Cyrus Mistry - Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer

‘Of course, Phiroze. Definitely. I’ll be there. Thank you. Thank you so much. .’

‘Don’t thank me yet, Rohinton,’ I cautioned my school friend, as he got up to leave. ‘And have a good night’s sleep. .’

(iii)

When Rohinton rolled by next evening in his red Buick convertible and honked obstreperously outside the khandhias’ quarters, I was ready.

He held the car door open for me, and as I slid into the seat beside him, I saw that a couple of my neighbours had appeared on their balconies to see who it was; among them, Temoo. Very old now and suffering a great deal on account of the growth in his belly, I wondered if seeing me drive away like this at night, in a fancy car, brought back memories for him of similar nights when his wife Rudabeh was driven away in equally swanky cars; and of that one fateful night, when she never returned. I suppose it did. But why am I thinking of that now?

‘Can’t tell you how much this means to me. .as well,’ said Rohinton, driving out of the wrought iron gateway of the Towers of Silence, and taking a sharp right. ‘I mean, apart from what it means to my dad. . Joseph is fourteen years older than me, you know, and I can’t say I ever got to know him well before this visit. He’s a really nice guy though, you should meet him sometime. .’

Then, as an afterthought added, ‘Well, there may not be much time. .’

‘What are the doctors saying?’

‘They don’t give us any hope. It’s only a matter of days now.’

Shops at Kemps Corner were downing their shutters, or were already shut. There were hardly any other cars on the road.

‘He must be in a great deal of pain, then?’ I asked.

‘If he is, he doesn’t show it,’ answered Rohinton. ‘He’s medicated a lot, and dopey sometimes, but still surprisingly cheerful.’

A few hawkers with their baskets could be seen squatting on the pavements as we drove past. A man selling purple grapes, another selling oranges, yet another pineapples; then a balloon seller with a gas cylinder on wheels filling up more balloons to add to a bunch of already inflated ones secured to his wrist with long lengths of string, the whole profusion of colourful gas balloons swaying gustily in a strong breeze as it aspired towards a darkening sky.

A family of street performers was tiredly wending its way home: a man, a woman, two kids and a puppy — you could tell they were performers or acrobats by the paraphernalia they were carrying between them: thin, long wooden poles, metal hoops, sharp skewers and one large cogged wheel whose precise application I had no way of guessing; though it was probably used in some trick the little dog performed.

‘Even in this condition he believes, with complete sincerity, that every suffering we undergo in life is perfectly calibrated to serve as a platform for surmounting specific flaws in one’s own character. .opportunities to polish our spiritual selves, become better persons. .

‘Everyone whose paths we cross — Joseph believes — our partners in life, our friends, all who give us grief or joy or frustration are merely playing out their insensible moves in perfect consonance with a preordained framework of spiritual conflicts and imperatives planned for our growth. “The planet itself is a veritable crucible,”’ said Rohinton, quoting his half-brother, ‘“and our time in it intended to purify weaknesses, purge baser instincts, clarify the soul essence through — how else, but through suffering?” That’s why,’ Rohinton went on, speaking mellifluously as he cruised along, ‘Joseph is so fascinated by the Zoroastrian symbol of fire, a symbol of cleansing and purity. In his hospital suite, he keeps an oil wick burning day and night at his bedside.’

The Buick halted at an intersection. In the stream of cars and buses cutting across us diagonally in the direction of Warden Road raced an ambulance with its bell clanging furiously, recklessly overtaking the slow moving traffic that impeded its progress.

‘I’m only representing to you the conclusions Joseph has come to after all his years of study. Myself, I can’t say I’m sure what I believe.’

‘Well logically speaking, Joseph’s point of view may well be the only one possible to espouse,’ I said. ‘To ensure that all the senseless suffering we see around us doesn’t become. . a desperately paralysing burden. However, whether logical plausibility can be seen as evidence of certainty. .it’s a big leap to take!’

‘Who can say? I guess you and me just don’t have the time to think about these things. Only a philosopher like Joseph has that luxury.’

Meanwhile, a very old, bent and obviously poor woman wearing a faded Koli-style sari hitched loosely between her legs stepped off the pavement and approached our stationary vehicle. She tottered momentarily; then steadying herself, bent a little to peer through the window I was sitting at. She wasn’t a beggar, no; only bent on peering inside out of some sort of curiosity, appraising the interior of the exclusive car we were seated in. But it was not to her taste, for she shook her head from side to side disapprovingly, as though finding something in it deficient. Or she may have been appraising the car’s inmates rather than its decor.

Rohinton’s hand went to his shirt pocket feeling for change to give the old woman, but just then the traffic began to move, and so did we. The charitable impulse was quickly abandoned.

‘I turn left into the next lane, right?’

‘No, no. You better park somewhere outside here. I’ll walk up.’

‘Best of luck, Phiroze.’

(iv)

At this time of evening, the lane that meandered up to my father’s small fire temple was entirely deserted; not a soul about. Though it wasn’t completely dark yet, most houses on both sides of the lane didn’t have any lights on. A solitary street lamp at the end of the footpath threw a sallow, bluish glow on the fire temple’s spacious portico, with its finely hewn, bare stone benches. Evidently, the fire temple had closed for the night.

I went around the temple following a small pathway that led to its rear to my father’s quarters. I had hoped the back entrance would be ajar. No such luck. It was tightly shut; however, I could see that the kitchen light was on.

I knocked. No one answered. There was no sound from inside. Then I knocked again, harder. After a minute the back door opened, cautiously. And my father’s hoarse voice asked:

‘ Kaun ? Vispy?’

‘No, it’s me. Phiroze.’

When he had opened the door wider, he still didn’t step aside to let me in.

‘I thought Vispy had forgotten his key. But it’s you. .why have you come here?’

‘I have something to ask of you, Papa. Something important. A favour.’ I explained. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. I’ve washed myself very carefully before coming here. Including application of taro at all key points of my body, as you taught me.’

When we met at my mother’s funeral, Father himself told me that the nine-day ceremony of purification could be abridged in cases of extreme emergency, and what procedure to follow in such cases.

‘But what was so urgent? Now, at this time of the night. .? Is there some problem, son? Come on, come in.’

In that instant, I saw something in his eyes, or imagined it: a flicker of warmth that made me want to embrace my father— but I’m glad I held myself back; for as I entered he stepped aside, rather deliberately, ensuring no physical contact was made between us. I stood there sheepishly, looking around my mother’s kitchen, which was as it had always been: only dustier, more cluttered and, overall, gloomier than I remembered it. My father and I remained standing just within the doorway.

‘You’re alone, Papa? Where’s Vispy?’