Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

For the third night in a row the air-raid siren howled through the city. It was shortly after midnight. The wailing roused Gustad and Dilnavaz immediately. The first time, he had taken a little while to realize it was not a dream about the former ten a.m. practise siren.

‘Should I wake Roshan and Darius?’ wondered Dilnavaz. ‘Or will it be like yesterday, all-clear in five minutes?’

‘Cannot take a chance like that.’ He switched on the zero watt night-light while they took their places below the four-poster. Guiding his way with the torch, he went to the rickety main switch and flipped the lever to the off position, as recommended by the authorities.

The siren’s mournful wail died after he joined them under the bed. Roshan took the torch from him and held it under her chin, pointing upwards. ‘Ghooost!’ She burst out with peals of laughter, then jumped as the shelling began.

It startled everyone. ‘Anti-aircraft guns,’ said Gustad confidently, taking back the torch. ‘Ours.’

‘Pakistani bombers must be coming,’ said Darius.

‘Oh, I hope Sohrab is safe!’ whispered Dilnavaz.

‘Why shouldn’t he? He is not stupid to stand in the street. Anyway, our guns will chase the planes away.’ But the thought of Pakistani aircraft over the city made Gustad uneasy. What if some idiot in the building got nervous because of the guns, and decided to put on the light? Or opened a window to see what was going on? He raised his head, bumping it against the Burma teak slats.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Dilnavaz fearfully, as he switched on the torch and eased out. The guns boomed four times.

‘Outside. To check the building.’

She wanted him to stay right here, under the bed, but knew he would not listen. ‘Be careful.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Darius.

‘No. You stay here with them.’ He found his slippers and keys, keeping the light aimed low. With one hand on the latch, he switched off the torch before opening the door.

There was a new moon in the sky, a mere paper-thin sliver. The crescent would be no help to the Pakistanis, he thought with satisfaction. The guns boomed again. Seconds later, a beam of light swept the sky. Then another, and another. Searchlights, crisscrossing, seeking, raking the night. Standing by the tree, he watched the display, almost forgetting why he had come.

Another volley, longer than any so far, reminded him. He strode down the compound towards the gate: the windows were dark, including Cavasji’s. He walked back towards the tree, checking the other half of the building. His own flat, Kutpitia upstairs, Bamji, the dogwalla idiot…all OK. But then, through the branches, a narrow rectangle of light appeared and disappeared as a breeze played with the leaves: a half-open window at the far end. Tehmul’s! The stupid! The bloody—! And why is he up so late anyway?

As Gustad ran, his limp exploded in an ungainly hobble. He bounded up the stairs and raised his hand to deliver a furious knocking. Then he remembered. Tehmul’s brother left the key with me. He located it by touch upon his chain, its unfamiliar shape greeting his exploring fingers, and inserted it silently. Good to give Tehmul a fright. Teach him to be more careful.

He entered, then stopped to listen, mystified by the faint sounds from within. Of panting, heavy breathing. A low moan. Muted. Panting again. Tehmul? What was he doing? Gustad tried to shut the door noiselessly behind him, but the latch tumbled. A loud metallic click pierced the verandah darkness like a needle. He flinched, standing still.

The sounds started again. He crossed the verandah, stepping softly towards the lighted bedroom. A threadbare curtain of faded yellow organdie hung in the open doorway. He could see the room floating behind the gauze-like material, dreamlike and ephemeral. Like the mosquito net, through which I used to see my mother, in Matheran, when she came to say goodnight-Godblessyou. Far away, beyond my reach, fading…

With an effort, he pushed the curtain aside. At once, everything ethereal or impalpable about the room vanished. Without the magic film of organdie, the place turned solid, sordid, smelly. The curtain rings tinkled against the tarnished brass rod. The soft ting-ting continued as the curtain swayed.

Tehmul did not notice anything. His back to the door, he was stooping over the white-sheeted bed, lost to the world. A dirty cream-coloured rajai with red and black embroidery along the borders was gathered at the centre of the mattress. He was naked except for his brown cross-strapped leather slippers. The sweat was glistening on his back.

‘Tehmul!’ said Gustad sharply. He succeeded in scaring him more completely than he expected. Tehmul screamed and jumped around, his right hand clutching an enormous erection. Now Gustad was able to see what was on the bed, while Tehmul, still proceeding with the automatic movement upon his rampant penis, ejaculated with a whimper.

Half-hidden by the bunched-up rajai was Roshan’s doll, as naked as Tehmul. Her wedding dress, petticoat, veil, tiara, bouquet of flowers, stockings and the rest were neatly draped over a chair by the bed.

‘ Bay-sharam ! Stop that! At once!’ Gustad was angry, embarrassed. ‘You deserve to be thrashed properly!’ he continued for lack of anything better to say, then noticed Tehmul’s striped pyjamas on the floor. He picked them up and flung them at him. ‘Put your clothes on! At once!’ He could smell a heavy vinegary odour in the wake of the pyjamas’ flight.

Tehmul started to blubber, his tears mixing with sweat. ‘GustadGustadGustad. Verysorry. Veryverysorry.’

‘Shut up! And put on your clothes, I said!’ He went to the window and closed it. Tehmul fumbled with the pyjamas. His hands shook with sobbing and made the task more difficult for his normally clumsy fingers. The drawstring baffled him as he formed loops, twisted and turned them, passed them through one another, only to see the bow disappear each time he pulled the ends taut.

He finished at last, and Gustad sent him to wash his hands. He examined Roshan’s doll with distaste. There was no damage done, except that its pink legs and stomach and groin were sprinkled with gobs of dry and half-dry semen. How many nights’ worth, he wondered. It would clean up easily, and Roshan would not notice any difference, but what good was that? He could not give it back to her now. It sickened him to think of his child touching this doll so violated by Tehmul. No, he would take it away and donate it to an orphanage.

Tehmul was still crying when he returned from the bathroom. He held out his hands: ‘GustadGustad. CleanhandsGustadclean. CleanwashedwithLuxveryveryverycleanLux.’ He lifted them to his nose and sniffed: ‘Veryverynicesmell,’ then offered them to Gustad for verification.

Gustad violently swept the hands away from him. Tehmul staggered backwards, cowering, his sobs rising with renewed anguish. ‘You have no shame? Stealing Roshan’s doll, doing such dirty things with it?’

‘GustadGustad,’ he cried. ‘GustadGustadtheywouldnot.’

‘They who?’

‘Theytheythewomen. GustadGustadtworupeesIpaidtworupees. Notheysaidnonono.’

He understood. The House of Cages. That night, Tehmul among the prostitutes, who had teased and taunted him.

Tehmul pointed to the doll. ‘Wantedrubbing. Fastfastfast. Goodgoodfeeling. Fastfastfastrubbing.’

Gustad’s anger began to ebb slowly. Poor Tehmul. A child’s mind and a man’s urges. Shunned by the whores, turning to the doll in desperation. Somehow, it seemed a fitting solution. He imagined Tehmul undressing the doll each night, caressing it tenderly. Gustad remembered the day he had come home with the doll by taxi from Sister Constance, and met Tehmul in the compound. How gently he had patted the cheek, stroked the tiny fingers, gazed wondrously into the deep blue eyes.