Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Her friends become enemies and her enemies become friends…so quickly. So often. Blackmail is the only way she can keep control…keep them all in line. Disgusting. I was fed up. Not what I came to Delhi for. I applied for transfer.’

He drank more water, propping up his pillow to keep his head raised. Gustad held him under the arms and pulled him up. The sheet slipped a little. He saw how hollow Jimmy’s chest was, as though the lungs had collapsed.

‘Remember the cyclone last year…in East Pakistan? Thousands killed…bastards in West Pakistan no help. Showed the Bengalis once and for all. West only wants their sweat. And in December elections Sheikh Mujibur Rahman won. Absolute majority.’

‘Yes,’ said Gustad. ‘Bhutto and the generals would not let him form the government. Yahya Khan sent in the army when the Bengalis began civil disobedience.’

‘Soldiers slaughtered thousands of demonstrators. Refugees came…My superior told me our government will help guerrilla movement. Right away I said I was interested. So Prime Minister’s office called me for interview…What close control she keeps on RAW. Strong woman, Gustad, very strong woman…very intelligent. People say her father’s reputation made her Prime Minister. Maybe. But now she deserves—’ The pillow slipped, and he did not wish to raise it again. He cleared his throat feebly. ‘Sohrab? How is Sohrab?’

‘Fine, fine.’

‘And Darius? Body-building?’

‘Solid muscles,’ said Gustad. ‘The Prime Minister.’

Jimmy was grateful for the reminder. ‘She came to the point. She said…your record is excellent, Major Bilimoria, and you understand our objectives. Her voice…so calm, such confidence. Not like her political speeches…yelling and screaming. Hard to believe now she could be in such crookedness. Maybe people around her…who knows.’ Gustad wanted to ask what crookedness, but waited. All in good time, at Jimmy’s pace.

‘She put me in charge. Training and supplying the Mukti Bahini…tough fighters, Bengalis. Learned quickly. Factories sabotaged…bridges toppled…railway tracks—’

‘Hai!’ Jimmy suddenly broke off, looking over Gustad’s shoulder. He had barely raised his voice, but compared to his feeble whispers it seemed like a yell. ‘Swine! Get out! Not your bloody latrine!’

Gustad understood. He leaned forward and patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Jimmy, everything is OK,’ he said, as Jimmy drifted back into the comfortable past.

‘Gustad, what time?’ he panted. The effort had taken a lot out of him. ‘Time for kusti ?’

‘Not yet, Jimmy, rest a little.’ He continued to pat his shoulder till he was ready to resume the story.

‘There was a ceremony…birth of Bangladesh. Invited the press to Kushtia district, not far from our border…village renamed Mujibnagar. New flag…green, red, gold, in the mango grove. Singing… sonar Bangla. And Pakistani artillery not far away. Joi Bangla …proud moment for everyone. But bloody foreign press printed name of the village…Pakistani Air Force destroyed it next day…’

Without knocking, a sharp-faced nurse entered the room. It was time for Jimmy’s next injection. Her forearms were sinewy, the veins standing out like braided rope. She roughly turned him on his side, carried out her task, and left wordlessly.

‘Again it will start. Then how will I talk to you?’

‘Don’t worry,’ comforted Gustad. ‘There is lots of time. Rest. I will wait.’ He looked at his watch and was surprised: almost one already. How much time and precious effort Jimmy had expended saying these few words. As though each one was being sculpted painstakingly, out of stubborn granite that deflected his strokes, blunted his chisel. But he persisted, and after the long wrestle, presented them to Gustad. One by one. Who received them reverently, with anguish, because of the pain that went into their making.

‘Money. Money was the main thing for Mukti Bahini. Without money, no supplies, no explosives, no guns…nothing. We needed a regular allocation, a budget. I told her at next meeting…operation would shut down…We were alone, but she not attentive…as if dreaming of something else. Strange woman…very strong woman…

‘I thought she had lost interest, Mukti Bahini finished. But I gave her my full report. Suddenly she said, I understand the situation, I will arrange more funds. She went inside…to her small private office. Gave me instructions. Next morning to go to State Bank, meet chief cashier, ask for sixty lakh rupees.

‘She started explaining, when aid officially sanctioned, amount will be replaced. I thought, whysh…why she telling me all this, none of my bi-bi-bish…bisnesh.’

The injection was gripping his tongue in its pincers again. Gustad wished he would stop and rest; he leaned closer, till his ear was inches away from Jimmy’s lips.

‘She said…don’t tell chief cashier name or RAW identity. Only, Bangladeshi Babu…come for sixty lakh.

‘Next morning, got the m-m-money. Amazing…sixty lakh, just like that. Then, in a few days, she sent m-mess-message…Now ja-ja-just listen carefully…her pe-plans. Hu-how she was arranging. To protect herself…ta-ta-trrrap me…’

Jimmy closed his eyes; the mouth continued to make small movements but no sounds emerged. He fell into an unquiet state resembling sleep. Gustad pulled the sheet up to cover him properly and went outside, exhausted. Jimmy’s agonizing struggle had drained him.

The policeman asked, ‘How is he? Lot of pain?’

‘Yes. But sleeping now.’ The policeman said there was tea and snacks in the canteen downstairs. He pronounced it snakes.

The bhaiya had been reluctant to let Dilnavaz have an extra quarter litre of milk: ‘ Arré bai, you should have told me yesterday. Suddenly how to produce more?’

Others quickly jumped in, taking her side. ‘Leave all your acting-facting, muà. We know you will just add quarter litre of water, soon as you are out of here.’ Protesting the charge indignantly as usual, he let her have the milk.

Dilnavaz took it home and separated the extra quarter for the mixture. First came the taveej from over the front door. She sliced the lime into thin wedges, chopped the chillies, then proceeded to grind it all to a fine paste. The round stone rumbled and groaned as she dragged it back and forth over the flat slab.

The paste blended well with the milk, giving it a pretty pale green tint. Next she measured seeds into the mortar — anise, bishop’s-weed, poppy, fennel, mustard — and pestled them to powder. The remaining ingredients were already in powder or liquid form: kunkoo, marcha ni bhhuki, harad, dhanajiru, papad khar, shahjiru, tuj, lavang, mari, ailchi, jyfer, sarko, garam masalo, andoo, lassun. She stirred briskly; everything must be well-mixed, Miss Kutpitia had insisted.

Now for the mouse droppings. Dilnavaz was sure she could find the required amount, thanks to Gustad’s black paper; even this nuisance finally had its use. Lifting the corners, she soon gathered a teaspoonful. In the pan the black bits remained suspended no matter how much she stirred. She let the mixture stand, and proceeded to procure the final ingredient: a spider’s round white egg-case. Amazing, the things Miss Kutpitia knew.

Dilnavaz located a large black-brown specimen near the ceiling, where the paper met the top of the ventilator. She lunged with the long-handled broom. The paper tore away, while the spider glided floorward in graceful stages on silken thread. She waited, poised over the predictable landing spot, to finish the job with her slipper.

But the queasy part still lay ahead — the dead spider’s several legs were folded rigidly over the abdomen, and the round egg-case was locked behind a radial grid of dark furry appendages. They reminded her of Inspector Bamji’s hairy legs, in the old days when he wore short pants, before his promotion.