Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

A cold bleak corridor connected the main building to the hospital. Mr. Kashyap had metal cleats on his heels, and his steps rang out on the stone floor. The footfalls echoed in Gustad’s memory. A feeling of profound loss and desolation, of emptiness, swept over him.

Mr. Kashyap had a word with a guard in the hospital lobby. ‘OK,’ he said to Gustad. ‘Please wait here, someone will be coming for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mention not,’ said Mr. Kashyap and departed, smiling at the dirty yellow walls. Soon, a white-jacketed official arrived to escort Gustad upstairs. They passed large, smelly wards and some single rooms outside which policemen were on duty.

‘You are a friend of Mr. Bilimoria?’ Gustad nodded. ‘Very very unfortunate, all these legal problems. And now infection. He becomes delirious sometimes. Don’t worry if it happens when you are there, we are treating him for it.’

Gustad nodded, finding it hard to believe. Jimmy’s mind, sharp as a Seven O’Clock stainless-steel razor blade, delirious? Not possible.

‘How long are you staying? Visits are only thirty minutes.’

‘But I came all the way from Bombay. My train leaves at four p.m.’

‘Mr. Kashyap told me you were a special case.’ He considered. ‘Till three o’clock?’ They stopped outside a room where a policeman sat on a wooden stool with a long, heavy rifle he was clearly weary of holding. The medical person gave instructions, and Gustad entered hesitantly.

The room was stifling, its single window bolted shut. The figure on the bed seemed asleep with face turned away. Gustad could hear the laboured breathing. Not wanting to wake Jimmy with a start, he moved cautiously to the foot of the bed. Now he could see clearly. And what he saw made him want to weep.

On the bed lay nothing more than a shadow. The shadow of the powerfully-built army man who once lived in Khodadad Building. His hairline had receded, and sunken cheeks made the bones jut sharp and grotesque. The regal handlebar moustache was no more. His eyes had disappeared within their sockets. The neck, what he could see of it, was as scrawny as poor behesti Dinshawji’s, while under the sheet there seemed barely a trace of those strong shoulders and deep chest which Gustad and Dilnavaz used to point out as a good example to their sons, reminding them always to walk erect, with chest out and stomach in, like Major Uncle.

All this in a year and a half? This the man who once carried me like a baby? Into Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s clinic? Who could beat me at arm-wrestling as often as I beat him?

Jimmy’s right hand lay outside the sheet, emaciated like his face. It twitched twice, then his eyes fluttered open. He looked bewildered and shut them. His lips produced a weak, croaking sound: ‘Gus…’

O God. Can’t even say my name. ‘Yes, Jimmy,’ he said reassuringly, taking his hand. ‘It is Gustad.’

‘Injec…jec…injhecshun,’ he whispered, slurring badly. ‘Wait. Soon…little…better.’

‘Yes, yes, slowly. I am here only, Jimmy.’ He pulled the chair close without letting go of his hand. What kind of sickness is this? What have they done to him?

Anger, accusations, demands for explanations emptied from Gustad’s mind. Only a monster could harass a broken man for answers. He would wait, listen to what Jimmy wanted, comfort him, offer his help. Everything else had to be forgotten. And forgiven.

For thirty minutes he sat with Jimmy’s cold, trembling hand in his. Finally Jimmy opened his eyes again. ‘Gustad. Thank you. Thank you for coming,’ he whispered. The slurring was less, though his voice shook with the effort.

‘No, no. I am happy to come. But what happened?’ Then, remembering his resolution, ‘It’s OK, don’t strain yourself.’

‘The injections they give…for infection. Makes it difficult…to speak. But. After an hour…better.’

The words formed and faded like wisps of smoke in a breeze. Gustad moved his chair closer still. ‘What is the infection? Do they know what they are treating?’

‘Something. Caught in Sundarbans. First…yellow fever, they said, then typhus, malaria…typhoid…God knows. But I think…getting better. Injections…terrible…’

He was silent for a bit, his chest heaving. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said again. ‘You will stay?’

‘They gave me permission till three o’clock.’ Gustad looked at his watch. ‘So we have four whole hours.’

‘Have to hurry…’

‘Now listen, Jimmy, talking can wait. What’s happened has happened.’

‘But I want to. I feel no peace. Thinking about it…thinking about what you must be thinking,’ he whispered.

‘It’s OK, what’s happened has happened.’

‘Tell me first about yourself…Dilnavaz and children…’

‘Everyone is fine. We were very worried when you disappeared, that’s all. Then your letter came, and we were happy that you were all right.’ Gustad chose his words carefully: nothing must sound like an accusation. He remembered the decapitated rat and cat; the rhyme: Bilimoria chaaval chorya; the vinca, rose and subjo slashed to bits. He did not mention Sohrab, or Roshan’s illness, nothing to give Jimmy cause to worry.

‘How I miss Khodadad Building…wish I never took Delhi posting. But I can come back…in four years.’

‘Four years?’

‘Yes, my sentence.’

Gustad remembered Ghulam Mohammed’s advice: if Bili Boy is hopeful, let him hope. ‘Plus you can use your influence.’

‘No, Gustad, this is one case where influence won’t help. Goes to the very top…the dirty work.’ Despair filled his eyes again. ‘But…you know what I miss most…since I left?’

‘What?’

‘Early morning. Kusti and prayers together, in the compound.’

‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘I also.’

Jimmy raised himself on one elbow to reach the water on his bedside table. He sipped a bit. ‘Let me tell you what has been going on…it’s hard to believe…’

The injection’s numbing clutches loosened, letting his words grow clearer, but he could still produce no more than a painful whisper and, coughing frequently, had to pause often. The damage inside, viral or man-inflicted, had left its mark. It made Gustad wince to watch and listen.

‘The offer was so exciting…difficult place to join. Prime Minister’s office called me.’

‘You worked there?’

‘My letter came from there. For the Research and Analysis Wing…in direct charge.’

Again Gustad was puzzled. ‘You were in direct charge of RAW?’

‘No, she was,’ he whispered. ‘Surprised me.’

After the first little while, Gustad learned to rearrange Jimmy’s words and understand his slow, disconnected, rambling fragments. He remembered, sadly, the Major’s thrilling stories which used to captivate Sohrab and Darius for hours.

‘In RAW…new identity. Management consultant. I could not lie…to you. Just went away. I am sorry, Gustad. Really sorry…how are the children?’

‘Fine, fine. Everything is fine, Jimmy,’ he said, patting his hand. ‘So you went to Delhi and joined RAW.’

‘Big surprise…she was using RAW like her own private agency. Spying on opposition parties, ministers…anyone. For blackmail. Made me sick. Even spying on her own cabinet. One of them…prefers little boys. Another takes pictures of himself…doing it with women. Bribes, thievery…so much going on, Gustad. RAW kept dossiers. On her friends and enemies. Where they went, who they met, what they said, what they ate, what they drank…’ Jimmy broke off, gasping. Despite his condition, his fondness for rhetoric would not let him trim the story beyond a certain point of leanness. Some fat had to remain, the way he used to insist with Gustad about dhansak meat— charbee in the right proportion added to the flavour.