Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Of course, bossie. More the merrier. A good mixture like this is a perfect example for our secular country. That’s the way it should be. The ghail chodias will complain even if God Himself comes down. Something they will find wrong with Him. That He is not handsome enough, or not fair enough, or not tall enough.’ Inspector Bamji waved and drove off. Gustad entered with his latchkey, laughing quietly to himself. Roshan was sobbing on the sofa.

‘She won’t stop,’ complained Dilnavaz. ‘Being so silly.’

‘Is it paining somewhere? What’s wrong?’ He rushed to the sofa and held her.

‘Nothing is paining. Her doll is lost, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean, lost? Such a big doll? It’s not a needle or button.’

‘We can’t find it anywhere in the house.’

‘Then say stolen. Lost!’ He wiped Roshan’s eyes. ‘Where was it left?’

‘On the sofa, for many days.’

‘ Bas, you must have left the door open. So many times I have warned you. How long does it take for the fruitwalla or biscuitwalla or anyone to grab something and run?’

‘I never leave the door open,’ Dilnavaz stated emphatically, simultaneously remembering her frantic rushings to and from Miss Kutpitia’s.

‘Don’t worry,’ he comforted Roshan. ‘We will find it.’ Where on earth, he wondered helplessly. A miracle would be required, like the wall. Why did miracles and misfortunes always come hand in hand?

‘The money is all here. You better count it.’

Ghulam looked hurt. ‘Please don’t say that, Mr. Noble. I trust you with my life. You are Bili Boy’s friend, and mine.’

Bastard hypocrite, thought Gustad. Last time, menacing and vicious — like a cobra spreading its hood. Now all sweet and grateful. Bloody actor. ‘I hope the need to be your friend and the Major’s is ended.’

Ghulam sighed and opened a newspaper. ‘You saw this report from Delhi today? About Bili Boy.’ Curiosity got the better of Gustad’s bitterness.

‘See?’ said Ghulam. ‘They are out to get him. Three different magistrates in three days, to dispose of Bili Boy’s case.’ He mauled the paper angrily. ‘People at the very top are involved, believe me.’

The bastard is right. Something funny going on. ‘Major Bilimoria lied to me from the beginning. How can I believe or not believe? Who can I trust? You? The newspaper?’

Ghulam looked pained again. ‘Please, Mr. Noble, things are not what they seem. He is trapped by the ones at the top.’ Gustad’s face showed scorn for his words. ‘And what’s hurting him most in prison is not his enemies’ blows, but his friend thinking he has been betrayed. That’s why he wants to meet you and explain.’

‘What? But you said he is in prison.’

‘It can be arranged. If you will go to Delhi.’

‘Impossible. I have no leave, and my child is sick, besides, with—’

Ghulam reached inside his jacket. ‘He has written to you. Please read.’ Gustad opened the envelope:

My dear Gustad,

Where shall I start? Things have gone wrong. So hopelessly wrong. And I almost got you into trouble. Can you forgive me?

I have only one request to make now. Shameless of me to even mention the word request, but I want you to come to Delhi, so I can tell you what happened. It is a long complicated story, and you will not believe words on paper, because I sent you words on paper before and could not keep them from turning false. Please visit me. I want you to know and understand, hear from your own lips that you forgive me. Ghulam Mohammed will arrange everything. Please come.

Your loving friend,

Jimmy

Gustad folded the note and slipped it in his pocket.

‘Will you go?’ asked Ghulam.

‘I was tricked by him once.’

‘You are making a mistake, he is really your friend. But not for long if his enemies finish him off.’

‘Come on, now.’ Bloody actor. Will say anything to convince me.

‘No, really. Not exaggerating. If you dealt with these people, you would know. Please go.’

‘OK, let me think about it,’ said Gustad, making the concession solely to get away from the persistent entreaties.

The night air was thick. Stifling as that rascal’s presence was. Smelling like the black stone wall before the artist came. The gutters were overflowing again, the stench and noxious gases bubbled steadily. Gustad wondered if Dr. Paymaster, the shopkeepers, whores and mechanics were getting results from their complaints to the municipality. He hurried along, holding his breath and, when he had to, inhaling as shallowly as possible.

Tehmul was waiting in the compound when he got back. ‘GustadGustadveryveryimportantletter.’ It was from the landlord, thanking the tenants for signing the petition against road-widening. He promised to keep them informed about the lawsuit. Of the thirty copies, Gustad kept one and instructed Tehmul to deliver the rest. Way the courts work, we will all be old and dead. By the time there is a verdict. Thank God.

Through the remaining days of October, Dinshawji’s condition did not improve. He seemed to shrink in his hospital bed. His arms, legs, neck, face — everything withered, except the lump in his stomach, that insidious mound under the sheet. And his size twelve feet, erect, like twin sentries at the foot of the bed.

Gustad visited as often as he could, at least twice a week, and thought it curious that he never came across Dinshawji’s wife during the bedside hours. He brought Dinshawji up to date on bank news and personalities. To amuse him, he narrated Mr. Madon’s row with an employee, or described what Laurie Coutino had worn to work. ‘Down to here, her blouse was today,’ he said, undoing the top three buttons of his shirt and tucking the fronts in sideways to make a deep plunging V.

‘Go, go! Couldn’t be,’ Dinshawji chuckled.

‘Swear,’ he said, pinching the skin under his Adam’s apple to validate the oath. ‘Down to here. Without exaggeration. When she walked, her boblaas shivered like mounds of Rex Jelly, I am telling you.’

‘ Arré, stop torturing me, yaar. Please, I touch your feet!’

‘All day long, the fellows kept going to her desk with some excuse. Those buggers. Even Goover-Ni-Gaan Ratansa. You won’t believe it, finally old Bhimsen also, tottering and crawling. Memsaab, he said, you want tea-coffee? Some cream-cracker biskoat? That was just too much.’

Dinshawji shook with laughing. ‘What about Madon?’

‘He got his share in his private cabin. In the Officers’ Enclave. Said his own secretary was busy, so he wanted to give Miss Coutino some dictation.’

‘Sure,’ said Dinshawji. ‘He must have given her the d-i-c and forgotten about the t-a-t-i-o-n after seeing her Rex Jelly.’

The subject exhausted, Gustad told him the money had been returned to Ghulam Mohammed, and showed him the Major’s note. ‘So what do you think of that?’

‘Difficult to say,’ said Dinshawji, ‘but if I were in your place I would go.’

‘And if it is another trick?’

Dinner arrived, and the bed-table was positioned over Dinshawji. The ward boy briskly served a bowl of soup and a covered platter, then wheeled the food trolley to the next bed. Dinshawji looked quite helpless, pinned under the trestle.

‘Shall I raise the head a little?’ asked Gustad. He wound the handle but the feet began to rise. He inserted the key in the next slot and tried again; the top half slowly elevated. ‘Comfortable?’

There was a grateful nod, and he flipped the lever to lock the bed in place. Dinshawji dipped the spoon in the bowl and conveyed it to his mouth. But his hand shook wildly, the soup dribbled throat-wards down his chin. He smiled sheepishly, trying to wipe it with the back of his hand. Hesitantly, Gustad unfolded the napkin and cleaned him up. When Dinshawji let him do that without protest, he took the spoon and began feeding him. ‘A little bread with it?’