Dear Mr. and Mrs. Noble,
It is my pleasure to inform you, on behalf of Mother Claudiana, that your daughter has won first prize in our Annual School Raffle.
May I trouble you to make arrangements for taking delivery of the prize? The doll is quite big, and I fear little Roshan will be unable to manage on the school bus. It would be a pity if it was damaged. The doll is in my office (off the main parlour) and I would appreciate it if you could arrange transportation as soon as possible.
Please accept our sincere thanks for participating in the raffle and making our fund-raising drive a success. When our new school building goes up, it will be due to the generous co-operation of parents like yourselves.
Yours truly,
Sister Constance
(Raffle Committee)
Gustad was unable to hide his disgust. ‘I thought it was Jimmy’s letter. You couldn’t say something before giving it to me?’
‘Why do you have to look so unhappy? Major wants to write, he will write. But for Roshan’s sake change your face, she is so excited, you know she has never had a doll in her life.’
He heeded her advice as Roshan came running in from the compound. ‘Daddy! Daddy! I won the doll!’
He swept her up in his arms. ‘My doll has won a doll. But you are the prettier of the two, I am sure.’
‘No! That doll is much prettier, she has blue eyes, and fair skin, so pink, and a lovely white dress!’
‘Blue eyes and pink skin? Chhee! Who wants that?’
‘Daddy! Don’t say chhee to my doll. Can we go and bring her now? Sister Constance said you must come and—’
‘Yes, I read the note. But it’s late now, maybe tomorrow, I have half-day.’
‘But school is closed on Saturday.’
‘That’s OK, Sister Constance will be there,’ said Gustad, and Dilnavaz agreed. She suggested that he telephone Sister, though, just in case she was planning to go to the market or the cinema. After all, it was no longer like the old days when the nuns stayed inside all the time, cleaning and sewing and praying.
‘Take thirty paise and go to Miss Kutpitia,’ she said, for Miss Kutpitia was the sole tenant of Khodadad Building with the luxury of a telephone. The luxury was often a nuisance, however, because neighbours (including the ones who thought her mean and crazy) would request its use or (‘please, with your permission Miss Kutpitia’) give the number to relatives and friends to receive emergency messages.
Those who went to telephone were never allowed more than two steps inside: the coveted black instrument squatted on a little table beside the front door. None the less, everyone had strange tales to report. Long conversations could be heard from the landing outside, they said, and when the door opened, there was only Miss Kutpitia inside. She lived like a miser, a typical loose-screw eccentric, with dust and cobwebs everywhere, stacks of old newspapers piled to the ceiling, empty milk bottles in corners, curtains tattered, sofa cushions spilling their insides, and cracked light shades hanging from the ceiling like broken birds and bats. There was no shortage of money, they said, that much was certain. How else could she afford Parsi Dairy Farm milk and custom-catered meals from the Ratan Tata Institute?
The reason, they said, that no one was allowed inside — not ayah or gunga or friend or relative — was because she had a dire secret: the bodies of two deceased relatives she had had embalmed and preserved, years ago, instead of handing them over for proper disposal at the Tower of Silence. Others claimed this was rubbish; there were no preserved bodies, only the dry bones. Miss Kutpitia had gone to the funeral, and after the vultures had picked the bones clean inside the Tower, she had bribed some nassasalers to retrieve them before disintegration within the central well in lime and phosphorus. Miss Kutpitia naturally shielded those bones from the eyes of the world, they said, and were the reason for her secrecy and strange ways.
‘OK,’ said Gustad. ‘I’ll go. But first let Roshan ask if it is all right. Say to her, Auntie, can Daddy please come and use your phone?’
‘I’m scared to go there,’ said Roshan.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You want your prize or not?’ The waiting doll easily conquered Roshan’s fears.
Gustad got the pruning shears and cut a rose from his precious plant. ‘Say to her, Daddy sent this for you.’
‘Now what new farus is this?’ said Dilnavaz. He ignored her with a wave of his hand which said he knew how to take care of these things.
Roshan returned with Miss Kutpitia’s consent, then accompanied him to the telephone. Night was falling, but Tehmul-Lungraa was in the compound. He spied them from the other end. ‘GustadGustadGustad.’ He had a sheaf of pages under one arm, and clutched a ballpoint pen. ‘GustadGustadwaitwaitwait.’ He came as fast as his swaying-rolling walk would permit, waving a page. ‘ImportantGustadveryveryimportant.’
‘Not now, Tehmul,’ said Gustad. ‘I’m busy.’ Probably some rubbish that had been foisted on the poor fellow, he assumed, remembering the time the Shiv Sena had recruited him to distribute racist pamphlets aimed against minorities in Bombay. They had promised him a Kwality Choc-O-Bar if he did a good job. Gustad, returning from the bank, saw him, on the verge of being beaten up by a group of outraged South Indians who worked in the office building down the road. Gustad tried to explain, but they perceived him as the enemy too, for defending a Shiv Sena agent. Fortunately, Inspector Bamji was driving home to Khodadad Building from the police station. He stopped his Landmaster when he saw Gustad and Tehmul surrounded, and blew his horn. The crowd glimpsed the uniform and started to disperse before Inspector Bamji stepped out. Afterwards, Gustad had cautioned Tehmul not to accept things from strangers.
He spoke patiently, gently, to allay Tehmul’s perpetual agitation. ‘Come back in half an hour. Then we will read what you have.’ Somebody had to look after God’s unfortunate ones.
‘PleaseGustadplease. Readpetitionpleaseplease.’ He followed them to Miss Kutpitia’s stairway entrance. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, gazing forlornly after them.
On the second floor, the cover of the peephole slid up and an eye stared out unblinkingly. ‘Gustad Noble, for telephone.’ He spoke loudly to the eye, making dialling gestures with the right hand and holding the other like a receiver to his ear. The eye disappeared, and the sound of turning latches and withdrawing bolts echoed sharply in the corridor as the door opened.
Without much subtlety, he tried to peer off the hallway but the rooms were locked or in darkness. She reprimanded him sharply. ‘The telephone is right over here.’ From the bunch that hung around her neck, she selected a key and unlocked the clasp immobilizing the receiver. He dialled the convent’s number off Sister Constance’s note. On top of the telephone directory lay his rose. Miss Kutpitia waited while he made arrangements, and said, ‘Thirty paise,’ when he hung up.
‘Of course, of course.’ He dug placatingly in his pocket.
‘And take your rose with you when you leave.’
‘That’s for—’
‘All this pretence with a rose no one needs.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Just remember one thing.’ A trembling finger, skinny and fragile, pointed. The sight of it made him remorseful. ‘Old age and sorrow comes to everyone some day,’ she said. Her words made the passing of time into a terrible curse.