To try and separate the strands of enthusiasm which went into that noble fabrication was futile. To determine whose idea it was, and who was to blame, was as difficult as identifying the monsoon’s first raindrop to touch the earth.
Sohrab saw the two letters on the desk. He read the Major’s quickly, then his father’s elegantly penned nib-and-ink response, while Dilnavaz rose for the second time. It was her duty, she felt, to say something about last night. But he spoke first: ‘Did you read Major Uncle’s letter?’
‘What letter?’ He held it up. ‘Must be an old one,’ she said. ‘You know how Daddy likes to collect things.’
‘No, this came just four weeks ago. See the postmark.’
Gustad stumbled past to the bathroom, rings around his eyes. She waited for the stopper’s tell-tale metallic rattle. ‘He slept so late last night.’ Her voice was gently accusing.
Later, when Gustad was having his tea she said, ‘We saw the letter.’
‘I don’t know who is “we”. For me you are the only one present here.’
She ignored that. ‘You have started hiding mail. I wonder what else you are hiding.’
‘Nothing! I wanted to think about Jimmy’s letter without getting a thousand suggestions from all the geniuses in this house. That’s all.’
‘A thousand suggestions, is it?’ Dilnavaz was stung. ‘For twenty-one years we discuss everything together. Now I am a nuisance? And Jimmy doesn’t even tell the details. How do you know you are doing the right thing?’
Gustad said the details did not matter, it was the principle, of helping a friend. ‘All this time, it has been Major this and Major that. I said forget him, he is vanished like a thief. But no. Now he writes for help, I say yes, and you are still not pleased.’
‘And what if it is something dangerous?’
‘Rubbish.’ He pointed to Sohrab. ‘Why is that one grinning like a donkey?’
‘Don’t get angry again, Daddy,’ he said, ‘I think you made the right choice, but—’
‘Oh! He thinks Daddy made the right choice! Haven’t you told him he is no longer my son?’ Fiercely sarcastic, Gustad bowed his head mockingly. ‘Thank you, thank you sir! Thank you for your approval. Go on. But what?’
‘I was just thinking about Jimmy Uncle and your friends talking politics. He always used to say, “Only two choices: communism or military dictatorship, if you want to get rid of these Congress Party crooks. Forget democracy for a few years, not meant for a starving country.” ’
His imitation of the Major’s clipped bass-baritone was very good, and Dilnavaz laughed. Gustad enjoyed it too but was careful to conceal his approval, as Sohrab continued: ‘Imagine if Jimmy Uncle is planning a coup to get rid of our corrupt government.’
With the saucer of tea in one hand, Gustad supported his forehead in the other. ‘Idiotic-lunatic talk is starting again. Imagine something useful, imagine yourself in IIT!’ He kneaded his forehead. ‘What Jimmy used to say is just a way of talking. Everybody does it when there are droughts and floods and shortages, and things go wrong.’
‘I know, I know, I was only joking. But what about the leaders who do wrong? Like the car manufacturing licence going to Indira’s son? He said Mummy, I want to make motorcars. And right away he got the licence. He has already made a fortune from it, without producing a single Maruti. Hidden in Swiss bank accounts.’ Dilnavaz listened intently as Sohrab described how the prototype had crashed in a ditch during its trial, yet was approved because of orders from the very top. She was the self-appointed referee between father and son, her facial expressions registering the scores.
‘Good to see your son reads the newspapers,’ said Gustad, finishing the tea in his saucer. ‘He may be a genius, but let me teach him something. Whatever you read in the paper, first divide by two — for the salt and pepper. From what’s left, take off ten per cent. Ginger and garlic. And sometimes, depending on the journalist, another five per cent for chilli powder. Then, and only then, will you get to the truth free of masala and propaganda.’ Dilnavaz was pleased with his impromptu lesson. Her scoreboard updated itself. Gustad leaned back and slid his cup towards the kettle.
‘But I heard this from an eyewitness,’ said Sohrab. ‘One of my college friends. His father works at the testing centre.’
‘College friend! Filling your head with rubbish and idiotic-lunatic talk. Be grateful this is a democracy. If that Russiawalla was here, he would pack you and your friends off to Siberia.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘When he talks like this, the blood in my brain begins to boil! If I have a stroke, it will be your son’s fault, I am warning you!’
She watched, distressed. The vestiges of what had resembled a keen debate (she had half-enjoyed it, hoped it would usher in normalcy) was rekindling last night’s pyre. She signalled to Sohrab to say nothing.
‘For the last time, take my advice,’ said Gustad. ‘Forget your friends, forget your college and its useless degree. Think of your future. Every bloody peon or two-paisa clerk is a BA these days.’ He picked up his response to Major Bilimoria and went to the desk for an envelope.
Dilnavaz motioned to Sohrab to follow her. In the kitchen she selected a lime from her basket and bade him close his eyes. ‘What’s this?’ he protested. ‘What are you doing with the lime?’
‘It’s not going to hurt, just makes your brain healthy.’
‘What nonsense. My brain does not need any help.’
She shushed and pleaded that he do it for her sake, it was bad to have too much pride. ‘So many things science cannot explain. And a lime cannot harm you, can it?’
‘Oh, OK!’ He closed his eyes resignedly. ‘First Daddy gets dramatic, then you get necromantic. You two drive me crazy.’
‘Don’t be rude. And don’t use big-big words.’ She held the lime in her right hand and described seven clockwise circles over his head. ‘Now open your eyes, look hard at it.’ She drew it away from him with a downward motion, towards his feet, and tucked it in a brown paper bag. Later, it would be tossed into the sea. This last step was crucial, Miss Kutpitia had explained; it was imperative not to discard the lime with the garbage.
Suddenly, everything Miss Kutpitia said seemed imbued with deep wisdom.
iii
After the awkwardness at the dinner party, Gustad was uncomfortable when he met Dinshawji on Monday, but the latter put things at ease. ‘Don’t worry about it. Argument is normal when a boy is growing up. You think I have become old without seeing such things?’
At lunch-time, Gustad did not go to the stairwell where the dubbawalla deposited the tiffin boxes. He would let his lunch return home uneaten, and without his pencilled note to Dilnavaz which, over twenty-one years, was the one constant in their lives, always written and always read, no matter how much they fought or quarrelled. Until today. The daily notes did not say much: ‘My Dearest, Busy day today, meeting with manager. Will tell you later. Love & xxx.’ Or: ‘My Dearest, Dhandar-paatyo was delicious. Aroma made everyone’s mouth water. Love & xxx.’