Family Matters Read online

  “Bravo,” said Nariman, while Murad and Jehangir clapped proudly.

  “Yes, I made quite a speech. It’s been so many years, I can’t remember it all.”

  “You said something about the flag that stood behind his desk,” prompted Roxana, “about the leaf.”

  “Oh yes, I said it was a wonder the red maple leaf on the flag was still flying, that it had not withered with shame and fallen off, from being forced to share his office.”

  “Perfect,” said Nariman.

  “My research was thorough before I applied. Vilas, my book-shop friend, had lent me a novel called Obasan. And another book, called The Enemy That Never Was. Plus some others, about building the national railroad, the Klondike gold rush, confederation in 1867. In fact, I think I was better informed about Canada than many people born there. Except for Canadian sporting events. And this man was turning me down.”

  Nariman shook his head sadly. “We always assume that people who suffer atrocities acquire a greater than average capacity for compassion. But there is no such guarantee. Anyway, I’m glad you did not emigrate.”

  “So must Jal and Coomy, chief. An ambulance from Bombay to Canada would have been too expensive.”

  “I’m glad you did not,” repeated Nariman, “because I think emigration is an enormous mistake. The biggest anyone can make in their life. The loss of home leaves a hole that never fills.”

  His father-in-law’s words brought a lump to his throat, reminding him of Mr. Kapur’s photographs of Jehangir Mansion and Hughes Road. His lost home. That feeling returned, of grief and emptiness, and a strange calm.

  He inserted the various forms and letters back inside the large envelope, along with all his clippings of news items concerning Canada, collected over the last twelve years. He knew even more about the country now than he had done when facing Mr. Mazobashi. The sting of rejection had created a thirst in him to better understand the rejector.

  He took the envelope back to the cupboard, then stopped. Why had he saved all this? He knew why – he had clung to the idea of applying again some day, of succeeding.

  He sat upon the bed and shook out the large envelope. The letters, forms, photocopies, news clippings fluttered out in a heap. He began ripping them up.

  The sound of tearing brought Roxana to the back room. “What are you doing?” she asked, horrified.

  “Getting rid of garbage.”

  For a second she thought of rescuing the documents. Then she understood: Yezad was right, it was not worth keeping.

  She joined him on the bed, cross-legged, and began tearing. It felt good. They looked up from the pile, smiling, and their eyes met.

  When everything had been shredded into a mound of paper petals, he reached over it to pull her closer to him. He put his arms around her, cradling her head on his chest.

  On the balcony, Murad told Jehangir he had an idea for Daddy: why didn’t he complain to the government in Canada that Mr. Mazobashi was rude and unfair during the interview?

  “Because,” said Jehangir wisely. “Governments never help ordinary people.”

  “You’re thinking of India,” said Murad. “It’s not like that in foreign countries. I’m going to suggest it to Daddy.”

  “Wait,” said Jehangir. “Don’t go now, Mummy-Daddy are kissing.”

  THE BURSHANE MAN REMOVED the empty cylinder from under the stove while Roxana kept watch: leave him alone and he might pocket a spoon, or a bottle of masala from the shelf. She sniffed – a trace of gas from the disconnected hose had smudged the air.

  The fresh cylinder rumbled into place; the man knelt to fasten the hose, then lit the burner to test the flow. The flame was a clean blue. With a grunt he hoisted the empty cylinder to his shoulder, and was escorted out.

  As she hurried to fetch the money, a glance at the invoice made her pause – another increase in price. She had half a mind to tell the fellow to take it back. Kerosene for the old Primus would be cheaper. But the nipple was probably blocked, the pump stiff. And she still had to cook for tonight.

  Riffling through the envelopes to find the one marked Gas Cylinder, she noticed money in Butter & Bread. Twenty rupees? Impossible – they’d been without butter for days.

  The Electricity envelope passed under her fingers, and she felt something in it – she looked: forty-five rupees. But the bill had been settled on the third of the month.

  She paid the Burshane man and returned to the cupboard to examine all the envelopes. According to her calculations, they contained an extra hundred and eighty rupees.

  That evening, she told Yezad about it. “There’s some gotaalo in my accounts,” she confessed cautiously, fearing he might think her incompetent. “I’ve checked over and over.”

  “Maybe Mr. Kapur made a mistake in my pay packet. But why worry if it’s more money? Just spend it where we are short.”

  He smiled inwardly, though a bit puzzled himself – he’d added a hundred and twenty.

  In the days that followed, he kept hoping for, and, in a strange way, almost dreaded, Villie’s next powerful dream, the temptation it would hold. Every time he left home, she waylaid him on their third-floor landing or on the stairs, and plied him with her “hot tips,” as she called them. Sometimes, when her explanations seemed to make sense, he’d be appalled at himself: how could he see logic in poor Villie’s numeric nonsense? He hated being so weak as to clutch at her fantasies.

  Then he thought of the powerful brassière dream – explain that, if it was all bunkum. Perhaps Villie had some natural affinity for the science of statistical probability. Like Shakuntala Devi, and all those mathematical prodigies, who could multiply twelve-digit numbers in their minds, give you the answer in less time than it took you to use a calculator. Whatever the reason, Villie’s formula seemed to work.

  Torn between the real world and the hope dangled by Villie’s realm of numbers, he decided to let destiny choose for him. If he got the promotion at Bombay Sporting, he’d have nothing more to do with Matka. But Mr. Kapur had become silent on the subject. Should he remind him? Better still, why not just ask him for a raise? Surely he deserved it, the amount of work he had taken on lately – no need to wait for the election campaign …

  As the days went by and he awaited destiny’s edict, he placed the occasional small bet (to keep in touch, he told himself), winning and losing just enough to preserve, for the next powerful number, the kitty he had saved from the size 36C dream. He soon began to feel like an expert, and a discussion about dreams and numbers had the same air about it as people describing a day at the office. The sense of excitement that accompanied the bets, especially that tense moment just before he heard the Matka result, the warm flush he felt, which could turn to elation or loss – that, too, was something he was starting to enjoy. And every time his kitty grew, he skimmed off a few rupees to slip into Roxana’s envelopes.

  “More errors, Yezdaa,” she said whenever the extra amounts surfaced. Her cheerful announcement made it clear she was willing to play along. She assumed he was earning extra commissions; slipping them into her envelopes was just his way of saying they would not quarrel any more.

  Several weeks after his first windfall, Villie flung her door open as he returned from work. “Good news, Yezadji.”

  Restraining his hand that was reaching behind for his wallet, she said, “How excited you’re getting, my dear. At least hear the dream before you take it out.”

  Was it underwear again, he wondered, withdrawing the notes he had carefully tucked beneath the coin compartment. The last of his winnings. He counted them and wished for more, to make this a much bigger bet. If only he could get his hands on some cash right now. “I really should just give you my money and go, Villie.”

  “Won’t take ten seconds, Yezadji, it’s short and sweet.”

  He shuffled his feet, and she added, “You were in it.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “The simplest dream I’ve ever had. So simple, most people would forget on waking. Y
ou and me, in my kitchen, eating chocolate.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I told you it was short and sweet.” She giggled. “Maybe I should say long and sweet – it was a big Cadbury bar we were sharing. I took a bite, then you took a bite. Our mouths were watering, the chocolate all sticky —”

  “I’m sure you’ve worked out the correct numbers,” he interrupted. “You’re the expert, you don’t need me.”

  “In my dream I needed you,” she smiled coyly. “You were the one who brought the Cadbury bar.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you unwrapped it yourself, showed me how big it was, counting the pieces before giving it to me.”

  “And?”

  “Eighteen pieces,” she whispered seductively. “Eighteen, my darling, is our number.”

  They shook hands, wishing each other luck before he escaped home.

  For the rest of the evening Yezad’s distractedness made Roxana fear that he was slipping into his bad mood again. And to think the last few weeks had been so pleasant. What was it that made him change so completely?

  She had been planning to tell him about Murad coming home late every day, so he could take their son to task. But it could wait for a better time. She resolved to keep out of his way, attempt no conversation.

  The boys were confined to their desk in the back room. They worked away busily to present a pleasing picture for their father while he had his tea. And after he finished, Jehangir announced with importance that he had to write an essay titled Why I Think India Is a Great Country.

  “Will you help me, Daddy?” he asked, hoping it would please him.

  “Come to me when your teacher gives an essay about why India is a hopeless country.”

  The remark provoked Roxana into forgetting her resolution. “That’s such a cruel thing to say to a little boy.”

  “The truth is cruel sometimes. You can help him with the lies. Or Professor Vakeel will invent some facts.”

  “With pleasure,” said Nariman.

  Jehangir looked to his mother for permission. She nodded, and he sat at the dining table. “Okay, Grandpa, I’m ready.”

  From his chair in the corner, Yezad observed his son’s intense concentration, and the pleasure written all over Nariman’s pain-filled face. What had his life become, that he no longer had the patience to sit beside his own son and help with an essay?

  He couldn’t bear to watch, and got up. Colliding with the teapoy, he turned into the back room and sent Murad out of it. He tried to fasten the door that always stayed open. Swollen from disuse, he had to wrestle with it to work the bolt.

  The sound of it shooting into place worried Roxana. She waited for a minute, then stood with her ear to the door.

  There was only silence. Not even footsteps. He had been so restless this evening, so strange in his demeanour. “Yezad?” She knocked on the door.

  He did not answer.

  “Yezad, are you all right?”

  She kept knocking, calling out his name. Panic pushed her to kicking and banging. “Please, Yezad! Please unlock the door!”

  It opened suddenly and she lurched forward. His arm prevented her from advancing farther. “Are you going to stop your hysteria? Or shall I tie up your arms and legs?”

  He slammed the door. Stunned, she kept staring at it for a few seconds before turning away. She sat down at the dining table with Jehangir, who had stopped writing.

  “Go on with your essay,” she said weakly. “Daddy is just upset about something.”

  “I wonder if all is well at work,” said Nariman.

  “How would I know? He tells me nothing, he’s behaving like a complete stranger,” she whispered.

  Jehangir edged off his chair and buried his face in her shoulder. She kissed his hair.

  “He won’t tie you up,” he sobbed.

  “Of course he won’t.”

  “He just said it because he’s angry,” said Murad.

  Yezad lay on the bed, ashamed of his behaviour, telling himself he had no choice – how could he proceed without locking the back room? And he was doing it to benefit his family, wasn’t he? Except that he still was not sure if he had made the right decision. He rose and paced the room, clenching and unclenching his fists, before striding purposefully to the cupboard.

  He took out the envelopes. Many of them were empty, the bills paid at the start of the month. From those that still held cash, he began removing it: Butter & Bread, Milk & Tea, Rice & Sugar …

  As he pulled out the notes, he felt for a moment that he was snatching away the very food named on the envelopes. He told himself not to be fanciful – tomorrow he would replace it a hundredfold.

  But why, then, did he feel like a thief? If only he could share the strategy with Roxana – but she’d never agree. Apart from her hatred of gambling, she’d say the risk was too great.

  A rough count told him there were just over seven hundred rupees. Stuffing the money in his wallet, he returned the empty envelopes to the cupboard and went to unlock the back room.

  With his hand upon the bolt, he hesitated again. This was it: if Villie’s dream did not —

  His fingers wrenched back the bolt with a crash. He came out as if nothing had happened, and kept walking to the front door.

  “Please, Yezad,” appealed Roxana. “Tell me what’s wrong, where are you going?”

  “For a walk.”

  He got in the lift, slammed shut the collapsibles to announce his departure, and descended to the lobby. After lingering there for a while, he started up the stairs.

  His footfall on the stone steps echoed in the empty hallway. On the second floor he heard laughter, and paused. The happy voices of children floated out, a little girl squealing with delight about something, the mother’s voice calling them to dinner …

  He wanted to flee the sounds. Their familiarity chafed him, reminding him of what it was that had escaped from his own tiny flat, once just as happy and warm and loving …

  It would be again, he told himself. As soon as he had wrenched the control of circumstances into his own hands. He continued up the stairs and knocked at Villie’s door.

  He skipped greetings and niceties. “Quick, make one more trip to your bunya.” His wallet was ready in his hand, and he pulled out the stack of notes. “Bet this for me.”

  Taken aback by his abruptness, Villie maintained her own pleasant manner. “With pleasure. But are you sure, my dear? So much?”

  “That’s not your business. Just go before betting closes.”

  She took the money without another word, hurt that her Matka comrade could speak this way to her. It was not in the spirit of the game.

  Around nine o’clock he wondered if the opening had been declared. Leaning on the balcony railing, he waited, wishing for a breeze. November, and still no relief – it might as well be May, considering the heat. What would the opening be? One. Had to be.

  At nine-thirty he said he was going out.

  “Again?” Roxana’s fatigue made it more statement than question.

  He saw the look she exchanged with her father. “You have rules and quotas for me? Like Coomy’s rules for him?”

  “You’re more like Coomy, the stupid things you say.”

  “That’s a joke-and-a-half. You watch every move I make, asking a dozen questions if I say I’m going for a walk —”

  “Go where you want! Walk, run, crawl, I don’t know what you are up to, and I don’t care!”

  He got into the lift and made his angry noise with the collapsibles. Repeating his earlier charade, minutes later he padded up the stairs and knocked.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  Villie smiled. “My dear, one is the opening.”

  She saw the relief in his face, and wanted to give him a way out. “It’s not too late to cancel your closing, if you don’t trust my dream. Lalubhai will do it as a favour to me.”

  He did not answer.

  “You’ll still get your winnings for the opening number.
”

  He calculated: a total of seven hundred and eighty-five rupees had been bet. Which meant he had already won nine times seven hundred and eighty-five rupees. He took a moment to work it out in his head: seven thousand and sixty-five.

  Fantastic, he thought, just grab it and —

  But if he let it all turn on the closing, and eight came up, he would get that amount multiplied by nine, he would get – “Pencil, Villie?” He scribbled the sum on her front door. The answer awed him: sixty-three thousand, five hundred and eighty-five.

  Enough to pay for everything. Even to repair the ceilings in Coomy and Jal’s flat.

  “If you want to cancel, I must go right away,” her voice broke through his calculations.

  “No,” he ordered, “let it stand.” Then he became conscious of the tone he was using. “Sorry, Villie, too much stress for me.”

  “I understand,” she said, and patted his shoulder.

  Pushing down on the mattress with his hand, Yezad flipped over on to his back. The violent movement rocked the headboard. Breathing hard, he muttered that the room was boiling hot. His feet scrabbled away at the sheet to pull it down, and he dried his clammy palms against his pyjamas. Moments later he pulled the sheet up again, shivering, his sweat running cold.

  He turned towards the alarm clock, and got up on his elbow. Such a loud ticking, he thought, no wonder it was keeping him awake. The numbers no longer glowed in the dark as they did when it was new.

  Squinting, he leaned closer: half past midnight. Matka had closed.

  Roxana tried to soothe her husband by putting her arm over him, but he tensed in her embrace. Despairing, she released him, asking herself if the end of their marriage was approaching, now that even her touch repulsed him.

  At last his squirming and writhing began to wind down; she sensed he was falling asleep. His legs kicked the darkness a few times before settling with his knees drawn up to his stomach.