‘OK, I am convinced, I said to him, and took the photo. Began to draw the picture. When the sketch was finished, I started with the oil paint. But then in the evening, that police inspector who lives here went by in his car—’
‘Inspector Bamji,’ said Gustad.
‘He went by, looking at the new drawing. Suddenly he braked hard and reversed, began shouting at me to stop painting. I was quite frightened, you see, I have had enough trouble with police. No appreciation for art they have — treat me as a vagrant or beggar. With very much humility I told him, please sir, the man with the small white dog has respectfully requested it, because this is a Parsi Holy Man.
‘The Inspector began to laugh. Holy man? he said, arré, that fellow is a charlatan and a disgrace to the Parsi priesthood. Fooling desperate people, selling his photo-frames and amulets and rubbish. That sort of thing is absolutely not encouraged in Zoroastrianism, said the Inspector.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Mr. Rabadi came out for dog-walking. He heard the Inspector and began to argue: Dustoorji Baria had never made one single paisa of profit from his Holy Powers, those who said so were filthy jealous dogs, lazy idle loafers unfit to lick the sacred soles of his sapaat. Besides, this was a secular country, people had the right to believe what they wanted to, and Dustoorji Baria had a right to be on the wall as much as anyone else.
‘I had to agree with his last point. The Inspector must have felt embarrassed about squabbling in public. He said, do what you like, a charlatan will remain a charlatan even if you put him among prophets and saints. Then he went away.
‘Mr. Rabadi told me that there were lots of sceptics and maligners like Inspector Bamji but they would all see the truth one day. He said he had proof of Dustoorji Baria’s saintliness. When his big dog, Tiger, died a few years ago, tears fell from the eyes of a framed photograph of Dustoorji Baria that he has in his house. Amazing.’
‘But do you believe it?’ asked Gustad, smiling broadly.
‘You see, I don’t like to weaken anyone’s faith. Miracle, magic, mechanical trick, coincidence — does it matter what it is, as long as it helps? Why analyse the strength of the imagination, the power of suggestion, power of auto-suggestion, the potency of psychological pressures? Looking too closely is destructive, makes everything disintegrate. As it is, life is difficult enough. Why to simply make it tougher? After all, who is to say what makes a miracle and what makes a coincidence?’
‘That’s true,’ said Gustad. ‘But this wall is the kind of miracle I like to see, useful and genuine, rather than tears from a photograph. A stinking, filthy disgrace has become a beautiful, fragrant place which makes everyone feel good.’
‘And it will get better and better, now that the war has started. At such times people become more generously religious.’
‘True,’ said Gustad. ‘Look, that sandalwood has stopped burning. You got matches?’
The pavement artist had a box. While Gustad attempted to rekindle the stick, a fire-engine clanged past, slowed, and turned into the compound. He abandoned the sandalwood and hurried inside. Firemen were unwinding the hose as he got there.
Tehmul was watching them, engrossed. He waved excitedly: ‘GustadGustadGustad. Dingdingdingdingdingding. Funfunfun. Twistingtwistingturningfire.’
‘Not now, Tehmul,’ he said impatiently. Smoke was emerging from Miss Kutpitia’s flat. He wondered if she was all right.
iii
After the firemen left, everyone agreed it was a miracle Miss Kutpitia’s flat had come through largely unscathed. That there had been more smoke than flame was easily overlooked.
Through tellings and retellings, the smoky little fire became a roaring blaze, then grew into an uncontrollable conflagration. Khodadad Building had been on the verge of turning into a morsel for the belly of the raging inferno. But divine intervention had come to the rescue, it was fervently affirmed.
Others ascribed the good fortune to the walclass="underline" with people stopping to pray, to utter their invocations and thanksgivings, they said, it undoubtedly created endless vibrations of a propitious nature. How could it be other than that goodness and virtue reside here, in constant compassionate watch over this exalted place?
Inside Miss Kutpitia’s flat, the damage was confined to the locked rooms. The precious grief-nurturing reminders of her beloved nephew and brother had perished within the brick walls of those reliquaries. Grey ash now lightly lay, covering the floors and the furniture, mingled with the dust of thirty-five years. The soggy ash coated everything, as though a sackful had been bought from the raakh-bhoosa man and spread by diligent human hands to scrub and scour the two rooms.
Miss Kutpitia and Dilnavaz assessed the damage, the latter promising to get Darius to help clear the mess. She was surprised that Miss Kutpitia accepted the outcome so matter-of-factly. In fact, Dilnavaz found her positively cheery, looking forward to the chores that lay ahead, enjoying the sympathetic attention of people who had decided to forget her reputation for meanness and crankiness. It was tacitly accepted now that a person so providentially delivered from the jaws of fiery death must have forces of goodness on her side.
Only Miss Kutpitia understood the mystery of the benign fire. For thirty-five years, the very essences of all the hoarded mementoes had worked like a gentle salve upon the unkind gashes of her sorrow. They soothed her grief with their secret marrow, and Miss Kutpitia understood this well.
But she also knew that the qualities which made these objects special, made them glow with the aura which their owners had imparted to them, were not eternal — that one day they would lose their luminescence and become worthless. When that happened, she would be on her own.
Now, with the fire, it was evident that the day had arrived. The fire’s conduct made it plain — all that was healing and life-giving in her treasures had already been drawn forth by her, leaving feathery husks too insubstantial to feed the flames. It was no great matter of puzzlement for Miss Kutpitia that the fire died in such a docile fashion.
In between helping Miss Kutpitia and doing her own cooking and chores, Dilnavaz heard Gustad tell Jimmy’s story. She was happy and light-hearted for the first time in months. All the terror and shame and guilt of dabbling in unspeakable things with Miss Kutpitia was cremated in the fire, along with Miss Kutpitia’s past.
Gustad wished she would sit still and listen. He tried to convey his anguish at witnessing Jimmy’s wretched condition. ‘You know the wooden presses that roadside juicewallas use? To squeeze the fruit? When I walked into Jimmy’s room and saw him, it felt like my heart was being pulped in one of those presses.’ His voice shook, but Dilnavaz did not notice. The softening veil of hustle-bustle and relief that descended in the wake of the lizard-tail mishap blurred and distorted things, held out generous promises of happy endings.
She was certain that Jimmy would recover and come back to Khodadad Building after four years. ‘Don’t you think so?’
Gustad preferred to say nothing. He turned to Roshan. ‘Now, my little monkey. Just because you are feeling better does not mean you should run around all day. Little by little, as you get stronger.’ He rose and stretched. ‘So sleepy. Two nights on the train. But such a lot of work to do.’
‘You don’t have to come to help Miss Kutpitia,’ said Dilnavaz.
‘That is not what I meant at all. The war has started.’
‘So what work for you if the war has started? My husband will take a gun and go to fight?’ She threw her arms around his neck and, laughing, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Roshan’s recovery, Gustad’s safe return, Miss Kutpitia’s bright new demeanour — what more could she ask for? The days of gloom and worry were far behind. Except, of course, for Sohrab’s absence. But even that, she felt, would now somehow be put right.