Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Your bogie will stop here,’ he said, ‘stand here only.’ He indicated his brass armband. ‘Remember — number three hundred and eighty-six.’ Then he was off towards the railway yard.

Shortly, the empty train backed in, each window framing a red shirt and white turban. People threw their belongings inside and jumped on before it was at a standstill. The red shirts took voice, ransoming off seats they had possessed in the yard. ‘Risvard seat! Ten rupees!’

Gustad’s porter waved and pointed to his armband. ‘Three eighty-six! Don’t worry, sahab, come slowly, your seat is ready.’

The compartment was already full. Three eighty-six took the bag and slipped it under the seat without getting up. Gustad took out his wallet and parted with the requisite note. The porter rose, Gustad sat.

‘We are at their mercy, no?’ said a voice from above. A well-dressed man in his thirties was stretched out on the overhead luggage rack. He laughed. ‘Coolies are controlling the whole show. Railway Ministry thinks it is in charge, strikers think they are in charge. But the coolies are the real bosses. I paid twenty rupees for this de-luxe sleeping-berth.’

Gustad smiled up at him between the slats and nodded politely. Half an hour later, when the whistle blew, the compartments, entrances, and aisles were crammed with luggage and humans. He wiped his perspiring face on a sleeve, his handkerchief being inaccessible. The luggage-rack man said, ‘Almost twenty-four hours to go. But it will definitely get better.’

And he was right. As time went by, the compartment no longer seemed so packed; the aggression to establish territorial rights had melted. Food packages were opened and lunch was eaten. People even managed to find a way to use the toilet; the men travelling in the water-closet were obliging enough to step out when it was needed for other functions.

‘First time to Delhi?’ the luggage-rack man asked Gustad.

‘Yes.’

‘Bad luck. With the strike and all. But sightseeing in Delhi will be good now, the weather will be pleasant.’

‘I am going for personal business,’ said Gustad.

‘Oh, but I am also going for personal business only.’ He found the coincidence funny. ‘My parents live there. They are saying at my age I should be married, and at their age, they could pass away without seeing their eldest son married, which would be cause of great sorrow. So I am going to select a wife,’ he revealed from his horizontal position.

‘I wish you good luck,’ said Gustad, not pleased to be the recipient of his confidences.

‘Thank you very-very much.’ He sat up and bumped his head.

For lunch Gustad bought a glass of tea through the window when the train stopped at a station. He opened Dilnavaz’s packet of sandwiches later, when it was almost seven o’clock. Omelette. Dinshawji’s favourite. How I used to tease him. Two sandwiches every day, for thirty years.

Twilight began to fade, the train sped northwards through darkness. Gustad chewed his sandwiches slowly, looking out at empty fields where a faint light glimmered here and there. Would this long journey be worth it? Was any journey ever worth the trouble?

Then his thoughts were of Dinshawji. Random thoughts, crossing decades of their lives. The new recruit, he used to call me. Would lift his arm and say, under my wing you will be safe — little smelly, but safe. Pointing out who could be trusted, who were tattletales, backstabbers, management chumchas. And his trick of leaving the jacket on the chair. How he made people laugh. At lunch and tea-breaks. Even during working hours, one-liners every now and then. Yes, to be able to make people laugh was a wonderful blessed thing. And what a long journey for Dinshawji too. But certainly worth it.

The train rocked through the night. It was much cooler now. He dozed, his head knocking against the window.

In the wake of Gustad’s early-morning departure, one disaster after another had followed Dilnavaz. The milk boiled over, she burnt the rice, the kerosene overflowed the funnel when she filled the stove — the kitchen was a ghastly mess.

She was worried about Gustad, wished he had not decided to go to Delhi. But it’s the only way to find out the truth. Or he will never know peace. And to be honest, neither will I. All the same, the thought of Gustad entering a jail, even as a visitor, was frightening.

And besides, she had not yet done what Miss Kutpitia had prescribed for Roshan’s illness. Roshan was much better now, but Miss Kutpitia had repeated her warning: not to be lulled into a false sense of security, because that’s how the dark forces worked, lurking like poisonous snakes, striking when least expected. I did everything else her way, no sense stopping now.

But why for Sohrab does she always say patience, patience? What is that final remedy she is so reluctant to tell? I can take it no longer, lying awake all night worrying about Sohrab, and it’s affecting Gustad too, though he will admit nothing, keeps saying, I have only one son, with his pain showing in his eyes every time I look.

If Miss Kutpitia’s instructions were to be carried out, now was the time. And still she vacillated, till, later that evening, Mr. Rabadi finished walking Dimple in the compound and rang the Nobles doorbell. The Pomeranian commenced with a series of shrill yips as Dilnavaz opened the door. ‘ Choop ré, Dimple!’ scolded Mr. Rabadi, ‘be nice to Noble Auntie.’ He was nervous. ‘Your husband is there?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ he said, at a loss, but also relieved. Just before ringing the doorbell, he had recited Dustoorji Baria’s latest Prayer to Strengthen the Righteous. ‘I can talk to you then?’

‘I am listening.’

Her curt response left him a little flustered. ‘See, fighting-bighting I am not interested in. We live in one building, and it’s not looking nice. I am talking straight, and I am hoping you will listen straight and stop your son.’ His confidence grew in proportion to the number of words he spoke.

Dilnavaz shifted her weight to the other foot. ‘Stop our son? From what?’

‘Please, khaali-pili don’t do acting. Your son holds the bicycle seat and runs after my daughter. The whole building is watching and that’s not looking nice.’

‘What idiotic-lunatic talk is this?’ Gustad’s favourite phrase fit quite precisely, she realized. ‘I don’t understand one word of your rubbish.’

‘Rubbish? Then ask your son only! I am a fool or what? He holds the seat, and whole building watches him run after my Jasmine with his hand touching her buttocks! That is not looking nice, let me tell you now only!’ He waggled a finger which upset Dimple; she started yapping again.

Darius emerged from the back room to see if his mother needed help. When Gustad had left early in the morning, he put his hand on Darius’s shoulder and said, half-joking and half-serious, ‘Listen, my Sandow. You are in charge, look after your mother and sister.’

‘There he is!’ yelled Mr. Rabadi. ‘Ask him now only! Ask him if he put his hand on her buttocks or not! Now only, in front of me!’

Enough was enough, decided Dilnavaz. ‘If you ask me, you should leave now only. Too much nonsense we have heard from you.’ She tried to shut the door.

‘ Khabardaar !’ protested Mr. Rabadi, pushing against it. ‘Show respect for your neighbour! I have not finished talking and—’

Darius, taking his father’s trust very seriously, heaved the door shut. Outside, Mr. Rabadi was hurled back, tripping over Dimple. He dusted himself off and threatened through the door to lodge two complaints at the police station: one for assault, the other for molesting his Jasmine. He also made a mental note to visit Dustoorji Baria at the first opportunity and narrate the contretemps.