Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

Dilnavaz helped to extricate him before she left the room. Outside the door, a whiff of acrid fumes told her Miss Kutpitia had struck the match. Within seconds the latter emerged, shutting the door behind her.

‘Very dangerous to look at it once it is burning,’ she said. ‘That’s why I had to send you away.’

‘But what about you? You must have seen it.’

‘Never. You think I am crazy? I know how to light it without looking.’ For five minutes they listened to Tehmul’s giggles through the odours of burning lizard skin and flesh. Then Miss Kutpitia opened the door and called him out.

He was reluctant to leave. ‘Twistingburningtwistingburning.’

‘Enough now,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘go play in the compound.’ She would wait a little longer to clean the glass, she whispered to Dilnavaz, because she wanted to take no chances. Even a smouldering bit of tail could have devastating consequences. Like that (she snapped her fingers) you could lose your mind.

Dilnavaz immediately took a good look at Tehmul to see if there was any change. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Miss Kutpitia, ‘it needs a few days.’

‘Oh,’ said Dilnavaz, relieved and disappointed.

‘Twistingtwisting,’ said Tehmul. He descended the stairs, leading with his good leg and letting the lame one drop heavily. ‘Twistingtwistingfireturning. Funfunfunfun.’ He waved and disappeared from sight, but his voice came from the stairwell below: ‘Burningburningburningburning.’ That the lizard tail had wriggled its way out of the glass and on to Farad’s tattered exercise book, he left unsaid.

As Gustad stepped off the bus from Victoria Terminus, he could see that the compound wall’s last vacant spots had been filled while he was away. Pictures of prophets, saints, swamis, babas, seers, holy men and sacred places, in oils and enamels, covered every square inch of black stone. The bright colours glistened in the late morning light.

On the pavement, flowers had been left by the faithful: singly, or in posies and bouquets. There were thick garlands, too, of roses and lilies, gulgota and goolchhadi, filling the air with their heavenly fragrances. He could smell them as far away as the bus stop, faint as the touch of the woman’s veil at Mount Mary. And the closer he came, the richer grew the sweet aromas. Zinnias, marigolds, mogra, chamayli, goolbahar, magnolias, bunfasha, chrysanthemum, surajmukhi, asters, dahlias, bukayun, nargis enveloped his senses in a fantastic profusion of colour and scent, making him smile dreamily and forget his exhaustion from two nights on the train.

What an amazing contrast to the wall of old, he thought. Hard now to even imagine the horrid shit-and-piss hell it was. Dada Ormuzd, You are wonderful. Instead of flies and mosquitoes buzzing, a thousand colours dancing in sunlight. Instead of the stink, this glorious fragrance of paradise. Heaven on earth.

Weeks had gone by since he last examined the wall properly. Everything in crayon had been erased and done over in oil, including the inaugural Trimurti of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. What a miraculous transformation. God is really in His heaven, and all is right with Khodadad Building.

Gustad remembered the evening, almost two months ago, when he had been surprised by the perfume of an agarbatti wedged in a pavement crack. Today there were bunches of them, in agarbatti holders, sending up their fragile wisps of white, sweet-scented smoke. Nearby, in a little earthen thurible, loban smouldered with its unique, pleasantly pungent fragrance. Candles and oil lamps were lit at intervals. And there was even a stick of sandalwood before the portrait of Zarathustra. The black wall had verily become a shrine for all races and religions.

‘Your idea was great, sir,’ said the pavement artist. ‘This is the best location in the whole city.’

‘No, no, credit goes to your talent. And with your new oil paints, the pictures look even more wonderful than before. But what is all that stuff in the corner?’ Gustad pointed to the far end of the wall, where a few bamboo poles, corrugated metal sheets, pieces of cardboard and plastic were stacked.

‘I am planning to build a small shelter for myself. With your permission, sir.’

‘Sure,’ said Gustad. ‘But you used to say that you like sleeping on your mat under the stars. What happened?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said the artist, embarrassed. ‘Just for a change. Come, let me show you the new ones I painted.’ He led him by the arm. ‘See there: Parvati with Garland Awaiting Shiva; Hanuman the Monkey God Building the Bridge to Lanka; Rama Killing the Demon Ravana; and next to that, Rama and Sita Reunited. And here: Upasani Baba, Kamu Baba, Godavari Mata. And this world-famous church, St Peter’s, designed by Michelangelo, you must have heard of it.’ Gustad nodded.

‘Some more Christian paintings over here. Baby Jesus in the Manger with Three Wise Men; Madonna and Child; Sermon on the Mount. And these are Old Testament: Moses and the Burning Bush; Parting of Red Sea; Noah’s Ark; David and Goliath; Samson Between the Pillars Pulling Down the House of Philistines.’

‘Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.’

‘And here is the famous Blue Mosque. Next to it, Haji Malung’s Durgah in Kalyan. That’s the Kaaba. Over here, the two great synthesizers of Hinduism and Islam: Kabir and Guru Nanak.’

‘What about these, on this side? You missed them.’

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you had seen them before. This is Agni, God of Fire; Kali, the World-Mother; and Goddess Yellamma of the devdasis. ’

‘Yellamma?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

‘Yes. The deity of devdasis —you know, rundees, vaishyas, whores — same thing, for all practical purposes. They call her Protector of Prostitutes,’ explained the artist, and now Gustad remembered. Long, long ago, during his school days. He had heard the name in the stories of Peerbhoy Paanwalla.

‘And this one. You should recognize this one,’ said the pavement artist, smiling mischievously.

Gustad looked closely at what seemed a very familiar place. ‘Looks like our wall,’ he said tentatively.

‘Absolutely correct. It’s now a sacred place, is it not? So it rightfully deserves to be painted on a wall of holy men and holy places.’

Gustad bent down to get a better look at the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a painting of the wall featuring a…

‘That’s everything,’ said the artist. ‘Except for one more. I saved it for the end.’ He led Gustad to the section which used to be shared by Zarathustra, Dustoorji Kookadaru and Meherji Rana. A fourth figure had been added, also in the garb and head-dress of a Parsi priest.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Gustad sharply.

‘That’s the surprise. Being a Parsi yourself, I was thinking you will find this incident very interesting. You see, few days back, a gentleman who lives in your building — one with the small white dog—’

‘Rabadi,’ said Gustad.

‘He said to me that since I was doing drawings of holy men and prophets, he had a request. I said sure, there is room for everyone on this wall. He showed me a black and white photo, said it was Dustoorji Baria, Very Holy Man for Parsis. Does lots of miracles to help the sick and suffering, he said. And not just restricted to spiritual problems, because the philosophy of Zoroastrian religion encourages material and spiritual success.

‘I knew all this. But I did not want to tell him that besides my Art School diploma I had degrees in Ancient and Present-Day World Religions. You never know when you will learn something new. So I listened. He said that Dustoorji Baria was famous for helping people with health problems, pet problems, stock-market problems, business-partnership problems, job-finding problems, merchant-banker problems, problems of distinguished civil servants, problems of chairmen of many committees, problems of industrial lords, problems of petty contractors, and so on.