‘But can I have one rupee?’
‘This is the problem with convent schools. Money, all the time, money for Mother Superior with her big wide posterior.’
‘Tch-tch,’ said Dilnavaz, ‘not in front of her,’ as Roshan giggled.
‘Tell me, did Mother Claudiana say what she would do with the raffle money?’
‘Yes,’ said Roshan. ‘She said half will go for the new school building. And half will help the refugees.’
‘And do you know what “refugee” means?’
‘Mother Claudiana told us. They are people who ran away from East Pakistan and came to India because the people from West Pakistan are killing them and burning all their homes.’
‘OK. One rupee for you.’ He opened his wallet. ‘But remember, it does not mean you get the doll. It’s a raffle.’
‘Yes, yes, Daddy, Mother Claudiana explained. We will all have a number, and the girl whose number is picked will get the doll.’ She folded the rupee, took the pencil-box from her school-bag, and tucked the rupee under the ruler. ‘Daddy, why is West Pakistan killing the people in East Pakistan?’
Gustad undid his tie and smoothed it where the knot had been. ‘Because it is wicked and selfish. East Pakistan is poor, they said to West, we are always hungry, please give us a fair share. But West said no. Then East said, in that case we don’t want to work with you. So, as punishment, West Pakistan is killing and burning East Pakistan.’
‘That is so mean,’ said Roshan, ‘and so sad for East.’
‘Lot of meanness and sadness in this world.’ He hung up his tie and unbuttoned his cuffs, then asked Dilnavaz for the mail. Nothing from Jimmy, but there was an envelope from an education trust fund. He added the application form to the ones that had collected over the last few weeks. ‘Look at that,’ he said bitterly, hitting them with the back of his hand. ‘All the places I went to for the ungrateful boy.’ He held up the forms one by one. ‘Parsi Punchayet Education Fund. R. D. Sethna Trust. Tata Scholarships. Wadia Charities For Higher Studies. All of them I went to, touched my forehead, joined my hands, and said sir and madam and please and thank you a hundred times to make them promise scholarships. Now your Lord Lavender says he is not interested in IIT.’
Dilnavaz put the forms neatly together. ‘Don’t get upset, it will be all right. God is great.’
Every day after sunset she had described the seven clockwise circles over Sohrab’s head. And still nothing. I must have been crazy to think there was even a chance. On the other hand, Sohrab and Gustad did not shout or argue like they used to, touch wood. Could that not be because—?
‘What he will do if he does not go to IIT, God knows.’
She shuffled the forms. ‘He told you he wants to continue at his college.’
‘And that is called doing something? A useless BA?’
So the days went by with Gustad sad and angered by his son’s betrayal, anxious about Jimmy Bilimoria’s letter that would not come, and maddened by the clouds of mosquitoes that came, without fail, after sunset. ‘Ignorant swine pissing on the road should be shot on the spot!’ he would say. Or, ‘Blow up the bloody wall with dynamite, then where will they shit?’ This last showed the extent of his frustration, for the wall was dear to him.
Years ago, when Major Bilimoria had first moved to Khodadad Building, when the water supply was generous and the milk from Parsi Dairy Farm was both creamy and affordable, there had been a surge of construction activity everywhere in the city. The neighbourhood of Khodadad Building was not spared either, and tall structures began going up around it. The first to be blotted out was the setting sun — an office building was erected on the west side. Although it was only six stories, that was enough, for Khodadad Building was but three, being short and wide: ten flats in a row, stacked three high, with five entrances and stairways for each adjacent set of flats.
Shortly afterwards, construction started to the east as well. It was clear to all thirty tenants that an era had ended. Fortunately, the work dragged on for over ten years because of cement shortages, labour problems, lack of equipment and, once, the collapse of an entire wing due to adulterated cement, resulting in the deaths of seven workers. Youngsters from Khodadad Building went to the construction site to gaze in awe at some dark blotch on the ground, and wondered if that was the spot where the seven had perished, where their lifeblood had oozed out. The delays provided respite for Khodadad Building, and in time there grew a gradual acceptance of the altered landscape.
With the increase in traffic and population, the black stone wall became more important than ever. It was the sole provider of privacy, especially for Jimmy and Gustad when they did their kustis at dawn. Over six feet high, the wall ran the length of the compound, sheltering them from non-Parsi eyes while they prayed with the glow spreading in the east.
But to hell with privacy, to hell with the wall, to hell with the stink, said Gustad. Tubes of Odomos were purchased, and the ointment rubbed on all exposed parts, though the mosquitoes continued to buzz and sting and madden. For some reason, the ointment worked least efficaciously for him. Half the night he spent scratching and swatting and cursing.
To take his mind off it, Dilnavaz told him about a childhood neighbour who was immune to mosquitoes. ‘It’s a true story,’ she said. ‘When he was a little boy, this man ate lots of mosquitoes. Purposely or by mistake, it is not sure. You know how children put everything in their mouths.’ But from then on, mosquitoes stopped biting this boy. He grew up into a mosquito-proof man. The insects would sit on his skin, walk in his hair, crawl down his back, but never sting. Perhaps the ones he ate changed his blood and his odour, making him one of their own. Their buzzing and hovering no longer annoyed him either; he said it was like a serenade sung lovingly in his ears.
‘So what are you suggesting?’ said Gustad, slapping his face, shoulder and chest in quick succession. ‘That we should stop using Odomos and start munching mosquitoes?’
Then the price of Odomos went up, along with the price of every necessity and luxury, from matchsticks to sanitary napkins. ‘This refugee relief tax,’ he said, ‘is going to make all of us into refugees.’
As if these problems were not enough, Roshan and Darius began demanding old newspapers. They were needed at school, on account of the refugees. Teachers arranged fund-raising contests, and the newspapers were weighed every morning. The results were announced during assembly. The English-language papers were kept separate because they used a newsprint quality superior to the regional ones, and fetched more by the kilo.
Dilnavaz tried to explain the household budget to Roshan and Darius: the only way they could pay the paper bill every month was by selling the old papers to the jaripuranawalla. When they pleaded their teachers would be angry if they went empty-handed, Gustad agreed to let them have five Jam-E-Jamshed’s each.
Darius said he would prefer five Times of India’s because his friends would make fun of the Parsi bawaji newspapers. Gustad would have none of that. ‘You should be proud of your heritage. Take the Jam-E-Jamshed or nothing at all.’
So Darius decided to go to the neighbours for newspaper donations. His father scoffed, ‘No one will give you a scrap.’ Since Darius insisted on trying, he set two conditions: ‘Stay away from Miss Kutpitia and the dogwalla idiot. And if you get any papers, you must share them with your sister.’
ii
A week later, when Gustad came home and sat to remove his shoes, Dilnavaz beamingly held out a letter. He was tired after standing all the way on the bus, but his fatigue vanished. At last! One shoe off and the other shoe on, he took the envelope. It was blank on the outside. Strange, he thought, opening it: