Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Take me to the kitchen,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘Candles and the kerosene lamp will at least let us finish eating.’

While she busied herself, Gustad went to the window. He spied a figure in the compound whose walk was unmistakable. ‘Tehmul! Tehmul! Over here, ground floor.’

‘GustadGustadGustadalldarkandblack.’

‘Yes, Tehmul. The whole building is dark?’

‘Yesyeswholebuildingdarkeverythingdark. Blackroadlights. DarkeverythingdarkGustad. Darkdarkdarkdark.’

Dinshawji came to the window, trying to follow the exchange. ‘OK, Tehmul,’ said Gustad. ‘Be careful, don’t fall.’

Dilnavaz lit the kerosene lamp, which was not enough to brighten the entire room. But the table looked very warm and inviting. ‘With the black paper everywhere, even starlight and moonlight is blocked out,’ she said, to no one in particular.

‘Was that a mouth or the Deccan Express?’ asked Dinshawji. ‘You understood anything?’

Gustad laughed. ‘That’s our one and only Tehmul-Lungraa. Takes a little practice to understand. Anyway, we don’t have to check the fuse. Whole neighbourhood is blacked out, nothing to do but wait.’

‘Do not wait,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Or you’ll be late, just fill your plate.’

‘One poem after another! You are in good form tonight, Dinshawji,’ said Gustad. ‘We will have to call you Poet Laureate from now on.’

‘Laureate-baureate nothing, I am a son of Mother India. Call me Kavi Kamaal, the Indian Tennyson!’ He grabbed the torch from Gustad and held it under his chin. The light cast an eerie glow over his sallow complexion. He hunched up his shoulders and began to prowl like a spectre around the table, reciting in an unearthly voice that emerged from a death mask:

Gho-o-osts to right of them,

Gho-o-osts to left of them,

Gho-o-osts in front of them,

Hungry and thirsty!

Everyone cheered and clapped except Dilnavaz who was now frantic about the food getting cold. Dinshawji took a bow and handed the torch back to Gustad. Flushed with success and inspiration, he declaimed, ‘Though dark is the night, please take no fright, we shall eat by candlelight. Or kerosene light.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Gustad. ‘But light or no light, I have one more wish to make. For Sohrab, my son, my eldest: to you, good luck, good health, and may you do brilliantly at IIT. Make us all very proud of you.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried Dinshawji. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow! For he’s a jolly good fellow!’ Everyone joined in, and the singing got louder and louder. They did not hear Sohrab saying ‘Stop it’ till he repeated with a shout, over the singing, ‘STOP IT!’

The voices ceased abruptly, in mid-melody. Their features frozen, everyone looked at Sohrab. He sat staring angrily at his plate. The candles cast nervous shadows that shivered or yawed wildly when the flames were disturbed by breathing.

‘Food is getting really cold,’ said Dilnavaz, although it was the last thing she cared about now.

‘Yes, we will eat,’ said Gustad, ‘but,’ to Sohrab, ‘what is the matter suddenly?’

‘It’s not suddenly. I’m sick and tired of IIT, IIT, IIT all the time. I’m not interested in it, I’m not a jolly good fellow about it, and I’m not going there.’

Gustad sighed. ‘I told you not to drink the rum. It has upset you.’

Sohrab looked up scornfully. ‘Fool yourself if you want to. I’m not going to IIT anyway.’

‘Such brainless talk from such a brainy boy. How is it possible, I ask you,’ he said, turning to Dinshawji. ‘And why, after studying so hard for it?’ Dilnavaz moved the dishes around, picked up serving spoons and set them down again. But the comforting clatter of crockery and cutlery was powerless to restore normalcy. Gustad silenced her with a wave of his hand. ‘Say why. Becoming mute helps nothing.’ He paused, more bewildered than angry. ‘OK, I understand your silence. This is a birthday dinner, not the right time for discussion. Tomorrow we will talk.’

‘Why can’t you just accept it? IIT does not interest me. It was never my idea, you made all the plans. I told you I am going to change to the arts programme, I like my college, and all my friends here.’

Gustad could contain himself no longer. ‘Friends? Friends? Don’t talk to me of friends! If you have good reasons, I will listen. But don’t say friends! You must be blind if you cannot see my own example and learn from it.’ He stopped and stroked Roshan’s hair as though to reassure her about something. ‘What happened to the great friend Jimmy Bilimoria? Our Major Uncle? Where is he now, who used to come here all the time? Who used to eat with us and drink with us? Who I treated like my brother? Gone! Disappeared! Without saying a word to us. That’s friendship. Worthless and meaningless!’

Dinshawji squirmed uncomfortably, and Gustad added gruffly, ‘Present company excepted, of course. Chaalo, the stew was very tasty. Chicken is next. Come on, Dinshawji. Come on, Roshan.’

‘Gentlemen first! This time gentlemen first!’ said Dinshawji, doing his best to dispel the gloom. ‘Let’s play fair, fair ladies.’ But no one laughed, not even Darius. Silence, for the most part, governed the remainder of the meal.

Dinshawji found the wishbone and offered to break it with someone, but there were no volunteers. Embarrassed, Gustad took hold of one end. They pulled and wrenched and fumbled with the greasy bone till it snapped. Gustad’s was the shorter piece.

The solitary guest departed, and Gustad locked the door for the night. Of the nine chicken portions, six remained in the dish. ‘Now you are satisfied,’ he said, ‘ruining your sister’s birthday. No one even felt like eating anything.’

‘You brought the live chicken home and killed it and made us feel sick at the table,’ said Sohrab. ‘Don’t blame me for your stupidity.’

‘Stupidity? Bay-sharam ! You are speaking to your father!’

‘No quarrels on a birthday,’ said Dilnavaz, half-cajoling, half-warning. ‘That’s a strict rule in our house.’

‘I know I am speaking to my father. But my father does not want to know the truth when he hears it.’

‘Truth? First suffer like your parents have, then talk about truth! I never had my college fees paid for me, I had to earn them. And study late at night with an oil lamp like that one, with the wick very low, to save—’

‘You’ve told us that story a hundred times,’ said Sohrab.

‘Roshan!’ Gustad’s hands were shaking. ‘Bring my belt! The thick brown leather one! I will teach this brother of yours a lesson in respect! He thinks he is all grown up now! His chaamray-chaamra I will peel off! Till not one inch of skin is left on him!’

Roshan stood still, her eyes wide with fear. Dilnavaz motioned to her to stay where she was. When the boys were little, she was often afraid that Gustad, with his immense strength, might do them grave injury while meting out the punishment that a father was supposed to, though afterwards it only made him feel wretchedly remorseful. She hoped Sohrab would remain quiet so that the threat could fade away.

But he would not back down. ‘Go, bring the belt. I’m not scared of him or anything.’

Seeing that Roshan would not move, Gustad went himself. He returned with his instrument of retribution hanging over his shoulder, whose mention alone used to fill the boys with fear when they were little. He was panting with rage. ‘Say, now, whatever you want to say! Let us hear your chenchi if you still have the courage!’

‘I’ve already said everything. If you didn’t hear, I can repeat it.’