Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

He was not in a pleasant mood as he listened to Gustad. ‘Hope you followed my instructions properly. Or did you modify the prescription? Any more Entero-Vioform? Sulpha-Guanidine? I know how much you like those.’ His grouchiness surprised the compounder too. ‘But you know what the biggest problem is? Everybody wants to be a doctor. Worse, everybody thinks he is a doctor.’

Shortly after, Gustad left with a new list of pills. How dare he say such things! Taking advantage, just because he knows me for so many years. What does he think of himself? First virus, now colitis. Easy to keep throwing out new names. Doctors think everyone else is stupid.

By the time he passed the House of Cages, he was yawing wildly, battling to stay afloat in the storm of Dr. Paymaster’s making. There was a temporary lull at the House. Here, as in any business, things were wont to happen in spurts and starts. Peerbhoy Paanwalla waited idly for the next round of customers, arranging and rearranging his trays and tins. When Gustad hurried by with a leg that seemed lame, he could not resist calling out, ‘ Arré, gentleman, hallo, how are you!’

Gustad thought he was being solicited by one of the many pimps who lurked in these doorways. Peerbhoy had used the favourite greeting of the pencil-thin moustachioed, oily-haired, gaudy-neckerchiefed individuals with ingratiating smiles, who sidled up at the least opportunity. Doubtless Peerbhoy had picked up the line from them. Gustad turned, saw him wave, and realized his error.

‘Hallo, gentleman! You did not come back for Mr. Mohammed?’

‘No, it’s all right. That problem is OK now.’ What else to say about that rascal? And bloody Bilimoria.

‘Just this morning Ghulambhai was here,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘He was looking very worried, very upset. I asked him what was wrong, but he would not say anything. Do you know what happened?’ Gustad shook his head and started off.

‘Wait, wait,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘I will make a paan for your leg. Make your bones strong. No more lameness.’

‘No need. It’s fine.’

‘No, huzoor, it’s not,’ he insisted, ‘Just now you were swaying so badly. Up and down, and side to side. Like a launch at Apollo Bunder in the monsoon sea.’

Gustad trimmed his sail, straightened the rudder, and demonstrated with a few steps. ‘See? It’s OK.’

‘Ah, yes, I can see it is OK now. Means the trouble is in the head. And for that, also, I have a paan. ’ Without waiting for consent, his hands began to whizz around, opening cans, trimming a leaf, crushing a nut.

Why not, thought Gustad. ‘OK. But not too expensive.’

‘All my paans are reasonably priced. All except one. That one you need only if you are going to the House.’

‘You still make the palung-tode ?’

‘While there are men, there will be palung-tode. ’

How old he has grown, thought Gustad. The large hands had lost none of their skill or dexterity, but his fingers were gnarled, the nails yellowing like old newsprint. ‘I remember you selling paan here since I was a child.’

‘Oh yes. A very long time.’

‘May I ask how old you are?’

Peerbhoy laughed. ‘If you can count all my years to the day of my death, and subtract the number left from now till then, you will have my present age.’ He folded the betel leaf and tucked in the corner. ‘Eat that and tell me.’

Gustad opened wide, pushed it in. His mouth could barely contain the paan. ‘Very nice,’ he mumbled indistinctly. ‘How much?’

‘Only one rupee.’

Before getting on the bus, Gustad spat out half. The taste was a mixture of sweet and sour. Slightly pungent. Also tart and bitter. And mouth starting to feel funny.

Outside Khodadad Building, he jettisoned the rest. By now, the numbness had spread to his mind, which was not unpleasant, but made it difficult to think about Dr. Paymaster’s advice. He opened the door with his key. ‘Dinshawji? What brings you here?’

‘Forgive the trouble,’ he murmured. ‘It’s very important.’

Dilnavaz saw the red on Gustad’s lips and got a whiff of the bitter-sweet odour. She was disgusted. ‘You smell horrible! Behaving like a mia-laanda !’

‘Sorry, Dilnoo-darling,’ he said feebly, and went to the bathroom, gargled, used toothpaste. That got rid of some of the smell and colour. But the numbness continued to clutch at his mind as he returned to the front room.

‘What did doctor say?’ she asked. ‘And whatever made you eat a paan ?’

‘Peerbhoy Paanwalla said it would be good for my leg.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘A cup of tea, please?’

‘Like children, you men are. Doing stupid things.’ She remembered the tea he had poured down the drain. ‘You are sure this time you want one?’ But he was too far gone to catch the sarcasm, and nodded meekly.

‘What about doctor?’

‘Saying idiotic-lunatic things. That we are not giving proper rest and diet. Blaming us! Wants to put Roshan in hospital. Everyone knows what happens in hospital. Blunders and botches, wrong injections, medicine mix-ups.’

Dinshawji nodded in agreement. ‘Go to a hospital when you are ready to die, is what I always say.’

‘Absolutely correct,’ said Gustad. ‘ Bas, with doctors, any time they don’t know what to do — throw the patient in hospital. Who is there in the world that can take better care of my Roshan than I, I would like to know. He made the blood in my brain start to boil!’

‘Few months ago,’ said Dinshawji, ‘my doctor wanted to admit me to Parsi General. I said to him, General is no, and Field Marshal is also no. Then my Alamai took his side, so what to do? I had to go.’

‘Would have been hundred times better to rest at home.’

Dilnavaz set out three cups. Dinshawji waited, rolling and unrolling the newspaper. The edges were peeling in thin strips.

Gustad gulped his tea scalding hot, soon as it was poured. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ cautioned Dilnavaz. ‘It will burn up your blood.’ She appealed to Dinshawji: ‘Won’t listen to me when I say it’s not good to drink it so hot and so black. Blood burning is not the only problem. It can also cause stomach cancer.’ Dinshawji shuddered when she said this. He sipped his tea slowly, the cup trembling at his lips.

‘My sister-in-law’s father had the same habit,’ she continued. ‘Drank the tea soon as it was poured, boiling from the stove. By the time he was fifty, the whole lining of his stomach was completely gone. They had to feed him through a tube in his arm. Luckily, poor man did not suffer very long.’

Gustad asked for a second cup. She said, ‘Dinshawji is waiting, he has something very important to say.’

‘Say it, Dinshawji. I am ready.’

Dinshawji’s hands shook as he opened the newspaper. He folded it and gave it to Gustad, along with the bulky white envelope. Gustad recognized it and flared up. ‘Are you crazy? You did not deposit?’

‘Please read,’ he implored, close to tears. ‘You will understand.’ The piece was fairly short, titled ‘CORRUPTION RIPE IN RAW’, which made Gustad snort:

Acting jointly on the basis of an anonymous tip, the CBI and city police yesterday arrested in the nation’s capital an officer of the Research and Analysis Wing, Jimmy Bilimoria, on charges of fraud and extortion.

He turned disbelievingly to Dinshawji, feeling as if the paan ’s numbness was returning to lay its icy fingers on his brain. ‘Impossible! What kind of rubbish is this?’

‘Please read,’ he pleaded again, but Gustad had already lowered his eyes:

The police report stated that, based on the accused’s confession, the facts were as follows. Some months ago in New Delhi, Mr. Bilimoria, impersonating the Prime Minister’s voice, telephoned the State Bank of India and identified himself as Indira Gandhi. He instructed the Chief Cashier to withdraw sixty lakh rupees from the bank’s reserves for delivery to a man who would identify himself as the Bangladeshi Babu. The next day, Mr. Bilimoria, this time in the persona of the Bangladeshi Babu, met the Chief Cashier and took delivery of the sixty lakh rupees.