Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘The bell will be pulled for the next stop only. If you stay, buy a ticket. Or—’ he pointed to the exit.

Gustad eyed the bell rope: what if he made a grab for it? The conductor would try to stop him, and a physical confrontation would result. He knew he would acquit himself admirably in a fair fight, but it would be unsuitable in front of Sohrab. And there had been instances when conductors had smashed their metal ticket boxes over a passenger’s head if things were not going their way in a brawl. He tried one more time to reason. ‘You want us to get down in the middle of the road and kill ourselves or what?’

‘Nobody is going to die,’ said the conductor scornfully. ‘Everything is completely stopped, look.’

The bus was at a standstill in the middle lane, and cars everywhere had come to a halt. ‘Come on, Daddy,’ said Sohrab. He had been embarrassed by the exchange. ‘It’s easy to go now.’ The other passengers, bored in the frozen traffic, had been following the exchange interestedly. They watched with disappointment as the two made their way down the aisle.

The bus jerked forward at the very moment that Sohrab stepped off. He lost his balance on the asphalt, slick and treacherous with rain, and fell. Gustad yelled, ‘Stop!’ and leapt from the moving bus.

In that split second between witnessing and leaping, he realized he could either land on his feet or save his son. He aimed for Sohrab with his feet and kicked him out of the path of an oncoming taxi. His left hip took the brunt of the fall. He heard the sickening crunch. The smell of diesel fumes was strong in his nostrils as he blacked out.

The taxi-driver slammed on his brakes inches from Gustad. People from the footpath ran to where he lay. A small crowd gathered.

‘Lay him out comfortably,’ said one.

‘Needs water, he has fainted,’ said another. Gustad could hear their voices, and felt as if someone was pushing him back, keeping him from rising.

The taxi-driver asked his passengers to leave. They protested, then departed hurriedly when they realized they would not have to pay what was on the meter. Someone called for the water-seller across the road. The peculiar street sound carried well over other noises, a mixture of hissing, aspirating and susurrating. ‘Hss-sst-sst-sst! Paaniwalla!’ The man crossed the road at a trot with his bucket and glasses. Gustad’s forehead was bathed, although his entire face was already wet with rain. Perhaps they felt that water colder than rain was required to revive the fallen man.

He opened his eyes. A second glass was filled and held to his lips, but he would not drink. The water-seller emptied it on the road and said, to no one in particular, ‘Two glasses, twenty naye paise.’

‘What?’ said the taxi-driver, ‘You have no shame? You can’t see the man has had a serious accident, he is in pain, fainting?’

‘I am a poor man,’ said the water-seller, ‘I have children to feed.’ He had a large purple mark on one side of his face, and a high-pitched voice with an irritating whine.

The crowd took sides in the argument. Some said the heartless scoundrel should be driven away with a kick, while others saw his point. Determined not to be done out of his only sale all day, he spoke up again. ‘The man has had an accident. So? He will pay the ambulance and the doctor and the hospital, to get mended. Why should I be the only one left out? What is my sin that I don’t get my twenty naye paise?’

‘ Theek hai! Theek hai !’ agreed the crowd. More were swayed to his side. Then Sohrab pulled a rupee out of the seven he had received that morning. Gustad wanted to say something to him about counting the change carefully, but could not produce the words. The paaniwalla left with his bucket and glasses, grumbling under his breath. In the rain, his high-pitched whining voice took up the futile cry. ‘Ice-cold paani, sweet-sweet paani!’

Attention focused again upon Gustad. The taxi-driver offered to take him to a doctor or to hospital. But Gustad was able to whisper, ‘Khodadad Building,’ before almost passing out again. He remembered vividly what a kind man the taxi-driver turned out to be. He took charge of things calmly, cheering up Sohrab who was frightened and on the verge of tears now. ‘We’ll soon be there, don’t worry, traffic cannot stand here for ever.’ He asked him about his school, his studies, what standard he was in, and kept up a steady conversation till they reached Khodadad Building.

Major Bilimoria was at home, and he came immediately on hearing the news. He told Dilnavaz about Madhiwalla Bonesetter. ‘Take him to a regular hospital like Parsi General, and all you will get is regular treatment. Or regular ill-treatment, depending on Gustad’s luck.’ He chuckled.

Dilnavaz imagined the Major had seen many gory injuries in the army, it was natural for him not to be worried. He continued, ‘They love to use their chisels and saws and hammers and nails in the hospitals. And after their carpentry is done, they give you a big fat bill because their tools are so expensive.’ Gustad heard him through his pain, and found the risible descriptions very reassuring. He knew it would be all right now, Jimmy would look after everything. ‘With Madhiwalla Bonesetter there is no operation, no pins, no cast, nothing. No bill even, except whatever donation you want to give. And the Bonesetter’s methods are amazing, I am a living witness. Sometimes, the army surgeons called him to help with difficult cases. The things he did were just like magic.’

It was decided. Using the same taxi, they proceeded to the large hall where Madhiwalla Bonesetter was in attendance that day. The taxi-driver refused his fare. ‘I don’t want profit from your pain,’ he said.

Then Jimmy picked Gustad up in his arms like a baby and carried him inside. Jimmy was one of the few who was his equal in strength, as they had found out over the years during their bouts of arm-wrestling.

Jimmy waited by his side till Madhiwalla Bonesetter attended to him. Later, he brought the two long, heavy sandbags that the Bonesetter had insisted on for Gustad, to immobilize the leg while the fracture healed.

What would I have done that day without Jimmy, he wondered. But then, that was the amazing thing about him, he was always there when needed — call it coincidence, call it friendship, that was Jimmy’s way.

Gustad rubbed his eyes and opened them. His mouth was dry. He reached for the glass of rum-beer, then remembered it had been emptied earlier. He rose, raised high the wick of the kerosene lamp, and carried the light to his desk. For the thousandth time, his heart filled with gratitude for Jimmy Bilimoria. If it hadn’t been for Jimmy’s taking him to Madhiwalla Bonesetter, he would be a complete cripple today. Instead, here he was, without crutches or stick, or the terrible heaving-swaying walk of Tehmul-Lungraa.

He opened the wider of the two drawers to rummage for writing-paper. His limp was more pronounced than usual. Despite the years since the accident, Gustad had not fully accepted that it was his strength of spirit as much as Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s miracle cure that had tamed his limp — suppressed it, kept it at an ignorable minimum.

He found an uncrumpled sheet, and tried a ballpoint on his palm: he disliked the difference in ink colour if a pen reneged in mid-letter. Then he changed his mind and opened the desk cabinet.

The ancient learned smell of books and bindings came again. He breathed it in deeply. The box of nibs lay on its side where it had tumbled earlier. He opened it and selected one after scratching the points of several against his left thumbnail. He found a holder, fitted the nib, and uncapped the bottle of Camel Royal Blue.