Gustad wanted to give him a real treat. The Parisian served the best fish curry and rice in the city. Each order came with crisp paapud, the fish was always fresh pomfret, and the waiter would, upon request, serve any portion of the fish’s anatomy. This last was important, because Sohrab adored the tail triangle of the pomfret.
But somehow, what with the rain and the crowds and the confusion, Gustad misread the bus number. They found out only after it had pulled away from the stop and was in the midst of traffic. The conductor approached with a swagger down the aisle, his leather money pouch and ticket case slung in a devil-may-care style over his shoulder.
Gustad held out his change and said, ‘One full, one half, Churchgate.’ After lunch at the Parisian, he was going to surprise Sohrab by walking him to K. Rustom & Co for a slab of their famous pistachio ice-cream, served between two biscuits that remained crisp till the end. The ice-cream was Dilnavaz’s idea. It was expensive, Sohrab had had it just once before: to celebrate his navjote, after the ceremony at the fire-temple.
The conductor ignored the outstretched hand, and muttered disinterestedly, ‘Not going to Churchgate.’ He snapped vigorously with his empty ticket punch: tidick-tick, tidick-tick. The sharp noise made his speech seem hostile. He glared out into the rain and traffic, past Gustad’s face.
Rain had started in the early morning: great sheets of water pouring out of dark skies. Gustad remembered Dilnavaz saying, as he left with Sohrab for the new school, ‘It’s good luck if it rains when something new is beginning.’ Sohrab was also pleased: it meant he could wear his new Duckback raincoat and gumboots. He hoped there would be floods to wade through.
Before leaving, he had been adorned with a vermilion dot on the forehead, and a garland of roses and lilies. Dilnavaz did the overnaa and sprinkled rice, presenting him with a coconut, betel leaves, a dry date, one areca nut, and seven rupees, all for good luck. She popped a lump of sugar in his mouth, then they hugged him and murmured blessings in his ear. They said more or less the same things as on a birthday, but the emphasis was on school and studies.
Waiting first in line, Gustad had wished it would let up for a while. The rain crashed deafeningly on the bus shelter’s corrugated metal roof. The air was heavy and disagreeable. Traffic lay like a soporous monster on the shiny wet surface of the road, throbbing and spewing out its effluvium, rousing itself now and again to move a little, sluggishly. The petrol and diesel fumes were strong and noisome; they seemed to have dissolved in the very moisture; and the moisture blanketed everything.
‘Not going to Churchgate,’ repeated the conductor, clicking away absently with his ticket punch: tidick-tick, tidick-tick, tidick-tick. His left hand played with the sea of coins in his leather pouch, running his fingers through them or lifting a handful and letting them cascade like a metallic waterfall back into the pouch, where they landed with tinny splashes. Part of the leather had been polished to a satiny smoothness by the conductor’s constant caresses. It glowed warm and lustrous. And this picture of the conductor was what Gustad saw most clearly as he lay on the road in the pouring rain, in the path of oncoming traffic, unable to rise. Something had broken; the first great bolts of pain were thundering through his body.
But first, there was the argument with the surly conductor. ‘Not going to Churchgate,’ he said. Rain and slow traffic had affected everyone’s temper. ‘Buying a ticket or what?’
‘If this bus is not going to Churchgate we will get off.’
‘Then get off.’ Tidick-tick, tidick-tick, tidick-tick. ‘Or buy. No free ride.’
‘But pull the bell at least.’ Gustad’s speech was yanked undignifiedly from him, as the bus lurched in the middle of the sentence and his words tumbled wildly.
‘The bell will be pulled for the next stop only. If you stay, buy a ticket. Or—’ he pointed to the exit.
Gustad eyed the bell rope: what if he made a grab for it? The conductor would try to stop him, and a physical confrontation would result. He knew he would acquit himself admirably in a fair fight, but it would be unsuitable in front of Sohrab. And there had been instances when conductors had smashed their metal ticket boxes over a passenger’s head if things were not going their way in a brawl. He tried one more time to reason. ‘You want us to get down in the middle of the road and kill ourselves or what?’
‘Nobody is going to die,’ said the conductor scornfully. ‘Everything is completely stopped, look.’
The bus was at a standstill in the middle lane, and cars everywhere had come to a halt. ‘Come on, Daddy,’ said Sohrab. He had been embarrassed by the exchange. ‘It’s easy to go now.’ The other passengers, bored in the frozen traffic, had been following the exchange interestedly. They watched with disappointment as the two made their way down the aisle.
The bus jerked forward at the very moment that Sohrab stepped off. He lost his balance on the asphalt, slick and treacherous with rain, and fell. Gustad yelled, ‘Stop!’ and leapt from the moving bus.
In that split second between witnessing and leaping, he realized he could either land on his feet or save his son. He aimed for Sohrab with his feet and kicked him out of the path of an oncoming taxi. His left hip took the brunt of the fall. He heard the sickening crunch. The smell of diesel fumes was strong in his nostrils as he blacked out.
The taxi-driver slammed on his brakes inches from Gustad. People from the footpath ran to where he lay. A small crowd gathered.
‘Lay him out comfortably,’ said one.
‘Needs water, he has fainted,’ said another. Gustad could hear their voices, and felt as if someone was pushing him back, keeping him from rising.
The taxi-driver asked his passengers to leave. They protested, then departed hurriedly when they realized they would not have to pay what was on the meter. Someone called for the water-seller across the road. The peculiar street sound carried well over other noises, a mixture of hissing, aspirating and susurrating. ‘Hss-sst-sst-sst! Paaniwalla!’ The man crossed the road at a trot with his bucket and glasses. Gustad’s forehead was bathed, although his entire face was already wet with rain. Perhaps they felt that water colder than rain was required to revive the fallen man.
He opened his eyes. A second glass was filled and held to his lips, but he would not drink. The water-seller emptied it on the road and said, to no one in particular, ‘Two glasses, twenty naye paise.’
‘What?’ said the taxi-driver, ‘You have no shame? You can’t see the man has had a serious accident, he is in pain, fainting?’
‘I am a poor man,’ said the water-seller, ‘I have children to feed.’ He had a large purple mark on one side of his face, and a high-pitched voice with an irritating whine.
The crowd took sides in the argument. Some said the heartless scoundrel should be driven away with a kick, while others saw his point. Determined not to be done out of his only sale all day, he spoke up again. ‘The man has had an accident. So? He will pay the ambulance and the doctor and the hospital, to get mended. Why should I be the only one left out? What is my sin that I don’t get my twenty naye paise?’
‘Theek hai! Theek hai!’ agreed the crowd. More were swayed to his side. Then Sohrab pulled a rupee out of the seven he had received that morning. Gustad wanted to say something to him about counting the change carefully, but could not produce the words. The paaniwalla left with his bucket and glasses, grumbling under his breath. In the rain, his high-pitched whining voice took up the futile cry. ‘Ice-cold paani, sweet-sweet paani!’