Attention focused again upon Gustad. The taxi-driver offered to take him to a doctor or to hospital. But Gustad was able to whisper, ‘Khodadad Building,’ before almost passing out again. He remembered vividly what a kind man the taxi-driver turned out to be. He took charge of things calmly, cheering up Sohrab who was frightened and on the verge of tears now. ‘We’ll soon be there, don’t worry, traffic cannot stand here for ever.’ He asked him about his school, his studies, what standard he was in, and kept up a steady conversation till they reached Khodadad Building.
Major Bilimoria was at home, and he came immediately on hearing the news. He told Dilnavaz about Madhiwalla Bonesetter. ‘Take him to a regular hospital like Parsi General, and all you will get is regular treatment. Or regular ill-treatment, depending on Gustad’s luck.’ He chuckled.
Dilnavaz imagined the Major had seen many gory injuries in the army, it was natural for him not to be worried. He continued, ‘They love to use their chisels and saws and hammers and nails in the hospitals. And after their carpentry is done, they give you a big fat bill because their tools are so expensive.’ Gustad heard him through his pain, and found the risible descriptions very reassuring. He knew it would be all right now, Jimmy would look after everything. ‘With Madhiwalla Bonesetter there is no operation, no pins, no cast, nothing. No bill even, except whatever donation you want to give. And the Bonesetter’s methods are amazing, I am a living witness. Sometimes, the army surgeons called him to help with difficult cases. The things he did were just like magic.’
It was decided. Using the same taxi, they proceeded to the large hall where Madhiwalla Bonesetter was in attendance that day. The taxi-driver refused his fare. ‘I don’t want profit from your pain,’ he said.
Then Jimmy picked Gustad up in his arms like a baby and carried him inside. Jimmy was one of the few who was his equal in strength, as they had found out over the years during their bouts of arm-wrestling.
Jimmy waited by his side till Madhiwalla Bonesetter attended to him. Later, he brought the two long, heavy sandbags that the Bonesetter had insisted on for Gustad, to immobilize the leg while the fracture healed.
What would I have done that day without Jimmy, he wondered. But then, that was the amazing thing about him, he was always there when needed — call it coincidence, call it friendship, that was Jimmy’s way.
iii
Gustad rubbed his eyes and opened them. His mouth was dry. He reached for the glass of rum-beer, then remembered it had been emptied earlier. He rose, raised high the wick of the kerosene lamp, and carried the light to his desk. For the thousandth time, his heart filled with gratitude for Jimmy Bilimoria. If it hadn’t been for Jimmy’s taking him to Madhiwalla Bonesetter, he would be a complete cripple today. Instead, here he was, without crutches or stick, or the terrible heaving-swaying walk of Tehmul-Lungraa.
He opened the wider of the two drawers to rummage for writing-paper. His limp was more pronounced than usual. Despite the years since the accident, Gustad had not fully accepted that it was his strength of spirit as much as Madhiwalla Bonesetter’s miracle cure that had tamed his limp — suppressed it, kept it at an ignorable minimum.
He found an uncrumpled sheet, and tried a ballpoint on his palm: he disliked the difference in ink colour if a pen reneged in mid-letter. Then he changed his mind and opened the desk cabinet.
The ancient learned smell of books and bindings came again. He breathed it in deeply. The box of nibs lay on its side where it had tumbled earlier. He opened it and selected one after scratching the points of several against his left thumbnail. He found a holder, fitted the nib, and uncapped the bottle of Camel Royal Blue.
The holder-steel felt good in his writing hand, so much more substantial than a plastic ballpoint pen. Such a long, long while since I used one. No one wrote with them any more, not even in schools. But at one time that was how children made the transition from pencil to ink. This was the bloody problem with modern education. In the name of progress they discarded seemingly unimportant things, without knowing that what they were chucking out the window of modernity was tradition. And if tradition was lost, then the loss of respect for those who respected and loved tradition always followed.
It was almost two a.m. but Gustad was not sleepy. Mixing memory and sorrow, he thought fondly of the old days. At last, he dipped the nib in the ink bottle and began. The shadow of his writing hand fell on the paper. He moved the lamp to the left, completed the address, and dated the letter. As he wrote the salutation the power returned. The bulb blazed over the dining-table. After hours of darkness, the harsh electric light flooded the room insolently from corner to corner. He switched it off and resumed writing by the kerosene lamp.
Chapter Five
i
At water-tap time Dilnavaz awoke automatically, and her first thoughts were about Gustad and Sohrab. The terrible, terrible things they had said to each other. Exhausted, she stumbled sleepily to the bathroom. Water, water. Drums to fill. Hurry. Kitchen tank to fill. That big bucket. And milk to buy…
While she waited outside for the bhaiya, Miss Kutpitia beckoned her upstairs. ‘Please don’t take it to mind,’ Dilnavaz blurted out on reaching the landing. ‘He was very upset.’ It too had bothered her all night, Gustad’s lack of restraint, shouting back at a lonely old woman.
‘That’s not why I called you. I am worried about your son.’
‘Sohrab?’
‘Your eldest,’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘He reminds me so much of my Farad.’ A flicker of tenderness played upon her face, then expired like a candle in the wind. Once, all of Miss Kutpitia’s thoughts and dreams were reserved for her nephew, Farad. A long time ago, on a day that mixed great joy with profound sorrow, her brother’s wife had died while giving birth to Farad. And on that day Miss Kutpitia took a vow: never to marry, for ever to dedicate her life to the widower and his child. So she became mother and teacher, friend and slave, and whatever else she could think of, to little Farad. Her devotion was returned by the child, who sensed very early on, without ever exploiting the fact, that he was her reason for living. It had been a golden time in Miss Kutpitia’s life.
When Farad was fifteen, he and his father went for their usual week’s holiday to Khandala. On the return journey, there was an accident on the Ghats. A lorry driver lost control, colliding first with a busload of vacationers, then the car in which Farad and his father were riding, and all three vehicles went off the mountain road. The lorry driver was the lone survivor. On that fateful day thirty-five years ago, Miss Kutpitia locked up her heart, her mind, her memories. From then on, no one was allowed into the flat beyond the front hallway.
‘Your Sohrab reminds me in every way of my Farad,’ she said. ‘In looks, in brains, his way of walking, talking.’ Dilnavaz knew nothing about Farad. It had happened long before she had married and come to Khodadad Building. She looked puzzled, and Miss Kutpitia continued. ‘Brilliant boy. Would have taken over his father’s law practice if he had lived.’ That was all she said, grief no longer being something that needed unburdening. Over time, her carapace of spinsterhood had accreted in isolation. And there was no way for a person to tell if, under that hard shell, fate’s cruelly inflicted gashes were still raw or had scarred over.
‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ started Dilnavaz.
‘No need. Tears have all been cried long ago. Not one drop remains.’ She placed two fingers on the bags under her eyes and tugged downwards. ‘See? Fully dry.’ Dilnavaz nodded sympathetically. ‘But I called you because I heard everything last night. Do you know why Sohrab is behaving like this?’