Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘You shouldn’t have shut it like that,’ said Dilnavaz, secretly quite proud. ‘But what is he saying about his jaari-padayri daughter?’

Darius looked a bit bashful: ‘She’s not really fat. She just needed help to learn bicycling. To balance while she pedalled. The other boys all got tired in only one round. No stamina, so she kept asking me.’

‘You know what Daddy told you. Rabadi is a crackpot and we don’t want trouble with him.’ More than a crackpot, she thought, capable of anything. ‘Promise me you will not go near her or her father. Especially her father.’ The way he had looked when Darius came to the door — my God. What a crazy look.

And now it made sense! Roshan had been getting thinner and thinner, and where was all her health and weight going if not to the dogwalla idiot’s daughter? Who got fatter and fatter, day by day! Miss Kutpitia was right, the alum pointed squarely at Rabadi!

The needle of suspicion had sewn up the case to Dilnavaz’s satisfaction. She made her plans. First the mixture to prepare. That was easy. But Miss Kutpitia said his scalp must be wetted with it. That was the tricky part.

After midnight, Gustad was awakened by a hand tapping his shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ said the luggage-rack man. ‘You want to lie up there?’

‘What about you?’

‘I slept enough. I will sit in your seat.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gustad. With his limbs fast asleep, aching in every joint, it was difficult to climb to the rack. The man helped; Gustad swung up successfully and stretched out. He wondered sleepily about the fellow’s groping hands. But it felt good to lie down. The stiff bones relaxing. The train rocking, soothing. Reminds me of another train. Long time ago. With Dilnavaz. On honeymoon…

He slumbered, drifting in and out of sleep. Half-dreaming and half-imagining he was in the coupé with Dilnavaz, twenty-one years ago. The day after their wedding. Impatient in their little mobile bedchamber, not willing to wait till their destination and hotel…

A hand stroked Gustad’s thigh. It moved to the crotch, discovered his dream-stiffened member, and was encouraged to go further. Fingers groped, fumbled with his fly-buttons, pried and squeezed one through the buttonhole. Did the same with the next. And Gustad realized he was not dreaming any longer.

Pretending to be asleep, he grunted, turned over, and while turning, lashed out with his elbow. He was not disturbed for the rest of the night.

Towards dawn it got cold. The train had left behind the warmth of the lower latitudes. Wishing for a blanket, wishing he was home in bed, he wrapped his arms around himself, drew his knees into his stomach and fell asleep again.

Sunlight through a ventilation grill woke him. Feeling the rays upon his face transported him to another time. Suddenly, all his doubts about coming to Delhi vanished like the night left somewhere down the tracks. Jimmy and I in the compound, saying our prayers. With the first light bathing us. At last everything will be put right between us.

The engine could not devour the remaining miles quickly enough for Gustad. At the next station he alighted, rubbing his cold hands. Some passengers had got off during the night, and there was more room in the compartment. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the luggage-rack man, who had a black eye. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, it’s OK. In the night I was going to WC and tripped over a suitcase or something. Banged my face.’

‘These crowded trains, what to do. But thank you very much for your bed. I had such a good sleep,’ said Gustad.

A chaiwalla passed with glasses of steaming tea in a metal rack. Gustad took two. The luggage-rack man reached for money, but Gustad paid. The hot glass warmed his hands. Poor fellow, he thought. Forcing himself to select a wife, to please his parents. And the poor woman, whoever she will be.

The warning whistle blew. The chaiwalla came back for his glass. Gustad held it out, unfinished. ‘Drink, drink,’ said the chaiwalla. ‘Still time.’ The whistle blew again, and the train moved. He began running alongside: ‘Drink, drink. Little more time.’ Gustad took a few hurried sips, more anxious to return the glass than the chaiwalla was to get it back. The glass changed hands at the end of the platform.

Oh what a pleasant ache, to walk again, thought Gustad, left-right, left-right. But Jimmy in jail must feel…And soldiers again. Left-right, left-right in the railway station. With their immense backpacks, leaning forward to balance. Huge tortoises going erect. Would be quaint if not for their guns.

He ran his fingers through his hair — hard as unwieldy wire — and looked down at his dusty clothes: reddish-brown, from the miles of countryside the train had come through. He tried to brush it off but it was everywhere. Under the collar, under the cuffs, sleeves, watch-strap. Stuck up my nose — hard and dry inside, sitting like a big fat cheepro. Throat feeling raw. Everywhere itching desperately. Inside my socks, inside my sudra. Gritty grains crawling busily, exploring the skin with countless little feet and claws, coarsely announcing their chafing, scratching, raging omnipresence. Like questions about Jimmy in my mind.

He entered the waiting-room and went to the back, to the lavatories. Skirting the dirty puddles made by leaky pipes, overflowing toilets and general carelessness, he waited his turn for the wash-basin.

The ice-cold water of Delhi’s December morning stung sharply. But it was wonderfully invigorating. This is the way we wash our face, wash our face, wash our face …He cleared his throat and spat… This is the way we spit out dust on a cold and frosty morning …Good thing Dilnavaz overruled my hanky, insisted on a towel. He rubbed it over the chest and back. Felt good, picked up some still-clinging dust. He put on a fresh sudra and shirt, left the waiting-room, and got into an auto-rickshaw.

The three-wheeler swerved in and out of traffic, changing lanes willy-nilly, tossing him from side to side. Forty minutes of agitation later, they stopped at a nondescript grey building. The ride had churned his insides as thoroughly as the thoughts of Jimmy, his mind. ‘This is the place?’

‘Yes, sahib, this only,’ the driver replied. Gustad stepped out unsteadily and paid, slightly nauseous. He felt very alone as the auto-rickshaw rattled away. Wish I was inside it. Heading back to the railway station.

At the reception area he consulted the note Ghulam Mohammed had given him, and asked for Mr. Kashyap. He was told to wait.

After half an hour a peon arrived and said, ‘Sahib is calling you.’ Gustad rose and followed him down a stone-floored hallway, past dirty yellow walls, to a door with a name plate on it: S. Kashyap. The door was ajar.

‘Come in, Mr. Noble.’ The man rose to offer his hand. ‘Mr. Bilimoria was expecting you many weeks ago.’ Mr. Kashyap was thickset, with a face whose propensity was to smile regardless of what was being said.

‘I have been very busy.’

‘Unfortunately, Mr. Bilimoria is not here any more.’ The smile on the man’s face gave his words a sinister slant.

‘Not here?’

‘No, no, what I mean is, he is not in this building in his regular cell, we had to move him to the hospital section.’

‘What happened?’

‘High fever, and lot of weakness. Must be a jungle sickness.’ He kept smiling his wide, meaningless smile. ‘His duties took him into the jungles very often.’

‘But can I still meet him?’

‘Yes, yes, certainly. Whether hospital, jail cell, solitary — I only have to approve all visitors, so no problem. We can go now.’