The patients Dr Paymaster looked forward to most were in the fourth group, made up of families like the Nobles. He yearned to cure the childhood illnesses, the middle-class maladies, of which he saw fewer and fewer as the years went by and the neighbourhood changed. Measles, chicken-pox, bronchitis, influenza, pneumonia, gastro-enteritis, dysentery – these were the things he wanted to treat. He wanted to lance boils painlessly for children who ate too many mangoes, and then see their grateful smiles. He wanted to bandage the fingers of little boys who cut them on kite-strings, on razor-sharp maanja stiffened with powdered glass and glue which they employed in kite fights up in the clouds. He longed to comfort youngsters scratched by dogs and terrified by their parents’ tales of fourteen big injections in the stomach, though usually a penicillin shot was enough if the dog was an inoculated household pet.
He knew that the disorders he yearned to treat were there in the city, in vast numbers. Somehow, they just never found their way to the door of his dispensary. When one of them came along, it was like an answer to a physician’s prayer.
ii
The tiny, crowded waiting-room was separated from Dr Paymaster’s inner sanctum by a partition with a door. Large panes of green ground glass in the partition showed vague outlines of what went on inside.
When the door opened for the next patient, Dr Paymaster glimpsed Gustad and Roshan. He wished he could usher them in ahead of the rest. It had been a typical, lacklustre day: knocking, tapping, listening, peering, then signing his approval, so the painted ladies could continue in business. Sometimes he felt like a building inspector – all that was missing was a rubber stamp: Safe for Human Habitation. He handed Hemabai a clean bill of health as she emerged from the back, tall and bristling with daunting curves, called Hydraulic Hema by the neighbourhood mechanics because of a unique, ecstatically fluid movement she had perfected.
The doctor brought his hand down on the silver desk bell and waved at the Nobles. In the next half-hour, he dispensed with the half-dozen who were waiting, then rose to shake Gustad’s hand and pinch Roshan’s cheek. ‘Seeing you after a long time. Which is very good, medically speaking, but not so good, socially speaking. Something cold to drink?’ He went to the tiny Kelvinator whose inadequate innards refrigerated vials of serum and unstable compounds, plus some Goldspot and Raspberry for special patients. ‘Or shall I send the boy for tea?’
‘Nothing. Nothing, thanks,’ said Gustad. ‘I just had tea. And I don’t think Roshan should.’
‘Why, why? What’s wrong? Ate brinjals?’ Dr Paymaster habitually euphemized sicknesses and things medical.
‘Stomach. Loose motions for a few days.’
‘How many?’ Gustad knew what he was about to say would not go down well. He cleared his throat and plunged into it. The doctor masked his exasperation but not wholly: ‘Tch-tch-tch. You waited so long before coming?’
Gustad looked sheepish. ‘Entero-Vioform and Sulpha-Guanidine usually works very well.’ Better not to mention subjo.
‘Those are medicines – not to be gobbled like sweet papee or chana-mumra. Come on, Roshan, lie down. I have to tickle your tummy a little bit.’ While he listened with his stethoscope, he asked about school.
She mentioned the raffle. ‘I won a big doll, but she is sleeping naked in the cupboard just now.’
‘Why naked?’ She explained about the voluminous wedding dress and described the articles of clothing. ‘You know what I think?’ said the doctor. ‘Your doll is ready to be a bride, so we should find her a bridegroom. A nice young Parsi boy. Fair and handsome like me.’ He pretended to be injured when Roshan laughed. ‘What? Am I not young and handsome?’ He stroked the few wisps of white on his head. ‘See my fine black curly hair. And my face. So good-looking. Even handsomer than your daddy.’
Roshan laughed again, but after more persuasion it was agreed the doctor was the best match for her doll. Dr Paymaster made her turn on her side to face the partition while he prepared an injection. He winked at Gustad to say nothing. ‘Now we must plan the wedding. I love accordion music. Does Dolly?’
‘Yes,’ giggled Roshan.
‘Very good. Then we will have Goody Seervai’s band. But if he is booked, we will call Nelly’s orchestra.’ He selected a needle from the sterilized tray and went to the Kelvinator. ‘The next thing is the caterer. I always enjoy Choksy’s food.’ Choksy Caterers was unanimously approved. He enumerated the items he wanted on the menu, starting with a carrot-and-mango pickle, wafers, mur-umbo, and Choksy’s special wedding stew, while directing a cold ether spray over the spot to be injected. Next, there was to be leaf-wrapped fish steamed in green chutney, succulent chicken legs fried Mughlai-style, and mutton pulao.
‘Ow!’ said Roshan. By the time he came to the dessert, which would be pistachio kulfi, the needle had been withdrawn. He rubbed the spot with cotton wool.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘All finished. Now you can sit on the sofa outside while I talk to Daddy.’
After the door was shut, Gustad asked, ‘It’s not diarrhoea? How serious?’
‘Not diarrhoea. But no need to worry.’ He began writing a prescription. ‘Sometimes, of course, even a case of diarrhoea can be worrying. Look at East Pakistan – a patient with a simple sickness, but very difficult to cure. A patient in critical condition, needing the intensive care unit. But no one in the world cares.’ Dr Paymaster believed that politics, economics, religious problems, domestic strife, all could be dealt with methodically: observe the symptoms, make the diagnosis, prescribe medicine, offer the prognosis. But he also believed that just as some diseases of the human body were incurable, there were diseases of countries, of families, of theological dogma, that had fatal outcomes.
‘East Pakistan is suffering from a diarrhoea of death,’ he continued. ‘Death is flowing there unchecked, and the patient will soon be dehydrated.’ The smooth gliding of his fountain-pen was interrupted; the nib scratched and produced half-formed letters. He held it up to the light, peering through the reservoir’s transparent plastic. ‘Empty again.’ He unscrewed the cover, dipped it in the bottle of Parker Ink, and squeezed the bladder. ‘East Pakistan has been attacked by a strong virus from West Pakistan, too powerful for the Eastern immune system. And the world’s biggest physician is doing nothing. Worse, Dr America is helping the virus. So what’s the prescription? The Mukti Bahini guerrillas?’ He shook his head. ‘Not strong enough medicine. Only the complete, intravenous injection of the Indian Army will defeat this virus.’
He finished the prescription and handed it to the compounder in the little cubicle at the rear. Gustad knew from experience that Dr Paymaster had the wit and stamina to sustain medical metaphors endlessly. He interrupted. ‘Will she be all right?’
‘Absolutely. I am sitting here, no, if anything goes wrong. I think it’s an intestinal virus. Keep her home for a few days. Only boiled rice, soup, toast, a little boiled mutton. And bring her again next week.’
The compounder finished mixing the prescription. He presented the dark-green bottle along with the bill. Gustad looked at the amount and raised his eyebrows. ‘Refugee tax,’ the compounder explained apologetically.
iii
The doctor’s calm manner and reassuring talk kept at bay Gustad’s fear about the virus. He led Roshan to the bus stop past the rows of shops, past Cutpiece Cloth Centre, Bhelpuri House, Jack of All Stall, Naughty Boy Men’s Wear. Peerbhoy Paanwalla was busy outside the House of Cages. The women stood in the doorways or leaned against windows, displaying what they could between the bars. Loud music, a popular film song, blasted from within: Mere sapno ki rani kab ayegi tu, O Queen of my dreams, when will you arrive … It could be heard all the way to the bus stop.
Later, as they neared the gate of Khodadad Building, the effects of Dr Paymaster’s salutary presence were wearing off. At the black stone wall, the stink had been growing from strength to strength, with pools of urinous ordure multiplying as the evening darkened. When the stench hit Gustad, the last of the doctor’s
reassurances drowned helplessly. The insidious stink in his nostrils left no room for optimism.
He began to blame himself for Roshan’s illness, wished he had never heard of Entero-Vioform or Sulpha-Guanidine. His limp slipped its usual containment, and by the time they reached the door, he was swaying wildly from side to side.
‘What did the doctor say?’ asked Dilnavaz.
Gustad shut and opened his eyes meaningfully, and she understood. ‘Everything is fine, Dr Paymaster is going to marry Roshan’s dolly.’
‘Yes,’ said Roshan. ‘Choksy Caterers will cook the wedding dinner.’ He gave her one dose from the mixture. They sent her to bed, and he quietly told Dilnavaz what the doctor had said.
She sat silent a few moments while the lines on her face rearranged for a storm: ‘Now you are satisfied? Now will you admit it? I repeated it till I was exhausted, till my lungs were empty. But you treat my words as if a dog is barking.’
‘What idiotic-lunatic thing are you saying?’
‘Neither idiotic nor lunatic! I am talking about water, what else? I said it over and over. That we should boil the water, boil the water, boil the water. But it would not go into your brain only!’ she said, ferociously digging her fingers into her skull.
‘Yes! Blame me! That’s the easiest thing.’
‘If not you then who? Your dead uncle? No, no, you said, potassium permanganate is enough, no need to boil. You Nobles think you know everything.’
‘That’s right! Don’t blame me alone! Blame my father also, and grandfather and great-grandfather. You ungrateful woman! Why do you think I said not to boil? For your sake! As it is, you are so busy in the morning, running from bathroom to kitchen, with no time even to sit and drink your tea!’
Their voices rose steadily, though neither seemed to notice. She said, ‘There is a remedy for that, if I have no time in the morning. But you just sit and read your newspaper, while my insides are heaving and aching with lifting the tubs and buckets. And two big sons you have, like lubbhai-laivraas, who have never helped me once.’
‘Correction, you have two sons. I have only one. And what has happened to your mouth? Why must I say everything when –?’
‘Everything? What everything have you told them? Always I shout and scream, while nice Daddy watches quietly. To finish their food, to do homework, to pick up their plates. Without a father’s discipline what can you expect now but disobedience?’
‘Yes! Blame me for that also. It is my fault that Sohrab is not going to IIT! My fault that Darius is wasting his time with the dogwalla idiot’s fatty! My fault that Roshan is sick! Everything wrong in the world is my fault!’
‘Don’t deny it! From the beginning you have spoilt the boys! Not for one single thing have you ever said no! Not enough money for food or school uniforms, and baap goes and buys aeroplanes and fish tanks and bird cages!’
They did not notice Roshan standing in the door till she started to sob. ‘What is it, my darling?’ said Gustad, bringing her to sit beside him.
‘I don’t like it when you fight,’ she said through her tears.
‘No one is fighting. We were just talking,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘Sometimes grown-ups have to talk about these things.’
‘But you were shouting and angry,’ sobbed Roshan.
‘OK, my bakulyoo,’ he said, putting his arm around her. ‘You are right, we were shouting. But we are not angry. Look,’ and he smiled: ‘Is this an angry face?’
Roshan was not convinced, especially since her mother sat rigidly at the dining-table, with her arms stiffly folded in front of her. ‘Go kiss Mummy.’
He looked at Dilnavaz’s wrathful countenance, still struggling to soften. ‘Later. But you I will kiss now, you are closer.’ He kissed her cheek.
She would not give up. ‘No, no, no. I cannot sleep till you kiss. Mummy will come here.’ When Dilnavaz did not move, she went and began tugging at her arm, leaning on it with all her meagre weight. Dilnavaz gave in. She looked coldly at Gustad and brushed his cheek cursorily.
‘Not like that!’ said Roshan, frustratedly pounding the arm of the chair. ‘That’s not a real Mummy-Daddy kiss. Do it like when Daddy goes to work in the morning.’ Dilnavaz rested her lips against Gustad’s. ‘Eyes closed, eyes closed!’ yelled Roshan. ‘Do it properly!’
They obeyed, then separated. Gustad was amused. ‘My little kissing umpire,’ he said.
Roshan somehow sensed that it took more than the joining of lips and closing of eyes to get rid of anger and bitterness. But she did not know what else to do, and went to bed.
iv
Mr Rabadi gathered up the newspapers outside his front door. He was unable to lift the lot in his arms, and insisted that Mrs Rabadi help him. She was all for selling them to the jaripuranawalla but he would not listen. ‘I will show that rascal! You just do as I say!’
‘Yipyip! Yipyipyipyip!’ Dimple ran excitedly round the papers, tumbling the piles Mr Rabadi had made. He dragged her inside, bade Mrs Rabadi come out, then shut the door. ‘Carry,’ he ordered, pointing to one stack, and took the other himself.
In the compound, they ran into Inspector Bamji. ‘Hallo, hallo!’ he said. ‘Selling old papers? But shop will be closed now.’ He looked at his watch in confirmation.
‘I’ll show him!’ muttered Mr Rabadi. ‘I came out to take Dimple for a walk, and tripped on them! Almost fell down the stairs and broke my neck! Outside my door he threw them!’
‘Who?’ asked Bamji.
‘That – that rascal!’ he sputtered. ‘Noble in name only!’
‘Gustad?’
‘Trying to kill me, laying a trap like that outside my door! What does he think in his own mind of himself?’ He dropped the papers close to the bushes. Mrs Rabadi looked at him questioningly, clutching tight her stack, whereupon he grabbed her hands and pulled them apart. From his pocket he withdrew a matchbox.
‘Are you sure?’ said Inspector Bamji.
Mr Rabadi struck and dropped a match. ‘First his son steals my papers!’ The newspapers caught. ‘If he thinks he can throw this outside my door and I will forget everything, he is mistaken!’ Within seconds the stacks were burning fiercely, which added fuel to Mr Rabadi’s inflammation. His face turned a bright orange. ‘It is not the newspapers I care about! There are manners, apologies, respectfulness at stake! There are principles involved! Let him learn once and for all who he is tangling with!’
Inspector Bamji had nothing to say. Tehmul came to watch the flames. ‘Hothothothot.’ He edged closer, and Inspector Bamji pulled him back. ‘Careful, you Scrambled Egg. Or your face will get fried.’
Suddenly, there were yells of fire! fire! ‘Aag laagi! Aag laagi! Help! Call the boombawalla!’ Cavasji, leaning out the window upstairs with the subjo garland around his neck, gave the alarm. Mr and Mrs Rabadi melted away to their flat. Cavasji turned his attention to the sky. ‘Once again You have done it! Inflicting suffering on the poor only! The stink, the noise, the flood – now the fire! Have You ever burnt the homes of rich sethiyas? Have You ever, tell me!’
Gustad heard the shouts and simultaneously saw the orange glow through the window. When he got outside, only Tehmul was there. ‘GustadGustad. Hothothothot.’
The blaze was dying. Charred bits of newspaper lay by the bushes. Soon the breeze carried the scraps through the compound, and Tehmul began chasing after them. Gustad went inside, amused that the dogwalla idiot had been provoked to such lengths.
But something more had been provoked. Gustad soon realized. Mosquitoes, stirred up as never before, and maddened by the smoke. They descended in clouds of blind fury, bent on vengeance – stunning themselves against walls, pinging into the hot glass of the light bulb, ricochetting, alighting in his hair, stinging his face.
He ran to switch on the lights in the house, shouting to Dilnavaz to fetch all the large flat dishes she could find. But when he went to the drum and turned on the tap – nothing. He got up on a stool and looked inside. The drum was empty, it had sprung a leak
where the spout was soldered to the side. And there was barely enough water left in one of the buckets to last till morning. There would be no mosquito traps tonight.
It was back to swatting and slapping, back to Odomos.
TWELVE
i
Gustad went to the bed-with-the-door with the new mixture and pills. Dr Paymaster had changed Roshan’s prescriptions four times in the last fortnight, and ordered blood tests, stool tests, and barium X-rays. Last week, Gustad had sold his camera to pay the bills.
When Roshan sat up to take the medicine, he wanted to hold her for ever in the safety of his arms. Instead he stroked her forehead and rubbed her back gently. But she already knew that her strong and broad-shouldered Daddy (with his big biceps which he could wriggle up and down like living creatures) was scared, helpless in the face of her illness. Sometimes, when he came to look at her in the morning, she thought he was going to cry, and it ushered the beginning of tears into her own eyes. Then she forced herself to think of nice things, like Major Uncle visiting on Sundays for Mummy’s delicious dhansak, when Daddy and he, with Sohrab and Darius cheering them on, would place their elbows on the table and try to push down each other’s hand. Their muscles swelled so big, it seemed they would burst. It was such fun to watch them sweating and struggling and laughing at the same time. Major Uncle was also a very strong man, even taller than Daddy, but Daddy usually won, he was so tough.
‘How is the injection, my little bakulyoo?’ said Gustad. ‘Still paining?’
‘Aches a little.’
He went to the sideboard and got the tube of Hirudoid ointment. ‘This will dissolve the swelling.’ He rubbed it over the spot. ‘Now. What else would you like? Would you like your big Italian doll to come out of the cupboard?’
‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes brightened at the prospect.
‘When I come home this evening, we’ll take all her clothes from the suitcase and dress her up. Then she can sit with you on the sofa. Or sleep here beside you. OK?’