Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘What?’ said Malcolm.

‘Oh, nothing.’ What a memory, what a brain the boy had. And such a waste.

‘Candles for Mount Mary,’ the old woman murmured, pulling a handful out of the khaki bag.

Gustad hesitated. ‘Keep walking, man,’ said Malcolm. ‘Cannot trust these people. They mix impurities, then the candle does not burn properly. Near the church you get better quality.’

The old woman hawked feebly, spat her reproach, and called after them: ‘If everybody buys near the church only, what will happen to me, henh? How will I put a morsel in my mouth?’ She said more, but the words were lost in a fit of coughing.

Outside the station, Malcolm negotiated the fare with an unmetered taxi. When they were off, the driver reached under his seat and came up with a bunch of medium-sized candles. ‘For Mount Mary?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No,’ said Malcolm.

The driver persisted. ‘You want bigger? I have all different-different sizes in the dickey.’

‘No man, we don’t need your candles.’ He gave the I-will-handle-it look to Gustad, who was preoccupied with the partly-raised window rattling violently. The handle was missing, so the glass could not be wound up or down.

‘I have everything for Mount Mary in the dickey,’ said the driver. ‘Complete set. Hands and feet, legs and thighs. Full heads. Separate fingers and toes.’ The litany of body parts distracted Gustad from the clattering window. ‘Knees and noses, not to forget eyes and ears. Everything that you—’

‘How many times to say no before you understand?’ snapped Malcolm. Sulking, the driver shifted gears vengefully as the hill approached. The car began to climb. Gradually, between trees and buildings, they glimpsed slices of the sea, coruscating like shards of a mirror. The rocky beach became visible now, shining hot and black in the sun. ‘We can go there,’ said Malcolm, ‘after church. It’s so pleasant to sit on the rocks when the tide comes in with the breeze. So peaceful.’

Children clutching candles ran up to the taxi as it halted by the gates. The driver shooed them off. Gustad offered to share the fare but Malcolm refused: ‘You are my guest today.’ They turned their attention to the two carts by the gates, seeing which, the taxi-driver-cum-spurned-candleseller flung his arms in the air. He drove off, spinning his wheels and turning sharply. A cloud of dust enveloped the two men. ‘Bastard,’ said Malcolm.

The four-wheel carts were stacked with everything for the churchgoer. They had tarpaulin roofs supported on a frame of metal rods. One was being attended to by an elderly woman, portly and in black, who sat like a statue on a wooden stool. A smartly dressed young fellow looked after the other cart. Their inventories were virtually identical: rosaries, holy pictures, plastic Jesuses, pendant-size silver crosses on silver chains, desk-size crucifixes, wall-size crucifixes, Bibles, framed photographs of Mount Mary, souvenirs of Bombay for out-of-town pilgrims. But all these items occupied the peripheries of the carts. The central display was dedicated to the wax products.

Arranged in neat rows were fingers, thumbs, hands, elbows, arms (inclusive of fingers), kneecaps, feet, thighs and truncated legs. The hands and feet came in left and right, in two sizes: child and adult. Skulls, eyes, noses, ears, and lips were grouped separately from limbs and digits. Complete male and female wax figures were also available. There they all lay, corresponding to the catalogue the taxi-driver had recited, divisions and subdivisions of limbs and torsos anatomically organized.

A vision of Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s clinic swam briefly before Gustad’s eyes, of limbs hanging lifelessly, limp and defenceless as these waxen ones. His left hip twinged sharply with a forgotten pain. He passed a hand over his brow and looked to Malcolm to be guided through this world of wax. This unfinished Madame Tussaud’s, he thought.

‘You see,’ explained Malcolm, ‘suffering people come to Mount Mary and offer up the part that is troubling them. Think of it as a repair shop. Mother Mary is the Mechanic for all sufferers. She mends everything.’ His earthly correlatives made Gustad smile appreciatively. A repair shop, yes, that was good. Like the mechanics on Dr. Paymaster’s street.

‘Some people do it differently,’ continued Malcolm. ‘They first come and pray to Mother Mary, and promise to return with the part after it is cured. But that makes no sense to me. If your watch is not working, can the watch-repairer fix it unless you give it to him?’ The conclusion was irrefutable. The portly woman was moved to nod in agreement. ‘Also,’ said Malcolm, ‘it’s too much like bargaining, don’t you think? I trust Mother Mary completely with advance payment.’ The woman quivered on the stool. It was difficult to tell if she was shaking with mirth: her face was still impassive.

Malcolm picked out a female child’s torso and gave it to Gustad. ‘For Roshan. Next, your friend in hospital. If the cancer has spread, maybe best thing is to buy the full body.’ He indicated the male figure in the last row. The woman in black grudgingly got off her stool. ‘Who else?’

Gustad hesitated. ‘Can Mother Mary help with the head? I mean the mind? For someone not thinking straight?’

‘Oh yes, I think Sohrab will definitely benefit.’ Malcolm picked out a male head. ‘Now what about your hip?’

‘No, no, that’s OK.’

‘What rubbish, man. This morning only you were limping at the market, I saw myself. Come on, don’t be shy.’ The portly woman bent sideways on her stool to see around the cart, and examined Gustad. Having sized him up, she expertly picked out a wax leg. ‘Good,’ said Malcolm. ‘You will see how it helps. Who else?’ Gustad thought of Jimmy. The pleading note he sent me. All those scary things uttered by Ghulam Mohammed. Jimmy’s enemies, wanting to get rid of him and…

‘Anyone else?’ asked Malcolm again.

‘No. No one else.’

The portly woman in black totalled the purchases. ‘The offerings will work,’ explained Malcolm, ‘only if you pay. My money is no good.’

‘Of course, naturally.’

‘Four candles now,’ said Malcolm, moving to the other cart. ‘I always buy from both, to be fair.’

Gustad paid, and they went inside the hot crowded church. Devotees with offerings were slowly making their way towards the altar. The ceiling fan made a woman’s veil caress Gustad’s face. Candles in their hundreds were burning fiercely in flat metal trays. The collective light cast a brilliant orange glow towards the sanctuary. Around the trays were strewn countless limbs and figures, a waxwork universe petitioning on behalf of the suffering multitude. The intense heat from the candles was robbing the offerings of their shapes. Gustad knelt, following his friend’s example, then Malcolm indicated that the wax purchases should be relinquished and the candles lit. But it was difficult to find a bare spot amid the scorching blaze in progress. Malcolm looked around to see if anyone was watching. He made room by quickly knocking over a few candles that were down to half their size. Like a backhand table-tennis smash, thought Gustad. ‘Is that allowed?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘Oh, it’s OK. Someone will later do the same to yours. Important thing is to light them.’ He drew Gustad’s attention to the main icon. ‘That’s the statue found by the fishermen.’

It was draped in rich, gold-embroidered fabrics; what seemed like precious or semi-precious stones glinted by candlelight. ‘Did they also find those clothes?’

‘No, no, they were made much later, from donations.’ Gustad wondered what the statue was wearing when it came ashore.

‘You see Baby Jesus on Mother Mary’s left arm? Once a year, He moves. Next year He will be on the right arm. No one knows how it happens. A true miracle.’ Then Malcolm fell silent. He crossed himself and started to pray. Gustad joined his hands, bowed his head and thought of Roshan, wishing her healthy and well again; of Dinshawji, that his suffering may ease; and of Sohrab, that his good sense be restored to him. He did not bother with his hip; it was really not that important.