Family Matters Page 33

  By evening, Mr. Kapur had calmed down considerably. He stopped by Yezad’s desk and, playing perfect copy-book cricket, presented an imaginary straight bat on the front foot. “There are four options,” he said.

  “Four? They gave us two.”

  “Four,” he repeated. “Change the name; don’t change and pay the crooks; don’t change and complain to the police; and finally, ignore them and see what happens.”

  Yezad said there was a fifth option: “The decision you once made – to run in the election. You’d get to know important people, make contacts with police and politicians. You could tackle the root of the problem from within the system.”

  “If it were possible, I would do it, I told you before,” said Mr. Kapur heatedly, then lifted his hands and took a deep breath, as though reminding himself of his doctor’s advice. “Have you ever seen a banyan tree, Yezad?”

  He nodded.

  “You know how it grows? Its long branches send down aerial roots that go deep, become columns to support the branches that grow even larger while the roots spread over acres and acres.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen pictures. So what’s the connection?”

  “A municipal councillor tackling corruption is like a penknife trying to dig up a banyan tree.”

  Yezad could think of arguments to dispute the analogy, but Mr. Kapur shook his head sadly. “Forget it, Yezad,” he sighed, “only four options,” and slumped in his chair.

  Next moment, he sat up with determination. “I’ll wait: let the bastards come to me. For all we know, they dropped by at random, hoping to grab some cash from a frightened little shopkeeper.”

  The decision to be indecisive put Mr. Kapur in better spirits, and when they wished each other goodnight he volleyed with an invisible tennis racquet. Patting Yezad on the shoulder, he said he felt convinced the scum would not show up again.

  Yezad wished he could assure him that they would.

  SIPPING TEA WITH VILAS and the two actors in Merwan Irani’s restaurant, Yezad listened while they discussed and looked over the script. The constant bustle and clatter of waiters and crockery filled the room, along with the pungent smell of bhajias frying.

  Vilas had predicted correctly, thought Yezad – Gautam and Bhaskar did regard the Kapur project (as they called it) to be a fascinating experiment in theatre. Nothing so unusual had ever come their way during the normal pursuit of their hobby, they said.

  In chawls and community halls, and in the narrow streets and gullies of Bombay, their talents were confined to one-act plays, short dramas concerned with serious social issues: Bride-Burning and Dowry Deaths, Menace of Communalism, Ugliness of Alcoholism, Evil of Wife Abuse, Tragedy of Gambling. There was humour too, about political buffoonery, the buying and selling of members of parliament, legislation guaranteeing the right of students to cheat in examinations, and the absurdities of the ration-card system.

  They recalled, for Vilas and Yezad’s benefit, a particularly successful performance about the Minister for Telecommunications, whose house had recently been raided by the Central Bureau of Investigation. The puja room had yielded two trunks and twenty-two suitcases, crammed with cash and arrayed behind the shrine of Laxmi.

  “We composed that skit directly from newspaper headlines,” said Bhaskar, pushing his Gandhiji glasses up the bridge of his nose. “All we had to do was add some jokes about the Minister defending himself. Saying that charges of corruption against him were baseless, the Goddess of Wealth had herself multiplied his meagre ministerial earnings because she thought he was doing a good job in government.”

  The young men enacted part of the skit: the Minister of Telecommunications and Laxmi conversing on cellphones, where the Goddess gave him financial advice; sometimes she counselled him by appearing on a special TV channel via satellite – All Laxmi, All the Time.

  “They loved that play in every chawl,” said Bhaskar, as Vilas and Yezad laughed heartily. “But the Kapur project will be like street theatre moving indoors.” The doubt on Yezad’s face prompted him to explain: “On the pavement there is no announcement. We start arguing, fighting, acting drunk, as though real life were unfolding. People stop to listen, a crowd gathers.”

  “Yes, but there’s a difference,” objected Gautam. “Sooner or later our street audience knows it is exactly that – an audience, watching us perform a naatak. For Mr. Kapur there’ll be no one.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Bhaskar. “I would say he himself will be both audience and actor, except he’ll be unaware of it.”

  “An actor without awareness is a wooden puppet,” declared Gautam grandly, believing he had scored a decisive point.

  “In a culture where destiny is embraced as the paramount force, we are all puppets,” said Bhaskar with equal grandness.

  Yezad grew impatient, wishing they would stop sounding their own theatrical trumpets. The way they were carrying on, they might rise any moment to strike a stance with chest thrust out, chin high, sword arm aloft, declaiming “Khabardaar!” in the style of a Chanjibhai Cheecheepopo.

  “We’re not arguing destiny versus free will,” said Gautam. “Stick to the point.”

  “It’s all interconnected,” said Bhaskar. “You’re hung up on conventional ideas – as irrelevant as the proscenium arch.”

  “Nonsense, the proscenium arch is still absolutely vital. It has merely turned into the proscenium pavement, which —”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Bhaskar Olivier and Mr. Gautam Gielgud,” said Vilas. “Yezad and I have to return to work in fifteen minutes.”

  His intervention allowed Yezad to describe what had happened thus far with Mr. Kapur. He took pains to emphasize he was fond of his employer, and that their little drama was intended only to nudge Mr. Kapur towards something he had always wanted to do – run in the election.

  “In a way, it’s like one of your plays about a social issue,” said Vilas. “You could name it the Menace of Shiv Sena.”

  “True,” said Gautam. “Basically, there’s a call to action for Mr. Kapur, and an unstated moral: that evil must not be ignored by those able to oppose it.”

  “Look who’s being rigid now. How the hell can you say —”

  “Hai, stop it,” said Vilas. “The play’s the thing – Yezad’s play. Pay attention.”

  “I think it’s a great idea, using this Bombay-Mumbai name tax to motivate Mr. Kapur,” said Bhaskar.

  “Thank you,” said Vilas. “You have to remember, though, it’s not a question of straightforward intimidation. Extracting money is easy. Your assignment is to extract a crusade.”

  “Understood,” said Gautam. “Basically, Mr. Kapur needs to experience an epiphany. So we must convey more than just present danger to him and his shop. We must transcend the here and now, move beyond this bank and shoal of time, and let him glimpse the horrors of a society where the best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”

  The quotations were flying thick and fast as they got down to details: the visit would be in three days, in the morning, when Mr. Kapur would be alone at the shop. Yezad promised to stay away, meeting with the sports director of Don Bosco High School.

  “Perfect,” said Gautam.

  “If I may take the liberty of summarizing,” said Bhaskar, anxious not to lose his audience share. “Our objective is to rekindle Mr. Kapur’s noble urges. We must move him beyond catharsis, beyond pity and terror, to a state of engagement – into the arena of epic realism, where the man of action …”

  Yezad stopped listening. He felt he’d get a headache if they didn’t end their jabbering.

  “You two talk as though theatre is an exact science,” said Vilas.

  “Ah, the Vilasian doctrine of eternal scepticism,” said Gautam. “If Brecht had yielded to such pessimism, where would we be today?”

  “But why make it sound so complicated?” said Vilas. “All we’re doing is deceiving Mr. Kapur for a good purpose.”

  “Well, I’ve told you what the Sh
iv Sainiks are supposed to look like,” said Yezad, getting back to the subject. “And what their demands are. Anything else you need?”

  The actors said they had all their entrances and exits, but they needed more tea.

  Laughing, declining the offer of another cup, Yezad and Vilas left the restaurant while the two continued to argue and debate the future of the theatre.

  “Solid talkers, aren’t they?” said Yezad outside. He gave his hair a vigorous rub, as though to brush away the surfeit of words.

  “Their whole group is like that. Amusing for a few minutes, then unbearable.”

  They halted, having arrived at Bombay Sporting, and Yezad stood gazing at the pavement. “Now what’s wrong?” asked Vilas.

  “I’m not sure. This plot with the actors … I’m thinking of Mr. Kapur’s high blood pressure.”

  “Look, if you have a doubt, I can tell Gautam and Bhaskar to cancel —”

  “No, don’t do that,” said Yezad, kicking an empty cigarette packet over the kerb and into the gutter. “I just hope Gautam and Bhaskar are dependable people.”

  “Dependable they are. My worry is about getting more than we bargained for.”

  Later that week, after his morning meeting with the sports director of Don Bosco High School, Yezad could barely keep from running into Mr. Kapur’s office. But he sat at his desk and pretended to get on with work. Better to let Mr. Kapur come to him with the news.

  He watched the intermittent flash of the red bulb in the window, the rising and falling bat. From the corner of his eye, it was as though some large, prehistoric insect were hovering in the window, while the reindeer acquired a troglodytic aspect. Put cudgels in their hooves and they would look like a bunch of goondas closing in on their victim: the man in red, who had no inkling that his brains were about to be bashed out …

  The hand on his shoulder startled him, interrupting his gory daydream. “What are you so engrossed in?” asked Mr. Kapur.

  “Sorry, didn’t see you – I’m working on the Don Bosco quotation.”

  “Good.” Mr. Kapur toyed with the large manila envelope in his hands, and dropped it on Yezad’s desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your two friends came in the morning.”

  “Friends?”

  “Our friends, I should say – those bastards, Balaji and Gopinath, and their two thin moustaches.” Looking around for the peon, he lowered his voice, “I took them into my office, so they wouldn’t frighten Husain.”

  Then he tapped the envelope he was carrying. “This is for them. I took it from the suitcase – thirty-five thousand.”

  Yezad looked inside briefly, his face registering amazement, horror, and despair in quick succession.

  “Yes, I was also surprised,” said Mr. Kapur. “I didn’t think they would return.”

  “But …” Yezad stood up, his voice shaking. “But that’s crazy! You’re handing over the money, just like that!”

  “Enough lecturing! What are you trying to do, get my throat slit? My shop turned into a pile of ashes?”

  He walked away to his office, and Husain followed with promises of hot tea. “Is something wrong, sahab?”

  “Just business problem, Husain, you don’t worry.”

  The peon went into the storeroom and put the kettle on to make a fresh brew. He called out minutes later, “Chai ready, sahab.”

  “I don’t want any,” answered Mr. Kapur.

  Deflated, Husain returned to his stool in the back and perched upon it like a wounded bird. Mr. Kapur relented in moments.

  The peon carried in the cup and saucer, set it on the desk, and withdrew to linger by the office door. He was attentive to every sound from within: Mr. Kapur blowing on his tea, sipping, exhaling.

  The final sip was signalled by a gurgly slurp, following which Mr. Kapur emerged with the empty cup. His free hand played a tennis stroke, concentrating on the follow-through.

  “Sorry for yelling, Yezad.”

  “That’s okay, I had no business —”

  “Forget it.” Praising Husain for the tea, he beckoned to Yezad to follow him. The peon watched with satisfaction as they went into the office together: things were back to normal, his kettle had done its magic. He took up the duster.

  Its energetic flapping could be heard inside the cubicle, and Mr. Kapur smiled at the sound before continuing, “You think I’m not upset? The idea of being terrorized by these low-lifes, gangsters posing as political parties – it makes me mad!” Then, as though remembering his blood pressure, he passed his hand over his face and added softly, “Sometimes it makes me want to weep.”

  Yezad swallowed. “Don’t take it personally, these people are … you know … not worth it.”

  Mr. Kapur wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead; the air-conditioner was off. True to his word, he hadn’t used it since the day he swore to accept Bombay as she was. “You know what upset me most? Their arrogance: nothing will stand in their way, they seemed to say, now it is their kingdom. They are taking what they want – like a conquering army.”

  He stood up to stretch. “And poor Bombay has no champion to defend her. Unhappy city, that has no heroes.”

  Yezad went to the bathroom, plucked the small mirror off its hook, and brought it to the office. He held it before Mr. Kapur.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you a hero.”

  Mr. Kapur smiled uncertainly.

  Yezad persisted. “A hero who can save Bombay if he runs in the next election.”

  “Are you hounding me again?”

  “Yes, I find it ridiculous, two skinny vegetarians bullying the Bombay Sporting Goods Emporium.”

  “Don’t be fooled by their appearance. Skinny they may be, but these Baji Raos and Bhaji Khaos are descendants of Marathas, tough as nails – tough as that other spinach-eater, Popeye.”

  They laughed a little, and Mr. Kapur continued in a serious tone, “My business friends have dealt with similar situations. They all advise pay up and keep quiet.”

  Yezad stared at the desk, his spirit crushed. The plan had failed. Failed utterly. Nothing left to say or do. He pushed the envelope towards Mr. Kapur – a reminder to put it in a safe place.

  Mr. Kapur slid it back. “Keep it in your drawer till they come to collect.”

  “Better if you gave it yourself.”

  “Bad idea. I might be tempted to spit in their faces.” He picked up the mirror. “Please put this back in the bathroom.”

  Passing it across the desk, he hesitated and called Yezad to his side. “Look.”

  Yezad glanced over his employer’s shoulder: they were both reflected in the mirror.

  “See that?” said Mr. Kapur. “The faces of ordinary family men, not heroes.”

  How dare the actors depart from the agreed-upon plan, demanded Yezad, did they presume to understand Mr. Kapur better than he who had worked with the man for fifteen years? Now they had only succeeded in creating a bigger mess for him, more complication and confusion.

  “Calm down,” said Vilas. “I met Gautam and Bhaskar this morning. They followed our plan to the letter.”

  “So why has Mr. Kapur got the money packed and ready?”

  Vilas patted the step beside him. “Did you expect an instant conversion? An overnight crusade?”

  “I didn’t expect instant capitulation either. One simple request I made to you – lodge a complaint with Shiv Sena about Santa Claus. That was all I wanted, nothing else.”

  “Yes, all you wanted was to play with fire.”

  Yezad looked at him scornfully. “Instead you bring a pair of bloody fake actors. They and their dramatic epiphany! Where is it? Where is Mr. Kapur’s revelation, his clarity of vision?”

  Vilas pretended to check his pockets. Yezad did not laugh.

  “It will take time,” he consoled him. “Only in novels do you get instant results.”

  “As if things weren’t bad enough, now I have to be responsible for that envelope stuffed w
ith thirty-five thousand rupees. I’ve got to keep it safe for two imaginary Shiv Sainiks who will never show up.”

  “Actually, Yezad, the money gives you an excuse to keep reminding Mr. Kapur of his duty. If our two thespians have planted the seed, your prompting could make it grow.”

  “And should I use a stage whisper?” asked Yezad savagely.

  “Don’t be upset. Why not hope for the best?”

  Yezad thumped down the three steps and walked away, his head throbbing. By the time he turned the corner, he felt all his strength had drained from him. He was conscious of dragging his feet. How annoyed his mother used to get when he did it as a child. Don’t walk khassar-khassar, she would scold, lift your feet.

  He realized he was taking the long way to the station, past Wadiaji fire-temple. Well, the walk would do him good. What was the point of rushing home to those two wretched rooms? They would do nothing for his pounding headache, he needed peace and quiet.

  Nearing the fire-temple, he glanced through the gate at the compound, and the little garden at its centre. He found himself envying those able to enjoy the serenity within. So could he, he reminded himself – all he had to do was put on a prayer cap and enter. But it would be dishonest, when he wasn’t religious, hadn’t even said the brief kusti prayers in twenty years. On the other hand, he still wore his sudra – nothing more pleasant against the skin than soft mulmul. And every morning after his bath he did wrap the kusti around his waist, albeit haphazardly. But it was from force of habit. And to keep Roxana happy.

  On the other hand, there was no rule that he had to be religious to enter the fire-temple. The sign said Admittance For Parsis Only – he was one, and entitled to go inside.

  Should he? What would he do, once within its cool, hushed interior? He hesitated at the little sandalwood shop.

  “Hallo, uncle.” A young boy was behind the counter this evening. “Want to buy sukhad, uncle? It’s genuine Malbari.”

  Then Yezad saw the older man on a stool below the level of the counter. Training his son in the business. Would there be a business when the boy became a man, wondered Yezad, the way the Parsis were dwindling in Bombay, and the way people like himself treated the faith? And the sandalwood trees fast disappearing, thanks to bandits and smugglers like Veerappan …