‘I always said you should have been a reporter instead of a bank teller.’
‘What days those were, yaar. What fun we used to have.’ Dinshawji touched the corners of his lips to wipe the foam. ‘Parsis were the kings of banking in those days. Such respect we used to get. Now the whole atmosphere only has been spoiled. Ever since that Indira nationalized the banks.’
Gustad topped up Dinshawji’s glass. ‘Nowhere in the world has nationalization worked. What can you say to idiots?’
‘Believe me,’ said Dinshawji, ‘she is a shrewd woman, these are vote-getting tactics. Showing the poor she is on their side. Saali always up to some mischief. Remember when her pappy was Prime Minister and he made her president of Congress Party? At once she began encouraging the demands for a separate Maharashtra. How much bloodshed, how much rioting she caused. And today we have that bloody Shiv Sena, wanting to make the rest of us into second-class citizens. Don’t forget, she started it all by supporting the racist buggers.’
Dinshawji mopped his head and left the handkerchief draped over one knee. Gustad rose to switch on the ceiling fan. ‘That rioting was the time when Madhiwalla’s sandbags were around my legs.’
‘That’s right, you never got to see the big processions at Flora Fountain. Every day fighting and some morcha or other.’ He took a quick swallow of beer. ‘In the bank we thought our innings were over when those goondas broke the windows, even the thick glass of the main entrance. There goes our bonus, I thought. They were shouting “Parsi crow-eaters, we’ll show you who is the boss.” And you know what Goover-Ni-Gaan from Ledgers Department did?’ Gustad shook his head.
Goover-Ni-Gaan was a morose and lugubrious elderly employee named Ratansa. But the nickname had stuck ever since the day a young fellow, part-time and temporary with nothing to lose, insolently asked him why he went around with a face like an owl’s arse. Now, in private, people always referred to Ratansa as Goover-Ni-Gaan, or Ratansa Goover if they were being polite.
‘Take a guess, yaar,’ said Dinshawji. ‘What do you think he did?’
‘Give up.’
‘First Goover-Ni-Gaan told people not to panic, it was just a few goondas. But as things got hotter, he covered his head with his white hanky and began doing his kusti. Loudly, like a dustoorji in the fire-temple. Afterwards, some of the chaps were teasing him non-stop, to take it up as a full-time job, that he would earn much more.’ Dinshawji dabbed his forehead again and fanned himself with the kerchief while Gustad laughed. He wiped round the neck, under his collar. ‘But really, yaar, we all thought our number was up. Thank God for those two Pathans doing chowki at the entrance. I used to think they were nothing but decorations with their uniforms and turbans and shiny rifles.’
‘Solid fellows,’ said Gustad. ‘What a smart salute they give when the big shots pass by.’
‘Yes, but because of the Pathans and their guns, all those Sakarams and Dattarams and Tukarams only stood outside, screaming like fishwives. If they came close, one of the Pathans stamped his foot and at once they went in reverse gear.’ Dinshawji demonstrated with his size twelve Naughty Boys from Bata, making the beer bottles vibrate on the teapoy. He had enormous feet for a man on the short side. ‘Bhum! That’s all, and the Maratha brigade ran like cockroaches.’ He took a long draught and set down the glass. ‘Lucky for us that just as the bloody cockroaches were getting braver, the police came. What a day it was, yaar.’
Dinshawji wiped his forehead once more, then neatly folded the handkerchief and put it away, content with the ceiling fan. ‘One question may I ask?’
‘Sure, speak.’
‘Why is this black paper covering all the windows?’
‘You remember the war with China,’ said Gustad, but was spared from explaining further because the two boys and Roshan entered the room and said ‘Sahibji’ to Dinshawji.
‘Hallo, hallo, hallo!’ he said, delighted to see them. ‘My God, how tall they’ve grown. Arré Roshan, you were this big — only one billus—when I last saw you,’ and he extended a hand with the thumb and little finger outstretched. ‘Hard to believe, no? Happy birthday to the birthday girl! And congratulations for Sohrab. The IIT genius!’
Sohrab ignored him and glared at his father. ‘Have you told the whole world about it already?’
‘Behave yourself,’ said Gustad under his breath, facing the sideboard where he was opening a beer bottle. His voice could be heard plainly, but turning away provided the opportunity to pretend otherwise.
Sohrab persisted. ‘You keep boasting to everyone about IIT. As if you were going there yourself. I’m not interested in it, I’ve already told you.’
‘Don’t give me any idiotic-lunatic talk. God knows what has happened to you in the last few days.’
Dinshawji, sensing the necessity, tried a diversion. ‘Gustad, I think your Darius wants to make an oollu out of me. Says he can do fifty push-ups and fifty squats.’
Roshan also did her bit. ‘Daddy, sing the song about the donkey! For my birthday, please, please, please!’
Sohrab interrupted: ‘I’m going to drink the rum if no one wants it.’
Gustad paused. ‘Are you sure? You never liked it before.’
‘So what?’
Gustad swallowed and made a dismissive gesture with his hands, a gesture of acquiescence, resignation and rejection rolled into one. He turned to Dinshawji and Darius. ‘It’s true, fifty push-ups and fifty squats, every morning. And he will keep increasing till he reaches hundred, like me.’
‘Hundred?’ Dinshawji dramatically fell back in his chair.
‘Daddy, the donkey song,’ reminded Roshan.
‘Later, later,’ said Gustad. ‘Yes, absolutely, one hundred push-ups and one hundred squats. Every morning till my accident, just like my grandfather taught me when I was a little boy.’
Gustad’s grandfather, the furniture-maker, had been a powerful man, standing well over six feet, with tremendous strength in his arms and shoulders. Some of that strength had passed on to his grandson. Grandpa often said to his son, discussing Gustad’s upbringing and welfare: ‘With your bookstore and your books, you develop his mind. I won’t interfere. But I will take care of the body.’ On mornings when the little Gustad was still rubbing his sleepy eyes, reluctant to perform his exercises, Grandpa would fire him up with the exploits of wrestlers and strong men who did a thousand push-ups every morning: Rustom Pahelwan, who could lie flat and allow a truck to pass over him; or Joraaver Jal, supporting on his back a large platform with a symphony orchestra for the duration of Beethoven’s Fifth. From time to time Grandpa took him to wrestling matches so he could see, in person, titans like Dara Singh, the Terrible Turk, King Kong, Son of Kong, and the Masked Marauder.
Gustad’s grandmother, also an ardent wrestling fan, attended the matches with them. Besides being an expert on chickens and butchers, she was very knowledgeable about the sweaty sport. Able to identify the ring personalities as readily as the spices in her kitchen, she had no trouble following the various holds that the wrestlers knotted each other’s bodies into, or the drop-kicks, flying mares, body scissors and airplane spins that whizzed around the arena. She could anticipate falls, escapes, take-downs and reversals better than Gustad or Grandpa, and very often outdid them in predicting the winner.