Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

Till Friday afternoon he would have to continue the exaggeration. But it was easier than pretending a sore throat or fever. The latter was the riskiest, for Mr. Madon had been known to reach out and feel foreheads with the back of a slyly solicitous hand. If he suspected a blatant fraud, he led the wretch to his sanctuary where, swift as quicksilver, he whipped out a clinical thermometer from his desk drawer and tucked the bulb under the patient’s armpit. The seconds were counted off on his gold Rolex chronometer. Then he held the glistening glass stem for the anxious malingerer to peruse the glinting message. ‘Congratulations,’ Mr. Madon would say, ‘fever all gone,’ and the patient, expressing his thanks to the mercurial miracle-worker, returned quite crushed to the teller’s cage.

Wending his way to his department, Gustad saw Dinshawji clowning around Laurie Coutino’s desk. In the last few weeks, Dinshawji had succeeded in getting acquainted with the new typist, and now visited her at least once a day. But it was not the Dinshawji of the canteen joke-sessions who performed before Laurie. Forsaking his natural flair for humour, he tried to be dashing and flamboyant, or swashbuckling and debonair. The result was a pitiful spectacle of cavorting and capering during which he looked so ludicrous that Gustad was embarrassed for his friend. He could not understand what had come over Dinshawji, making a kutchoomber of his self-respect. At times like these, he was glad that although the paths of their working day crisscrossed, Dinshawji did not officially come under the jurisdiction of the Savings Department. Or it would have fallen into Gustad’s greasy, overflowing dishpan of duties to say something about the inappropriate behaviour.

Laurie’s desk was underneath a framed public notice: Entry of Firearms or Other Articles Capable of Being Used as Weapons of Offence Inside the Bank Is Strictly Prohibited. Which made it worse, because Dinshawji’s antics were in full view of the customers. With Laurie’s stapler in his hand, he was prancing around, making swooping, coiling, writhing movements of his arm, darting at her with its metal jaws, then hissing and withdrawing. Gustad admired her patience and her svelte figure.

A fellow clerk pointed to the notice. ‘Hey, Dinshu! Your snake is a deadly weapon! Not allowed in the bank!’

‘Jealousy will get you nowhere!’ replied Dinshawji, and everyone laughed. He noticed Gustad watching. ‘Look, Gustad, look! Laurie is such a brave girl! Not scared of my big, naughty snake!’

She smiled politely. Beads of perspiration were visible on Dinshawji’s bald pate as the snake grew adventurous, moving with abandon into regions of daring proximity. Finally she said, ‘I have so much typing to do. This place is always very busy, no?’

Gustad took the opportunity to intervene. ‘Come on, Dinshu. Let Laurie do her work. Or she won’t get paid.’ It was done good-humouredly, and Dinshawji was willing to relinquish the stapler and go with him.

He noticed Gustad limping more than usual. ‘What happened to the leg?’

He welcomed the question. ‘Same old thing. That hip giving trouble again. Just now I was with Madon, asking him for Friday half-day to see doctor.’ When the castle was imaginary, a strong foundation was helpful. They were alone now. He said, ‘Careful, Dinshu. You never know, she might complain.’

‘Nonsense. She enjoys my jokes. Laugh and the world laughs with you.’

He tried a different tack. ‘This is a head office operation, you know, not a small branch. Maybe Mr. Madon does not want the world to laugh in the office.’

Dinshawji became indignant. ‘Bodyline bowling? Watch it, Gustad!’ A foul whiff escaped his mouth, the familiar warning. Something was different this time, he was not just playing his usual Casanova role. Or perhaps he was playing it too well.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Gustad. ‘You know I am not a management chumcha. Only telling you what I think. This snake thing might be too non-veg for a shy girl like Laurie.’

Dinshawji laughed scornfully. ‘ Arré, Gustad, these Catholic girls are all hot-hot things. Listen, my school was in Dhobitalao area, almost hundred per cent ma-ka-pao. The things I would see, my eyeballs would fall out. Not like our Parsi girls with all their don’t-touch-here and don’t-feel-there fussiness. Everything they would open up. In every gully-gootchy, yaar, in the dark, or under the stairs, what-what went on.’

Gustad listened sceptically. ‘Really?’

‘But I am telling you, no,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Swear,’ and he pinched the skin under his Adam’s apple between thumb and finger. Then he winked, nudging him with his elbow. ‘You clever bugger! I think I know the truth! Lining Laurie Coutino for yourself or what? Naughty boy!’ Gustad smiled and accepted the attempt at reconciliation.

He needed to get his bearings in the maze of narrow lanes and byways that was Chor Bazaar. Where to begin? And so many people everywhere — locals, tourists, foreigners, treasure hunters, antique collectors, junk dealers, browsers. Away from the crowds’ swirls and eddies, he stopped by a little stall selling a variety of used sockets and rusty wrenches. There were other tools as well: pliers, hammers with rough wooden handles, screwdrivers, a planer, worn-out files. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ said the shopkeeper, picking up a hammer and swinging it demonstratively before offering it to Gustad who declined. The man gathered up a bunch of screwdrivers with multi-coloured wood and plastic handles. ‘All types and sizes,’ he said. ‘Very cheap. Best quality,’ and held them out like a posy.

Gustad shook his head. ‘Why so crowded today? What is happening?’

‘Bazaar is happening,’ said the tool-seller. ‘Friday is always the biggest bazaar day. After namaaz at the mosque.’

Then, among the tools, Gustad spied something familiar. Red, rectangular metal plates with holes along the borders. And green perforated strips. ‘Is that a complete Meccano set?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the man eagerly. In a trice he disentangled the pieces from the jumble of tools and placed them in Gustad’s hands.

And as Gustad felt the metal under his fingers, smelled the metallic smell of rust from the little wheels and rods and clamps, the years fell away. He saw a little boy holding his father’s hand and walking timidly down these lanes. His father talking enthusiastically about antiques and curios, pointing, describing, explaining. The shopkeepers calling, Mr. Noble see this vase, you will like it, Mr. Noble, very rare plate, saving it just for you, very cheap. And his father saying quietly in his ear, Listen to them, Gustad, listen to the thieves. And the little boy saying, Pappa, look, a Meccano set, such a big one. His father pleased, patting his head, saying, Yes, at least a number ten, sharp eyes you have, just like mine. Then his father bargaining, offering a preposterously low figure, haggling and dickering, are you crazy, walking away, come back sir, come back, yes, walking back, no, go to hell, please take, honest price, in God’s name, don’t blaspheme, final figure, truthfully sahab, OK you thief — and thus, the bargain sealed.

They took the Meccano home wrapped in newspaper, where, under Grandpa’s supervision, Gustad made a wooden box for it, with sections to hold nuts and bolts, fishplates and right-angled brackets, discs and tyres, pulleys and flywheels, tie-rods and cranks, platforms and curved plates, all in their separate compartments. Afterwards, to the delight of the parents and grandparents, various models emerged from Gustad’s room: fire-engine, crane, racing car, steamboat, double-decker bus, clock tower. His greatest triumph was a drawbridge that could be raised and lowered. Every time he completed something, Pappa would say, this boy will make the name of Noble great.