Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

The tiny, crowded waiting-room was separated from Dr. Paymaster’s inner sanctum by a partition with a door. Large panes of green ground glass in the partition showed vague outlines of what went on inside.

When the door opened for the next patient, Dr. Paymaster glimpsed Gustad and Roshan. He wished he could usher them in ahead of the rest. It had been a typical, lacklustre day: knocking, tapping, listening, peering, then signing his approval, so the painted ladies could continue in business. Sometimes he felt like a building inspector — all that was missing was a rubber stamp: Safe for Human Habitation. He handed Hemabai a clean bill of health as she emerged from the back, tall and bristling with daunting curves, called Hydraulic Hema by the neighbourhood mechanics because of a unique, ecstatically fluid movement she had perfected.

The doctor brought his hand down on the silver desk bell and waved at the Nobles. In the next half-hour, he dispensed with the half-dozen who were waiting, then rose to shake Gustad’s hand and pinch Roshan’s cheek. ‘Seeing you after a long time. Which is very good, medically speaking, but not so good, socially speaking. Something cold to drink?’ He went to the tiny Kelvinator whose inadequate innards refrigerated vials of serum and unstable compounds, plus some Goldspot and Raspberry for special patients. ‘Or shall I send the boy for tea?’

‘Nothing. Nothing, thanks,’ said Gustad. ‘I just had tea. And I don’t think Roshan should.’

‘Why, why? What’s wrong? Ate brinjals?’ Dr. Paymaster habitually euphemized sicknesses and things medical.

‘Stomach. Loose motions for a few days.’

‘How many?’ Gustad knew what he was about to say would not go down well. He cleared his throat and plunged into it. The doctor masked his exasperation but not wholly: ‘Tch-tch-tch. You waited so long before coming?’

Gustad looked sheepish. ‘Entero-Vioform and Sulpha-Guanidine usually works very well.’ Better not to mention subjo.

‘Those are medicines — not to be gobbled like sweet papee or chana-mumra. Come on, Roshan, lie down. I have to tickle your tummy a little bit.’ While he listened with his stethoscope, he asked about school.

She mentioned the raffle. ‘I won a big doll, but she is sleeping naked in the cupboard just now.’

‘Why naked?’ She explained about the voluminous wedding dress and described the articles of clothing. ‘You know what I think?’ said the doctor. ‘Your doll is ready to be a bride, so we should find her a bridegroom. A nice young Parsi boy. Fair and handsome like me.’ He pretended to be injured when Roshan laughed. ‘What? Am I not young and handsome?’ He stroked the few wisps of white on his head. ‘See my fine black curly hair. And my face. So good-looking. Even handsomer than your daddy.’

Roshan laughed again, but after more persuasion it was agreed the doctor was the best match for her doll. Dr. Paymaster made her turn on her side to face the partition while he prepared an injection. He winked at Gustad to say nothing. ‘Now we must plan the wedding. I love accordion music. Does Dolly?’

‘Yes,’ giggled Roshan.

‘Very good. Then we will have Goody Seervai’s band. But if he is booked, we will call Nelly’s orchestra.’ He selected a needle from the sterilized tray and went to the Kelvinator. ‘The next thing is the caterer. I always enjoy Choksy’s food.’ Choksy Caterers was unanimously approved. He enumerated the items he wanted on the menu, starting with a carrot-and-mango pickle, wafers, murumbo, and Choksy’s special wedding stew, while directing a cold ether spray over the spot to be injected. Next, there was to be leaf-wrapped fish steamed in green chutney, succulent chicken legs fried Mughlai-style, and mutton pulao.

‘Ow!’ said Roshan. By the time he came to the dessert, which would be pistachio kulfi, the needle had been withdrawn. He rubbed the spot with cotton wool.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘All finished. Now you can sit on the sofa outside while I talk to Daddy.’

After the door was shut, Gustad asked, ‘It’s not diarrhoea? How serious?’

‘Not diarrhoea. But no need to worry.’ He began writing a prescription. ‘Sometimes, of course, even a case of diarrhoea can be worrying. Look at East Pakistan — a patient with a simple sickness, but very difficult to cure. A patient in critical condition, needing the intensive care unit. But no one in the world cares.’ Dr. Paymaster believed that politics, economics, religious problems, domestic strife, all could be dealt with methodically: observe the symptoms, make the diagnosis, prescribe medicine, offer the prognosis. But he also believed that just as some diseases of the human body were incurable, there were diseases of countries, of families, of theological dogma, that had fatal outcomes.

‘East Pakistan is suffering from a diarrhoea of death,’ he continued. ‘Death is flowing there unchecked, and the patient will soon be dehydrated.’ The smooth gliding of his fountain-pen was interrupted; the nib scratched and produced half-formed letters. He held it up to the light, peering through the reservoir’s transparent plastic. ‘Empty again.’ He unscrewed the cover, dipped it in the bottle of Parker Ink, and squeezed the bladder. ‘East Pakistan has been attacked by a strong virus from West Pakistan, too powerful for the Eastern immune system. And the world’s biggest physician is doing nothing. Worse, Dr. America is helping the virus. So what’s the prescription? The Mukti Bahini guerrillas?’ He shook his head. ‘Not strong enough medicine. Only the complete, intravenous injection of the Indian Army will defeat this virus.’

He finished the prescription and handed it to the compounder in the little cubicle at the rear. Gustad knew from experience that Dr. Paymaster had the wit and stamina to sustain medical metaphors endlessly. He interrupted. ‘Will she be all right?’

‘Absolutely. I am sitting here, no, if anything goes wrong. I think it’s an intestinal virus. Keep her home for a few days. Only boiled rice, soup, toast, a little boiled mutton. And bring her again next week.’

The compounder finished mixing the prescription. He presented the dark-green bottle along with the bill. Gustad looked at the amount and raised his eyebrows. ‘Refugee tax,’ the compounder explained apologetically.

The doctor’s calm manner and reassuring talk kept at bay Gustad’s fear about the virus. He led Roshan to the bus stop past the rows of shops, past Cutpiece Cloth Centre, Bhelpuri House, Jack of All Stall, Naughty Boy Men’s Wear. Peerbhoy Paanwalla was busy outside the House of Cages. The women stood in the doorways or leaned against windows, displaying what they could between the bars. Loud music, a popular film song, blasted from within: Mere sapno ki rani kab ayegi tu, O Queen of my dreams, when will you arrive…It could be heard all the way to the bus stop.

Later, as they neared the gate of Khodadad Building, the effects of Dr. Paymaster’s salutary presence were wearing off. At the black stone wall, the stink had been growing from strength to strength, with pools of urinous ordure multiplying as the evening darkened. When the stench hit Gustad, the last of the doctor’s reassurances drowned helplessly. The insidious stink in his nostrils left no room for optimism.

He began to blame himself for Roshan’s illness, wished he had never heard of Entero-Vioform or Sulpha-Guanidine. His limp slipped its usual containment, and by the time they reached the door, he was swaying wildly from side to side.

‘What did the doctor say?’ asked Dilnavaz.

Gustad shut and opened his eyes meaningfully, and she understood. ‘Everything is fine, Dr. Paymaster is going to marry Roshan’s dolly.’