Rohinton Mistry - Such A Long Journey

‘Tehmul!’ warned Gustad.

Tehmul waved excitedly and moved back one step, his fists clenched. ‘GustadGustad. LooklooklookbigrocksGustadbig. Flyingflyingflying.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Gustad sternly. That’s why you must stay inside.’

‘InsideinsideIknowGustadIknow. YesyesyesyesGustad.’ He moved his hands through the air in swooping, darting motions, an out-of-control Bharat Natyam dancer. ‘Wheewheewheewhee.’

But outside was too much of an enticement. He shuffled forward again, and before Gustad realized it, was on the pavement where the view of flying objects was much better. Tehmul trembled with excitement. What fun. What an immense game of catch-catch. With a thousand players. Even better than the children playing in the compound. Naughty children, teasing him. Throwing the ball his way, laughing, watching him stumble and fall.

He clapped his hands with glee as a rock landed by the gate. What fun it would be to catch one. With his own hands. What fun. Just like the children catching the tennis ball. So much, so much fun.

He swung off towards the road, positioning himself for the next delivery. Gustad turned and saw him then: ‘Tehmul! Come back!’ Tehmul grinned and waved reassuringly. He was determined to get one of those things that zoomed by so hypnotically.

‘Tehmuuuul!’ yelled Gustad.

A brick sailed towards Tehmul, and he was deaf to the world. Entranced by airborne things, things that could soar and swoop and dive, agile things made to glide or dart or arch through the air, nimble things that could flit and float on soft feathers or gossamer wings: enchanted as always by all such things, Tehmul hobbled to catch the brick. And, as always, his twisted body let him down.

The brick caught him on the forehead, and Gustad heard the crack. Tehmul dropped without a sound, his figure folding gracefully. The dance was over.

For a moment Gustad stood paralysed. Then ‘Tehmul!’ he howled, and charged out the gate. A rock glanced off his back but he barely felt it. He bent to grab the unconscious frame under the arms. His prayer cap slid off and fell to the ground as he dragged Tehmul into the compound.

‘A doctor! Quickly!’ he shouted to Inspector Bamji and the women, before remembering: ‘Dr. Paymaster! Hurry, Sohrab — in the morcha !’ As Sohrab ran, he heard his father call after him, ‘Be careful, but!’

‘Ambulance is definitely needed,’ said Inspector Bamji, and Miss Kutpitia went to use her telephone. Blood gushed wildly from Tehmul’s forehead. Gustad tried to staunch the flow with his large white handkerchief. Precious minutes ticked by, and he looked around in desperate anger. What was keeping that bloody doctor? He and his godforsaken morcha. The handkerchief was soaked through; Bamji gave him his. Gustad could feel, through the cloth, that the bone had staved in.

Sohrab returned with Dr. Paymaster who was panting and sweating greatly, all his recent fiery enthusiasm doused. Born so very late in life, it had also died early, drowned in the sea of violent humanity raging outside the black wall. And it had taken something else with it: the professional veneer of wry humour and cynicism. Stripped bare, his pain was exposed for all to see.

He shook his head in despair. ‘O God! What is the meaning of this? Poor fellow, poor fellow! Terrible!’ With great difficulty he got down on his knees. He took a large wad of cotton wool out of his black bag and asked Gustad to press it over the forehead, while he administered an injection. ‘Too much blood loss. Too much,’ he muttered. It was disconcerting for the others to watch his distress. A doctor was supposed to reassure, and put things right, not be troubled by blood and suffering, like mere mortals. What kind of medical man was this?

While Dr. Paymaster was bandaging the forehead, Tehmul’s eyes fluttered open. He whispered, ‘Gustad. Thank you, Gustad.’ A smile passed over Tehmul’s face, and his eyes closed.

The doctor continued with the bandage. Gustad waited anxiously, looking from Tehmul’s face to the doctor’s, searching for some sign of encouragement. ‘We have called the ambulance,’ he blurted, to break the silence.

‘Good, good,’ murmured Dr. Paymaster absently, and completed the dressing. He felt for a pulse, then fumbled urgently with his stethoscope. ‘Quick, open the shirt!’ A second injection was prepared while Gustad tore at Tehmul’s clothes, exposing his chest for the long needle. The doctor finished and flung aside the syringe to check the blood-pressure again.

He pulled off the stethoscope and dropped it in the bag. His head shook slowly, answering the question Gustad was about to ask.

‘But hospital?’

‘No use now.’

Gustad turned away and went to the black wall. He gazed out upon the road, at the vicious brawls being fought by people who seemed to have gone mad. Dr. Paymaster returned his things to the bag. He made a half-hearted attempt to struggle to his feet, then held out a hand to Sohrab who leaned back and helped him up. The doctor dusted his pants. ‘I will give the death certificate, of course,’ he said, laying his hand on Gustad’s shoulder. ‘There will be no need to—’

‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ Behind Gustad, the others were already making plans for Tehmul. He found it intolerably offensive. Couldn’t they wait a little?

Miss Kutpitia said, ‘Maybe I should go and cancel the ambulance, phone the Tower of Silence instead.’

Inspector Bamji’s advice was to let the ambulance come: ‘Lots of injuries outside, it will be needed.’ What about Tehmul, though, for the hour or so that the hearse would take to collect the body?

‘It does not look right, the ruvaan lying like this near the gate,’ said Miss Kutpitia. People were watching from the windows of the tall office buildings on either side. Come for the riot, some of their attention was now focussed on the compound. ‘We must do something,’ insisted Miss Kutpitia. But the idea of carrying the heavy body two floors up to Tehmul’s flat was daunting. To make matters worse, his brother was still out of town.

‘Maybe the best thing to do is just move him a little. To the tree, under the shade,’ said Mrs. Pastakia. ‘And I can bring a white sheet to cover till the hearse comes.’

‘Good idea,’ said Bamji, ‘sun is very hot. The Tower of Silence might take a long time, with this tamaasha outside.’

The tree was only about fifty yards away, a more welcome proposition than climbing two flights. Dr. Paymaster also nodded his assent. Then Bamji glanced at Gustad to see if he would help. But his broad impassive back offered no indication, and Bamji was reluctant to ask. He looked at Mr. Rabadi instead: ‘OK, bossie, can you take the feet?’

Mr. Rabadi blushed with self-importance. For once, the entire building would see him do something other than walk his dog. He held out Dimple’s leash for Mrs. Pastakia.

The Inspector and Mr. Rabadi rolled up their sleeves slowly, queasily preparing for the task. But before they could lift the body, Gustad turned. He crouched beside Tehmul. The others exchanged looks: now what?

Without a word, Gustad slipped one arm under Tehmul’s shoulders and the other under his knees. With a single mighty effort he rose to his feet, cradling the still-warm body. The bandaged head lolled limply over his forearm, and he crooked his elbow to support it properly.

‘Wait! Bossie, wait!’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘He is very heavy, we will help, don’t—’

Gustad ignored him and began walking down the compound, away from them all, towards the stairway to Tehmul’s flat. They looked in silence now, too ashamed to follow. Sohrab gazed after his father with fear and admiration.