Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

Biting into his omelette sandwich, he reminded Gustad about lunch. ‘Forget it,’ said Gustad. ‘I’m not eating today.’

Much as Dinshawji enjoyed the canteen, he decided to stick by his friend. ‘Sandwich? Half?’ He held out his packet.

Gustad said no with his hand. ‘Going for a walk.’

‘I’ll also come. I can eat walking-walking. Good for stomach and digestion.’

On the way out they passed the new typist, Laurie Coutino, daintily raising spoonfuls of gravy-covered rice to her mouth. Laurie Coutino’s person was as impeccably ordered as her desk, with everything in its proper place. She did not like the canteen, and for lunch, her stationery was moved neatly to one side, making room for her napkin and tiffin. Her tongue snaked out and retrieved an errant grain of rice as the two went by.

‘What a sweetie,’ whispered Dinshawji. Her legs were crossed, and the short skirt had hiked up a fair but controlled distance. ‘Oooh!’ he moaned softly. ‘Cannot bear this pain! Just cannot bear it! Have to get an intro with her soon.’ He put his hand in his pocket and bunched it towards the groin, all part of the role he liked to play, ever the active candidate or, as the chaps called him, much to his delight, the Casanova of Flora Fountain.

They emerged under the hot sun, stepping out of the path of a tardy dubbawalla weaving through the crowds at a jog, his crate of lunch-boxes balanced on his head. A gust of wind picked up the sweat streaming down his face and sent it in their direction. Dinshawji instinctively shielded his packet of sandwiches. Exchanging looks of disgust, they wiped the salt spray from their cheeks with white handkerchiefs.

‘This is nothing,’ said Dinshawji. ‘One day I had to take the train around eleven o’clock. You ever did that?’

‘You know I never take the train.’

‘It’s the time of dubbawallas. They are supposed to use only the luggage van, but some got in the passenger compartments. Jam-packed, and what a smell of sweat. Toba, toba ! I began to feel something wet on my shirt. And guess what it was. A dubbawalla. Standing over me, holding the railing. It was falling from his naked armpit: tapuck-tapuck-tapuck, his sweat. I said nicely, “Please move a little, my shirt is wetting, meherbani. ” But no kothaa, as if I was not there. Then my brain really went. I shouted, “You! Are you animal or human, look what you are doing!” I got up to show him the wet. And guess what he did. Just take a guess.’

‘What?’

‘He turned and slipped into my seat! Insult to injury! What to do with such low-class people? No manners, no sense, nothing. And you know who is responsible for this attitude — that bastard Shiv Sena leader who worships Hitler and Mussolini. He and his “Maharashtra for Maharashtrians” nonsense. They won’t stop till they have complete Maratha Raj.’

Dinshawji’s narration had brought them to the main intersection of Flora Fountain, where the great traffic circle radiated five roads like giant pulsating tentacles. Cars were pulling out from inside the traffic island and recklessly leaping into the flow. The BEST buses, red and double-deckered, careened dangerously around the circle on their way to Colaba. Intrepid handcarts, fueled by muscle and bone, competed temerariously against the best that steel, petrol and vulcanized rubber threw in their paths. With the dead fountain at its still centre, the traffic circle lay like a great motionless wheel, while around it whirled the business of the city on its buzzing, humming, honking, complaining, screeching, rattling, banging, screaming, throbbing, rumbling, grumbling, sighing, never-ending journey through the metropolis.

Dinshawji and Gustad decided to walk down Vir Nariman Road. At the corner a pavement artist sat cross-legged beside his crayon drawings of gods and goddesses. He got up now and then to collect the coins left by devotees. Gustad pointed to the dry fountain. ‘For the last twenty-four years, you can count on your fingers the number of days there was water.’

‘Wait till the Marathas take over, then we will have real Gandoo Raj,’ said Dinshawji. ‘All they know is to have rallies at Shivaji Park, shout slogans, make threats, and change road names.’ He suddenly worked himself into a real rage; there was genuine grief in his soul. ‘Why change the names? Saala sisterfuckers! Hutatma Chowk!’ He spat out the words disgustedly. ‘What is wrong with Flora Fountain?’

‘Why worry about it? I say, if it keeps the Marathas happy, give them a few roads to rename. Keep them occupied. What’s in a name?’

‘No, Gustad.’ Dinshawji was very serious. ‘You are wrong. Names are so important. I grew up on Lamington Road. But it has disappeared, in its place is Dadasaheb Bhadkhamkar Marg. My school was on Carnac Road. Now suddenly it’s on Lokmanya Tilak Marg. I live at Sleater Road. Soon that will also disappear. My whole life I have come to work at Flora Fountain. And one fine day the name changes. So what happens to the life I have lived? Was I living the wrong life, with all the wrong names? Will I get a second chance to live it all again, with these new names? Tell me what happens to my life. Rubbed out, just like that? Tell me!’

It occurred to Gustad he had been doing his friend a grave injustice all these years, regarding him merely as a joker. A friend too, yes, but a clown and joker none the less. ‘You shouldn’t let it bother you so much, Dinshu,’ he said. Never having had to deal with a Dinshawji who spoke of metaphysical matters, the affectionate diminutive was the best he could do, and he wondered what else to say. But the next moment, a man on a Lambretta, travelling down Vir Nariman Road, was hit by a car going in the opposite direction, and the subject of names was forgotten.

‘O my God!’ said Dinshawji, as the man flew over the handlebars and landed beside the pavement, not too far from them. A trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. Pedestrians and shopkeepers rushed to his assistance. Dinshawji wanted to go, too, but Gustad could not budge. Overcome by nausea and dizziness, he held on to Dinshawji’s arm.

Meanwhile, the car had driven away. People were asking if anyone saw the licence plate. The policeman from the traffic circle came to take charge. ‘Six inches closer,’ said Dinshawji, ‘and his skull would have cracked like a coconut. Lucky he landed in the gutter. What is it, Gustad? Why so pale?’

Gustad swayed, and put his hand to his mouth as his insides heaved. Dinshawji quickly diagnosed the condition. ‘Tut-tut. No lunch is the problem,’ he chided. ‘An empty stomach is not good to see blood. That’s why soldiers are always fed well before a battle.’ He marched him off to the restaurant at the corner.

It was cooler inside. They selected a table under a fan, and Gustad wiped the cold sweat from his brow. ‘Better?’ asked Dinshawji. Gustad nodded. The tables were covered with glass under which a one-page menu lay open to scrutiny. The glass was smeared and blotchy, but it magnified the menu. Gustad rested his bare forearms on the table, enjoying the cool surface. The thuuck-thuck, thuuck-thuck, thuuck-thuck of the slow-turning ceiling fan was soothing. Pungent odours wafted streetwards from the kitchen. On the wall behind the cashier was a handwritten sign: Spitting or Playing Satta Prohibited. Another sign, also handwritten, said: Trust in God — Rice Plate Always Ready.

‘What fun it would be to take Laurie Coutino to the upper level,’ said Dinshawji, pointing to the air-conditioned mezzanine with private rooms. ‘Money well spent.’ The waiter came with a wet rag in one hand and two water glasses in the other. He held them by the rims, his fingers immersed. They lifted their arms off the table while he rubbed briskly. Now a disagreeable odour, sour and fusty, lingered over the table. Dinshawji ordered. ‘One plate mutton samosas. With chutney. And two Nescafé.’ He raised the glass to his lips. Then the waiter’s fingerprints along the rim reminded him of the way it had been carried, and he lowered it without drinking. ‘Well, Gustad. All these years I knew you, I did not know blood could make you sick.’