Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

Gustad told him about Roshan’s illness. Despite the gap of thirty years, he felt as comfortable with Malcolm as he had during their college days. He also confided the disappointment about Sohrab, the heartache, the blighted future. Then the subject of Dinshawji came up: ‘It’s so sad, so painful, to see this wonderful character lying helpless. My one true friend ever since you and I lost touch.’ While Gustad said this, he was also thinking of Jimmy Bilimoria, but kept that story untold — the Major was to be expunged from his life.

Malcolm was touched by his friend’s troubles. ‘There is a way to help your child,’ he said. ‘And your sick friend. Have you heard of Mount Mary?’

Gustad started. What a coincidence! ‘Yes, I have.’

‘I don’t mean the joke we used to tell in college,’ Malcolm said laughingly. ‘You know, asking the girls the way to mount Mary. I am talking about the Church of Mount Mary.’

‘Oh, so that’s what the joke meant. But yes, I know the church also. Just recently a pavement artist told me the miracle of Mount Mary.’

Malcolm was impressed by Gustad’s account of the brilliant artist who had transformed the black stone wall. ‘But come with me to Mount Mary,’ he said. ‘Ask Mother Mary for help. She will cure Roshan and your friend. Miracles are happening every day, I have personally witnessed so many.’ He offered to help pick out a chicken first, and they started walking in that direction. Gustad learned more about the church, how it had a tradition of welcoming Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, regardless of caste or creed. Mother Mary helped everyone, She made no religious distinctions. And as they made their way through the chicken coops, Gustad felt it was like their college Sundays again, those long-ago mornings of church and beef and Christianity. He listened to his friend while examining the fowl the shopkeeper held out.

‘Wait, wait,’ Malcolm interrupted, ‘see that?’ He pointed to a misshapen foot. ‘Must have had a fight. Never buy a chicken that’s been in a fight.’ He made the man put it back, admonishing him: ‘You think we are blind or what?’ He took over the selection process, and Gustad was glad. Malcolm reminded him of Pappa during the prosperous days — in his element at Crawford Market.

‘Damn good chicken,’ said Malcolm, finding one that pleased him. ‘Feel here. Under the feathers, man.’ Poking perfunctorily with one finger, Gustad agreed. The man took his knife and went to the back. Malcolm followed, beckoning to Gustad to come too. ‘Have to be very sharp with these buggers, or they exchange it.’ The man asked if they wanted the head. Gustad declined, and it was tossed into the gutter, to the waiting crows.

‘Come with me,’ said Malcolm, as they retraced their steps to the bus stop. ‘We can go to Mount Mary this afternoon.’

In the old days, Gustad would have promptly dismissed such an invitation. Dabbling in religions was distasteful and irreverent, an affront to the other faith and his own. But Mount Mary was different — a feeling almost of pre-ordination about it. First, the pavement artist, describing the miracle. Then suddenly meeting Malcolm today. And hearing the same thing. Like divine intervention. Maybe Dada Ormuzd is telling me something.

‘OK, we will go.’

‘Good,’ said Malcolm, pleased. ‘See, I will catch the two o’clock local from Marine Lines. You wait on the platform at Grant Road and watch for me.’

‘Right,’ said Gustad. ‘What’s the time now?’ It was ten-thirty, ten-thirty by the hundred-year-old clock in Crawford Market’s façade, faithfully keeping the hours (except during power cuts) for butchers and pet-shop owners, merchants and black-marketeers, shoppers and beggars, all under one vast roof.

Gustad watched Malcolm walk home down the road to Dhobitalao where Sohrab’s old school was. From the bus stop he could see the walls and railings around the police station near St Xavier’s. They used to train police dogs in that yard. Once, he and Sohrab had watched through the barred gate, as the Doberman pinschers attacked dummies and mauled their trainers’ heavily padded arms.

The bus came, and Gustad cast an anxious glance at his basket. The old dread about dripping blood still haunted him. Although in the last few weeks he had perfected his basket technique: layers of newspaper at the bottom and sides, and a polythene bag within — if the polythene leaked at the seams, then the newspaper would soak up the effluence. It was performing flawlessly, but as though to justify his anxiety, the woman in front turned and eyed him nastily. She reached for a sari corner to cover her nose and mouth. Her eyes continued to swivel from the basket to his face.

She knows what’s in there. Smells my fear, like a dog. Eyes of a Doberman. These bloody vegetarians. A sixth sense for meat. No luck on buses…that time from Chor Bazaar. Bumped into Madam Wide-Arse. How upset. But how quickly I charmed her.

He smiled at the memory, and the vegetarian woman read arrogance into it. She made her eyes spit venom.

‘I’m off to see Dinshawji,’ Gustad told Dilnavaz after lunch. He hoped to return early enough to stop at the hospital and convert his lie into a half-truth. He felt guilty, using up Dinshawji’s afternoon visiting hours.

At two o’clock, a fast train to Virar pulled into Grant Road station. The surging, jostling exchange of bodies commenced, then the train pulled out: the overflowing third class; the cushioned first class; the Ladies Only, windows covered with special metal grills, with chinks so tiny, not one molesting, Eve-teasing finger could poke through. On the platform, the sign changed to show the next arrival. Gustad examined the display, trying to unravel its intricacies. Meanwhile, the train came in, and Malcolm called to get his attention. In a few minutes, at Bombay Central, the two were able to get window seats. ‘Slow train,’ said Malcolm. ‘Supply and demand, always.’

Gustad read the station names as the blue, white and red signs on the platforms periodically swept past his window. Mahalaxmi. Lower Parel. Elphinstone Road. Dadar. ‘Dadar,’ said Gustad. ‘I had to come here with Sohrab when he was in seventh standard. To get his textbooks at Pervez Hall.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They do social work, helping students.’ He smiled as he remembered. ‘Sohrab was so excited with all the books there. He wanted to see everything, the books for eighth standard, ninth standard, tenth standard, SSC, all of them. The old lady said to him, dikra, do it slowly, one year at a time, gobbling too much will give you indigestion.’ Malcolm laughed at the imitation of the old lady’s voice, as Gustad continued: ‘I used to be the same way, when I first began going to my father’s bookstore. Trying to examine every book immediately. As if they were all going to vanish.’ His face clouded over at his inopportune words. ‘But they did. With the bailiff.’ Matunga station.

‘But you remember how we took my uncle’s van to hide the furniture? In the night?’

‘Yes, just one day before the bloody bailiff’s truck.’

‘You still have that furniture?’

‘Of course. What superb quality. My grandfather made it, you know. Still in perfect condition,’ he said proudly. The train passed over Mahim Creek, and the stink of raw sewage mingled with salty sea smells made them wrinkle their noses.

‘How much longer?’ asked Gustad.

‘Next one is Bandra.’

An old woman shuffled towards them on the platform. Her shoulder was weighed down by a khaki cloth bag crammed with candles. Rheum, like stubborn tears, lingered at the corners of her eyes. Out of the bag’s fraying mouth, the white candlewicks peeked clownishly, a silent cluster of tiny tongues supplicating on the old woman’s behalf. Her wizened face and grey-streaked white hair reminded Gustad of the bird-woman in Mary Poppins, on the steps of St Paul’s. Poor thing, how old and tired… feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag …special film première, it was. St Xavier’s High School’s gala night, to raise funds for the new gymnasium. And that other song. Such a long word. Sohrab was the only one who could remember it when we all got home. ‘Superca…superfragi…Supercalifragi…’