He nodded vigorously. ‘Allallallflatsallflats.’
‘Give one copy to each. Tell them to read and sign. And speak slowly. Say one word. Then stop. Then say another word. Slowly. Slowly. OK?’
‘YesyesyesGustadslowlyslowly. ThankyouthankyouGustad.’ On the way out he hesitated. The doll was stripped, down to its anatomically vague pink plaster. ‘Ohhhhh.’ His nostrils flared; his mouth began to move in the manner of a ruminant’s; a hand reached out.
‘Tehmul!’ He moved on. At the door he turned and looked yearningly once more before Gustad shut it after him. Dilnavaz shook her head and began folding the veil, the train, the dress, and collapsed the hoop petticoat.
‘It’s arrived,’ said Gustad quietly.
Like him, she contained her excitement. ‘You read it?’
‘Let’s finish this first.’ He fetched the empty suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She dusted it and packed the clothes inside. Roshan watched forlornly as the doll was swaddled in an old sheet and shut away on the lowest shelf of her mother’s cupboard.
iv
Gustad opened the envelope with the ivory paper-knife that had belonged to his grandmother. The handle was sculpted into a finely detailed figure of an elephant, and delicate floral designs ornamented the blunt side of the blade, making the whole an exquisitely fragile instrument. He did not use it very often: heirlooms were special, he felt, to be cherished and handed down, not used up like a box of cocoa or a bottle of hair oil. But this was a special letter:
My dear Gustad,
Thank you for your reply. Overjoyed to hear from you. It would be too much for me to bear if our friendship was lost. Could not write immediately because I was away, visiting the border zones. Not a pretty sight. Thought I had seen it all in my time. Especially in Kashmir, the handiwork of the North-West Frontier tribesmen. What I have seen now in my work with RAW is beyond words. (Did I mention in my last letter I am working for Research and Analysis Wing?) This new breed of Pakistani butchers is something else. I tell you, Gustad, everything in the papers these days about the atrocities is true.
But let me get to the main point. All you have to do is go to Chor Bazaar between two and four in the afternoon, any one of the next three Fridays after receiving this letter. Look for a pavement bookstall. There are many in Chor Bazaar, so I have told my contact to display prominently a copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare. And just to be absolutely certain if it is the right one, open the book to Othello, end of act I, scene iii, where lago gives advice to Roderigo. The line: ‘Put money in thy purse’ will be underlined in red.
My man will give you a parcel. Please take it home and follow the instructions in the note inside. That’s all. I am sure you will recognize the man, you met him once, many years ago. The Shakespeare thing is just in case he cannot be there and has to use his back-up.
Good luck, Gustad, and thank you again. If anything about all this seems strange to you, just trust me for now. One day, when I am back in Bombay, we will sit with a bottle of Hercules XXX and talk about it.
Your loving friend,
Jimmy
Gustad was smiling by the time he came to the end. Dilnavaz looked at him impatiently. ‘What does he say? Is he coming back? He can stay with us for a few days, we can move the teapoy and put a mattress beside the sofa for him at night.’
‘There goes your express train brain. No one is coming, he only wants me to pick up a parcel. In Chor Bazaar.’
‘Why Chor Bazaar? That’s not a nice place.’
‘Don’t be silly. Because the old name is still used doesn’t mean it’s full of thieves. Even foreign tourists go there nowadays.’
‘But why not just mail the parcel here?’
‘Take.’ He held out the letter. ‘Read for yourself.’ He wondered who the contact was that he was supposed to have met.
‘It all sounds very strange to me. This business of going to Chor Bazaar, and the Shakespeare book. And that, what was that name? Here it is — Research and Analysis Wing. I did not know Jimmy was also a scientist.’
He laughed. ‘RAW is the Indian secret service. Jimmy is no scientist, he is a double-o-seven.’
Through the window, she saw Sohrab approach, and opened the door in anticipation. He’s early today, she said to herself. Then to Gustad, ‘So you are going to do it?’
‘Yes, a friend cannot be let down, I am going to do it.’
‘Going to do what?’ asked Sohrab as he walked in.
Gustad ignored him, but she explained eagerly. ‘Major Uncle’s letter has come. Read, read, tell us what you think.’
‘No one needs your son’s advice,’ said Gustad.
Sohrab glanced quickly down the page. ‘I am surprised Major Uncle joined RAW.’
His words awakened his father’s irritation and bitterness. ‘Genius has spoken.’
Sohrab continued: ‘Our wonderful Prime Minister uses RAW like a private police force, to do all her dirty work.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish again! Jimmy is involved in something top-secret about East Pakistan. Just like that, you say dirty work! God knows what newspaper you have been reading!’ He switched on the light with vehemence. Dusk had a habit of descending swiftly on the paper-darkened room.
‘But it’s true. She sends men from RAW to spy on opposition parties, create trouble, start violence so the police can interfere. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘I read the papers and I know what goes on. Rumours and allegations all the time, and no proof!’ Like a malarial fever his irritation started to rise.
‘What about the chemical election? Only RAW could have done that. She made a real mockery of democracy.’
He snatched the letter from Sohrab’s hand. ‘Another rumour! What do you think, the election was a children’s magic show? All this nonsense about chemically treated ballots, and crosses appearing and disappearing automatically! Mockery of democracy is that people are willing to believe rumours. Without proper evidence.’
‘Lots of evidence was presented in court. Enough for the judges to send the case to trial. Why do you think she transferred them?’ Sohrab appealed to his mother in frustration.
She listened helplessly as Gustad said that the blood in his brain was boiling again. Now the boy was pretending to be an expert on law and politics and RAW. The enemy was at the border, that Pakistani drunkard Yahya was cooking something in partnership with China, and fools like her son went around saying rubbish about the Prime Minister. He lifted a finger and pointed. ‘Better that the genius shuts his mouth before I shut it for him. Before he falls off that high roof he has climbed.’
Sohrab rose in disgust to leave the room. ‘Wait,’ said Gustad, and asked Dilnavaz, ‘Where are those application forms?’
She handed him the lot, grieving. How silly to have hope in green limes. Unless. Unless, as Miss Kutpitia said, something stronger is needed. If the evil, the darkness, is more powerful than she estimated.
Gustad gave the forms to Sohrab, and told him to count the number of places he had been to for a worthless, ungrateful boy, the number of times he touched his forehead and folded his hands, and said ‘sir’ and ‘madam’ and ‘please’ and ‘thank you very much’. ‘Count the forms,’ he said, ‘then throw them away.’
‘OK.’ Sohrab took the forms and riffled them while walking down the narrow passage to the kitchen.
‘Shameless dog.’ Gritting his teeth, Gustad heard the rustle and soft slap of paper against the rusted rubbish-pail. Dilnavaz hurried to rescue the forms from the gloppy stuff at the bottom. She hid them in the arched recess, under the choolavati, where coal was stored in the old days before kerosene and gas. The green limes were also collecting there, waiting for a sea burial.