Family Matters Page 19

  Roxana wished Coomy was there to hear this, she worried Pappa would exert more than he should, once he went home. Then it was off in a wheelchair to Mr. Rangarajan the plasterer.

  “What a pleasure to meet Professor Vakeel’s youngest,” said Mr. Rangarajan, shaking hands with Roxana. “And are you following in your esteemed father’s footsteps, as educator and broadener of minds?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just a housewife.”

  “Just?” Mr. Rangarajan was aghast. “What are you saying, dear lady? Housewifery is a most important calling, requiring umpteen talents. Without housewife there is no home; without home, no family. And without family, nothing else matters, everything from top to bottom falls apart or descends into chaos. Which is basically the malady of the West. Would you not agree, Professor Vakeel?”

  “I don’t think they have a monopoly,” said Nariman. “We do quite well here too when it comes to creating miserable families.”

  Mr. Rangarajan laughed. He drew Roxana’s attention to the manner of tying the tensor bandage. “Basically, it’s a figure eight. Please, check the tension I am employing.”

  While Roxana was observing the technique, Jal and Coomy arrived in a flurry of movement and expression, as though they had travelled great distances under inclement conditions. “Such a relief to find you, Pappa. We asked for Dr. Tarapore, but the receptionist said you had left already.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Roxana.

  “Too much,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “Now that everyone is assembled,” announced Mr. Rangarajan, “I will start the bandage at the very beginning.”

  “I wonder how long this gadhayro will take,” said Coomy in Gujarati.

  Embarrassed, Nariman intervened, “We mustn’t detain you any longer, Mr. Rangarajan, your other patients are waiting. Thank you very much for your help.”

  “But it is no trouble —”

  “Thank you, bye-bye,” said Coomy.

  For a moment, Mr. Rangarajan looked offended. But he recovered his poise, wished the professor a speedy recovery, and left.

  They pushed Nariman’s wheelchair into the corridor, parking it by a bench near the window. “You won’t believe our bad luck,” said Jal, “when we tell you what happened last night.”

  “The big water tank on the terrace burst,” said Coomy, “and the ceiling collapsed.” She described the roar that had awakened them, and then bits of plaster falling on their beds, which was fortunate, for they were able to jump out before the water soaked in and larger pieces came crashing down.

  “Some were the size of footballs. I must say, Pappa, God is watching after you. If you were in your bed last night, a big chunk could have cracked your head. Maybe your broken ankle, and moving to Pleasant Villa, was God’s way of protecting you.”

  “Luckily, there was not too much water,” said Jal, uncomfortable with casting God in a supporting role in their deceitful drama. “The tank must have been only half full.”

  “Both of us shifted to Mamma’s room,” added Coomy. “It’s undamaged. The only safe place.”

  “Strange,” said Nariman. “It’s right next to yours.”

  “Who knows,” said Jal. “Maybe the terrace is uneven and the water couldn’t flow that way. Or Mamma’s ceiling might be stronger.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” declared Coomy.

  Nariman said there was no need to waste time in theological discussions – best to go home, get things back to normal, a broken ceiling did not bother him.

  The idea was declared absurd in a chorus of disapproval: there could be structural problems, something else might collapse; besides, Jal and Coomy were able-bodied, they could run at the first sign of crumbling, but Pappa would be trapped.

  “I’m willing to take the risk,” said Nariman.

  Eventually, Roxana convinced her father to return to Pleasant Villa for a few more days, while the damage was assessed. Coomy promised to send Pappa’s pension to help with his expenses.

  “I hate putting you and Yezad through more difficulty,” said Nariman.

  “Don’t be silly, Pappa, it’s not your fault,” said Roxana.

  “An act of God is no one’s fault,” said Coomy.

  As they set off for the ambulance, Jal pushing the wheelchair, Nariman observed that Coomy was getting into the bad habit of burdening God with altogether too much responsibility: “And that is good for neither God nor us.”

  In the evening Yezad heard the news about the ceiling without emotion. He’d had a hunch Jal and Coomy would not be taking the chief back with them today.

  Roxana protested they were scarcely to be blamed for the water tank. “As Coomy said, it’s an act of God.”

  “Yes, and His act is mainly in her behalf, isn’t it? Must be all her visits to fire-temple and her sandalwood bribes. I might have some influence too if I went more often.”

  “That would be so nice, Yezdaa,” she said eagerly. “And you could take the boys with you, light a deevo —”

  “I was just being funny,” he interrupted, and her face fell.

  They helped Nariman up, the crutches were put in place, and, with Yezad’s support, he took his first steps. Slowly, they covered the four feet between the settee and the chair. He sat down, wincing with the effort, and the boys clapped.

  “One small step for Grandpa’s foot, one giant leap for Grandpa,” said Murad.

  “Exactly,” he panted.

  “So how was it, chief?”

  “All right.”

  “Any pain?” asked Roxana, having seen him wince.

  “A little. But that’s to be expected.” He remained in the chair till dinnertime, when they pushed him closer to the table so he could eat with them.

  Roxana had made dhandar-paatiyo to celebrate her father’s first steps, though it bothered her that it was without fish. For a small pair of pomfrets the machhivala had demanded a hundred and thirty rupees. Ninety she could have managed, scrimping on other things, but the rogue had refused to budge – why should he, people were lined up to buy at his price, the obscene wealth there was in Bombay these days. So here it was, a fishless dhandar-paatiyo, an incomplete celebration. She began to lay the table.

  “I notice you never use my mother’s good dishes that I gave you on your wedding,” said her father.

  “Naturally, Pappa, they’re so precious, so old and delicate.”

  “Is that a reason to keep them locked up? I am old and delicate, and Jal and Coomy wanted to keep me locked up. You can’t live like that. Use the dishes.”

  “How will I ever replace something so valuable if it breaks?”

  “Human beings break, and you cannot replace them either. Are dishes more important? All you can do is enjoy the memories.”

  “There’s my philosopher,” said Yezad. “You tell her, chief.”

  “Don’t encourage Pappa. Such inauspicious words when we’re celebrating his recovery.”

  “Not inauspicious” said her father gently. “There’s only one way to defeat the sorrow and sadness of life – with laughter and rejoicing. Bring out the good dishes, put on your good clothes, no sense hoarding them. Where is the cut-glass vase and the rose bowl from your wedding? The porcelain shepherdess with her lamb? Bring them all out, Roxana, and enjoy them.”

  “You’re being silly, Pappa. Like on your birthday – making Coomy do double work with your demands.”

  The reminder blotted the smile from Nariman’s face. What an age it seemed since that evening two months ago. When he was still able to stand, dress himself, go to the toilet, go for a walk. Before his fall, before the nightmare with Coomy and Jal and the commode, the days in bed with his stinking body, frightened and shivering.

  Roxana at once regretted her words; their effect on her father was painful to observe, and she looked to Yezad for help. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  Then Jehangir cleared his throat like a grown-up about to make an important announcement: �
�Be that as it may, the good plates are on the agenda.”

  Nariman laughed, and Yezad said it was about time this little brown parrot learned some new expressions from Grandpa. Murad pretended to train him: Jehangoo sweetie, pretty Jehangoo. The good dishes were brought out from the lower section of Yezad’s cupboard, the rose bowl took the centre of the dining table, and the porcelain shepherdess was assigned the teapoy to graze her charges.

  Through dinner, Yezad’s thoughts kept turning to the days ahead. The morning stress, the overcrowding, the smelly front room – all of it would continue. And providing for one more person, when every rupee was budgeted, meant a shortfall of twenty-five per cent in Roxana’s food envelopes. Not to mention things like soap and washing and dhobi.

  “About your pension, chief,” said Yezad. “How much remains after buying medicines for the month?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. Coomy runs the house. I gave her power of attorney for my accounts a long time ago.”

  “And what about the ceilings? I should take a look, see how bad the damage is.”

  “As far as I am concerned,” said Nariman, “the damage is irrelevant. Broken plaster is no calamity.”

  Yezad nodded; to voice his money worries now would not help, better to keep a calm, patient demeanour for Roxana’s sake. “We can manage for another week or so.”

  When the medication ran out and Roxana went to purchase the next lot, she discovered that what Coomy had given her as her father’s pension did not cover even the cost of the pills. There had to be some mistake, she thought, perhaps Coomy had sent a partial amount.

  The chemist’s bill was paid by making up the difference from housekeeping money. To compensate, she bought bread but not butter, and a small tin of cooking oil instead of the more economical large one. Tea, sugar, rice could wait till next week. And dinner would be meatless, just cauliflower with potatoes.

  She placed the pill bottles on the side table next to her father. He inquired if the money had been enough, and she nodded, convinced that Coomy and Jal would soon show up with the balance. To Yezad too, when he asked during dinner, she said, “It’s okay for now.”

  In the days that followed, her frugalities began to be noticed. At breakfast, Murad grumbled there was no butter on his toast, and Jehangir said his tea was bitter, it needed more sugar.

  Yezad didn’t like their fuss. “You boys are spoilt. Be thankful you at least have toast to eat and tea to drink. You know how many millions in the world would be happy to have what you have?”

  Towards the end of the week, Nariman found it harder to hide the pain in his ankle when he stood on crutches. He had remained silent because the three little steps he took went far in sustaining everyone’s hope.

  Then one evening, as he tried to stand, the agony in his ankle made him scream out, the crutches slipped, and he fell back upon the settee.

  Throwing aside his newspaper, Yezad rushed to him. Roxana ran in from the kitchen. Once they determined he was safe, they grilled him about the scream. He tried to pass it off as a sudden twinge, but she saw through it and pried the secret out.

  “That bloody Tarapore,” said Yezad. “The quack-and-a-half was in a hurry.”

  Nariman shook his head. “To be fair, we were all relieved when he said I could get up.”

  “Don’t defend him, chief. If this was America, we could sue him for millions.”

  But Dr. Tarapore was duly consulted again, and was quite forthcoming about the setback. The X-ray had not lied, the cracks had mended, but calcium deficiency and porous bones had allowed hairline fractures to reopen.

  The full regimen of bed-care was back in force.

  At least once a day Roxana sat with her envelopes to pore over the contents, debating if she should transfer a few rupees from the one marked Milk & Tea into the one for Butter & Bread, or from Meat into Rice & Sugar. Jehangir sat with her, asking the price of a slab of Amul butter, a packet of tea, a kilo of mutton, while working out sums in his head and making suggestions.

  Lost in anxiety, she discussed the finances with him till she realized what she was doing. “That’s enough, Jehangoo, money is not your worry. Daddy and I can look after it.”

  “Yes,” he started, “but Daddy will …,” and though he trailed off, she understood his fear.

  A fortnight passed since the ceilings had collapsed. Jal and Coomy were nowhere in sight, and Yezad refused to call on them, saying he didn’t want any favours from those two.

  “May I make a suggestion?” urged Nariman. “Arguments between you and Roxana will not solve the problem. The pension payment notwithstanding, my expenses have remained unmet. Hence, my instructions are to make a withdrawal from my savings account. My money, which I earned by the sweat of my brow. Simple as that. In short, the question of favours does not arise.”

  “I feel awkward,” said Yezad, “to announce we’ve come to collect Pappa’s money. If they had any decency, they would have brought it to us.”

  “I have an idea,” said Jehangir. “You can say you came for Grandpa’s walking stick, the one we gave him on his birthday.”

  Yezad chuckled, patted his son’s shoulder, and said that was exactly what they would do.

  YEZAD AND ROXANA WALKED across the debris covering the drawing-room floor, stepping gingerly over the plaster chunks. Jal hurried to brush off the plaster powder from two armchairs. He thumped the cushions, and coughed in the rising dust.

  Coomy crunched her way into the room. He began tidying a third chair, but she touched his elbow to indicate she would stand. So he remained standing too, behind her, while she grumbled that the sun had set, the coals for loban were ready, and she was just about to start praying the Aiwisruthrem Geh.

  “Very sorry,” said Yezad, “we had no intention of jumping the queue between you and God.”

  “Don’t make fun of sacred matters,” said Roxana, as Jal chuckled. She explained why they had come, setting Coomy’s head shaking in exasperation.

  “What nerve Pappa has. How long will you indulge his nonsense? Remember his birthday dinner, and my prediction? Everyone made fun of me. Now you must think I’m a prophet.”

  She went to her stepfather’s room and fetched the birthday gift. “Barely hobbling on his crutches, and he demands his walking stick. Such madness.”

  Yezad switched to the more important subject. “What about these ceilings, Jal? I thought they’d be fixed by now.”

  “We got someone to check,” Coomy answered for her brother. “They wanted to charge too much.”

  “And the landlord?”

  “Hah. We’d have to go to court to make him repair it. And Pappa doesn’t have the twenty years the case would take. Anyway, another contractor will come.”

  “Another?” Yezad attempted to keep the mood light. “Already two in our midst – Jal Contractor and Coomy Contractor.”

  This amused Jal, but he took his cue from Coomy’s unbending sternness.

  “By the way,” said Roxana, “I bought Pappa’s medicines. The money wasn’t enough.”

  “I know that,” said Coomy. “I used to buy them every month.”

  Roxana waited for her to continue. But there was nothing else. “Could I … could I have the rest of the pension?”

  Coomy gave a short laugh. “That was it. All of it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Yezad.

  “What are you implying? I’m robbing Pappa?” She rushed from the room and returned with a bank book.

  “Oh Coomy,” said Roxana, “he doesn’t need to see it. It was just an expression of his surprise.”

  “Sounded like an expression of insult to me!” She threw the book in his lap.

  “No, Coomy, please don’t take it like that,” Roxana tried again. “As you know, it’s very difficult looking after Pappa – the expenses.”

  “The work too,” said Yezad. “Don’t be so modest.” He turned to Jal, “It’s a job-and-a-half. Her exhaustion at the end of the day worries me.”

  “Rem
ember the ground-floor Arjanis?” said Coomy. “Hired a full-time nurse for their father, and she gave him bedsores. Roxie gets so much satisfaction from serving her aged parent. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

  “I do,” agreed Roxana. “If at least the medicines were covered by his pension, I could manage the rest. Government should be ashamed of itself, the amount it pays.”

  “If government had a sense of shame, lots of problems would disappear,” said Jal.

  “Yes,” said Roxana. “So, can you give me the difference from Pappa’s savings account?”

  Coomy offered her short laugh again. “There’s no such thing.”

  “But Pappa said the money from fixed deposits —”

  “Pappa’s brain is soft as a pickled mango. You listen to his bak-bakaat, then come to accuse me? I wonder how firm is your brain.”

  Roxana looked at Jal to see if he would speak up; he was playing again with his hearing aid. “Abuse me if you like,” she said. “For Pappa, show a little respect. He’s a problem now, but after your father died, you were fed and clothed thanks to him.”

  “And thanks to him, also, for killing my mother.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish! And she was my mother too!”

  “And mine,” added Jal, in a voice pleading for peace.

  “Yes, yes, our little sister knows that,” said Coomy. “What she doesn’t know is, month after month we’ve made up the difference for Pappa’s medicines, his food, his clothes, dhobi, everything. We have more than repaid him. We have subsidized him all these years. Out of the goodness of our hearts, Jal and I looked after him. Not for anyone’s praise or thanks.”

  “Or because you live in his house and will inherit it,” said Yezad, as a bolt of disapproval flew from Roxana’s eyes.

  “Oh, Mr. Clever thinks he knows everything,” said Coomy. “Coming here with his are-you-sure and the-rest-of-the-money and what-not. Let me tell you about this house, Roxie, now that your husband —”

  “Please let’s not fight,” said Jal.

  “Don’t interrupt! He started it, now he’ll hear the truth! You know, fifteen years ago, when Pappa bought your flat for you? He also went to the landlord of Chateau Felicity and put this flat jointly in Jal’s name and mine.” She surveyed their stunned faces with a look of triumph.