It was a long-sleeved shirt, and she helped him with it. He inquired about the source of the persistent hammering.
“Edul Munshi downstairs, who else,” she said, fastening the cuffs. “Only one maniac handyman lives in Chateau Felicity.”
The doorbell rang as she buttoned the front. Nariman’s face lit up: Roxana and Yezad and Murad and Jehangir, at last! His eager fingers tried to help with the shirt.
She brushed them aside and raced through the last few buttons, skipping a couple at the end, flustered about things still to be done in the kitchen. The Chenoy family always had to come on time, she grumbled, even in a heavy downpour.
JAL LET THE FAMILY in and ran with their umbrellas and raincoats to the bathroom to prevent a puddle by the door. He returned with a cloth, mopping the trail of water. After everyone finished wiping their rain-shoes on the mat, he led them to the drawing-room.
“That’s a big shower you got caught in.”
“Yes,” said Roxana, “and these two naughty boys forgot their caps. Look at their hair, soaking wet. Can I borrow a towel, Jal?”
“Sure.” Settling them in the threadbare sofas and chairs, he needlessly moved a couple of side tables, picked up cushions only to replace them in the same spot, and turned on a lamp. He inquired anxiously if the light was bothering their eyes.
“Not at all,” Yezad assured him.
Jal’s usual jitteriness obscured his pleasure at seeing them. He excused himself, saying Coomy needed help in the kitchen.
“The towel, Jal,” Roxana reminded him. “Before these two little saitaans catch a chill.”
“Oh yes, sorry.” He dashed off and returned with apologies for the delay.
She threw the towel over Jehangir’s head, rubbing vigorously so that his shoulders shook. He decided to exaggerate the effect, letting his arms and hips shake in a wild dance.
“Stand still, you clown,” said his mother. She ran her fingers through his hair to check. “There. Your turn, Murad.”
“I’ll do it myself,” said Murad, not about to relinquish the sovereignty acquired recently, on turning thirteen.
His mother passed him the towel, then opened her purse to find a comb. Jehangir waited patiently while she restored the parting on the left and slicked back the rest. “Now you look less like a ruffian.”
Murad took the comb next, and went to the showcase at the other end of the drawing-room. Squinting into the glass front, he styled his hair to his own satisfaction, without a parting.
Roxana put away the comb and warned the boys to behave themselves, not annoy Aunty and Uncle. Yezad delivered a caution as well, adding under his breath that of course it was hard to predict what might annoy those two – the only certain way was to say nothing and do nothing.
“This evening pretend you are two statues,” he said.
Murad and Jehangir laughed.
“I’m serious. There’ll be a prize for the best statue.”
“What’s the prize?”
“A surprise.”
They froze immediately, to see who could sit still without blinking for the most time. But it wasn’t long before Murad’s statue came to life and began exploring the room. He wandered to the window and peered out under the curtains, then tried to open them. He yanked with both hands to slide the rings. The rod and drapery came tumbling.
“See what you’ve done? Sit down at once!” said his mother through clenched teeth to appear fierce, though she knew she was hopeless at it. “You’re older than Jehangir, you’re supposed to set a good example.”
Murad picked up the rod and began threading it through the rings. As he got one panel on, the second slipped off at the other end.
“You heard Mummy,” said Yezad. “Leave it.”
“I’m just putting it back for Aunty.”
Yezad uncrossed his legs and moved to the edge of the sofa, as though to rise. “Sit down, I said.”
Seeing the flash of anger in his father’s eyes, Jehangir tensed, hoping his brother wouldn’t be defiant. They were both well acquainted with Daddy’s temper.
Murad returned to his chair, pouting and scowling. But as quickly as it had appeared, his father’s anger melted. “Now let’s hope your Aunty doesn’t explode.”
Roxana was certain the noise would bring Coomy to investigate. But no one came until Nariman, his new shirt tucked unevenly into his trousers, appeared in the doorway.
“Happy birthday, Grandpa,” chorused the boys. Jehangir was first off the sofa this time, running to Nariman as he shuffled towards his chair.
“Stop!” Roxana checked her son’s exuberance. “Let Grandpa sit first, you’ll knock him over.”
She wondered if her father’s feet were dragging more than the last time they met; he was definitely more stooped. The doctor had warned them, symptoms would be aggravated when the Parkinsonism began making rapid gains. Funny choice of word, she thought, “gains,” as though the wretched disease was a stock on the share bazaar in which Jal dabbled.
Lowering himself into the chair, Nariman lost control and fell into it heavily. He smiled at the anxious faces.
Jehangir hugged and kissed him, holding his chin and squeezing gently, enjoying the rubbery jujubelike feel and the tiny stubble dotting it like sugar. His grandfather laughed and bowed his head for the next part of the ritual: the stroking of his bald head.
This special greeting had evolved a few years ago when he had affectionately grabbed the boys’ chins, and they had grabbed his right back. Fascinated by its texture, they had explored other features of their grandfather’s physiognomy and found that his glabrous pate, hard and smooth and shiny, sang a delicious counterpoint to the jujube chin.
Murad approached and held out his hand, feeling too old now to indulge in childish chin squeezing. Nariman shook it, then drew him close for a hug.
“Show us your teeth, Grandpa,” said Jehangir.
Nariman obliged, letting his dentures protrude briefly before sucking them in.
“Again!”
“Stop bothering,” said Yezad. “This boy of mine is becoming a rascal-and-a-half. Many happy returns, chief.” He shook his father-in-law’s hand heartily and patted him on the shoulder.
Finally, Roxana embraced him, saying it was good to see him looking so well. “God bless you, Pappa, may we keep coming for many, many years.”
“At least till one hundred,” said Yezad.
“Yes, Grandpa, you must hit a century,” said Murad. “Like Sachin Tendulkar against Australia.”
“Easily,” said Jehangir. “Only twenty-one to go.”
“Good arithmetic,” chuckled Nariman. “But I’ve had more than my fair share of birthdays.”
“Don’t say that, Pappa,” said Roxana, and a little frown knit her brow. She sat on the sofa adjacent to his chair.
Jal, who had returned in the meantime, adjusted his hearing aid; it gave him more trouble when there were several speakers in the room. “What? What did Murad say about hen curry?”
“Century,” said Roxana, repeating for him all the things he had missed, while he smiled and nodded. Then Coomy called out, and he hurried back to the kitchen.
“How many more birthdays for your century?” Nariman asked Jehangir. “Ninety-two, I think?”
“No, Grandpa, that was last year. Now only ninety-one.”
“And for Murad?”
“Just eighty-seven.”
“Excellent. Soon you’ll be young men with many girlfriends. I hope you’ll invite me to your wedding.” His spirits were rising with each passing minute. The joy and laughter and youth they brought was an antidote to the sombreness enveloping his flat, the hours when he felt the very walls and ceilings were encrusted with the distress of unhappy decades. The furniture too, of teak and rosewood, the huge armoires and four-poster beds looming darkly, glum hulks waiting for some dreaded end, seemed once again welcoming and hospitable. And that long row of family portraits in the passageway – today their dour grimaces seemed comical.
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Roxana asked, keeping to a whisper, “Things okay with Jal and Coomy?”
“The usual theatrics and keech-keech, that’s all,” said Nariman. “Most of the time —”
He fell silent as Coomy, carrying a bowl of potato chips, entered with a loud hello to everyone. The collapsed curtains drew her eyes at once, but before her outrage became words Roxana apologized, “This naughty boy pulled the whole thing down. He’s going to get a solid punishment.”
Pre-empted, Coomy was magnanimous. “Never mind, Jal will fix it later. I just hope no shameless mavaalis try to peer into our house.”
“But we’re on the third floor, Aunty,” said Jehangir.
“So? You think mavaalis are only at street level? They could be in the building opposite. They could be with a telescope in that skyscraper a mile away.”
Puzzled, Jal asked, “Who’s in the skyscraper?”
“Just switch it off,” advised Coomy. “We’re not discussing anything important.”
“Let him listen!” said Roxana indignantly. “He wants to enjoy the conversation.”
“And who will pay for new batteries? Do you know how expensive they are, how quickly that little box eats them up?”
“But it’s a necessity, like medicine.”
“Calling it a necessity doesn’t magically produce money for it,” said Coomy, and recited the prices of items she thought were necessities: onions, potatoes, bread, butter, cooking gas.
“You should budget for every expense,” said Roxana. “Keep separate envelopes.”
“Thank you very much, I also studied home economics in school. Envelopes are no use without money to put in them.”
“You’re right,” said Yezad to conclude the argument. “We all have the same problem.”
“Rubbish,” snapped Coomy. “You don’t have the problem of looking after Pappa, with all his expenses.”
Roxana wanted to snap back that Pappa’s pension paid for everything. But Yezad gave her a little sign – the silly disagreement over batteries was turning into a major fight – and changed the subject: “By the way, Coomy, what’s that non-stop hammering?”
“Idiot Edul Munshi, who else.”
“Now he’d be thrilled to fix your curtains,” teased Yezad.
Jal retreated in mock horror. “Please, anyone but Edul. Unless you want the house to tumble on our heads.”
They laughed, for Edul Munshi who lived one floor below fancied himself a talented handyman. Signs of his incompetence were evident on his front door: the nameplate hung crookedly, and the hasp didn’t quite meet its staple. He was famous in the building for his fine set of tools, and notorious for his willingness to share them – by playing his cards right, he was able to follow them into someone else’s fixing and repairing. And this meant the world to him, since there was very little he could do nowadays in his own flat; Mrs. Munshi had decided there was a limit to how much of their home her husband should be allowed to ruin.
“I wonder who is the buckro trapped this time in Edul’s tool box,” said Yezad.
They laughed again, and Nariman looked around with satisfaction, glad the fight had been avoided. “Come, let’s have a drink.”
“Just wait five more minutes,” said Coomy. “My coals are ready for loban, the sun has gone down.”
She left the room to return with the silver thurible, walking in a haze of white smoke. Her head was now covered with a white mulmul scarf.
The fragrance of frankincense delighted Roxana, for ritual and religion meant more to her than it ever had to Yezad. After her mother’s sudden death, her training had been taken over by the Contractor side of the family, and Nariman’s heavy conscience had refused them nothing. They had taught her the prayers, performed her navjote, taken her to the fire-temple for every holy day.
Later on, in married life, she missed these observances. Yezad did not believe in them, he said going to fire-temple on Navroze and Khordad Sal was enough for him, and loban smoke was merely one way to get rid of mosquitoes.
The silver thurible in Coomy’s hand, which had belonged to Mamma, filled Roxana’s senses with reverence and childhood memories. She awaited her turn as Coomy offered it to each person for obeisance.
Yezad, being nearest, was first, and he clasped his hands in a perfunctory manner.
“Cover your head,” whispered Roxana in her husband’s ear.
“Sorry,” he murmured, and put one hand over his hair, moving the other through the smoke towards himself. Murad and Jehangir grinned to see their father’s clumsiness.
After everyone had finished, Coomy made a circuit of the drawing-room, the smoke lazily tracing her path. The solemn expression with which she floated about amused the boys.
“Your aunty is a very pious woman,” said Yezad when she left the room, and struggled to hold back his laughter.
“Indeed,” said Nariman. “She has a direct line to the Almighty.”
“Stop it, you two,” said Roxana, annoyed. She wanted to savour the moment; for her, loban smoke was like angels and fareshtas floating through the house.
Coomy pushed back the white mulmul scarf from her head and announced it was time for drinks. “What about you, Murad and Jehangir? Fanta or Thums-Up? Or,” she said, opening her eyes wide to convey the delight of a special treat, “my own homemade raspberry sarbut – that’s what I’m having.”
The boys were familiar with their aunt’s anaemic concoction, pale pink, sugary, and flavourless. “I’ll have that later,” said Murad. “Fanta for now.”
“Same for me, Aunty,” said Jehangir.
Jal offered to look after the adult drinks, and began making Scotch and sodas for Yezad, Nariman, and himself. Roxana requested the rejected raspberry sarbut and Coomy’s face brightened.
“Martyr,” whispered Yezad in his wife’s ear, letting his lips brush the lobe.
Nariman noticed, and smiled with pleasure. He delighted in his daughter’s happiness, the bond she shared with Yezad. He had often seen them communicate with subtle signals invisible to the world.
He overruled her choice of sarbut. “On my birthday? You must have something stronger.”
“No, Pappa, it goes straight to my head and then down to my legs.”
“But he’s right, Roxie,” said Yezad. “Today is special.”
Jehangir and Murad added their voices to the demand: “Yes, Mummy, you must have liquor today!” They liked the slight tipsiness that overcame their mother once or twice a year, erasing her look of perpetual worry.
Sighing, she consented to rum and Thums-Up as though undertaking a difficult task. “Listen, Jal, very little rum, lots of Thums-Up,” she instructed, then sat back, anticipating the drink with pleasure.
Still Fanta-less and propelled by boredom, Murad went to the showcase, which had pride of place in the drawing-room. Jehangir followed. This cabinet was a magnet whenever they visited, made more powerful by their uncle and aunt’s interdiction against touching anything.
Roxana watched them with growing concern. Nariman moved his hand through the air as though patting his daughter’s arm to assure her that it was all right.
“But, Pappa, you have no idea what a chaavat Murad is. And his brother as well, when they’re together. Otherwise, Jehangir will sit still for hours, reading or making his jigsaw puzzles.”
She nudged Yezad to keep a sharp eye on the two. “The last thing we want is them fooling around with the shrine.”
“Shrine” was their secret word for the clutter of knick-knacks, toys, and glassware that packed the shelves of the cabinet venerated by Jal and Coomy. Their sacred icons included a clown with ears that waggled when his stomach was squeezed, a white fluffy dog with a bobbing head, tiny replicas of vintage cars, and a battery-operated Elvis who would soundlessly strum his guitar. At one time, the Elvis doll could also sing a verse of “Wooden Heart,” but, as Jal liked explaining to visitors, something had gone wrong with the mechanism on the very day in August that the King had died.
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bsp; When they acquired a new toy, they would demonstrate it proudly, then perform its solemn installation behind glass. All that was missing in this ritual, according to Yezad, was incense, flowers, and the chanting of prayers. He dismissed Nariman’s explanation that Jal and Coomy’s sickly father and their unhappy childhood was the reason for the shrine. There were lots of deprived children, said Yezad, and they didn’t all grow up into toy fanatics.
Besides the toys, the showcase held some silver cups, prizes Jal and Coomy had won long ago at school. Little tags on the trophies recorded their achievements: Jal Palonji Contractor, 3rd Prize, Three-Legged Race, 1954; Coomy Palonji Contractor, 2nd Prize, Lemon-and-Spoon Race, 1956; and many more. They had not kept all their prizes, just the ones for which their father had been present on Sports Day to cheer them on.
There were also two watches, much too small for their wrists now, and two fountain pens, presented to them on their navjote by their father, almost forty years ago. The ceremony had been arranged hurriedly on the advice of the family dustoorji, when it seemed Palonji did not have much longer to live. The children had yet to commit to memory all the requisite prayers, but the dustoorji said he would overlook that deficiency: better for the father to witness the navjote, even if the initiates were a few verses short, so he could die secure in the knowledge that his progeny had been properly welcomed into the Zoroastrian fold.
Bored with looking through the glass, Murad decided to open the cabinet doors. Roxana alerted Yezad, who warned their son not to touch anything.
“The glass is dusty, I can’t see.”
He glanced over the assortment of items, ignoring the vases, silver cups, a plastic gondola with gondolier, the Air-India maharaja perched atop the nose of a jumbo jet, an Eiffel Tower. Two grinning monkeys at the centre of the display had snared his curiosity.
One was equipped with a drum and sticks, while the other clutched in its paws a bottle labelled Booze; both had keys in their backs. Standing so as to shield his hands, Murad began winding the drummer. Jehangir the accomplice provided additional cover.
But the telltale clockwork betrayed them. The sound, to Coomy’s ears, was as familiar as the breath of a cherished infant. She abandoned the drinks and rushed to her beloved cabinet.