Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Don’t be silly, blood does not bother me.’ Something in his voice warned that jokes would not be tolerated. ‘It was a great shock. I know that man on the Lambretta. He helped me when I fell from the bus. You remember my accident?’

‘Of course. But I thought it was that Major who—’

‘Yes, yes, that was later. This man was the taxi-driver, who took care of me and Sohrab, brought us home. Did not even charge for it.’ He looked up at the fan. ‘For nine years I have waited to thank him. Then I see him flying through the air and smashing his head.’ The coffees arrived, and the platter of samosas. ‘Just the other night I was thinking about him. Coincidence? Or what? Today it was my turn to help him and I failed. It was like a test set by God, and I failed the test.’

‘ Arré, nonsense. It was not your fault that you became sick.’ Dinshawji added three spoons of sugar to his coffee and bit into a samosa. ‘Come on, eat, you will feel better.’ He pulled Gustad’s coffee over, added two spoons of sugar, stirred, and slid it back towards him. ‘So what about the Major? You found out where he disappeared?’ The samosa was crisp; he ate it noisily. A layer of oily crust unfurled from its apex and dropped into his saucer.

‘No.’

‘Maybe he ran away to rejoin the army,’ joked Dinshawji, conveying the crusty segments to his mouth. ‘You think there will be war with Pakistan?’

Gustad shrugged.

‘Have you seen all the pictures in the newspaper? Bloody butchers, slaughtering left and right. And look at the whole world, completely relaxed, doing nothing. Where is maader chod America now? Not saying one word. Otherwise, if Russia even belches, America protests at the UN. Let Kosygin fart, and America moves a motion in the Security Council.’

Gustad laughed feebly.

‘No one cares because these are poor Bengalis. And that chootia Nixon, licking his way up into Pakistan’s arsehole.’

‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. ‘Pakistan is very important to America, because of Russia.’

‘But why?’

Gustad illustrated the geopolitical reality. ‘Look, this samosa plate is Russia. And next to it, my cup — Afghanistan. Very friendly with Russia, right? Now put your cup beside it, that’s Pakistan. But what is south of Pakistan?’

‘Nothing,’ said Dinshawji. ‘You need another cup?’

‘No, nothing south of Pakistan, only the sea. And that’s why America is so afraid. If Pakistan ever becomes Russia’s friend, then Russia’s road to the Indian Ocean is clear.’

‘Ah,’ said Dinshawji. ‘And then America’s two little golaas are in Russian hands.’ He liked the all-clarifying testicular metaphor. ‘To protect their soft golaas, they don’t care even if six million Bengalis are murdered, long as Pakistan is kept happy.’ The waiter left the bill on the table. ‘My treat, my treat,’ insisted Dinshawji, keeping the little scribbled chit in his outstretched arm to dodge Gustad’s reach as they made their way to the cashier.

Outside, the sunlight was harsh, and the two quickened their steps. The lunch-hour had almost ended when they entered the bank building; Laurie Coutino was preparing to resume work. ‘Cannot bear this agony, yaar, ’ whispered Dinshawji. ‘What a body! Ahahaha! Sugar and cream! What fun it would be to give her a mutton injection.’

Mention of sweet cream made Gustad’s hungry stomach rumble, reminding him of the saucer he used to have every morning, with crusty broon bread, as a boy. Mamma would skim it off the top of the milk, after it was boiled and cooled. Nowadays, the bhaiya ’s milk was of such poor quality that no amount of boiling and cooling could produce anything worthy of the name of cream.

The stench was strong along the black wall as Gustad returned home from work. Ignorant people will never understand the wall is not a public latrine, he thought. He flung his hands about his head to ward off the flies and mosquitoes. And it wasn’t even the mosquito season yet.

He opened the door with his latchkey and confronted Dilnavaz’s stern look. ‘One after the other, your sons make trouble,’ she said.

‘Now what?’

‘Mr. Rabadi was here. Complaining that Darius is after his daughter, that it looks very bad in the building.’

‘My son after that idiot’s ugly little fatty? Rubbish.’

The feud between Gustad and Mr. Rabadi went back several years. Mr. Rabadi once owned what he liked to consider a great slavering brute of a dog: Tiger, a cross between Alsatian and Labrador. Tiger was very friendly, and quite harmless, but Mr. Rabadi had created a menacing aura around him. He dressed him in collars that sprouted threatening studs and spikes, took him for walks on the end of a massive chain instead of a regular leash, and armed himself with a stout stick, purportedly to discipline the brute should he get unruly. While the master brandished his daunting paraphernalia, the portly Tiger plodded placidly beside him, gentle and at peace with the world.

Early in the morning and late at night, Mr. Rabadi used to walk Tiger in the compound. Tiger would scratch and sniff in search of a suitable spot, usually selecting Gustad’s vinca and subjo bushes, of which he had grown quite fond. Being a large dog, his deposits were copious and rather malodorous, and sat in the bushes till the kuchrawalli came next morning to sweep the compound. Gustad repeatedly requested Mr. Rabadi not to let the dog go in the bushes, but the latter countered that it was not possible to control a big, powerful animal like Tiger. And in any case, asked Mr. Rabadi, how would Gustad feel if someone dragged him out of the WC when he wanted to go?

So the quarrels and retaliations continued. Once, at night, when Gustad saw the two outside in the bushes, he opened the window and emptied a bucket of cold water, drenching them both. ‘Oh! So sorry,’ he said with a straight face. ‘I was just watering my plants.’ Tiger seemed to enjoy the ducking. He barked and wagged his tail, but Mr. Rabadi stormed off shouting threats into the night, while the sound of laughter floated earthwards from various windows in the building.

By the time he was seven, Tiger had grown obese and inactive. The short walk in the compound was enough to drain him, and it took much encouragement to get him huffing and puffing back up the stairs. One morning, however, something got into his head and he bolted. Despite his corpulence, he did seven tearing laps round the compound, one for each year of his short life, before Mr. Rabadi was able to stop him. But the strain must have been excessive for Tiger’s unaccustomed heart. He expired that day with the setting sun, and Mr. Rabadi promptly made an appointment with Dustoorji Baria, to seek an explanation for the strange death of Tiger the dog.

Dustoorji Baria prayed all day at the fire-temple except for the two hours spent each morning dispensing advice to people like Mr. Rabadi. Unburdened of his normal priestly duties because he was getting on in years, he used the spare time to cement his relationship with his contact Up There who, he claimed, was the source of his divinations.

Dustoorji Baria gave advice freely and unstintingly; no situation was out of his realm. In a matter of moments he revealed why Tiger’s death had to come the way it did. But more importantly, he gave precise instructions to Mr. Rabadi regarding his next dog: it must be white in colour, he said, and female, weighing no more than thirty pounds, standing no taller than two feet; and Mr. Rabadi could give it any name so long as it began with the fourth letter of the alphabet. He also prescribed a tandarosti prayer for the dog’s health, to be recited on certain days of the month.