Family Matters Page 20

  “What a fool,” muttered Yezad.

  “You heard that?” she pounced. “This ungrateful man called Pappa a fool.”

  “I heard,” said Roxana. “And even when Yezad calls him a fool, it has more affection than all your words of concern.”

  “Go ahead, defend him! Do what you like! But don’t dictate to me in my house! For that’s what it is, mine and Jal’s. And we will repair the ceiling at our convenience, unless you have money for it. Pappa will return when we want him to.”

  “So that’s it?” said Yezad softly. “You’re kicking him out of his own flat?”

  “Don’t twist my words! No one kicked him out, Dr. Tarapore said his depression needed —”

  “We know all about that,” said Yezad, clenching the walking stick and rising. “So what shall we tell the chief?”

  “Please tell him,” said Jal, “we’ll get the house fixed as soon as possible, so he can come back.”

  Because her brother’s rage was a rare thing, Coomy watched in silence for a while. It was as though the order of nature had broken at last.

  “What was the point?” he screamed, pacing wildly about the room. “Why did you force me to get Edul’s hammer? Why did you destroy the ceilings? You could have told them weeks ago we were kicking Pappa out!”

  “I wanted Pappa to stay away, but in a civilized manner,” she said quietly. “Without fighting, or ruining family relationships.”

  “Why should you care? Family does not matter to you! You keep nursing your bitterness instead of nursing Pappa. I’ve begged you for thirty years to let it go, to forgive, to look for peace.”

  He started pacing again, raising his arms to the ceiling, shaking them in despair. “Look around, look at what you’ve achieved.”

  She looked, hoping to calm him by doing his bidding, and saw the dust and plaster everywhere. She raised her eyes and saw the mutilated ceiling. She shuddered. For the first time since the hammer blows, her heart sank.

  “Don’t turn away! You said you wanted a ruin, so feast your eyes! Happy? Ruined house, and ruined relations with our one and only sister.”

  Then his voice lost its hysterical edge, suddenly subdued by sorrow. Exhausted, he sank into a chair and covered his face.

  She sat too, watching him, thinking of all that he’d said, thinking of Roxana … their little doll … how they had loved her when she was born, how crazy they were about her, carrying her everywhere, taking her wherever they went, Marine Drive, cinema, Hanging Gardens … and how much she had adored them, in those childhood years …

  What remained now of all that love? Exhaustion washed over her too and tears came to her eyes.

  Hearing her sniff, Jal lifted his face out of his hands. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Then she began to weep. No one gave a thought to her feelings, she whispered, the unkind things they said to her, and Yezad accusing her of stealing from Pappa, after all that she had done for Pappa, for so many years …

  Yezad leaned the walking stick in the corner by the settee and asked his father-in-law about his finances. The questions were simple and direct, but Nariman seemed confused, unable to provide any helpful information.

  “What were you saying about your savings account?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “According to Coomy you have no money. No house, either.”

  His blunt way of putting it distressed Roxana. “Don’t worry, Pappa, you know how stupidly she talks sometimes.”

  “I, for one, have had enough of her insults,” said Yezad. “We’re never going there again. Not unless she apologizes. I forbid you to visit them.”

  “That means punishing poor Jal as well,” she pleaded. “He hasn’t ever uttered one rude word to us.”

  “If he fiddled less with his hearing aid and showed more gumption, he could make his sister behave herself.”

  “Please don’t quarrel,” entreated Nariman. “Tell me what Coomy said to annoy you.”

  They told him. “So is it true?”

  He gave a little smile. “It may be.”

  “If you put the flat in their names, you should know.”

  “It was many years ago. The poor children, hurt so much already. I think I may have signed something.”

  “Very foolish of you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s very simple – you have no legal claim to that flat now. Not unless you go to court and fight.”

  Nariman turned his face to the wall and composed himself before speaking. “Not to have me around must be a pleasant holiday for them. But are you suggesting I’ve been thrown out for good?”

  “Only one way to check: ring their doorbell, see if they’ll take you in,” said Yezad.

  “Don’t worry, Pappa, they’re just delaying. They want you back fully recovered – to make it easier for themselves.”

  She went to warm the dinner, and Yezad followed her. The recalcitrant stove resisted the spark. Switching off the gas cylinder, he took the lighter from her and cleaned the burner, saying they had to find a way to outwit Coomy and Jal. “That’s what this has become, a battle of wits.”

  “But if they have no intention of taking Pappa back …”

  The burner lit with a whoosh of flame. “Nothing doing. If they play this game, so will we. They kick him into our house, we find a way to kick him back into theirs.”

  “Pappa is not a football. I won’t behave like them.”

  “You don’t have to, I’ll do it.” He kept tinkering with the gas lighter, making sparks with the flint.

  She grabbed it from his hand and slammed it on the table. “I’ll tell you right now – if you force Pappa out, you may as well throw me out at the same time.”

  The ultimatum left him silent for a few moments. “So that’s it? That’s all I mean to you, your family means to you?”

  “And what’s Pappa if not family?”

  Considering it worthless to argue the definition, he left the kitchen and sat at the dining table, playing with the toaster, pressing the lever down and releasing it, over and over. What a muddle life had become, he thought, wishing Mr. Kapur would get on with his campaign planning, the election was only three months away. The promised promotion would at least solve the money troubles.

  “The spring will get spoiled, Daddy,” said Jehangir.

  Yezad sighed and pushed the toaster away, as Roxana carried the steaming pot to the table, cut the loaf of bread, and divided the slices among the five of them. The odd one left over she placed in Yezad’s plate, then called the boys.

  “What’s for dinner?” asked Murad.

  “Irish stew.” She spooned onions, potatoes, and gravy into his plate.

  He examined the serving. “Where’s the mutton?”

  “Good question,” said Yezad. “Probably grazing in Ireland.” He dipped a piece of bread in the gravy and started eating.

  Watching his father, Jehangir followed suit, and declared the stew was delicious. It made his mother smile as she filled the remaining plates.

  She came to her father’s bowl, and he said, at the first spoonful, “Thanks, that’s enough.”

  “What’s the matter, chief? Don’t like our meatless dishes? Better eat some, or you’ll upset your little Roxie.”

  “Please, Pappa is already feeling bad, okay?”

  “He might feel worse. Soon it could be bread and water.”

  “Stop it! How can you be so mean?”

  Nariman raised his hand. “Whatever Yezad wants to say, I deserve to hear. You are suffering on account of my shortsightedness. It was stupid of me to sign over the flat.” He mashed a bit of potato and continued softly into his bowl, “To so many classes I taught Lear, learning nothing myself. What kind of teacher is that, as foolish at the end of his life as at the beginning?”

  “What is Lear?” asked Jehangir.

  Nariman swallowed the potato. “It’s the name of a king who made many mistakes.”

  “You are not to b
lame for Jal and Coomy’s behaviour, Pappa. What you did is proof of your kind and trusting nature.”

  “Kindness and trust don’t put a roof over your head,” said Yezad.

  “Don’t worry,” said Nariman. “This Lear will go home again. I know Coomy – she’ll let me return when she’s ready.”

  They ate in silence for a while. Then Murad asked if there was more bread.

  “You got your share,” said his mother.

  “But I have some gravy left in my plate.”

  She passed him one of her slices, and his father pointed at him. “Give it back to Mummy,” he commanded, and held out one of his own.

  “No, we cannot deprive Daddy,” she said. “He has to go to work, bring home the salary.”

  “And Mummy needs her strength to bring the bedpan.” He tossed his slice into Murad’s plate beside the one she had placed.

  Murad left the table without touching either slice, and his mother said at this rate no one would miss the mutton, the children’s stomachs would fill up with their father’s childish displays.

  He waited till the boys cleared the table, then put on his shoes.

  “Where are you going?” asked Roxana.

  “Nowhere special.”

  The door slammed. Her hand covering her mouth, she stared at the rose pattern in the tablecloth. In fifteen years of marriage it was the first time he had behaved like this.

  “Don’t be distressed,” said Nariman. “The poor man is sunk in worries. Probably gone for a little walk, to clear his head. It always used to help me.”

  “Oh Pappa, how does it help to say nasty things, lose his temper?”

  “What else can he do? He is not a saint – none of us is.”

  She took the hand he held out to her. In so much pain himself, she thought, and he still comforts me.

  The boys hurried to the balcony to watch their father emerge from the building and cross the road. They waited for him to turn and wave, but he disappeared round the bend.

  “He went towards the bazaar, Mummy,” reported Murad.

  “Did he … wave?”

  “Yes,” said Jehangir quickly.

  Gaining the corner, Yezad could observe his sons on the balcony without being seen himself. Their anxious faces distressed him. How much pleasure he used to get from seeing their healthy appetites. The last few weeks had erased all that … and Roxie taking smaller helpings every day, to leave something in the pot, but the boys weren’t fooled by it … The first time, Murad had hesitated, though Jehangla had quickly refused, signalling to his brother. Now they always said they were stuffed, forcing her to take her share. Murad must have been really hungry tonight, to have asked for more bread …

  The thought bore through Yezad’s mind like an auger. He checked the balcony again. Certain no one was watching, he recrossed the road in a dangerous weave through traffic and ducked into the Pleasant Villa entrance. He crept up the stairs to the third floor, tiptoeing past his own door to Villie Cardmaster’s, and knocked.

  It opened at once.

  “Hallo, my dear Yezadji!” she boomed. “What brings —”

  “Shh!” He entered and pushed the door shut behind him. Her usual odour, like the smell of Belgaum ghee gone slightly off, made him want to step back. “Roxana mustn’t know I’m here.”

  She giggled. “What are you planning, my dear?”

  “I need a favour.”

  “Speak, Yezadji.”

  “How’s the Matka these days?”

  “Up and down. My own dreams are reliable. With others I lose money. Trouble is, my sleep isn’t what it used to be.”

  She put a stray lock of hair in place and straightened her crumpled collar. “But why this sudden interest in Matka?”

  “Just temporary …” he hesitated. “To make some extra money. For a surprise. For Roxana.”

  “Oh, you two lovebirds!”

  “How about today, any suggestion?”

  “My dream was so solid last night, the numbers are guaranteed today.”

  “What did you see?”

  Her eyes grew bashful. “It was very personal.” Realizing that he wasn’t going to insist, she said, “I might as well tell you – I’m not responsible for what happens in dreams, am I? You see, I was shopping at Grant Road for a bra. And I stopped at a stall with a good selection. The fellow asked me what size, and I said my usual, 34A.”

  Yezad started feeling uncomfortable; she continued, “The shopkeeper shook his head and stared at my chest. Such a rude fellow. With a dirty smile, he said, ‘Madam, you are not 34A. I’ve been in this line for many years, one look at your lovely form and I can tell – you are 36C’ ”

  Despite himself, Yezad took a quick look: Villie’s chest was the same as ever, shapeless under her dowdy housecoat.

  “ ‘Stop staring,’ I said to the mavaali, ‘I know my own chest, I have worn 34A for years now, and I am not a blossoming schoolgirl.’ ‘Just try it on, madam,’ he said, ‘then tell me.’ ‘Are you crazy?’ I said. ‘Try it standing here on the pavement?’ ‘No, take it home, madam, trust me – breasts and brassières are my business, my livelihood. You will be very happy with 36C. Bring it back if it doesn’t fit, I will refund full purchase price plus ten per cent for inconvenience.’

  “So I brought it home. And would you believe it? The fellow was right, 36C fit me like my own skin!”

  Now she abandoned the dramatic stance and tone adopted to act out the dream. “You follow, Yezadji? Today’s Matka is thirty-six – three for opening, six for closing.”

  Yezad took out his wallet and gave her ten rupees. “Can you put this on thirty-six for me?”

  “What time is it? Oh dear, I’ll have to hurry.”

  She ran into the next room and came back with a faded yellow chiffon sari, proceeding to wrap it over the housecoat. “Now where are my safety pins? Help me with them, Yezadji. Shoulder, waist, here at the back. And this one I’ll pin over my stomach. There. Thank you, my dear.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She examined herself in the mirror, front and profile, and was satisfied. “If I’m in time, you’ll get eight hundred and ten rupees for your ten.”

  “When do we know the result?”

  “Closing is declared at twelve o’clock. You’ll come?”

  “I’ll wait for morning. Good night.” Over his shoulder he added, “Sweet dreams.”

  Two hours after the lights were switched off, Jehangir was still tossing, unable to fall asleep. The boards under the mattress creaked with every move. He worried his mother might come to check. Haunted by the unhappiness that had appeared like an ugly creature to live in their home, he clenched his fists and tried hard not to cry.

  He thought about his father’s anger – not the flash that would blaze now and again, like thunder and lightning, then clear, and bring back a smile like sunshine. This dull rage, constant over days, was different.

  The last few weeks puzzled him. It was quarrels and sarcastic comments all the time. Gone away completely was his parents’ tenderness, and the happy looks they used to exchange in secret (not secret from him, though, he saw everything). The pleasant whispers and soft laughter from their bed at night would put him to sleep like a lullaby, assuring him all was right with his world. Now it was falling part. Angry hisses and harsh mutterings from their room made him cry in the dark.

  If only he could earn some money for Mummy-Daddy. Like the Famous Five and the Secret Seven, who did chores and went on errands. They didn’t even need the money for something important like he did, they just bought liquorice and humbugs. And ice cream, which they called ices. It was all so unfair, his life was never going to be fun like theirs, none of them had a sick Grandpa who needed lots of expensive medicines. The fighting between Mummy and Daddy was all Grandpa’s fault.

  Jehangir looked across at the settee and wondered if his grandfather was asleep or his eyes were just closed. He could hear him breathe, the tremble of his limbs had abated. His medicine bottles
were on the table. Jehangir had made it his duty to bring the pills to his grandfather with a glass of water. Sometimes Grandpa choked, and Jehangir flinched in empathy as the pills were coughed out, then wiped the water sputtering down his chin and neck, coaxing him to take a deep breath (“in and out, Grandpa, in and out”) and try again, slowly, with more water.

  What did Grandpa think about, alone all day in bed, never complaining? Jal Uncle and Coomy Aunty’s unkindness? Maybe he worried about where he would go if Daddy got fed up and told him to leave. Poor Grandpa, so old and weak, and all the pains in his body that made him wince and moan, though he kept it hidden (but not from him, for he saw everything).

  Jehangir began crying again, his brief resentment turning to sorrow. He had heard Dr. Tarapore talk to Mummy in secret, that Grandpa would get worse, there was no cure, it would be harder and harder for him to use his arms and legs. “Locomotion will be increasingly difficult,” the doctor had said.

  His tears caused the darkness to become blurry. He hadn’t realized nighttime could be just as vivid as daytime, and as liable to distortion. Maybe he could earn some money by offering to work for Villie Aunty, any small jobs. And for Daisy Aunty downstairs. Murad might go with him. The two of them together could do big jobs and earn even more.

  In the cradle of this comforting thought, he fell asleep at last. He dreamt that Grandpa was on his crutches, swinging along briskly, and everyone was applauding him. But then he began to slow down, something was wrong with one of the pair. When he got to the kitchen he discovered that the upper half of the crutch had turned into a huge joint of mutton. Daddy took the big knife from the drawer and started sharpening it, to cut the meat and cook it, but Mummy said no, how would Pappa be able to walk without it? And soon there was another terrible fight, shouting and yelling, till Grandpa said it was okay, he could manage. Relinquishing the mutton joint for Daddy and Murad, whose mouth was watering, Grandpa demonstrated with the single crutch and almost crashed to the floor. Mummy screamed at Daddy that he was going to kill her poor father in his greed for mutton; besides, so much red meat would increase his cholesterol and leave her a widow with two young boys to look after …