Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘No!’ snapped Roshan, to everyone’s surprise.

‘Roshan.’ That was Gustad, warningly. Then to Tehmul, ‘How much touching do you want? You touched it so much in the compound. And then you will start crying again.’

‘Crying? Why crying?’ asked Dilnavaz.

‘PleaseGustadpleasenocrying. PromisepleasecanItouch.’

Gustad gave in, and Tehmul immediately slipped his hand under the veil. He looked into the doll’s blue eyes, petted the cheek, stroked the red lipsticked lips and laughed gleefully.

‘OK, Tehmul, that’s enough. Let’s read the petition.’ Tehmul touched those smooth, cold cheeks of plaster one last time before Gustad led him firmly to the dining-table. The petition was the landlord’s response to the municipality, detailing hardships that would be imposed on the tenants if the compound was narrowed. In a covering letter, the landlord urged the tenants to attest their signatures to the petition, thereby registering their objection to the scheme and joining forces to defeat the pernicious proposition.

Dilnavaz began undressing the doll. First she removed the veil and tiara, next the little bouquet tied cleverly to the hand to create the illusion that the doll’s fingers were holding it. The pearl necklace, shoes, stockings, came off one by one, as Tehmul watched, fascinated. When she started to unbutton the dress, he became quite restless.

‘OK Tehmul, pay attention,’ said Gustad. ‘You know what to do with this?’ But Tehmul was engrossed in the undressing of the doll. Dilnavaz was down to the underclothing when a trickle of saliva started its descent from one corner of his mouth.

‘Tehmul!’ His dark red tongue, yellow where it was coated, arrested the drool.

‘GustadGustadveryimportantpetitionIbrahimtoldme.’

‘Ah, he was here collecting rents? And you understood what he told you?’

‘Veryimportantpetitionveryimportantmustbesigned.’

Gustad counted the number of copies. Thirty. He made Tehmul sit with his back to the doll. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said, but was interrupted by the mail. He dropped the letters on the table; they fanned out in falling. The return address of one was a post office box in New Delhi. ‘Listen very carefully.’

‘ListeninglisteningGustadlisteningveryveryverycarefully.’

‘Take this petition to all the flats, OK?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘Allallallflatsallflats.’

‘Give one copy to each. Tell them to read and sign. And speak slowly. Say one word. Then stop. Then say another word. Slowly. Slowly. OK?’

‘YesyesyesGustadslowlyslowly. ThankyouthankyouGustad.’ On the way out he hesitated. The doll was stripped, down to its anatomically vague pink plaster. ‘Ohhhhh.’ His nostrils flared; his mouth began to move in the manner of a ruminant’s; a hand reached out.

‘Tehmul!’ He moved on. At the door he turned and looked yearningly once more before Gustad shut it after him. Dilnavaz shook her head and began folding the veil, the train, the dress, and collapsed the hoop petticoat.

‘It’s arrived,’ said Gustad quietly.

Like him, she contained her excitement. ‘You read it?’

‘Let’s finish this first.’ He fetched the empty suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She dusted it and packed the clothes inside. Roshan watched forlornly as the doll was swaddled in an old sheet and shut away on the lowest shelf of her mother’s cupboard.

Gustad opened the envelope with the ivory paper-knife that had belonged to his grandmother. The handle was sculpted into a finely detailed figure of an elephant, and delicate floral designs ornamented the blunt side of the blade, making the whole an exquisitely fragile instrument. He did not use it very often: heirlooms were special, he felt, to be cherished and handed down, not used up like a box of cocoa or a bottle of hair oil. But this was a special letter:

My dear Gustad,

Thank you for your reply. Overjoyed to hear from you. It would be too much for me to bear if our friendship was lost. Could not write immediately because I was away, visiting the border zones. Not a pretty sight. Thought I had seen it all in my time. Especially in Kashmir, the handiwork of the North-West Frontier tribesmen. What I have seen now in my work with RAW is beyond words. (Did I mention in my last letter I am working for Research and Analysis Wing?) This new breed of Pakistani butchers is something else. I tell you, Gustad, everything in the papers these days about the atrocities is true.

But let me get to the main point. All you have to do is go to Chor Bazaar between two and four in the afternoon, any one of the next three Fridays after receiving this letter. Look for a pavement bookstall. There are many in Chor Bazaar, so I have told my contact to display prominently a copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare. And just to be absolutely certain if it is the right one, open the book to Othello, end of act I, scene iii, where lago gives advice to Roderigo. The line: ‘Put money in thy purse’ will be underlined in red.

My man will give you a parcel. Please take it home and follow the instructions in the note inside. That’s all. I am sure you will recognize the man, you met him once, many years ago. The Shakespeare thing is just in case he cannot be there and has to use his back-up.

Good luck, Gustad, and thank you again. If anything about all this seems strange to you, just trust me for now. One day, when I am back in Bombay, we will sit with a bottle of Hercules XXX and talk about it.

Your loving friend,

Jimmy

Gustad was smiling by the time he came to the end. Dilnavaz looked at him impatiently. ‘What does he say? Is he coming back? He can stay with us for a few days, we can move the teapoy and put a mattress beside the sofa for him at night.’

‘There goes your express train brain. No one is coming, he only wants me to pick up a parcel. In Chor Bazaar.’

‘Why Chor Bazaar? That’s not a nice place.’

‘Don’t be silly. Because the old name is still used doesn’t mean it’s full of thieves. Even foreign tourists go there nowadays.’

‘But why not just mail the parcel here?’

‘Take.’ He held out the letter. ‘Read for yourself.’ He wondered who the contact was that he was supposed to have met.

‘It all sounds very strange to me. This business of going to Chor Bazaar, and the Shakespeare book. And that, what was that name? Here it is — Research and Analysis Wing. I did not know Jimmy was also a scientist.’

He laughed. ‘RAW is the Indian secret service. Jimmy is no scientist, he is a double-o-seven.’

Through the window, she saw Sohrab approach, and opened the door in anticipation. He’s early today, she said to herself. Then to Gustad, ‘So you are going to do it?’

‘Yes, a friend cannot be let down, I am going to do it.’

‘Going to do what?’ asked Sohrab as he walked in.

Gustad ignored him, but she explained eagerly. ‘Major Uncle’s letter has come. Read, read, tell us what you think.’

‘No one needs your son’s advice,’ said Gustad.

Sohrab glanced quickly down the page. ‘I am surprised Major Uncle joined RAW.’

His words awakened his father’s irritation and bitterness. ‘Genius has spoken.’

Sohrab continued: ‘Our wonderful Prime Minister uses RAW like a private police force, to do all her dirty work.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish again! Jimmy is involved in something top-secret about East Pakistan. Just like that, you say dirty work! God knows what newspaper you have been reading!’ He switched on the light with vehemence. Dusk had a habit of descending swiftly on the paper-darkened room.