Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

He shut the book, looked up and saw a man with a white turban watching from the shadow of the tea stall. Gustad’s pulse skipped a beat. He stepped out of the shadow, and now Gustad observed that the turban was not a turban at all, but a heavy bandage of white surgical gauze. And as the man approached, he recognized him despite the bound head. What a coincidence! He went forward eagerly, raising his hand in greeting.

‘Mr. Noble. It is good to see you again.’ He was a tall man, as tall as Gustad, and clean-shaven.

Gustad shook his hand joyfully. ‘You remember me? For nine years I have waited to thank you for your kindness. If I had known that you and Major Bilimoria—’ What a tough man, he thought, to be up and about, hale and hearty after such a nasty crack on the head. The way he had flown over the handlebars of the Lambretta — made him shudder just to think of it.

‘And how is the hip?’

‘Almost good as new. Thanks to the Major, we went to Madhiwalla Bonesetter. A gifted man, performed a miracle for me. But,’ puzzled Gustad, ‘that day, when I had my accident — you and Major Bilimoria — in the taxi…you said nothing. You did not know him in those days?’

‘Oh, I knew him. Sometimes, though, we have to pretend, because of the kind of work we do. Sometimes it is safer to be just a taxi-driver and passenger.’

Gustad understood. ‘But it looks like you also had an accident recently?’

‘Yes. Not exactly an accident. Come, let’s have a little tea.’ He led him inside.

‘I am sorry, I know your face so clearly, but I have forgotten your name.’

‘Ghulam Mohammed.’

‘Now I remember. In the taxi you told my son.’

‘And how is Sohrab?’

Gustad was amazed. ‘You remember his name even?’

‘Of course. How can I forget? Major Bilimoria has always talked to me about your family. Says it’s like his own. Even before your accident I knew about you. Any friend of Bili Boy is a friend of mine.’

Gustad chuckled. ‘Bili Boy. That’s a nice name for Jimmy.’

‘In the army all his friends called him Bili Boy.’ Ghulam Mohammed paused, looking into the distance. ‘We had some good times then. It’s all very different now, in RAW.’

‘You both joined RAW at the same time?’

‘Yes. Wherever Bili Boy goes, I go. He will always have me with him. Least I can do for the man who saved my life in ‘48. Kashmir, you know.’

‘He never told me about that.’

‘Well, that’s Bili Boy, never likes to boast. Yes, he came alone, looking for me after orders to retreat were given. Or I would be lying in the hills in seventeen separate pieces, nicely carved up by those tribesmen.’ The tea arrived in glasses; Ghulam took one and sipped. ‘That’s the story. And that’s why Bili Boy can always depend on me. His friend is my friend.’

Then Ghulam Mohammed put down his tea, leaning forward so his face was very close. ‘And his enemy,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘will have to answer to me. Anyone who harms him, I will go after them, whatever it takes: knife, gun, my hands, my teeth.’ He bared his clenched teeth and spoke through them.

Gustad moved back uneasily: ‘He is lucky to have a friend like you.’ Strange fellow. One instant warm and friendly, the next, chilling my spine. He reached for his tea. The hot, steaming liquid was murky through the transparent glass. Tea leaves, ground almost to a powder, rose to the top and returned to the bottom, riding the convection current. He braved a sip. It was bitter. ‘But what about your accident?’

‘Not an accident. They were aiming for my scooter.’

‘Really?’ Gustad could not help feeling a thrill of excitement. ‘Who do you suspect, Pakistani spies?’

He laughed. ‘Nothing so simple. Let’s just say, occupational hazard.’ He drank some more and pointed to Gustad’s glass. ‘You are not drinking?’

‘Needs more sugar.’ Ghulam Mohammed waved. A woman appeared from the back, listened, and returned with a bowl of sugar. Gustad added some and tasted. He nodded approvingly. ‘You are leading a really dangerous life. But what about Jimmy, is he OK in Delhi?’

‘We don’t need to worry for Bili Boy. He is smarter than you and me put together.’

Gustad wanted to hear more about Jimmy, but knew from the tone of Ghulam’s voice that no information would be forthcoming. ‘What happened to your taxi, why were you on a scooter?’

‘Sometimes taxi, sometimes scooter. In RAW you have to do all kinds of things. Today I am a bookseller. Tonight, I leave Bombay to do something else for one week.’ He laughed and drained his glass of tea. ‘OK. I better give you the parcel that Bili Boy sent.’

He stepped outside to the bookstand and opened a crate. Inside was a bulky package the size of a large overnight bag, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick string looped at the top to form a handle. ‘That’s it,’ said Ghulam Mohammed. He eyed Gustad’s three volumes. ‘But you have a lot to carry.’

Gustad was thinking the same; it would be tricky on the bus. ‘This is yours,’ he said, handing back the Complete Shakespeare. Then, ‘Mr. Mohammed, since today you are a bookseller, will you sell me that one?’

Ghulam laughed. ‘Sure, sure.’

‘How much?’

‘For you, compliments of the management.’

‘No, no, I must pay you something.’

‘OK, the price is your friendship.’

‘But that you already have.’

‘In that case, you have already paid for the book.’ They both laughed and shook hands heartily. ‘Wait, I will get the boy to wrap all four in one parcel. Easier to carry that way.’

While the package was being prepared, Ghulam Mohammed wrote an address where Gustad could reach him. ‘You know where it is?’

‘House of Cages,’ read Gustad. ‘Yes, Dr. Paymaster’s dispensary is in the same locality. Our family doctor.’

‘A man sells paan outside the House. Peerbhoy Paanwalla, he is called. You can leave a message with him any time.’

Gustad knew who Peerbhoy Paanwalla was. The man had been selling paan for as long as Dr. Paymaster had practised medicine, perhaps longer. Childhood illnesses had enabled Gustad to observe Peerbhoy at his trade, during periodic visits to the dispensary for measles, chicken-pox, mumps, vaccinations and booster shots. And later, during his schooldays, Gustad sometimes used to sneak away from class with his friends and hang around the House of Cages to listen to Peerbhoy Paanwalla. Peerbhoy’s droll histories of the place, about the encounters between the ladies of the House and their clientele, entertained his paan -buying customers endlessly.

‘Very reliable friend,’ said Ghulam. ‘Any message will get to me from him.’ The boy returned with the book parcel. Gustad noticed that it was tied in the same way as Jimmy’s, with the clever handle of twine at the top.

After shaking hands again with Ghulam Mohammed, he retraced his steps through the lanes. The streets were gradually being cleared of tools, sockets, plates, lamps, dynamos, rugs, vases, utensils, watches, cameras, electric switches, stamp collections, transformers, magnets, and all the nameless, numberless assortments that covered the asphalt. The earwax remover was still working, cleaning out the orifices of one final client. As Gustad passed them, the man extracted the long, thin, silver instrument and held it up for the customer to see. A glistening brown pellet, the size of a pea, was perched in the tiny scoop.

‘ Sabaash !’ said the customer, proud of his ear’s performance. Like an impresario, he turned the other ear to the instrument, eager to show what this one could produce. Gustad was tempted to stand and watch, but that would have been rude. Besides, Jimmy’s package was quite heavy, the twine handles were cutting into his fingers.