He knew he must arise and go now to the coal-storage alcove. Jimmy Bilimoria had trapped him, robbed him of volition. If I could let the rotten world go by, spend the rest of life in this chair. Grandpa’s chair, that used to sit with the black desk in the furniture workshop. What a wonderful world, amid the din of hammering and sawing, the scent of sawdust and sweat and polish. And in Pappa’s bookstore, with its own special sounds and smells, the seductive rustle of turning pages, the timeless fragrance of fine paper, the ancient leather-bound volumes in those six enormous book-filled rooms, where even the air had a special quality, as in a temple or mausoleum. Time and the world stretched endlessly then, before the bad days came and everything shrank. And this is how my father must have felt, in this very chair, after the profligate brother had destroyed all, after the bankruptcy, when there was nothing left. He, too, must have wanted not to move from this chair, just let what remained of time and the shrunken world go by.
‘You finished praying already?’ Dilnavaz emerged from the kitchen, her water chores done. The front and sleeves of her nightgown were soaked as usual. ‘Is the vinca all right today?’
‘The vinca is all right,’ he said. But the habit of twenty-one years, to share all with her, was too powerful. He could not block out of his voice or keep from his face the brokenness he felt.
‘What has happened?’ He handed her the scrap of paper. ‘O my God,’ she said feebly. ‘Jimmy…?’ Gustad nodded.
‘But to us…?’ He nodded again.
‘Maybe the taxi-driver…?’
‘That makes no difference.’
She squeezed her wet nightgown desperately, as though wringing out the water would rid them of this painful treachery. ‘I think we should take the money and go to the police, tell them the whole story,’ she said. ‘How you got it, what you were told to do with it, the rat and the cat, everything.’ Proposing righteous action lent her strength as she tried to fill the empty space inside with spurious baggage. ‘Give them Major Bilimoria’s address also — the post office box number. He can burn in jhaanum! He and his national security!’ The ruthless edge creeping into her voice surprised her. ‘Or tell Inspector Bamji. Then he can look after everything.’
Gustad shook his head. He resisted the temptation to join in her way of filling the emptiness. ‘You don’t understand. Inspector Bamji, the police, have no power over RAW.’ He shook his head again. ‘We are dealing with heartless people — poisonous snakes. It could have been Roshan and Darius instead of the bandicoot and cat.’ He crumpled the note vehemently, tossing it from him with loathing. ‘I suppose we should be grateful to Jimmy for that.’
‘Owaaryoo,’ she said, frantically snapping her fingers towards the door, outwards, away from her home and family.
‘There is only one thing to do.’ He removed his prayer cap. She followed him to the kitchen where he got on his knees by the choolavati and pulled out the package. He opened a corner of it, enough to insert a hand, and withdrew one bundle. She watched anxiously, hoping he would not notice the limes or Sohrab’s application forms. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I will be careful. After twenty-four years I know the place and procedures inside out. One bundle for deposit every day. Ten thousand rupees. More than that will be suspicious.’
‘But it means to finish the whole parcel will take…’
‘One hundred days. I will write and tell him that’s the best I can do.’ He put the money in his briefcase. ‘I don’t understand this world any more. First, your son destroys our hopes. Now this rascal. Like a brother I looked upon him. What a world of wickedness it has become.’
ii
The air-raid siren started its keening lament as Gustad got off the bus at Flora Fountain. Like some gigantic bird of mourning in the skies above the city, circling, diving and wheeling, it drowned the traffic noises. Ten o’clock already, he thought. Should have been at my desk by now.
For several weeks the threnodic siren had been wailing every morning at exactly ten o’clock: a full three-minute warning, followed by the monotonic all-clear. There had never been any official announcement, so the public assumed that in preparation for war with Pakistan, the government was checking to see if the air-raid sirens were in working order. Others believed it was to familiarize people with the dirge-like sound — they would not panic when an air raid was signalled in the middle of the night if they became acquainted with the wail during their daylight hours. Cynics said it seemed more like a conspiracy, because if the Pakistanis ever wanted to carry out a successful bombing raid, all they had to do was make sure they reached the skies overhead at exactly ten o’clock. But perhaps the most wishful explanation was that the siren sounded to let people check their watches and synchronize them at ten, as part of the pre-war effort to improve punctuality and productivity in government offices.
With ten thousand rupees in his briefcase, Gustad was tense as he walked with the crowds flowing from bus stops to office buildings. Some scuffling suddenly broke out at the corner, and he tightened his grip on the briefcase. That was the corner where the pavement artist worked with his crayons. Gustad had often stopped to admire his portraits of gods and saints.
The pavement artist did not restrict himself to any single religion — one day it was elephant-headed Ganesh, giver of wisdom and success; next day, it could be Christ hanging on the cross; and the office crowds blissfully tossed coins upon the pictures. The artist had chosen his spot well. He sat cross-legged and gathered the wealth descending from on high. Pedestrians were careful with this square of pavement, this hallowed ground, as long as it displayed the deity of the day. They flowed around the image like a stream of ants, diverging and converging automatically around it.
Sometimes, accidents happened, like the one this morning. Someone stumbled and left his shoe-print on the drawing. Justice was dispensed summarily. The crowd refused to let the hapless fellow depart till he had made reparation by leaving a generous gift for the god. Then the artist took his crayon and touched up the god’s shoe-printed face. And watching the artist, Gustad suddenly perceived a mutually beneficial proposal in the holy drawings. But he was late for office; he would speak to him one evening when it was not so crowded.
The all-clear faded as he climbed the steps into the bank. He stopped by Dinshawji’s desk and whispered, ‘Meet me outside in the lunch break. Very urgent.’ Dinshawji nodded, pleased. He loved secret compacts, privileged information, clandestine conversations, though they came his way far less often than he would have wished.
Three months had gone by since Dinshawji’s return to work after his illness, and it troubled Gustad that he still looked as pale and washed out as on the night of Roshan’s birthday. But how jolly his conduct had been, singing and laughing and joking as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. Who would have thought he had recently come out of hospital then? Gustad wondered if he was taking proper treatment. Anyway, hats off to Dinshu, for going on so cheerfully, without ever complaining.
At one o’clock they met as arranged. Dinshawji had cauliflower sandwiches, and noticing Gustad’s briefcase, asked, ‘You also got dry lunch today?’