Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Asking for more food! How much do you know about chickens that you understand what it is saying?’ said Gustad.

Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck came the muted response from the basket. ‘Look, Daddy,’ said Roshan, ‘it’s so happy to see us.’

‘You think so?’ The child’s remark pleased him and erased his annoyance. He patted her hair. ‘Since the chicken is awake, you can give it some food, then back to sleep.’

They repeated their goodnight-Godblessyou’s to one another and returned to their beds.

Roshan fed the chicken and played with it all next evening after school. ‘Daddy, can we keep it for ever? I will look after it, promise.’

Gustad was amused, also a little touched. He winked at Darius and Sohrab. ‘What do you think? Shall we save its life for Roshan?’ He expected them to protest and lick their lips in anticipation of the feast tomorrow.

But Sohrab said, ‘I don’t mind, if Mummy can live with it in the kitchen.’

‘Please Daddy, can we keep it, then? Even Sohrab wants it. No, Sohrab?’

‘Enough silliness for one day,’ said Gustad.

On Saturday morning, the butcher who made deliveries to Khodadad Building knocked at the door. Gustad took him to the kitchen and indicated the basket. The butcher held out his hand.

Gustad was annoyed. ‘Years and years we have been your customers. Now for one small favour you want payment?’

‘Don’t get angry, seth, I don’t want payment. Something must be put in my palm so I can use the knife without sinning.’

Gustad gave him a twenty-five paisa coin. ‘I forgot about that.’ He left the kitchen, not anxious to watch or hear the squawk of final desperation, and waited at the front door.

Moments later, the chicken whizzed by his legs and into the compound. The butcher came running after. ‘ Murgi, murgi ! Catch the murgi !’

‘What happened?’ yelled Gustad, joining the chase.

‘O seth, I held the string, lifted the basket!’ the butcher panted. ‘Then string is in one hand, basket in the other, and chicken runs between my legs!’

‘Impossible! Tied it myself!’ Gustad’s slight limp became an ugly hobble when he ran. The faster he ran, the worse it grew, and he did not like people to see. The butcher was ahead of him, gaining on the bird. Fortunately, it had turned right when it emerged in the compound, keeping close to the black stone wall, which led it to a dead end instead of the main road.

Lame Tehmul was there, pacing with his swaying, rolling gait. He dived for the chicken, and, to everyone’s surprise, including his own, was successful. He held it up by the legs, waving it at Gustad with frantic glee as it screeched and flapped desperately.

Lame Tehmul could be found in the compound from morning till night, rain or shine. Whenever Gustad reflected on the miraculous cure that Madhiwalla Bonesetter had worked on his fractured hip, it was Tehmul who came to mind. For Tehmul-Lungraa, as everyone called him, was a supremely pathetic example of hip-fracture victims who had had the misfortune to be treated by conventional methods, condemned to years on crutches and walking-sticks, with nothing to look forward to but a life of pain, their bodies swaying frighteningly from side to side while they strained and panted and heaved in their pitiful pursuit of ambulation.

Tehmul-Lungraa gave the compound’s solitary tree a wide berth, as though it was going to reach out and deal him a blow with one of its branches. He had, as a little boy, fallen from its height in his attempt to rescue a tangled kite. The neem tree had not been kind to Tehmul, the way it had to others. For children in Khodadad Building, cuttings from its soothing branches had stroked the itchy rashes and papules of measles and chicken-pox. For Gustad, neem leaves (pulped into a dark green drink by Dilnavaz with her mortar and pestle) had kept his bowel from knotting up during his twelve helpless weeks. For servants, hawkers, beggars passing through, neem twigs served as toothbrush and toothpaste rolled into one. Year after year, the tree gave unstintingly of itself to whoever wanted.

But there had been no such benevolence for Tehmul. The fall from the neem had broken his hip. And although he had not landed on his head, something went wrong inside due to the jolt of the accident, perhaps in the same way that earthquakes will crack houses far from the epicentre.

After the fall, Tehmul was never the same. His parents kept him in school, hoping to salvage something. Whether it worked or not, he had been happy trudging there on his little crutches, and they paid his fees till the school refused to accept them any more, politely advising that it would be better for all concerned if Tehmul’s scholastic career was terminated. His parents were long since dead, and his older brother looked after his needs. The latter was a sort of travelling salesman and usually away from home, but Tehmul did not mind. In his mid-thirties now, he still preferred the company of children to adults, with the exception of Gustad Noble. For some reason he adored Gustad.

Tehmul-Lungraa could often be seen directing traffic around the demon tree, warning children to keep away from it if they knew what was good for them, lest they suffer his fate. He no longer used crutches, but walked up and down indicating his rolling gait and twisted hip for their benefit.

And the children, by and large, treated him well; there were very few instances of vicious harassment, not counting the advantage they took of a weakness Tehmul had. Things that travelled through the air enchanted him — things that soared, swooped or dived, things flying and fluttering in freedom. Whether it be bird or butterfly, a paper dart or a falling leaf, he never tired of trying to possess it. Aware of his fascination, sometimes the children would toss a ball or twig or pebble his way, but always slightly out of reach. Always, he would gamely persevere to catch it and fall over himself. Or they would throw a football away from him, then stand back and watch him stumble after it. Just when he thought he was catching up, his uncoordinated feet would kick the ball further, and his frustrating chase began over again.

But on the whole, Tehmul got along well with children. It was the grown-ups who ran out of patience with some of his annoying habits. He loved following people: from the compound gate to the building entrance, and up the stairs, always wearing a big grin, till they shut the door in his face. It bothered some of them so much, they would hide by the gate and peer into the compound to see if the coast was clear, or wait till his back was turned and then sneak through. Others dealt with it by yelling and shooing him off, wildly waving their arms till he understood he was not wanted, though utterly bewildered as to why this should be so.

If Tehmul’s trailing habit did not irritate them, his scratching habit was certain to. He scratched perpetually, like one possessed, mainly his groin and armpits. He scratched with a circular movement, a churning, scrambling, stirring motion of his hand, and those who sought more subtlety in a nickname than Tehmul-Lungraa called him Scrambled Egg. Women claimed he did it deliberately to annoy them. They said that his hand regularly moved downward in their presence, and it was rubbing and caressing himself that he did, more than scratching. Muà lutcha, they said, knew perfectly well what all his parts were for, never mind if his head was not right — what with a big packet like that, and no underwear even to keep it all in place, it was shameful to have him wandering around dingle-dangle.

Lastly, the words of Tehmul-Lungraa’s abbreviated vocabulary always emerged at breakneck speed, whizzing incomprehensibly past the listener’s ear. It was as if some internal adjustment had been made to make up for the slowness of his legs with the velocity of his tongue. But the result was extreme frustration for both Tehmul and the listener. Gustad was one of the few who could decipher his speech.