Through the afternoon, he watched the spasmodic Santa struggling with arthritic shoulders. Every once in a while the little motor malfunctioned; then the bulb blinked rapidly and the bat made little tremulous up-and-down movements. Like Santa has Parkinson’s, he thought.
Husain ran to fetch Mr. Kapur, who in turn ran to reset the switch. After an adjustment, Mr. Kapur issued a stylish thumbs-up signal and returned to his office. The bat resumed normal operation.
The slow strobe of the light bulb began to cast a hypnotic spell over Yezad as the hours wore on. He felt immobilized, like the reindeer in their fielding positions, and the frozen wicket-keeper, ever ready to stump Captain Claus and yell “Howzat?” to the invisible umpire.
But the challenge was never sounded. And the longer Yezad gazed at the idiotic tableau, the more depressed he became. Nothing made sense.
Suddenly, his life seemed to him as meagre as poor Villie Cardmaster’s – going from the lovely little pink-frocked girl in the birthday photo, eyes shining with innocent hope, to the woman she now was …
He tore his eyes away from the mesmeric Santa and watched Husain instead. The peon stopped frequently to adjust a shred of cotton wool, a plastic leaf, a strand of tinsel.
Yezad envied his ability to delight in simple things. What was his secret? Husain’s life, ravaged by the nightmare of his family’s murder, was still able to find pleasure in all this tawdry paraphernalia.
Like Mr. Kapur, who emerged from his office, smiled forgivingly at Yezad, and went to the window display where he stood grinning for a few moments before returning to his desk.
WHILE ROXANA WAITED FOR the lift in the foyer of Chateau Felicity, she heard a car by the entrance, followed by a clatter and rattle and crash. It was Edul Munshi with his tool box.
In no mood for his handyman chit-chat, she hoped the lift would rescue her before he came in. This visit to Jal and Coomy, this attempt to sort things out with them, had heightened her anxiety. She needed to find a way of bringing Pappa back, the strain on Yezad was too much now – behaving so strangely, these last few days …
“Oh, look who’s here,” said Edul behind her. “Haven’t seen you in months, Roxana. How are you?”
“I’m fine. And you?”
“Champion. Just came from helping a friend with a shaky leg.” He added, “His dining table.”
“Is it all right now?” she asked politely, and Edul launched into a full account of the repair, of how his friend Cavus liked taking shortcuts, wanting to drive in two quick screws, but he had convinced him to take the leg right off, do it the proper way, so it was as solid as Mount Everest when he had finished.
“Manizeh is a lucky woman to have such a talented husband,” said Roxana.
He blushed with modesty. “I do a little bit here and there. By the way, haven’t seen your brother or sister lately. How’s your pappa?”
“Much the same. Doctor says we cannot really hope for improvement in Parkinson’s.”
Edul shook his head sympathetically as the lift arrived and they got in. “What a complicated thing the human body is. If only there were do-it-yourself tools for when it goes wrong.”
“We have doctors.”
“Never trust professionals. Not in renovations and not in sickness. It’s a long time since I saw your pappa being taken by ambulance. Has he returned?”
“He’s at my place. Upstairs the ceiling needs to be fixed.”
His eyes lit up. “No one told me about the problem.”
“Coomy is looking after it.” Roxana lunged for the button as they came to his floor, but was too late.
He made a don’t-worry gesture with his hand. “To get a contractor who is honest, knowledgeable, and affordable is very hard. Three minimum requirements. Maybe I should talk to Coomy.”
“That would be helpful.” Advice from a third party might embarrass Coomy into acting, she thought.
“I can recommend someone completely honest, extremely knowledgeable, who will work for very little. In fact, for just material cost.”
She knew what was coming but played along. “Sounds hard to believe.”
He smiled. “If I may say so myself, it’s myself I am talking about.”
The lift stopped and he pushed the door open for her. She tried to imagine the scenario, should he be unleashed in Pappa’s flat – like placing a straight razor in a monkey’s hand.
“Wouldn’t be fair,” she said, “taking advantage of you.”
“Where’s the question of taking advantage? I’m volunteering. You know me, I enjoy it, it’s my hobby. I enjoy the happiness I bring to people’s hearts when something broken is made whole again.”
The lift bell clamoured through the shaft; someone was summoning it to the ground floor. “Thanks, Edul, but we can’t ask you to do such a big job. The ceilings are badly damaged.”
He ignored the person downstairs who was yelling now to shut the doors so the lift could return to the foyer. “Big job or small job, the secret is to proceed methodically. Measure twice, cut once, is the handyman’s motto. Think the problem through, visualize the solution. Like playing chess. It’s a special knack some people have.”
He continued to describe his virtues for the job, but she wasn’t listening – it had just occurred to her: the ceilings were already in a pitiful state, they didn’t need protecting from Edul. No matter how unskilled, he couldn’t make them worse.
And suddenly, it didn’t seem such a bad idea: he could clean up the mess, perform some rough patching, make the ceilings safe. Gouges and cracks would still show, so what? It was for free, and at least Pappa could go home.
But first Coomy needed to be convinced. “If you’re confident,” she said, “I can tell Jal and Coomy of your kind offer.”
“Cent per cent confident,” he assured her.
The screamer on the ground floor had gone silent, having abandoned all hope of getting the lift to descend. Edul asked if he should go upstairs with her. “I could size up the job right now, do a rough estimate on materials.”
“Better if I talk to them first. Imposing on you for such a huge favour will be their decision.”
“Not at all,” he said, getting back in the lift. “Renovation, for me, is never an imposition.” The lift started down, but his voice floated up, “It is my source of satisfaction.”
“Coomy! It’s Roxie come to visit!” Jal announced jubilantly. “Come, Roxie, come!” he took her hands and drew her inside, giving her a long hug. Joy and relief filled his eyes, that the estrangement was not going to be permanent. “Why is Yezad not with you?”
“Still at work.” She saw the way his face was lit – as though she had flicked a switch – and was touched by the welcome.
“Coomy!” he called again. “Where are you, Roxie has come!”
“Shushum hmm hmm!” admonished Coomy from her room to indicate she was praying, then showed herself in the passageway for a moment, her head covered in white mulmul.
“Oh, sorry,” said Jal.
She came to the drawing-room a few minutes later. “Why so excited, like the Queen of England has arrived?”
“No, no, not Armeen and Hoshang – our Roxie!”
Coomy tapped the hearing aid in his pocket. “Is it empty again?” The two women put their hands lightly on one another’s shoulders; their cheeks touched.
“How is Pappa?” asked Coomy.
“The same. He keeps asking about the flat, if repairs have started. I keep saying soon, Pappa, soon. He’s very sad, he understands I don’t have a real answer.”
Jal’s face mirrored his uneasy conscience. He wrung his hands and touched the earpiece, appealing silently to Coomy.
“Your gadget is giving you trouble,” she said. “Go, buy new batteries. I’ll tell you Roxie’s news later.”
“No, it’s fine.” He stopped fidgeting.
“Pappa has good days and bad,” continued Roxana. “What makes it worse is that his pills finish before the next pension comes.”
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“I wish we could help you with more money,” said Coomy. “But Pappa’s account is empty. And share bazaar is very bad these days — Jal can tell you.”
“So enough of my troubles,” said Roxana. “Tell me about yourself. How are you both?”
“As you see: sunk in our misfortune, in plaster and dust.”
“Still trying to find a contractor,” murmured Jal.
“No further collapse?” asked Roxana. “Everything safe? Good.” Then she curbed her tongue; sarcasm wouldn’t help her mission of reconciliation. “That reminds me. Guess who I met downstairs. It was so lucky – Edul Munshi.”
“You call that lucky?” said Coomy. “Only people who are cursed run into the fellow,” and Jal laughed, glad it was becoming more amicable.
“I know what you mean,” said Roxana. “But he asked about your ceiling and offered to fix it, free of charge.”
“Of course he would,” said Coomy. “He would pay to work in someone’s flat, he’s so desperate. His wife won’t let him touch a thing in the house.”
“He’s not a handyman, he’s a clown,” chuckled Jal. “He should take his tools and join the circus.”
“My reaction was the same. Then I began to think: none of us has the money for a contractor. If he can at least apply new plaster, it will be an improvement.”
“No, the man is a menace,” declared Coomy. “When he changes a light bulb, the whole building has a power failure. And you want to him to work for us?”
Roxana shrugged. “It’s your choice.”
The earlier tension began creeping back into the room. Then, to her surprise, Jal spoke up, “I like the idea. What’s the harm in letting Edul—”
Coomy turned sharply, and he fell silent, waiting to be told off. But the argument never materialized.
Yes, thought Coomy, let Edul do the work. What could be better than having the idiot make a bigger mess of things? With his penchant for prolonging every job to prolong his own pleasure, Pappa’s return could be delayed indefinitely. She wouldn’t need to invent excuses.
Edul would be the perfect, unwitting accomplice.
Mr. Kapur held up a finger to object, and pointed at his watch. “See the time? No more ‘Mister.’ ” He peered into Yezad’s face. “For two days now, you look so depressed. What’s wrong?”
Yezad shrugged. “I guess because of everything that we’ve talked about … and those old photos, and … you made a convert of me. I really believe a good man like you should be in politics. Otherwise, only crooks and scoundrels reign over us.”
“Isn’t this funny,” said Mr. Kapur with a sad smile. “We’ve completely reversed – I sound like you, you sound like me.” He sighed. “Wish I had a choice.”
“We always have a choice.”
“But family comes first, Yezad, you understand that. Family service before public service, my wife reminded me. And besides my blood pressure, there’s the suitcase money – I agree with her, we shouldn’t spend it on the election.”
He took Yezad by the arm and led him to his office. “Don’t be so disappointed. It seemed like a good idea, once. Now it’s finished – we have to accept that.”
“You said it was your duty.”
“Oh yes. Mine, and every good citizen’s. I’m not special. But I’ve come to realize, duty is worthless in this case.”
“Meaning?”
“Think about it – pure duty is unconcerned with outcome. Even if I become a municipal councillor, fight the good fight, what do I have at the end? The satisfaction of knowing I’ve done my duty. As far as Bombay is concerned, nothing changes. Nobody can turn back the clock.”
Yezad listened in disbelief. Mr. Kapur’s complete about-face was hard to take.
“So,” continued Mr. Kapur. “Nothing left now except to talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs. Let us sit upon these chairs and tell sad stories of the death of cities.”
Yezad said nothing. If the boss wanted to babble, he’d have to do it without the benefit of response or reaction.
Then Mr. Kapur made a lame attempt at humour. “You know my problem? I am one who loves Bombay not wisely, but too well. And I think I make my wife jealous. She doesn’t want another beauty competing with her.”
Intense irritation now made Yezad break his resolve of silence. “Don’t you have any Indian sources to quote, for a change?”
The acid in the retort dripped away harmlessly; the mere fact that Yezad had decided to speak delighted Mr. Kapur. “That’s a basic problem with our education, yours and mine. Anyway, Shakespeare is like Bombay. In them both, you can find whatever you need – they contain the universe.”
Seething inwardly, Yezad studied his watch. “If you don’t mind, I’ll make a move.”
Mr. Kapur locked his desk. “I hope you’re not still angry.”
“What right do I have to be angry? It’s your life, your wife, your decision.”
Mr. Kapur picked up his attaché case and switched off the lights. “Have you noticed, Yezad, I took your advice? I’m not using the air-conditioner. From now on, I’ll accept whatever Bombay offers: heat, humidity, sea-breeze, typhoon.”
“I’ve been following this philosophy for years. Of course, it’s easy for me, I can’t afford air-conditioning.”
“You don’t need it. We Indians have our own built-in cooling system – chilies and garam masala make us sweat, the breeze evaporates the sweat, and we are cool.”
Yezad smiled weakly.
Mr. Kapur made one last attempt to placate him. “Think of this, Yezad: we’ll always have the photographs. Our city is preserved in them. And the record will remain for those who come after us. They will know that once there was a time, here, in this shining city by the sea, when we had a tropical Camelot, a golden place where races and religions lived in peace and amity …”
Yezad stopped listening, again feeling exasperation and, in spite of himself, affection, which the man’s passions and contradictions provoked. He was certain that, in two months, when the election was over, Mr. Kapur would regret not making the attempt. Or he might change his mind again in the next few days, and decide to run – who could tell where Mr. Kapur was concerned.
As they walked to the door, Yezad saw him gazing fondly at his Christmas display. Someone should tell him he was too young to slip into second childhood. He needed a jolt of some sort, something drastic, to shake him out of this daze of self-satisfaction.
All along the street, establishments seemed to have taken their cue from the Bombay Sporting Goods Emporium. The Jai Hind Book Mart featured a barefoot Santa in padmasana, an English translation of the Bhagavad-Gita open in his lap; perched upon his nose were half-moon reading glasses. Rasoi Stainless Steel had an aproned Santa stirring a large cooking utensil. The Bhagat Opticals Santa wore stylish reflector sunglasses.
Every shop had to have one, thought Yezad wearily, they were no longer content with a Christmas tree, a star, an angel. The men’s clothing store had one with shirts and ties draped over his outstretched arms. The shoe store’s held a stack of shoeboxes. Mercifully, the sari shop had refrained from a six-yard spree of cross-dressing.
The whole exercise was tedious, devoid of wit (the Book Mart excepted, thanks to Vilas’s imagination). For once, a Shiv Sena agitation would be welcome, against this nonsense. Where were those goondas when needed, why weren’t they rampaging down the street, smashing these crass displays?
Perhaps that was the type of stimulant Mr. Kapur needed. If his fielders were de-antlered, the blinking bulb silenced, the annoying white-bearded batsman drawn and quartered by the Sena’s storm troopers, it might bring back his fighting spirit. What a salutary shock for him, if Shiv Sena came to his doorstep …
Outside the shuttered Book Mart, Vilas hailed Yezad from his perch. He patted the step and made room for him to sit.
“No, it’s late,” said Yezad, kneading his neck muscles, trying to ease the stiffness.
“You look upset. Something wrong?”
; “Mr. Kapur – you know about his election plans, he was so committed before. Now it’s a complete reversal. He told me his wife said no.”
Vilas laughed. “How sweet. A henpecked Punjabi must be a rare thing.”
“I don’t know what’s happening to him. And my promotion has vanished.”
While they talked, a labourer with an empty basket approached the bookstore, halting at a respectful distance. In readiness for the scribe, he pulled out a letter from within his head-cushioning turban and attempted to smooth the crumples.
“Your customer,” said Yezad, relinquishing the step.
The pain was stuck between the shoulder blades like a knife. He rubbed the neck muscles again and again, turned his head left-right, left-right, then up and down. Instead of walking straight to Marine Lines station, he took the longer way around Dhobitalao, down Princess Street – time to think. His breath was short and shallow, he was almost panting. Breathe in over five steps, he told himself, out for the next eight. In for five, out for eight …
A blast of diesel fumes made him cough. Bloody pollution. This was no city for deep breathing. Not unless he managed to slip into Mr. Kapur’s old photographs. In the old Hughes Road … And talking to Vilas had only agitated him again. Easy for Vilas to say be patient, find a way to motivate Mr. Kapur, while here he was beside himself with worry.
A motorcyclist puttered by wearing a breathing mask. Soon everybody would need one, the way things were going – but wouldn’t it be great if there were a mask to filter out the world’s problems …
“Sahibji,” said a voice.
He turned around: it was the man in the sandalwood shop outside Wadiaji fire-temple. Yezad realized he was just passing its gates.
“Sahibji” said the man again, pausing in his task of sorting the sandalwood sticks by size. “Sukhad? It’s genuine Malbari.”
He wore a prayer cap of black velvet, observed Yezad, the type his father used to wear. Declining the sandalwood, he continued on his way.