Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

Poor Tehmul. What was to become of him? Gustad tried to sound severe: ‘Why did you open the window? Your brother told you to keep everything shut.’

‘VeryverysorryGustad. Feelinghothot. Feelingveryveryhot. Openwindowcoolnicecoolcool. VeryverysorryGustad.’

Gustad wished he had the power of miracles, the power to cure Tehmul’s ills, restore to him all the rights and virtues of mortals. And as Tehmul stood there, shamefaced, tears running down his cheeks, Gustad realized he could not take away the doll. Somehow, the loss to Roshan would not be as great as it would to Tehmul. One day, when she was old enough, perhaps he would tell her what had happened.

‘I am going now.’ He cleared his throat to make the words emerge sternly, the way he wanted them to. ‘Remember, no opening the window even if you are feeling hot. Take a newspaper and fan yourself. Window always stays shut at night.’

‘AlwaysalwaysGustad. Alwaysshutalways. VerysorryGustad.’ He seemed puzzled when Gustad turned to leave, and pointed at the bed. ‘DollyGustaddolly.’

Gustad shook his head. ‘You keep her,’ he said gruffly.

Tehmul’s eyes opened wide, comprehending but not daring to believe. ‘Dollydollydolly. Gustaddolly.’

‘Yes, yes. Dolly is for you.’

Now Tehmul was certain, and dared to believe. He knew exactly what to do. He shuffled forward with his arms outstretched, and put them round Gustad. ‘GustadGustad.’ He hugged him tightly. ‘ThankyouGustadthankyou.’ Then he lifted Gustad’s right hand and slobbered a kiss on the knuckles.

Touched by the act, also repelled by the saliva glistening on his skin, Gustad was confused, uncertain about how to deal with this situation. But Tehmul was unwilling to let go his hand till he had responded. He looked perplexed, not understanding why Gustad should be embarrassed.

So, very tentatively, Gustad put an arm around him and vaguely patted his shoulder. Then, with another reminder to be good and keep the window shut, he left. He wiped his knuckles discreetly upon the worn organdie curtain while brushing it aside to pass.

After the closeness of Tehmul’s room, it was a relief to be in the compound. The night air got rid of the sweaty, musky odours that seemed to be stuck in his nostrils. The guns were quiet now, though the searchlights were still combing the night as he let himself in and switched on the torch. ‘Gustad? Everything is all right?’ Dilnavaz’s voice seemed strangely distant, disembodied, coming from under the bed.

‘Yes.’ He went to the basin and washed his hands vigorously.

‘What happened? You were gone for so long, we were getting worried.’

‘Tehmul’s window was open. I had to go up.’ He wished she would stop asking questions.

‘But so long? Was something wrong?’

‘N osm ot in fr osm ont of the ch ism ildren,’ said Gustad. Then the all-clear sounded.

As the Indian forces got closer to Dacca and the liberation of Bangladesh was imminent, the mood everywhere grew optimistic. People had adjusted to the blackout, the city no longer retired into gloom after dusk just because the lights were off. Gustad felt it was time he went to Dr. Paymaster’s dispensary to tell him Roshan was well now, and to ask if all medication should cease. They had had their differences during the illness, but Gustad was still fond of his childhood doctor.

‘Wonderful news, wonderful,’ said Dr. Paymaster. ‘And the other patient is also recovering. Wonderful.’

‘Other patient?’

‘Bangladesh.’ The waiting-room was empty, he had time on his hands. ‘Correct diagnosis is half the battle. Proper prescription, the other half. Injection of the Indian Army, I said. And so the critical moment is past. Road to recovery.’

He lowered the blinds; it was well after sunset. ‘Now if only we could cure our internal sickness as quickly and efficiently as this external sickness, we could be one of the healthiest countries in the world. Did you smell the gutters just now when you came?’

‘Terrible,’ said Gustad, wrinkling his nose.

‘Unbearable, I tell you. Does the municipality listen? Yes. Does it do anything? No. For months and years now. Problems wherever you look. Leaking, broken water pipes. Sewer overflowing. Inspectors come and inspectors go, but the gutters overflow for ever. And police corruption on top of that. They want weekly hafta from people who are using the pavements. Harassment from health inspectors also. They want baksheesh from House of Cages, even though it’s properly licensed. Everyone in this area is fed up and running out of patience.’

‘You have a prescription for the internal sickness?’

Dr. Paymaster raised his eyebrows and smiled with a corner of his mouth. ‘Of course. Only one problem. Prescription is so painful, it might kill the patient before the sickness does.’ Gustad nodded, understanding the gist if not the specifics of the doctor’s remedy.

Suddenly, through the window came the sound of a gong. Peerbhoy Paanwalla’s brass tray? Was he still telling the old stories to his customers? Curious, Gustad took his leave at a suitable break in the conversation.

Outside the House of Cages, a larger than usual crowd had gathered around Peerbhoy Paanwalla, unmindful of the sewer stench that made Gustad cover his nose and mouth with his kerchief. But Peerbhoy was not spinning his time-honoured yarns about the House of Cages: the aphrodisiacal tales for tyros guaranteed to heat the blood, elevate flagging confidence and boost paan sales. No, there would be no more of that for a while. In deference to the mood of the country and the threat from without, Peerbhoy Paanwalla had mobilized his talents for the common good, using his skills to weave a tale that defied genre or description. It was not tragedy, comedy or history; not pastoral, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral or tragical-historical. Nor was it epic or mock-heroic. It was not a ballad or an ode, masque or anti-masque, fable or elegy, parody or threnody. Although a careful analysis may have revealed that it possessed a smattering of all these characteristics. But since things such as literary criticism mattered not one jot to the listeners, they were responding to Peerbhoy’s narrative in the only way that made sense: with every fibre of their beings. They could see and smell and taste and feel the words that filled the dusk and conjured the tale; and it was no wonder they were oblivious to the gutter stink.

Gustad had missed the beginning, but that did not matter. ‘By this time in the West Wing,’ said Peerbhoy Paanwalla, ‘the Drunkard’s tool was maggoty, withered and useless, into which not even the most potent palung-tode paan could breathe new life. His Minister of State for Sex, and his deputy, the Orgy Organizer, continued to arrange lavish spectacles. But the Drunkard could no longer participate in these Carnivals of Copulation. Vile as a serpent choking on its own venom, he watched the ecstasies of others, and drank whisky. Only whisky, in vast quantities.

‘His foul anger, his poisonous moods, his sadistic habits made life intolerable for those around him. They racked their brains to come up with a solution. How to amuse the Drunkard? How to cheer his spirits and thus deliver their own?

‘New-new remedies were attempted. They gave him Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly, and Draughts, but he was unable to remember the rules long enough to play and enjoy the games. The Minister of Imports and Exports even ordered Playboy Jigsaw Puzzles of foreign ladies with pink-pink nipples and fine blonde pubic hair. But the pieces evaded his spatial skills. He put them in his mouth, one by one, then spat them, coated with fetid, viscous spit, in the faces of his anxious sycophants. Everyone was close to despair.’