The news had Gustad laughing uproariously, till Dilnavaz threatened to turn off the stove and put her spoon down permanently. ‘I will see where your laughter goes when your silly Dinshawji arrives and the chicken is still uncooked.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘I was just imagining the lizard sticking its tongue out at Kutpitia.’ He tried to get busy and help in the evening’s preparations. ‘Where’s the sev-ganthia and monkey nuts? To serve with drinks?’
‘I am walking around with them on the top of my head!’ She finished stirring something on the stove and dropped the spoon with a loud clatter. ‘In the jars, where else?’
‘Don’t get upset, Dilnoo-darling. Dinshawji is a very nice fellow. Just resumed work after his sickness, and still looking fikko-fuchuk, white as a ghost. He needs our company, and some of your tasty cooking.’ The fragrance of basmati rice filled the kitchen as she opened the pot and squeezed a grain between thumb and finger. She slammed shut the lid, no fonder of Gustad’s friend.
Dinshawji had joined the bank six years before Gustad. That gave him thirty unbroken years of service, he often said, proudly or complainingly, whatever the situation called for. He was older than Gustad, but it did not preclude the fellowship that had grown between them. It was the sort of bond peculiar to such institutions, nurtured from strength to strength by the dryness and mustiness native to the business of banks.
Gustad found the two jars and emptied the snacks into small bowls before noticing that one was chipped, the other had a crack limned by light brown residues. Never mind, no fuss or formalities needed for good old Dinshawji. Now for the drinks.
There was a little rum in the dark brown bottle: Hercules XXX. Major Bilimoria’s final gift, shortly before he disappeared. Gustad debated whether to bring out the bottle. He held it up again, tilted it, trying to estimate. Almost two pegs. Would do for Dinshawji — he could offer him a choice between it and Golden Eagle beer. There were three tall bottles in the icebox.
From the kitchen, Dilnavaz could see the sideboard and the Hercules rum. ‘That is the man,’ she said, pointing, ‘who should be here tonight instead of your silly Dinshawji.’
‘You mean Hercules?’ He pretended to laugh. That bloody Bilimoria. Should have shown her the letter instead of hiding it. Then she would know what a shameless rascal he is.
‘You always get rid of everything by joking. You know what I mean.’ The doorbell rang, loud and confident. ‘Here already,’ she grumbled, rushing back to the stove.
‘We said seven, and it is seven.’ He went to the door. ‘Aavo, Dinshawji, welcome! A hundred years you will live, we were just talking about you.’ They shook hands. ‘But alone? Where’s the wife?’
‘Not well, yaar, not well.’ Dinshawji looked extremely pleased about it.
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘No, no, just a little woman-trouble.’
‘We were thinking that finally today we will meet Alamai. This is very sad. We will miss her company.’
Dinshawji leaned forward and whispered, chuckling, ‘Believe me, I won’t. Good to leave the domestic vulture behind.’
Gustad had often wondered how much truth there was behind Dinshawji’s habitual references to the tribulations of his marriage. He smiled, inhaling cautiously as Dinshawji’s whisper brought him close, and was relieved that his friend’s chronically carious mouth gave off only a faint smell today. The odour had a cycle of its own, periodically going from a gale-force stench to a harmless zephyr. Presently, it was passing through the abatement phase. Of course, there was no guarantee it would not issue full strength during the evening if his mood changed. There had been mornings at the bank when Dinshawji arrived with fresh breath that turned foul after an argument with a whining, complaining customer. And because of the incident, if Mr. Madon the manager heaped animadversions upon Dinshawji, the stench quickly became unbearable.
Dinshawji’s stubborn case of caries had resisted the medications of numerous doctors. But after Gustad became a believer in Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s miraculous powers, he convinced Dinshawji to consult him too. Mouth problems and gums and teeth were bone-related matters, after all. Dinshawji resisted at first, trying to make light of it. ‘Forget it, yaar. My biggest bone problem is not in the mouth. It’s much lower, between my legs. With my domestic vulture, that bone gets no exercise. Withering away for years. Can your Bonesetter set that right?’
But he finally came around and paid a visit to Madhiwalla. The resinous secretion of a particular tree was prescribed, which Dinshawji had to chew on three times a day. Within a week, the results were plain to see. At the bank, for instance, customers no longer leaned backwards from the counter while waiting for their money. One day, however, Dinshawji sprained a jaw muscle while zealously masticating the resin. So severe was the pain, he had to restrict himself to a liquid diet for a fortnight, and after the jaw healed, he refused to go back to the resin. The thought of that agony was far more fearful than the carious mouth. So his friends and colleagues learned to live with the ebb and flow of the foul smell, as unpredictable as a roulette wheel.
Dinshawji’s problem no longer embarrassed him, his concern was more for those around him and their discomfiture. ‘And where is your missis, if I may ask?’
‘Just finishing in the kitchen.’
‘Arré, that means I came too early.’
‘No, no,’ Gustad assured him, ‘you are exactly on time.’
Dinshawji made a gallant bow when Dilnavaz entered. Pinpoints of perspiration glistened on his bald pate as he lowered his head. His hair restricted its growth patterns to the regions over the ears, and at the back over the nape. Prominent strands also flourished inside his ears, and in the dark, capacious recesses of his imposing nostrils, from whence they emerged unabashedly to be counted with the rest.
He held out his hand. ‘It is such an honour for me to come to dinner.’
In return, Dilnavaz bestowed upon him the tiniest of her smiles. He turned again to Gustad. ‘I think the last time I was here was seven or eight years ago. When you were in bed after the accident.’
‘Nine years.’
‘Gustad told me you were not well,’ said Dilnavaz politely, diluting her haughtiness. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Absolutely first-class, everything tiptop. Just look at my red-red cheeks.’ Dinshawji pinched both sides of his waxen face as one would a baby’s. The sickly skin retained the imprints of his digits for a long time.
‘Chaalo, time for drinks,’ said Gustad. ‘Speak, Dinshawji.’
‘A glass of cold water for me, bas.’
‘No, no, a proper drink. No arguments. There is Golden Eagle, also some rum.’
‘OK, if you insist, Golden Eagle.’
Gustad poured the beer as Dilnavaz disappeared into the kitchen. They settled down with their drinks. ‘Cheers!’
‘Ahhh!’ said Dinshawji, taking a large swallow and exhaling. ‘This is nice. Much nicer than visiting you in bed with your fracture. Remember how I used to come every Sunday? To give you my personal bank bulletin, bring you up to date?’