‘No, no, something more important than food. I will have to miss my lunch.’ Whereupon Dinshawji insisted that he have a cauliflower sandwich. He accepted.
‘And what is the urgent matter?’
Gustad told him everything, from Major Bilimoria’s letter about the guerrilla operation, to the money package from Ghulam Mohammed. But he left out the bandicoot, the cat, and the rhyming couplet. Scaring Dinshawji would not help anything. Instead, he emphasized how their effort would help the Mukti Bahini’s liberation struggle, which Dinshawji found very stimulating. The more enthusiastic he became, the worse Gustad felt at having to dupe his sick friend who was now willing to break banking laws and jeopardise his job and pension this close to retirement.
At the end, Dinshawji was so inspired, he would have agreed to join a bayonet charge against Pakistani soldiers. ‘Absolutely, yaar. One hundred per cent we will help the Major. Somebody has to do something about those bastard butchers.’
‘That’s how I feel,’ said Gustad.
‘And did you read today about what America is doing?’ Gustad confessed he hadn’t read the papers for the last three days. ‘Arré, CIA bastards are up to their usual anus-fingering tactics. Provoking more killings and atrocities.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s obvious, yaar. If there is more terror, then more refugees will come to India. Right? And bigger problems for us — feeding and clothing them. Which means we will have to go to war with Pakistan, to solve the refugee problem.’
‘Right.’
‘Then, the CIA plan is for America to support Pakistan. So India will lose the war, and Indira will lose the next election, because everyone will blame her only for the defeat. And that is exactly what America wants. They don’t like her being friends with Russia, you see. Makes Nixon shit, lying awake in bed and thinking about it. His house is white, but his pyjamas become brown every night.’
Gustad laughed and opened the briefcase. ‘Time to get back,’ he said, and handed over the money in a plain envelope.
Dinshawji wrapped his empty lunch bag around the bundle. ‘Yes. Have to be on the dot these days. Remember the olden times? When they took attendance just by counting the jackets hanging on the chairs? No bloody time-book nonsense. Arré, they trusted you in those days to do your work. Honour system. Jacket on the chair, hat on the rack, and you could go out for one-two hours, take a nap. Nobody minded. Age of honour and trust is gone for ever now.’
Gustad checked if the lunch-boxes were still there. ‘You go in,’ he said. ‘I’m just coming.’ He scribbled a note to Dilnavaz: ‘My Dearest, Everything OK with Mira Obili. But did not have time to eat. Love & xxx.’ The aroma from the tiffin box intrigued his nose. He pulled out the rack of containers and saw pumpkin buryani. His mouth watered. Never mind. I can taste some tonight. And Darius will have the rest — he always likes rice at night, in addition to the main dish with bread. Needs it, too, with all the body-building.
It was three minutes to two. Dinshawji was utilizing the time around Laurie Coutino’s desk. He had become bolder over the weeks, egged on by the other men. Now he was insisting that she dance with him. He sang ‘Rock Around the Clock’, prancing about her chair as she sat demurely, waiting for the lunch-hour to end. The beads of sweat were not long in appearing on his bald pate. He wiggled and jiggled, waved his arms, threw back his head, and added a pelvic thrust occasionally.
Gustad looked on, concerned that trapped under the spell of his pitiful clownery, Dinshawji would forget the crucial envelope on Laurie’s desk. Day by day, he worried more and more for Dinshawji, for his ailing appearance, the face like parchment, the eyes battling to hide pain. But he also despaired about his embarrassing ways and the demise of his self-respect. Dinshawji was acting with abandon, in the manner of a medieval plague victim who knew that since the last vestige of hope was lost, clinging to dignity and other precious luxuries affordable by the healthy was of little use.
He stopped singing, and said, panting, ‘Laurie, Laurie, one day I must introduce you to my little lorri.’ She smiled, ignorant of the Parsi slang for the male member. ‘Oh yes,’ he continued, ‘you will love to play with my sweet lorri. What fun we will have together.’
She nodded pleasantly, and around them, the men guffawed, digging one another in the ribs. Gustad winced. Dinshawji was going too far. But Laurie smiled again, a little puzzled, and uncovered her typewriter.
People drifted reluctantly to their work-stations as the minute hand crept upwards. Gustad followed Dinshawji, and reminded him as they parted, ‘Don’t forget. Bring me the deposit slip for initialling.’
The scheme worked perfectly. ‘All done without a hitch,’ said Dinshawji next day at lunch. Gustad passed him the second bundle, and suggested slowing down with Laurie while they were helping the Major, just to avoid drawing attention.
‘On the contrary, yaar, on the contrary,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Safest thing is to behave this way. As long as I do my nonsense, I am the normal Dinshawji. If I become serious, people will start watching and wondering what’s wrong.’
Gustad had been ready to tell him he was a stupid old fool. But when Dinshawji said what he did, Gustad did not have the heart to scold. How true, he thought. And the more ill he becomes, the harder he will work to be the normal Dinshawji.
So Gustad let him continue in his way, praying that nothing would go amiss with the deposits. Slowly, the package in the coal-storage alcove emptied. Sometimes he wondered what else Major Bilimoria would demand once the money was deposited. But he did not dwell on that; instead, he looked forward to the day when the black plastic would collapse completely upon itself.
iii
Early in August, a few hours after Gustad left for work with the twenty-seventh bundle of money, Dilnavaz was surprised by the doorbell. She had just finished cooking the day’s meals. The dubbawalla, on the run in the pouring rain, had picked up Gustad’s lunch-box, and she hoped the food would not be cold when it reached the office. Now she was not expecting anyone else.
The morning stream of vendors had ended with the arrival of the ashes-and-sawdust-man’s handcart, who had sold her a sack of each; her supply of the cleansers was running low. She was resisting the recent popular change to detergents and nylon scrubbers. Not that Dilnavaz had anything against modern technology — she always looked for the Sanforized label when shopping for fabric: it was a blessing not to lose three or four inches per yard to shrinkage. And those new Terylene and Tery-Cotton shirts were a miracle, never needed ironing. But she drew the line at fancy soaps and scrubbers; not only were they expensive, they did not do as good a job as raakh-bhoosa and a twist of coconut coir. Nothing worked better than the centuries-old method when it came to scouring pots and pans greasy with vanaspati and ghee. Some people claimed it was unhygienic, because you never could tell what ashes these fellows were selling — could be from cremation grounds, for all you knew. But Dilnavaz had faith in her man, trusted the quality of his raakh and bhoosa.
After the sacks were emptied in the chawl outside the WC, Tehmul-Lungraa arrived to dutifully drink his glass of lime juice. He swallowed the mixture with a burp and a grin, as she watched anxiously to see if he was behaving more brainlessly than usual. She both dreaded and wished Tehmul’s deterioration: the erosion without which it would be impossible to redeem Sohrab. Tehmul returned the glass: ‘Thankyouthankyouverytasty,’ and left, scratching his groin with one hand, waving with the other.