Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘It is too late to go back today to Chor Bazaar,’ she said. ‘Will you go next Friday?’

He accepted the change of subject: ‘No, not Chor Bazaar,’ and explained the new arrangement. But Ghulam Mohammed had said he was leaving Bombay for a week. For the duration, they agreed to hide the money in the kitchen, in the coal storage alcove under the choolavati.

Darius returned from cricket practice just before dinner-time, and so did the mosquitoes. Gustad said not to dally, to shut the door before the nuisance filled the whole house. Darius dropped a bundle of newspapers to the floor, received another pile from someone in the compound, and said, ‘Bye.’

‘Who was that? Where did you get all the papers?’ asked Gustad, swatting mosquitoes left and right.

‘Jasmine. She gave me the papers,’ he mumbled.

‘Who? Say loudly, I cannot hear!’

He repeated the name fearfully, and Gustad was furious. ‘I warned you not to talk to the dogwalla idiot’s daughter. What is that fat padayri up to, anyway, giving you newspapers from her house? If he comes here again to complain, even your mother won’t be able to save you from the terrible punishment I will give.’ Then Gustad’s full attention was devoted to the mosquitoes. He suggested to Dilnavaz that she consider sewing mosquito nets for their beds. He could easily make a frame over which the nets would hang like a canopy. ‘In Matheran,’ he said, ‘my father took the whole family for a vacation when I was very small, and the hotel had mosquito nets for every bed. It was wonderful, not a single bite all night long. Never in my life have I slept so beautifully. At dinner-time there was no nuisance either. The manager used to put a dish—’

He stopped, electrified by the memory. ‘Yes! That’s it! Quick get a big dish. The biggest we have.’

‘For what?’ asked Dilnavaz.

‘Just bring it, I will show you.’

She ran to the kitchen and ran back. ‘How about this German silver thaali ? It’s the biggest.’

‘Perfect,’ said Gustad, clearing the dining-table. He placed the round shallow dish under the bulb and filled it with water. When the surface grew still, the light bulb’s reflection steadied and shone brightly, tantalizingly, under water. Then the mosquitoes started to dive in. One by one, abandoning the real bulb, they plunged, unswervingly suicidal in their attempts to reach the aqueous, insubstantial light. Somehow it was a greater attraction than the one hanging from the ceiling.

Gustad rubbed his hands in satisfaction. ‘See? That’s how the hotel manager in Matheran used to do it!’ Even Dilnavaz watched gleefully as the vicious little insects were roundly vanquished.

‘Now we can eat in peace,’ said Gustad. ‘Let them come. As many as want to. We have water enough for them all.’ The surface was covered with little twitching brown specks. He emptied the thaali down the drain, refilled it from the drum, and was ready for dinner.

But Sohrab refused to leave the back room and come to table. Dilnavaz pleaded with him not to make matters worse. When she told Gustad, he said, ‘What is it to me?’

They ate without Sohrab, while the mosquitoes continued to dive, some with such force that they caused tiny splashes. For the first time in weeks, dinner concluded without a single mosquito falling in anyone’s plate.

Two days later, while Gustad was at work, Sohrab packed a few of his things and left. He told his mother that he had made arrangements to live for a while with some college friends.

Dilnavaz refused to accept it, said no, it was impossible, this was his home. She started to weep. ‘Your father wants the best for you, he is just upset right now. You cannot go away because of that.’

‘I’m fed up with his threats and everything. I’m not a little boy he can hit and punish.’ He promised to visit her once a week. When she saw nothing would change his mind, she wanted to know how long he would stay away. ‘That depends on Daddy,’ he said.

In the evening, she told Gustad what had happened. He hid his surprise and hurt, and blandly repeated his harsh words from two nights ago: ‘What is it to me?’

Two things swirled and spun through Gustad’s mind the following week while he said his prayers at dawn, swirled like the whirling wind-tossed leaves fallen in the compound: Roshan’s enervating diarrhoea, and the forbidding package in the dingy choolavati. There was a third thing, but that, he pretended, did not exist.

The pills were powerless this time, both Entero-Vioform and the more potent Sulpha-Guanidine. Why? My poor child, missing school day after day. And Jimmy, of all people, asking me to do something criminal. The wind was strong, Gustad nudged and settled his black prayer cap. After last night’s brief shower, a light-hearted reminder of the approaching monsoon, the vinca’s leaves were green and fresh. He never ceased to wonder at the vinca’s endurance, surviving in the small dusty patch, year after year, despite the fenders of cars that ripped and clawed at its stems, or children who tore wantonly at its blooms.

He crouched to pick up an empty Char Minar packet entangled in the branches and heard a car approach. Without looking over his shoulder he knew it was the Landmaster. Inspector Bamji’s police duties called him out at all hours. Sometimes, if Gustad was up reading late at night and heard the car, he would smile and picture Soli Bamji rushing with his magnifying glass to find clues. People had named him Sherlock Bamji many years ago. Once, there had been a particularly gruesome murder, and Bamji, in the course of neighbourly chitchat, was asked how the police had solved the case. Without stopping to think, he replied, ‘Elementary, my dear fellow.’

The inevitable followed. Everyone knew Soli was not a private investigator, nor did he smoke a pipe. And whereas the archetype was always elegantly correct in speech and diction, Bamji was fond of verbal colour and ribaldry. But he was tall and thin, with a gaunt face and high forehead, and this, together with those ill-chosen words, was sufficient glue to make the name stick permanently.

Bamji beeped and stopped. ‘Hullo, bossie! Hope you said a prayer for me.’

‘Of course,’ said Gustad. ‘Crime is calling you very early today?’

‘Oh, nothing much. But seriously, bossie, it’s going to be a big problem if the maader chod municipality cuts our compound in half. How will my car get in?’ Good, thought Gustad, serve him right; Bamji was one of the worst offenders when it came to inflicting wounds on the vinca. ‘You think the landlord’s petition will be strong enough to bugger the municipal arses?’

‘Who knows? My feeling is, when government wants something, it gets it, one way or another.’

Inspector Bamji adjusted the rearview mirror. ‘If the bastards break down this wall, it will completely fuck up our privacy. You better pray every morning, bossie, for the good health of our wall.’

That reminded Gustad. ‘Have you noticed how much it stinks, and all the mosquitoes?’

‘Naturally, with the amount of piss that flows there. Every sisterfucker with a full bladder stops by the wall and pulls out his lorri. ’

‘Can’t you use your authority to stop it?’

Inspector Bamji laughed. ‘If the police tried to arrest every illegal pisser, we would have to double-triple our force.’ He put the Landmaster in gear, waved goodbye, and hit the brakes again. ‘Almost forgot. When that Tehmul-Lungraa came with the petition, he was talking some nonsense. About seeing a mountain of money in your flat.’