Dinshawji and Gustad decided to walk down Vir Nariman Road. At the corner a pavement artist sat cross-legged beside his crayon drawings of gods and goddesses. He got up now and then to collect the coins left by devotees. Gustad pointed to the dry fountain. ‘For the last twenty-four years, you can count on your fingers the number of days there was water.’
‘Wait till the Marathas take over, then we will have real Gandoo Raj,’ said Dinshawji. ‘All they know is to have rallies at Shivaji Park, shout slogans, make threats, and change road names.’ He suddenly worked himself into a real rage; there was genuine grief in his soul. ‘Why change the names? Saala sisterfuckers! Hutatma Chowk!’ He spat out the words disgustedly. ‘What is wrong with Flora Fountain?’
‘Why worry about it? I say, if it keeps the Marathas happy, give them a few roads to rename. Keep them occupied. What’s in a name?’
‘No, Gustad.’ Dinshawji was very serious. ‘You are wrong. Names are so important. I grew up on Lamington Road. But it has disappeared, in its place is Dadasaheb Bhadkhamkar Marg. My school was on Carnac Road. Now suddenly it’s on Lokmanya Tilak Marg. I live at Sleater Road. Soon that will also disappear. My whole life I have come to work at Flora Fountain. And one fine day the name changes. So what happens to the life I have lived? Was I living the wrong life, with all the wrong names? Will I get a second chance to live it all again, with these new names? Tell me what happens to my life. Rubbed out, just like that? Tell me!’
It occurred to Gustad he had been doing his friend a grave injustice all these years, regarding him merely as a joker. A friend too, yes, but a clown and joker none the less. ‘You shouldn’t let it bother you so much, Dinshu,’ he said. Never having had to deal with a Dinshawji who spoke of metaphysical matters, the affectionate diminutive was the best he could do, and he wondered what else to say. But the next moment, a man on a Lambretta, travelling down Vir Nariman Road, was hit by a car going in the opposite direction, and the subject of names was forgotten.
‘O my God!’ said Dinshawji, as the man flew over the handlebars and landed beside the pavement, not too far from them. A trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. Pedestrians and shopkeepers rushed to his assistance. Dinshawji wanted to go, too, but Gustad could not budge. Overcome by nausea and dizziness, he held on to Dinshawji’s arm.
Meanwhile, the car had driven away. People were asking if anyone saw the licence plate. The policeman from the traffic circle came to take charge. ‘Six inches closer,’ said Dinshawji, ‘and his skull would have cracked like a coconut. Lucky he landed in the gutter. What is it, Gustad? Why so pale?’
Gustad swayed, and put his hand to his mouth as his insides heaved. Dinshawji quickly diagnosed the condition. ‘Tut-tut. No lunch is the problem,’ he chided. ‘An empty stomach is not good to see blood. That’s why soldiers are always fed well before a battle.’ He marched him off to the restaurant at the corner.
It was cooler inside. They selected a table under a fan, and Gustad wiped the cold sweat from his brow. ‘Better?’ asked Dinshawji. Gustad nodded. The tables were covered with glass under which a one-page menu lay open to scrutiny. The glass was smeared and blotchy, but it magnified the menu. Gustad rested his bare forearms on the table, enjoying the cool surface. The thuuck-thuck, thuuck-thuck, thuuck-thuck of the slow-turning ceiling fan was soothing. Pungent odours wafted streetwards from the kitchen. On the wall behind the cashier was a handwritten sign: Spitting or Playing Satta Prohibited. Another sign, also handwritten, said: Trust in God — Rice Plate Always Ready.
‘What fun it would be to take Laurie Coutino to the upper level,’ said Dinshawji, pointing to the air-conditioned mezzanine with private rooms. ‘Money well spent.’ The waiter came with a wet rag in one hand and two water glasses in the other. He held them by the rims, his fingers immersed. They lifted their arms off the table while he rubbed briskly. Now a disagreeable odour, sour and fusty, lingered over the table. Dinshawji ordered. ‘One plate mutton samosas. With chutney. And two Nescafé.’ He raised the glass to his lips. Then the waiter’s fingerprints along the rim reminded him of the way it had been carried, and he lowered it without drinking. ‘Well, Gustad. All these years I knew you, I did not know blood could make you sick.’
‘Don’t be silly, blood does not bother me.’ Something in his voice warned that jokes would not be tolerated. ‘It was a great shock. I know that man on the Lambretta. He helped me when I fell from the bus. You remember my accident?’
‘Of course. But I thought it was that Major who—’
‘Yes, yes, that was later. This man was the taxi-driver, who took care of me and Sohrab, brought us home. Did not even charge for it.’ He looked up at the fan. ‘For nine years I have waited to thank him. Then I see him flying through the air and smashing his head.’ The coffees arrived, and the platter of samosas. ‘Just the other night I was thinking about him. Coincidence? Or what? Today it was my turn to help him and I failed. It was like a test set by God, and I failed the test.’
‘Arré, nonsense. It was not your fault that you became sick.’ Dinshawji added three spoons of sugar to his coffee and bit into a samosa. ‘Come on, eat, you will feel better.’ He pulled Gustad’s coffee over, added two spoons of sugar, stirred, and slid it back towards him. ‘So what about the Major? You found out where he disappeared?’ The samosa was crisp; he ate it noisily. A layer of oily crust unfurled from its apex and dropped into his saucer.
‘No.’
‘Maybe he ran away to rejoin the army,’ joked Dinshawji, conveying the crusty segments to his mouth. ‘You think there will be war with Pakistan?’
Gustad shrugged.
‘Have you seen all the pictures in the newspaper? Bloody butchers, slaughtering left and right. And look at the whole world, completely relaxed, doing nothing. Where is maader chod America now? Not saying one word. Otherwise, if Russia even belches, America protests at the UN. Let Kosygin fart, and America moves a motion in the Security Council.’
Gustad laughed feebly.
‘No one cares because these are poor Bengalis. And that chootia Nixon, licking his way up into Pakistan’s arsehole.’
‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. ‘Pakistan is very important to America, because of Russia.’
‘But why?’
Gustad illustrated the geopolitical reality. ‘Look, this samosa plate is Russia. And next to it, my cup — Afghanistan. Very friendly with Russia, right? Now put your cup beside it, that’s Pakistan. But what is south of Pakistan?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dinshawji. ‘You need another cup?’
‘No, nothing south of Pakistan, only the sea. And that’s why America is so afraid. If Pakistan ever becomes Russia’s friend, then Russia’s road to the Indian Ocean is clear.’
‘Ah,’ said Dinshawji. ‘And then America’s two little golaas are in Russian hands.’ He liked the all-clarifying testicular metaphor. ‘To protect their soft golaas, they don’t care even if six million Bengalis are murdered, long as Pakistan is kept happy.’ The waiter left the bill on the table. ‘My treat, my treat,’ insisted Dinshawji, keeping the little scribbled chit in his outstretched arm to dodge Gustad’s reach as they made their way to the cashier.
Outside, the sunlight was harsh, and the two quickened their steps. The lunch-hour had almost ended when they entered the bank building; Laurie Coutino was preparing to resume work. ‘Cannot bear this agony, yaar,’ whispered Dinshawji. ‘What a body! Ahahaha! Sugar and cream! What fun it would be to give her a mutton injection.’