“Bottle, please,” called Nariman from inside.
Yezad straightened from the railing he was leaning on, and turned his head. A ragged flight of crows cawed through the tangle in the sky. He waited; Nariman called again.
Should he? It was not his job, he had made it clear to Roxana – at least this one thing he would be firm about … and she would be home shortly, in any case.
The twilight was crowded now with birds racing against the evening and bats welcoming the darkness. He watched them flutter back and forth, baffled within the hurdle of wires.
“Please, I need my bottle.”
The words drifted rudderless through the room. Moments later, Jehangir approached his father timidly on the balcony. “Daddy, I think Grandpa wants to do soo-soo.”
“Yes, I heard. Mummy will be back soon,” said Yezad, and made him return to his books.
Nariman appealed again, louder now. “The bottle, please! I’m bloated …” His tired voice trailed away and was silent for a while, then started once more.
Roxana heard the plea from the front room as soon as her foot was in the door. “Is everyone gone deaf?” she demanded. “Poor Pappa needs to do soo-soo!”
“What did you want me to do?” asked Yezad.
“Give him the bottle, what else! Play cricket with him?” she said, picking up the urinal.
He shook his head.
“I’ve never asked you to help me! Can’t you at least help Pappa when I’m out?”
He shook his head again. “I told you the day the chief came here, I warned the boys also – no touching the bedpan or bottle.”
“What is so bad about the bottle? I keep it clean and hygienic!” She said perhaps he should try to remember the teachings of Gandhiji, that there was nothing nobler than the service of the weak, the old, the unfortunate.
He told her not to bring Gandhiji into it, not one thing he taught had worked for India. “He gave away Pakistan and left the country with problems.”
“You sound like those RSS fanatics, trying to blame a saint. Instead of getting upset about the bottle, be glad our children can learn about old age, about caring – it will prepare them for life, make them better human beings.”
“First they should learn about fun and happiness, and enjoy their youth. Lots of time to learn about sickness and dying.”
“No time like the present. It’s a chance to practise kindness every day, like Daisy practises her violin. If they learn kindness, happiness will follow. And one day, when we are old and helpless, they’ll not turn their backs on us.”
Yezad said he hoped the day would never come when they placed such a heavy load on their sons. He would make sure to arrange their affairs more wisely, so they wouldn’t end up without a rupee to their name when they were old.
The crows were cawing, the parrot screeched across the road, the vendors sang on the pavement, breakfast was almost ready. Murad had finished his bath, and was putting on his uniform in the back room. But Jehangir refused to open his eyes till his father, shaking his shoulder, said he would be late for school.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stomach’s hurting.”
“Are you sure? Not because of Miss Alvarez?”
“No, it’s really hurting.”
“Miss Alvarez is a very kind teacher, you’ll be all right.”
While his father went to bathe, Jehangir took out his Lake Como jigsaw puzzle, and tried pleading with his mother. She was more sympathetic. “Didn’t you sleep, Jehangoo? Such dark circles under your eyes.”
“His conscience kept him awake,” yelled Yezad from the bathroom as he undressed. “Which is good, it means it’s in working condition.” He continued to call out encouragement over the clatter of mug against pail, and the splashing water.
But Jehangir stopped listening. He wanted to escape into the Lake Como puzzle. Its familiar landscape was far less complicated than his real world. One thousand, two hundred and seventy-two pieces, the lid declared, making it his most difficult jigsaw. The colours moved in gradations so subtle that the blue of the sky melted into the lake (cerulean, he remembered Grandpa’s word) and the deep dark greens could be tree foliage or part of the dense shrubbery hugging the hills. Their reluctance to yield their secrets was their charm. He treasured his fragments in the cardboard box.
And when the lake began to emerge, and the path along its shore, he would be gone – into the puzzle, walking alongside the peasant girl who led, by its muzzle, a donkey pulling the jingling cart piled high with hay, down the road that curved and disappeared into the wooded hills. Piece by piece he would build his refuge, enjoy the lake breeze and golden sunlight on his face, feel the lush grass under his feet, smell the fragrance in the air …
The last was the most elusive, he’d discovered. There were no pieces to fit together to make a fragrance. It was nowhere in the landscape, and everywhere.
He had to imagine the fresh air that would linger over the path inside the jigsaw puzzle. And birdsong – where there was fresh air, instinct told him, there was bound to be birdsong. Not the raucous cawing of scavenger crows, but birdsong like his father’s whistling, bold and sweet. His father’s whistling, that could banish unhappiness, even the memory of unhappiness. His father’s whistle was invincible, it floated over him like a cheerful umbrella, and when he held his hand and they walked under it, the world was safe and wonderful. Jehangir loved him then, and didn’t want to be anyone but his father’s son, not even if he could have switched places with one of the Famous Five …
Across the road, the parrot screeched again. He began throwing the pieces back into the box, it was hopeless, the jigsaw was not working for him.
His father came into the front room with his towel around him and a finger in his ear, trying to dislodge the water blocking it. “Tell me, Jehangla, how many days can you stay home to avoid Miss Alvarez?”
“I told you my stomach hurts.” He could smell the scent of Cinthol soap on his father’s skin.
“It will stop hurting if you go to school. Trust me. Ignore those bad boys, do your lessons as always, and you’ll be fine.”
Water dripped from his father’s head onto the lid of the jigsaw puzzle. Jehangir moved it out of the way. His father went into the back room to put on his pants, returning with the towel over his head to dry his hair.
“You’re a first-class student, Jehangla, you have nothing to be afraid of.” He left the damp towel around his neck and placed his arm over Jehangir’s shoulder. “You know what your name means?”
He shook his head.
“It means ‘conqueror of the world.’ ”
Jehangir was impressed. He looked up and smiled weakly at his father. The scattered curls of his chest hair were still damp.
“A stomach ache cannot stop the conqueror of the world.” His father patted his back and told him to get dressed.
Murad came into the front room with his school tie slung loose around his collar. “What does my name mean?” he asked.
“You are a boon, a blessing,” said his father.
“And Mummy’s name?”
“Roxana means the dawn.”
“Andyours?”
“Guardian angel. Come here, let me fix your tie.”
Jehangir wondered about these names as he watched his father make the knot, while Murad kept asking for more meanings. Grandpa’s was especially complicated, from the Shah-Nama story, and Daddy tried to remember the lineage of the hero, Rustam, whether Nariman was the great- or the great-great-grandfather. Then Grandpa, who’d just woken up, told them the answer: great-grandfather.
Their names taken together, thought Jehangir, made the perfect family: they were blessed, they possessed the whole world, they had their own guardian angel, and Mummy’s dawn light shone upon all of them. Yet Mummy and Daddy were fighting and unhappy …
“—and though you might not know it now, these are your happy days, your school days,” said Daddy
, talking to both of them. “Before you know it, they’ll slip through your fingers. And when you’re older you’ll remember them with longing, you’ll yearn for them to return. But they won’t. So grab them now and enjoy them.”
Jehangir wanted to believe his father, but first the world that had fallen apart had to be pieced together again. He wished it was like making a jigsaw puzzle – open the box, reconstruct Grandpa’s flat in Chateau Felicity, fix Grandpa’s bones, patch up the quarrel with Coomy Aunty and Jal Uncle. And most important of all, piece together the lovely mornings of story and laughter and joking, which seemed to have disappeared so completely.
Yezad saw the boys off to school with extra hugs. At the door, he kissed their foreheads. Then he returned to the dining table.
He sat there dreaming, picturing his sons in the doorway where they had just waved goodbye. Growing up so fast. Seemed like yesterday Murad was starting kindergarten and Jehangir was crawling in diapers. And look at them now. To think he had created them, he and Roxie, these two beautiful sons of theirs.
Then he sternly reminded himself: every dog and cat could reproduce, he had not invented the process or done something unique. It was this kind of sloppy thinking that made population control impossible in this country.
But his sense of wonder returned despite his very sensible view of the subject. And, lost in his thoughts, he began whistling softly “Sunrise, Sunset.”
Roxana recognized the tune and came to sit beside him. He stopped, and she stroked his arm. “What are you thinking, Yezdaa?”
“Nothing important.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed. “I was watching the boys get ready, thinking they looked so handsome in their uniforms.”
She smiled.
“And I was remembering the years when they were small, how I’d carry them in my arms and on my shoulders, and the games we played. I could never do that now. And then I thought of that song. The one when Tevye and his wife are at their daughter’s wedding – you remember the film?”
Roxana nodded. “She marries the tailor.”
“Yes. And Tevye is watching the ceremony, he looks in wonder at his grown-up child and the bridegroom. And that made me think, one day Murad and Jehangir will be married, we’ll be watching the ceremony. And afterwards we’ll be old, and alone.”
“Don’t be silly, Yezdaa. They’ll always be our sons.”
“No. They’ll be their wives’ husbands.”
“I’ve never heard you so sentimental before,” she said. “What’s the matter with you, these days?”
He remained silent. Then he drew her close and put his arm around her.
Mr. Kapur circled the parcel like a little boy fighting the temptation to open his gift before the appointed hour. Inside was the special ball for the Christmas window. He and Yezad awaited the peon’s return from an errand.
“Husain will be disappointed if we do it without him,” said Mr. Kapur, playing a forward defensive stroke with his imaginary bat.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Yezad nodded without listening. He had made his decision: before the day was over, he would again attempt to pin Mr. Kapur down, ask him when he was going to start campaigning full-time. Extract some commitment from him.
“You’re really enjoying this Christmas tamasha, aren’t you?” he tried as an opener.
“You know my policy: in our cosmopolitan shop, we honour all festivals, they all celebrate our human and divine natures. More the merrier.” Smiling his cheerful, humanity-embracing smile, Mr. Kapur stood beside the window, looking out into the road over Santa Claus’s shoulder. He nodded at passersby, waved at the pao-bhajivala, yelled out good morning to an acquaintance.
“Your policy is absolutely correct,” said Yezad. “This city is a miracle of tolerance. And it must stay that way.”
“You’re starting to sound like me,” said Mr. Kapur, amused by the earnest tone.
“Well, I’ve been listening to you for fifteen years,” said Yezad, and they laughed.
“Look, there’s Husain.” They waved to hurry him on. And to entertain them, the peon affected a run like a toddler on unsteady feet. “Chalo, miyan, the special ball has come.”
Mr. Kapur tore away the protective padding and held up the custom-designed prop. Made of a round light bulb, it was the bright red colour of a new cricket ball, with rows of stitches painted along its circumference to resemble the seam.
“So? What do you think?”
“I think it’s brilliant,” said Yezad. He’d use this new ball like a pace bowler exploiting the shine, he thought. He’d try yorkers, googlies, full tosses, whatever it took to get Mr. Kapur’s wicket.
“Wait till you see it in action – even more brilliant than it looks.” Mr. Kapur rummaged in the packaging for the cord and socket. “It’s synchronized with the motor for Santa’s arm – every time the bat approaches the ball, it lights up.”
“Good, let’s connect it.” The sooner it got working, the better – then the boss would be at his mellowest, ready to be generous when they discussed the terms.
Mr. Kapur had brought a spool of transparent thread from his wife’s sewing basket. He unravelled a length and tied the end to the socket, to suspend it from the ceiling.
“I’ll go up the ladder,” volunteered Yezad. “It’s a very delicate job. Too close, and the bat will smash the bulb. Too far and it won’t look realistic.”
From the top of the ladder he let the bulb descend to within a foot of the floor, steadying his hand against the ceiling. “How’s that?”
“Little lower,” said Mr. Kapur. “I want it to appear like it’s going to connect with the sweet spot.”
Yezad allowed two more inches of thread to slip between his fingers. “This window is going to attract hordes of people. We’ll need a special havaldar for crowd control.”
“I hope so. Little bit to the left.”
“You know, Mr. Kapur, you should take this opportunity to publicize your own name in the display. A sign saying, Compliments of the Season, from Vikram Kapur, Proprietor.”
“No, that would look cheap.”
Yezad tried again to ease into the topic. “At least put a campaign slogan in the window: A Vote For Vikram Kapur Is a Vote For Santa Claus. Or: Hit a Sixer, Vote Vikram Kapur.”
“Good one, Yezad,” he attempted a laugh. “But there isn’t going to be an election.”
Yezad heard the note of unease. He moved the string more to the left, and forward, following the guiding hand below. “Of course there is.”
“Not for me. I don’t think I’m going to run.”
The transparent string escaped Yezad’s fingers. The bulb fell to the floor and shattered.
“Oh no!” Mr. Kapur jumped back to avoid the glass.
Yezad’s hands were shaking as he came down the ladder. Apologizing, he heard his own voice as though it was a stranger’s. “But why not, Mr. Kapur?”
“You dropped the ball! Oh Yezad, Yezad, Yezad!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kapur. But please tell me —”
“Now I’ll have to order another one.” He walked off in disgust. “It’ll take three or four days to come.”
“You’re not listening to me, Vikram. I’m asking you why not.”
Mr. Kapur looked at him, then turned and faced the window again. “For five days Santa Claus has been swatting air with his bat,” he grumbled. “Five days I waited for that ball.”
Distressed as Yezad was, he knew Mr. Kapur needed to be pacified. “Maybe we can put in a regular bulb for the time being,” he suggested.
“That will look more ridiculous,” muttered Mr. Kapur. But after moping for a while, he agreed to try it. Husain went to fetch a spare bulb from the storage room.
“I don’t understand,” ventured Yezad. “With all your plans and preparations, the manifesto you told me you wrote, now why are you changing your mind?”
“Lots of reasons. It’s … it’s too complicated. I think it’s unrealistic of me to hope
to —”
He broke off and looked away, but Yezad could see the sheepish expression reflected in the window glass. “It’s too dangerous. My wife made a good point: she said elections these days are nothing better than fights between gangsters. And after thinking about it, I have to agree with her. Besides, she’s worried about my blood pressure.”
Toying with the bulb socket, he seemed to want to explain further, when Husain returned, dragging a broom behind him and waving a sixty-watt bulb. “Look, sahab, I found it!”
Mr. Kapur appeared relieved at the interruption; he busied himself in the window. The peon swept up the bits of red glass that were scattered around like drops of blood. The cotton wool and tinsel and holly, shaken out, dislodged more droplets. When they were through, Mr. Kapur inserted the bulb in the socket and started the motor.
The bat descended, the light came on; the bat rose, the bulb went off. Husain cheered like a spectator in the stands at Wankhede Stadium, to try and make his employer smile. But the substitute bulb’s thin yellow light had jaundiced the mood.
How could Mr. Kapur let him down in such an offhand manner, despaired Yezad. Wife said no! Was that any kind of explanation?
For the rest of the day he struggled with a sense of hopelessness. He felt anger and betrayal, till calmer moments prevailed and he saw how irrational he was being – Mr. Kapur knew nothing really about his difficulties.
Perhaps he needed to confide in Mr. Kapur, tell him why his decision not to run was such a profound disappointment – that he had pinned all his hopes on the promotion. He would have to swallow his pride and confess that it had become impossible to make ends meet on his salary: two children, school expenses, prices rising month by month … and now, to add to that, sick father-in-law who’d been kicked out by his stepson and stepdaughter, no room in my tiny flat, and no money for medicines, plus bedpan stinking in the front room … causing quarrels with my wife, but I feel obligated to him because he bought the flat for us when we got married …
Yezad put a hand to his forehead. No, the entire story was too messy. Much too messy to tell someone who was ultimately a stranger when it came to revealing all these personal family matters.