Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Don’t look,’ he said to Dilnavaz, too late. She retched twice, then was in control. ‘What is going on, I’d like to know,’ he said quietly. ‘Darius!’

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Darius came. ‘What?’

‘Quick, call the Gurkha.’

‘I’m not going again in my pyjamas. Yesterday also you sent me,’ he protested. ‘It’s not fair.’ Besides, the map of his teenage lust, charted during the night, was printed starchily on the fabric over one thigh.

‘Don’t argue with me! Go right now!’

‘I’m not going!’ Darius yelled back, and returned to bed.

Gustad said to his receding figure, ‘You will have an unhappy life if you take your rascal runaway brother’s example and shout at your father! Remember that!’

‘Never mind,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘I will go.’

‘It’s shameful. How quickly he learns the bad things. But wait. Tehmul! My friend! Tehmul!’ It was the first time Gustad had seen him since that Friday after Chor Bazaar. He waved and smiled, coaxing him close, making no sudden moves lest he flee.

Tehmul approached shyly, scratching cautiously, and smiled at Dilnavaz. ‘GustadGustad.’

‘How are you, Tehmul? You enjoyed the rain?’ Tehmul spied the beheaded cat and burst out laughing. He edged closer and bent to pick up the head.

‘No, no, Tehmul, don’t touch. It’s bad, it bites.’ Tehmul drew back, grinning. ‘Will you do something for me? You know the Gurkha who sits in the building next door? Go and call him, say that Noble seth wants to see you.’

Tehmul scattered the crows with his hobble. When he returned with the Gurkha, he imitated the salute by slapping his forehead briskly with his palm. Gustad kept a blank face and pointed silently to the bush.

‘O Bhagwan,’ said the Gurkha. ‘What is happening?’

‘Why ask Him? You should know. What time did you fall asleep? Two o’clock? Three o’clock?’

‘ Arré, Noble seth, all night I was walking.’

‘Lies!’ shouted Gustad, pointing to the evidence. ‘This will not do! Enough is enough!’ Windows opened and curious faces peered out. ‘Yesterday a rat with head chopped off. Today a cat! Somebody is doing mischief, and what are you doing? Not doing your job! What comes tomorrow? Dog? Cow? Elephant?’

‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat,’ said Tehmul. ‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat.’

‘I am warning you, I will stop your pay. And all the neighbours also, I will tell them to stop, that you are a useless watchman.’

The Gurkha panicked. ‘O seth, your feet I will touch, don’t do that. How will I put food in my children’s stomach? First-class night-watching I do, first-class. One more chance, please.’

‘R-a-tratc-a-tcatd-o-gdog.’

Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster turned into the compound and halted by the foursome. ‘What’s going on, bossie?’

Glad to see a figure of authority, Gustad appealed to him. ‘Soli. You say what you think. Somebody is throwing dead animals in my flowers. And this wonderful watchman does not know anything about it.’

The Gurkha stood at attention while Inspector Bamji got out and took a good look at the cat. Tehmul imitated the inspector’s hands-behind-back pose. ‘R-a-tratc-a-tcat,’ he said.

Inspector Bamji smiled a small, grim smile. It was a professional smile. ‘Somebody’s knife is very sharp. A very skilful knife. Anyone has a grudge against you, wants to harass you?’

Gustad shook his head, and looked at Dilnavaz. She reinforced his denial with hers, adding, ‘Sometimes people kill animals to do magic. They use the blood in puja or something.’

‘That’s true,’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘All kinds of lunatics out there. I think whoever is doing this, for whatever reason, is throwing it here because it’s a quiet, convenient place for disposal — in the bush, hidden by the black wall. If our watchman did some watching, the problem would be over.’

‘One more chance, seth, ’ said the Gurkha. ‘Only one more.’

Inspector Bamji winked at Gustad and nodded. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘One more chance. But no more sleeping.’

‘Never on duty, seth, ’ he said. ‘Swear on Bhagwan’s name.’

‘Useless,’ said Bamji, meaning the fellow would never admit to it, and got into his car. The Gurkha threw a salute in his direction, then presented one each to Dilnavaz and Gustad. Tehmul saluted the Gurkha. ‘C-a-tcatr-a-trat,’ he said, and began following him to the gate. Halfway there, he switched to a yellow butterfly, stumbling to keep up as it glided gracefully before him. Sometimes it paused upon a blade of grass till Tehmul all but reached it.

Gustad watched him sadly, remembering Sohrab. With his butterfly net fashioned from a broken badminton racquet. On Sunday mornings I used to take him to Hanging Gardens.

Dilnavaz knew what he was thinking. ‘He will come back,’ she said. ‘Shall I tell him you want him to come back?’

He pretended not to understand. ‘Who are you talking of?’

‘Sohrab. Shall I tell him you want him back?’

‘Tell him what you like. I don’t care.’ She said nothing. It would have to wait till they were inside, for down the compound came Mr. and Mrs. Rabadi with Dimple.

The two were muttering between them, deliberately loud. ‘People think we are stupid. Fooling our little girl, saying fund-raising for refugees. God knows where the money goes.’

Gustad said to Dilnavaz, so the Rabadis could hear, ‘I cannot bother replying to every lunatic ranting by the roadside.’ When they were gone, he added, ‘Would not be surprised if that idiot was responsible for the cat and the rat.’

‘No, no,’ she said, clinging to common sense. ‘He does not like us, true, but I don’t think he would do this.’

And she was right. What Gustad found next morning put everyone in the building beyond suspicion.

Up bright and early, he was determined to say his prayers in the compound. A good way to start the new week. The Gurkha was by the vinca bush. ‘Salaam, seth. No dead animals in the flowers, not even an insect.’ His relief was great.

Gustad inspected for himself. He circled round, and noticed a piece of paper, curiously positioned. It was folded and inserted snugly between two adjacent branches, as though in a letter-holder. Not something done by a random breeze. He pulled it out. There were two innocuous lines written in pencil, a child’s rhyme that made the colour drain from his face:

Bilimoria chaaval chorya

Daando lai nay marva dorya.

The Gurkha looked over Gustad’s shoulder. ‘What language is that, seth ?’ Since he had been forgiven, it would not hurt to solidify things with a little friendliness, he felt.

‘Gujarati,’ said Gustad shortly, wishing he would leave.

‘You can read Gujarati?’

‘Yes, it’s my mother tongue.’

‘What does it say, these funny-shaped letters?’

‘It says: “Stole the rice of Bilimoria, we’ll take a stick and then we’ll beat ya.” ’

‘Means what?’

‘It’s something that children sing when playing. One child runs, the others try to catch him.’

‘Oh,’ said the Gurkha. ‘Very nice. Salaam seth, time to sleep now.’

Gustad went inside with the rhyming couplet. There was no doubt now. No doubt at all about the meaning of the two decapitated carcasses. The message was clear.

Gustad sat with the scrap of paper before him, seeing not words or calligraphy, but an incomprehensible betrayal, feeling that some vital part of him had been crushed to nothingness. Years of friendship swam before his eyes and filled the piece of paper; it taunted him, mocked him, turned into a gigantic canvas of lies and deceit. What kind of world is this, and what kind of men, who can behave in such fashion?