

  “Okay, don’t yell, I’m going,” said Jal, and trud
ged down the stairs. She was always dredging up the past, he felt. It was abnormal, harbouring so much anger after thirty years. And now she was using the past to justify keeping Pappa away, unable to overcome her revulsion for the smelly sick-room chores. Like himself. If only some of the share prices would go up, they could hire a hospital ayah, solve the problem peacefully … instead of this crazy plan of hers …

  He prepared himself for meeting Edul Munshi and broaching the subject. He thought about Edul’s wife – poor Manizeh, he knew she rued the day when Edul had stopped at a secondhand book stall and, among the books and magazines spread out on the footpath, come upon an American journal devoted to the do-it-yourselfer. Edul still told people the story of how he had found his calling, and preached the virtues of handiness to anyone who would listen.

  “You know why America is a great country? Because they believe in do-it-yourself. And we are poor and backward because we don’t. Now I understand what Gandhiji meant when he taught svavlumban. With his doctrine of self-reliance, Mahatmaji was the first genuine Indian do-it-yourselfer. His vision is true, DIY is the only way to save this country.”

  He had embarked confidently upon this new path, and learned the handyman style of personifying the tools he worked with. He even had his own song, sung to the tune of “Candyman”: “The handyman can ’cause he fixes it with love and makes it work all right.”

  Arriving at the Munshi flat, Jal stood at the door with its crooked nameplate and rang the doorbell. Since Edul had been fixing it, the pushbutton had to be jiggled and coaxed before it responded with an unpleasant jangling.

  Manizeh opened the door. “Edoo! Upstairs Jal is here!”

  Jal waited, offering up a smile filled with sympathy. In the beginning, Manizeh had been so pleased with her husband’s hobby, bragging to the building about his wonderful tools and gadgets. The things they could do left you gasping in amazement, she told her neighbours. But as time went on, she saw the devastation those same instruments could wreak.

  Edul’s first project had been the installation of wooden shelves in the kitchen. After days of work during which everyone, including the servant, watched with awe, Edul proclaimed, using what he presumed was an American accent, “Okay, Manizeh, these babies are ready. Load ’em up.”

  She placed three tins, one on each of the shelves, and stood back to admire the effect. Seconds later, the shelves crashed to the floor.

  Edul was mortified. How could his expensive, shiny tools betray him? He picked out the screws and brackets from the debris, blew off the plaster dust, and examined them with a dazed anger.

  His broken heart mended in a few days, and he tackled the job again, the shelves staying up this time. But there were gaping holes in the wall plaster. And the patching he accomplished left the surface uneven as the wall of a mountain cave. Manizeh assured him it was fine, that for modern decor, interior designers recommended textured walls.

  Next, Edul had taken on a dripping tap and turned the leak into a flood. Struggling through the Sunday morning, he did change the washer, addressing it as the slippery swine. But to open and shut the tap required the full strength of both hands.

  After a series of small jobs that he managed to convert into progressively larger disasters, Manizeh took control of her husband’s hobby. The rules were clear: Edul had to submit all his projects for her prior approval.

  Invariably overambitious, they were always refused. His dreams of installing new flooring, performing a bathroom renovation, constructing built-in closets fell by the wayside. Occasionally, when she was certain it wouldn’t leave ruin in its wake, he was allowed to undertake something modest such as hanging a picture frame.

  For work on a larger scale, Edul had to satisfy his cravings away from home. He often tried to convince people to borrow his tools, which came with his services. Unfortunately, most of his friends and neighbours had grown aware of the hidden cost of the loan, and were not inclined to pay it.

  But Jal was optimistic as he waited for Edul to appear. Not much harm could come of asking for a simple hammer, he thought.

  “How are you, Edul?”

  “Champion, Jal. You?”

  “Fine. Doorbell not working?”

  Edul tried it, pushing the button this way and that till brief contact produced the unpleasant jangling. Manizeh grimaced.

  “Just needs a few more adjustments,” he reassured her.

  Learning that Jal wanted to borrow a hammer, he began to salivate. “Tell me what you’re doing. The right tool for every job – that’s the handyman’s motto. I have three types of hammer: claw, ball-peen, and bricklayer’s.”

  “My gosh, Edul, you’re really well equipped.”

  “A few basic tools,” he said modestly. “It’s not how many, but how Well you use them. So what’s the job?”

  Jal hesitated. His lie shouldn’t be too interesting or Edul would jump right in. “Shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “Yes, some nails in my heels have popped out.”

  “Sure. Step inside, we’ll bang them in.”

  “Not these, my other pair. At home. Coomy’s as well, we’re both having heel trouble.”

  “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

  “And handle my dirty shoes?” said Jal. “Can’t insult you like that.”

  “Don’t worry, Jal my son, we handymen are used to all kinds of dirt.”

  Jal had to think fast or he would soon be climbing upstairs with the handyman in tow. “Can I be honest, Edul? We need your help later – a more difficult job. So let me do this alone, or Coomy will feel over-obligated and won’t ask for that favour.”

  Edul’s eyes grew large. “What’s the difficult job?”

  “A window.” Fairly safe choice, thought Jal, there was bound to be at least one problem window if he came demanding to examine it. He decided he must get away now, the chap was quite worked up. “Could I have the hammer?”

  “Sure. This one’s right for your job.” He showed Jal how to use the claw to remove the nails. “Always best to throw the old buggers out and put in new ones. Take my pliers as well, in case the claw doesn’t grip. And this iron block should fit inside the shoe, like a last.”

  Thus equipped, Jal climbed the stairs to his flat. It had been relatively easy. And Edul did seem knowledgeable. Perhaps people complained too much of his shortcomings; exaggeration, after all, was a human tendency.

  He fiddled with his hearing aid, pretending he couldn’t hear Coomy scolding him for taking so long with Edul. He followed her into their stepfather’s room, where she placed a tall stool on the bed and told him to climb up.

  “It wobbles.”

  “I’ll hold it.”

  He hesitated again. “What a mess it will make. Shouldn’t we cover the furniture, Pappa’s nice things?”

  “For once, use your head. A mess is exactly what we need.”

  He put one foot on the stool, then the other, and remained in a squat till he was sure of his balance. “Ready?” he asked.

  She was gripping its legs. “Yes, yes, ready.”

  “I’m going to stand up now.”

  “Shall I clap?”

  “Hold the stool tight!” He stood, and steadied himself, checking if he could touch the ceiling. Yes. He rested the fingertips of his left hand against the smooth surface, and immediately felt more stable.

  “Go on, begin.”

  Sighing, he swung the hammer. It landed with a half-hearted thud, raining bits of plaster upon the bed and in Coomy’s hair. “I just thought of something – what if someone hears the noise?”

  “Who, the crows? Only the roof is above us.”

  He continued, creating holes and cracks in the ceiling. Some sections crumbled readily, others resisted. He paused to give his shoulder a rest, and moved to places that were less damaged, following her directions.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Keep going. Dr. Tarapore removed more plaster from Pappa’s leg.”

  Finally she asked
him to come down and give his opinion. “Does it look genuine?”

  From below, the ceiling appeared worse than when his face had been close to it. He felt sick as he surveyed the wreck, and nodded.

  “Good, we can work on the other side.”

  The stool was placed upon the dresser, he climbed onto it, and did as he was told. From Nariman’s room they went to Roxana’s old bedroom, then to each of theirs.

  The ceiling in their mother’s room was left intact. Jal wondered if it might not seem suspicious. Coomy said no, it wouldn’t, because everyone knew that God worked in mysterious ways. She went to the bathroom for a bucket of water and a mug.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked. “It already looks realistic.”

  “There have to be water marks. What if Yezad wants to check the damage? Every detail of our story should be solid.” She began throwing water towards the ceiling, but instead of hitting the target most of it splashed down upon her. “You’ll have to get on the stool again.”

  Jal soaked the broken areas, being liberal with the water as she suggested: if the furniture and floor got wet, it would look more natural.

  Then it was time to clean themselves up, wash the plaster out of their hair, and rehearse how to break the news of this misfortune tomorrow at Parsi General.

  Dr. Tarapore smiled at the X-ray with satisfaction; the bones had healed well. “Quite remarkable, Professor, at your age, with osteoporosis.”

  He instructed Nariman in some simple exercises to be performed sitting down: wriggling the toes, flexing the foot, placing it flat on the ground and raising the heel. Walking would be restricted to a few steps each day on crutches, for the next four weeks. “Walking, my dear Professor,” he said, “is not a means of taking you from point A to point B. If the crutches are difficult, just stay in bed. But don’t neglect the exercises.”