Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Not now, Tehmul,’ said Gustad. ‘I’m busy.’ Probably some rubbish that had been foisted on the poor fellow, he assumed, remembering the time the Shiv Sena had recruited him to distribute racist pamphlets aimed against minorities in Bombay. They had promised him a Kwality Choc-O-Bar if he did a good job. Gustad, returning from the bank, saw him, on the verge of being beaten up by a group of outraged South Indians who worked in the office building down the road. Gustad tried to explain, but they perceived him as the enemy too, for defending a Shiv Sena agent. Fortunately, Inspector Bamji was driving home to Khodadad Building from the police station. He stopped his Landmaster when he saw Gustad and Tehmul surrounded, and blew his horn. The crowd glimpsed the uniform and started to disperse before Inspector Bamji stepped out. Afterwards, Gustad had cautioned Tehmul not to accept things from strangers.

He spoke patiently, gently, to allay Tehmul’s perpetual agitation. ‘Come back in half an hour. Then we will read what you have.’ Somebody had to look after God’s unfortunate ones.

‘PleaseGustadplease. Readpetitionpleaseplease.’ He followed them to Miss Kutpitia’s stairway entrance. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, gazing forlornly after them.

On the second floor, the cover of the peephole slid up and an eye stared out unblinkingly. ‘Gustad Noble, for telephone.’ He spoke loudly to the eye, making dialling gestures with the right hand and holding the other like a receiver to his ear. The eye disappeared, and the sound of turning latches and withdrawing bolts echoed sharply in the corridor as the door opened.

Without much subtlety, he tried to peer off the hallway but the rooms were locked or in darkness. She reprimanded him sharply. ‘The telephone is right over here.’ From the bunch that hung around her neck, she selected a key and unlocked the clasp immobilizing the receiver. He dialled the convent’s number off Sister Constance’s note. On top of the telephone directory lay his rose. Miss Kutpitia waited while he made arrangements, and said, ‘Thirty paise,’ when he hung up.

‘Of course, of course.’ He dug placatingly in his pocket.

‘And take your rose with you when you leave.’

‘That’s for—’

‘All this pretence with a rose no one needs.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Just remember one thing.’ A trembling finger, skinny and fragile, pointed. The sight of it made him remorseful. ‘Old age and sorrow comes to everyone some day,’ she said. Her words made the passing of time into a terrible curse.

He penitently held out the thirty paise. ‘Thank you for letting me phone.’ His face felt hot as he heard, ringing in his ears, his voice shouting at her on the night of the dinner party.

When Miss Kutpitia spoke again, the sharpness was absent. ‘Wait, Roshan.’ She hefted up a large pile of newspapers. ‘I heard you want these for school.’

‘Thank you,’ said Roshan, staggering under the weight.

‘And you will show me your dolly, when she comes home?’ Roshan nodded. ‘Bye-bye,’ said Miss Kutpitia.

‘Bye-bye,’ said Roshan.

Gustad relieved her of the stack as they descended. Outside, Tehmul had disappeared, but the quiet of the compound was suddenly broken. They looked up and saw Cavasji at his second-floor window. ‘To the Tatas You give so much! And nothing for me? To the Wadias You give, You keep on giving! You cannot hear my prayers? The pockets of the Camas only You will fill! We others don’t need it, You think?’

Cavasji was in his late eighties. He had the habit of leaning his ancient white-maned head out the window to reprimand the sky and register his displeasure with the Almighty’s grossly inequitable way of running the universe. Demand for Gustad’s medicinal subjo from Cavasji’s household was constant, for Cavasji suffered from hypertension. Every day, his daughter-in-law fastened a fresh sprig of the mint on a string around his neck. As long as it dangled green and protective, his blood-pressure would not explode like his rage.

The window slammed shut, cutting short the skyward progress of Cavasji’s cosmic criticisms, and Gustad lowered his gaze. He glanced at the topmost page in Miss Kutpitia’s yellowed, dusty stack of newspapers. A photograph under the headlines was fleetingly illumined by light from a neighbour’s window. He saw the huge cloud of an explosion, and then the dateline. My God—1945. Saving papers for this long?

The next day, Tehmul-Lungraa shuffled up as Gustad stepped out to pay the taxi-driver. ‘GustadGustadwaitpleasewait.’ The sheaf of pages was again under his arm.

Gustad decided to use the stern approach; it was good for Tehmul once in a while. ‘What is this nonsense? All the time in the compound? Do something useful. Sweep the floor, wash the dishes, help your brother.’

‘GustadGustadnotwasting. Timeveryimportantpetitionplease. PleasereadGustadplease.’

‘You were going to bring it last night. What happened?’

‘ForgotforgotGustadforgot. Veryverysorryforgot.’

The taxi-driver got impatient. ‘First remove your memsahib, then talk all day if you like.’ Gustad reached into the rear. He cradled the doll in full bridal array, and it responded with a mama-ing bleat. The blue eyes rolled open and shut.

‘Ohhhhh,’ said Tehmul. ‘Ohhhhh. Gustadpleasepleaseplease. CanItouchcanItouchpleasepleaseplease.’

‘Fingers far away,’ said Gustad sternly. ‘Just looking is allowed. Or you will dirty the white-as-milk dress.’

Tehmul rubbed his palms briskly on his shirt front, then held them out. ‘SeeGustadseeclean. Cleanverycleanhands. PleaseGustadpleasepleasepleaseletmetouch.’ Gustad examined the hands. No harm in satisfying the poor fellow’s urge.

‘OK. But once only.’ Tehmul was thrilled. He stepped closer and stood on tiptoe. His eyes shining, he gazed upon the doll’s face and gently stroked the little fingers. ‘Enough.’

‘PleasepleaseGustadpleaseonemoretime.’ This time he petted the cheek, very lightly, and paused. ‘GustadGustad,’ he said, and petted it again. ‘Ohhhhh.’ His eyes filled with tears. He looked from the doll’s sleeping face to Gustad’s, and back, then burst into sobs and hobbled away. Gustad went inside, shaking his head sadly. He sat the doll in his armchair and adjusted the long wedding dress, straightened the tiara, smoothed the veil.

‘Daddy!’ Roshan came running from the back room and tried to lift the doll.

‘What is this, no hug for me? Only for the doll?’ She put her arms around him briefly, then ran back to the doll. ‘Careful, it’s too big for you to carry.’

‘All these expensive white clothes,’ said Dilnavaz fretfully. ‘They will get dirty.’

‘So silly, to make it that big,’ said Gustad, as Roshan climbed on to the deep, commodious seat of her great-grandfather’s chair and sat beside the doll. ‘How can any child play with such a big doll?’

‘Maybe when she grows a little bigger.’

‘Bigger? Already she is past the age for dolls. And in the meantime what? It cannot stay here.’

Dilnavaz said that what was needed was some kind of showcase in which it could stand, for this doll was not a toy. ‘For now,’ she said, ‘put it flat on the bottom shelf in my cupboard.’ Roshan did not like the idea at all, even though they convinced her it was only temporary. The doll would not fit on the shelf, however, clad in its voluminous garments, especially the enormous hoop petticoat. It would have to be undressed. The doorbell rang while they debated. Dilnavaz looked through the peephole. ‘It’s that idiot. Send him away.’

Gustad opened the door, and saw that Tehmul’s eyes were dry. ‘GustadGustadpleaseimportantpetition.’ He spied the doll on the chair. ‘Ohhhh,’ he said. ‘Gustadpleasepleasetouchonceonly.’