Suresh was glowing with pride as the letter ended. “One page only,” said Vilas. “And see how much pleasure it has given you?”
The cleaner began telling neighbours in his chawl about the marvellous letter-writer who had transported his thoughts and feelings to his family. And it was not long before Vilas’s scribal services were formalized into a full-fledged sideline. On the steps of Jai Hind Book Mart his clients gazed in wistful wonder at his penmanship, like the hungry on a feast to which they had no hope of being invited.
From time to time, Yezad tried convincing him to charge more. But Vilas said higher rates would mean fewer letters; besides, he had come to regard this as a form of social work. If he didn’t do it, his clients might turn for help to a Shiv Sena shakha where they would be exposed to vicious communal propaganda, might even get recruited in their sticks-and-stones method of political persuasion, their fine art of scoring debating points by breaking opposition bones.
“But let me be honest. More than anything else, I enjoy the letter-writing.”
“More than your acting group?” asked Yezad, for Vilas used to speak with great passion about his amateur drama society.
“That hobby is gone. There are some new members who think they know everything. They conduct workshops and discuss theories. Not my cup of tea.”
But his satisfaction from letter-writing grew more profound with time. He heard all about his clients’ lives: the birth of a child; a family quarrel about money; a wife left behind in the village who was sleeping with the sarpanch; a sick father who had died because the nearest hospital was two days’ travel on kutcha roads; a brother injured in a farm accident who had recovered and was home again.
And Vilas, writing and reading the ongoing drama of family matters, the endless tragedy and comedy, realized that collectively, the letters formed a pattern only he was privileged to see. He let the mail flow through his consciousness, allowing the episodes to fall into place of their own accord, like bits of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. He felt that chance events, random cruelty, unexplainable kindness, meaningless disaster, unexpected generosity could, together, form a design that was otherwise invisible. If it were possible to read letters for all of humanity, compose an infinity of responses on their behalf, he would have a God’s-eye view of the world, and be able to understand it.
“Best of all,” he told Yezad, “it gives me so many ready-made families. I share their lives, like an uncle or grandfather who knows everything about everyone. Isn’t that a wonderful reward?”
“I’m having enough trouble with one family. If you’re not busy, write a letter for me.”
“Sure,” said Vilas. “To whom? God?”
“To my brother- and sister-in-law. Those bastards are making my life miserable. Two of them with nothing to do all day in their huge house. He wastes his time at the share bazaar, she at the fire-temple. And they can’t even look after their poor father. My wife has to slave instead. No room to move in the flat, and every night his bad dreams wake us up.”
Vilas urged patience, reminding him that in ten more days his father-in-law would return home and life would return to normal.
“Thank you for the obvious advice,” said Yezad. “Where do you get such wisdom?”
“Through my sideline. I write letters, therefore I am.”
“Ah, of course. See you later, Monsieur Rane,” said Yezad, and started back for the shop.
At the Bombay Sporting Goods Emporium, the steel shutters were still down, the litter in front of the shop not picked up. The shop was dark. Yezad switched on the lights. Nothing had been dusted, the tea hadn’t been made.
“Husain! Where are you? Sahab will be here any minute!”
He found the peon sitting on the floor in a corner of the storage area. Hugging his knees, which were drawn up to his chin, he was gazing at the wall. He looked up with a wan smile when Yezad approached.
“Chalo, Husain, start working.”
Husain returned his gaze to the wall and murmured, “Sorry, sahab, today I don’t feel able.”
Yezad sighed, studying the grizzled fellow in his khaki shirt and trousers. The collar was frayed, the knees worn thin. Time to order replacement uniforms for him. Though it was not really a uniform; Mr. Kapur provided two sets of the outfit periodically, to help Husain out.
He wondered whether to try and persuade the peon to rise, or leave him for Mr. Kapur. Husain had been hired at Bombay Sporting almost three years ago, several months after the Babri Mosque riots, at the urging of the Ekta Samiti, which was asking businesses to help rehabilitate riot victims. On the days that Husain was incapable of working, Mr. Kapur was the one who nursed his battered emotions till he was ready to resume his duties.
Whenever Yezad found himself getting annoyed by Husain, he would remind himself about the peon’s story, about the burning chawls in Antop Hill, goondas setting people on fire … Husain and his Muslim neighbours watching as their chawl went up in flames, wondering where his wife and three sons were … and then four burning figures tumbling down the steps of the building, their smoking hands beating at the flames … while the goondas sprinkled more kerosene from their cans over Husain’s family …
In the dark storage area, Yezad shuddered. “What about chai, Husain,” he tried to draw him into conversation. “Don’t you want a cup this morning?”
“Chai, no chai, all the same, sahab.”
Yezad wondered why, on these days of black depression, Husain came to the shop to sit in the corner. Mr. Kapur had assured him he would not lose any wages if he was unwell. But perhaps on such days, more than ever, Husain needed the company of those he trusted.
The telephone rang. Husain did not move from his corner. At the best of times he was reluctant to pick up the receiver with its gaping mouth. The instrument scared him, its power to carry disembodied voices making him wary of sending his own into it, to end up who knew where.
Yezad answered on the fifth ring; it was Mr. Kapur.
“Hello, Yezad. Sorry, were you with a client?”
“No – with Husain. He’s sitting in the back today.”
“Aray, poor fellow. Another one of his bad days? Okay, just let him relax.”
“And your invoices to be delivered?”
“Tomorrow, Yezad. Or day after, doesn’t matter.” Mr. Kapur was about to hang up, then stopped himself, “I won’t be in till afternoon, maybe three o’clock. Something urgent – tell you later. And please keep an eye on Husain, okay? Bye.”
Yezad put the receiver in its cradle and set about lighting the display cases, tidying, hurrying with the work. It was almost time for his ten-thirty appointment. No end to the unfairness in his life, he thought, manager doing the peon’s work.
While he was winding up the steel shutters, the client arrived. Mr. Malpani of Alliance Corporation stopped by the door, checked his watch, then stared at the long steel handle in Yezad’s hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Chenoy, you got a promotion, it seems,” he said, and laughed at his own joke.
Yezad smiled politely, thinking Mr. Malpani looked more like a mongoose each time he saw him. The furtive eyes on his small face darted around the shop as though searching for something to ridicule. He led him to his desk, offered him a chair, and excused himself while he went to the bathroom to wash a spot of grease from his hand.
When he returned, Mr. Malpani was peering at papers on the desk. He did not bother to stop till Yezad walked right by him and sat in his own chair.
“So everything is ready, Mr. Chenoy?”
Nodding, Yezad opened the file and began going over the particulars of the contract. He detested the man, had done so ever since the time he had hinted, in his oily manner, how they could both make a little extra on the side if Yezad played the game. The only reason Yezad still had the account for the sports club was because Mr. Kapur was friends with Alliance’s managing director.
“Looks fine,” said Mr. Malpani. “Except for one thing.”
A
ware of what was coming, Yezad feigned ignorance.
“You have once again made no provision for stomach puja,” said Mr. Malpani with his yelping laugh. “Every time I am telling you, you should add some extra. Little bit for your stomach, little bit for mine, and everybody is happy. You are still not learning the proper way to do business.”
Yezad smiled as though it was nothing but a joke. “Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Malpani. As usual, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
They shook hands and he walked the man to the door. He felt like washing his hands again. Such an unappetizing experience, first thing in the morning. But he should have expected it, the way the day had begun. Nothing went well unless it started well. His mind turned again to the quarrel …
For the past ten mornings, Roxana’s first thought on waking was to preserve the routine for him. He could sense it. She kissed his back and got out of bed, filled water for the day, brushed her teeth.
His turn was next in the bathroom while she made tea, went into the front room, opened the curtains, woke the boys. Jehangir had to be shaken by the shoulder, but Murad was up, reading in the tent. She asked Nariman if he needed anything.
“No hurry,” he answered as usual. “I have no train to catch.”
She brought the teapot to the table and covered it with the cosy. Pouring for Yezad, she told him how she had surprised Murad reading by the morning light.
Then, noticing Nariman’s restlessness, she asked him again. It seemed wrong that he should wait with a full bladder while they, barely six feet away, drank tea and ate toast and butter and eggs. She insisted on giving him the urinal.
“You mustn’t pretend, Pappa. Holding it in is not healthy.”
When he was done, she tucked the urinal under the settee because Jehangir was still in the toilet.
“It’s very unsanitary to leave it sitting on the floor,” said Yezad, offended.
She ran without comment to the kitchen to fetch the boiling bath water for Murad, who was already in the bathroom, refilled the vessel, put it back on the stove for Yezad’s bath, then got the basin and towel for her father.
“I could have carried the tapayli to Murad,” said Yezad. “Why don’t you let me help?”
“If you burn yourself, who’ll bring home the salary?”
He watched as she gave her father his mouthwash. Nariman gargled, and a thread of saliva hung from his lips; stretched to the limit, it broke, clinging to his chin.
Yezad looked away to keep his mind on his breakfast. Another bite and he pushed the plate aside, the egg half-eaten, while she rushed past with the basin and wet towel. The dirty water swished and threatened to splash over the rim. He flinched, shrinking backwards in his chair. “Better slow down. So much non-stop dancing will put you in the Guinness Book of Records or flat on your back.”
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” said Roxana.
“How can I not? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”
“I’ve no time for mirrors.”
“You should take a moment, see what the strain has done to your face.”
“Does it matter? My face is no longer my fortune.”
Her remark pained him, he wanted to hold her, assure her she was as lovely as ever. Instead, he turned to Nariman. “Your daughter always has smart answers. Tell her what you think. Go on, tell her truthfully.”
Nariman squirmed. “There’s some truth in each point of view.”
“Please, no diplomacy – just be honest. See the hollows in her cheeks, she looks like a famine victim from Orissa!”
Nariman gave in and said what Yezad wanted to hear. “He’s right, Roxana, you should slow down, I keep asking you not to hurry for my sake.”
“You think it’s fair, Pappa?” she said, handing him his dentures. “Should other people decide how and when to do the work if I’m the one who has to manage it all?” She grabbed some things from the table and stamped out, calling to Murad in the bathroom not to waste time.
“I’ve upset her,” said Nariman.
“It had to be said – she’ll kill herself at this rate.”
Yezad drew the plate towards him again and tackled the congealed egg. He mopped up what remained of the yolk with his last piece of toast and cut the white, now gone rubbery.
Jehangir, returning to the front room, watched his father swallow the pieces. “Finished, Daddy?”
He nodded, adding, “Good boy,” as his son stacked plates, saucers, and cups, and set off to the kitchen with the load.
Nariman attempted to mend the mood: “He is a wonderful child.”
“So is Murad,” said Yezad quickly, putting his father-in-law on the defensive, then regretting it. He hated himself for the habit he seemed to have of making uncomfortable the people he loved.
Jehangir came back from the kitchen and opened one of his jigsaw boxes. He made no attempt to build the picture, picking up pieces at random, tracing their squiggly contours with a finger.
“What are you doing?” asked his father.
“Nothing,” he spoke into the box.
“Put on your uniform. You want to make Mummy shout at you? She has enough to do.”
He continued his desultory examination till Yezad yanked the box away and slammed the lid on. “Don’t make me angry.”
Jehangir looked up, and now his father saw the tears in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Jehangla?”
He liked it when his father called him that. His brother was only called Murad. Sometimes it seemed unfair – there should have been a name to make Murad feel special too.
“Are you unwell, Jehangla?” His father felt his forehead, bending so his face was beside his son’s.
Jehangir smelled the tea on his father’s breath. He shook his head and rubbed one eye. “Mummy is crying in the kitchen.”
“You know why?”
“I asked her, but she won’t say.”
“Go, get ready for school. Mummy will be all right, trust me.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder and went to the kitchen.
Jehangir’s ears accompanied his father. Next moment he heard his mother sobbing, and his lower lip began to quiver. He rose, drawn towards the sound.
“Let them be alone,” said his grandfather. He pulled in his sheet to make space on the settee. “Sit, tell me what’s wrong.”
He allowed his grandfather to hold his hand. “I feel sad when they fight,” he whispered. “I want them to be happy, and nice to each other.”
“It’s difficult for them right now. Once I am gone, things will be better.”
“But they both like you. Why should it be difficult if you are here?”
“Liking has nothing to do with it. People have their own lives, it’s not helpful when something disturbs those lives.”
“You are so quiet, Grandpa, you don’t disturb anybody.” He looked at the hand holding his, the veins like cords, and felt the slight tremble in it travel into his own. “I’ll miss you when you go back to Jal Uncle and Coomy Aunty.”
“I’ll miss you too. But we have ten more days together. And afterwards, you can visit me. Agreed? Now you must get dressed.”
Jehangir slid off the settee and rubbed his grandfather’s chin, which had a larger bite to it than usual. On the way to the clothes horse he made a detour and peeked cautiously into the kitchen. His mother was in his father’s arms. She still had tears in her eyes. But she was smiling.
He wondered what magic passed between grown-ups, that they could go from shouting to crying to smiling in such a short time. Whatever it was, he was grateful for its existence, and went to change in the back room.
Mr. Kapur’s first thought on arriving at the shop was about Husain. “Did he go for his pao-bhaji lunch?”
Yezad shook his head. “I took him some tea. He left it after one or two sips.”
“Poor fellow” said Mr. Kapur, hitting a backhand in an imaginary tennis game. He was always wielding invisible bats and racquets, kicking footballs, dribbling with a hock
ey stick, particularly when he had something on his mind.
He hurried to the storage area, cursing under his breath the bastards who had destroyed Husain’s life and the lives of thousands like him. His arm swung, hitting backhands, forehands, smacking goondas as though they were tennis balls, sending them all to perdition.
“How are you, Husain miyan?” He crouched beside him in the dark corner and patted his shoulder. “You’ll have some tea?” He took his elbow and made him rise, bringing him to the front of the shop, into the afternoon light.
Yezad made three cups of tea and carried them to the counter. “Chalo, Husain, we’ll all drink together.”
The peon thanked him and received his cup. Mr. Kapur pointed out things in the street, saying look at the colour of that car, and what a big truck, and there goes so-and-so from the Jai Hind Book Mart. He entertained Husain as he would a sick child.
Yezad too made a contribution to the effort. No matter how often he watched Mr. Kapur during these times of crises, he was touched by his employer’s gentleness as he went about mending the cracks in Husain’s broken life.
When Yezad had started at the shop fifteen years ago, he’d assumed a formal employer-employee relationship, but Mr. Kapur had soon redefined it, making him a friend and confidant, someone to grumble at or with. He insisted that Yezad give up the habit of calling him by his surname. They compromised: during business hours he was Mr. Kapur; after closing time, Vikram.
Besides their abhorrence for the Shiv Sena and its narrow parochial ways, they shared a lament for the city they felt was slowly dying, being destroyed by goonda raj and mafia dons, as the newspapers put it, “in an unholy nexus of politicians, criminals, and police.”
Vikram Kapur had arrived in the city in his mother’s arms, six months old. He told Yezad, whenever there was an opportunity to refer to the story of his life, “My family was forced to abandon everything and flee Punjab in 1947. Thanks, of course, to the brave British, who abandoned their responsibilities and fled India.”
Sometimes, when Mr. Kapur spoke about 1947 and Partition, Yezad felt that Punjabi migrants of a certain age were like Indian authors writing about that period, whether in realist novels of corpse-filled trains or in the magic-realist midnight muddles, all repeating the same catalogue of horrors about slaughter and burning, rape and mutilation, foetuses torn out of wombs, genitals stuffed in the mouths of the castrated.