‘Maybe the best thing to do is just move him a little. To the tree, under the shade,’ said Mrs. Pastakia. ‘And I can bring a white sheet to cover till the hearse comes.’
‘Good idea,’ said Bamji, ‘sun is very hot. The Tower of Silence might take a long time, with this tamaasha outside.’
The tree was only about fifty yards away, a more welcome proposition than climbing two flights. Dr. Paymaster also nodded his assent. Then Bamji glanced at Gustad to see if he would help. But his broad impassive back offered no indication, and Bamji was reluctant to ask. He looked at Mr. Rabadi instead: ‘OK, bossie, can you take the feet?’
Mr. Rabadi blushed with self-importance. For once, the entire building would see him do something other than walk his dog. He held out Dimple’s leash for Mrs. Pastakia.
The Inspector and Mr. Rabadi rolled up their sleeves slowly, queasily preparing for the task. But before they could lift the body, Gustad turned. He crouched beside Tehmul. The others exchanged looks: now what?
Without a word, Gustad slipped one arm under Tehmul’s shoulders and the other under his knees. With a single mighty effort he rose to his feet, cradling the still-warm body. The bandaged head lolled limply over his forearm, and he crooked his elbow to support it properly.
‘Wait! Bossie, wait!’ said Inspector Bamji. ‘He is very heavy, we will help, don’t—’
Gustad ignored him and began walking down the compound, away from them all, towards the stairway to Tehmul’s flat. They looked in silence now, too ashamed to follow. Sohrab gazed after his father with fear and admiration.
People watched from their windows as Gustad strode under their eyes without faltering, as though he and Tehmul were all alone, as if the dead weight of the grown man in his arms was nought but a child’s. Some of the neighbours covered their heads and folded their hands together when the ruvaan passed by.
Without a trace of his limp, without a fumble, Gustad walked the length of the compound, past the flats near the gate, past the compound’s solitary tree and his own flat, past Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster, till he reached the end. When he gained the entrance to the stairs he stopped and turned around to look, once, at the group at the other end. Then he continued.
On the stairs, the weight in his arms made his feet come down heavily at every step. The sweat poured freely off his face, splashing on Tehmul’s blood-soaked shirt. At the landing he could sense that people were watching through their spyholes.
The door to Tehmul’s flat was closed. Locked? He still had the key. But the neighbour’s door opened; she scurried out and tried Tehmul’s door; it was unlocked. She ran back inside, her courage exhausted, preferring to observe the other way. Gustad heard the click of her spyhole cover reopening. He entered sideways, taking care that Tehmul’s head did not knock against the frame. He kicked the door shut behind him and went inside to the bedroom.
Tehmul’s dangling feet brushed aside the faded organdie curtain. The brass rings tinkled. The naked doll lay across the bed. He rested Tehmul on the edge of the mattress and freed one hand to nudge the doll aside. The warmth was slowly leaving the body, he realized, as he buttoned up the shirt, straightened the legs, and folded the arms together. He unlaced Tehmul’s shoes and pulled them off, then the socks. Two rupee notes, folded very small, fell out. He put them under the pillow and covered Tehmul with the sheet.
The doll’s clothes were on the chair, just as he had seen them the night of the air raid. Leaning over Tehmul, he picked up the doll and began clothing it in its wedding ensemble. The painted plaster felt as cold as Tehmul. When the doll was dressed he slipped it under the sheet, beside Tehmul. He moved the chair nearer the bed and raised a hand to adjust his prayer cap, but his fingers touched hair instead of black velvet. Then he remembered: the cap had fallen off in the road. He looked around the room for something to cover his head. Nothing, except Tehmul’s pyjamas hanging on the bedrail. It was either that or his bloodied handkerchief. He picked up the pyjama top.
With covered head he sat, placing his right hand upon Tehmul’s head. Tehmul’s hair felt stiff under his fingers, matted where the blood had dried. He closed his eyes and began to pray softly. He recited the Yatha Ahu Varyo, five times, and Ashem Vahoo, three times, his bloodstained hand resting light as a leaf on Tehmul’s head. Flies buzzed around the room, drawn by the smell, but they did not distract him. He kept his eyes closed and started a second cycle of prayer. Tears began to well in his closed eyes. His voice was soft and steady, and his hand steady and light upon Tehmul’s head, as the tears ran down his cheeks. He started another cycle, and yet another, and he could not stop the tears.
Five times Yathu Ahu Varyo, and three times Ashem Vahoo. Over and over. Five and three, recited repeatedly, with his right hand covering Tehmul’s head. Yatha Ahu Varyo and Ashem Vahoo, and the salt water of his eyes, as much for himself as for Tehmul. As much for Tehmul as for Jimmy. And for Dinshawji, for Pappa and Mamma, for Grandpa and Grandma, all who had had to wait for so long…
How long he sat there, repeating Yatha Ahu Varyo and Ashem Vahoo, he could not say. Then he felt there was someone in the room. He did not turn around. He had not heard the curtain rings tinkle, the faded organdie was hanging still as death, filtering the harsh verandah sunlight. He asked gruffly, ‘Who is there?’
There was no answer. Again he asked, ‘Who?’
‘Daddy…Sohrab.’
Gustad turned around. He saw his son standing in the doorway, and each held the other’s eyes. Still he sat, gazing upon his son, and Sohrab waited motionless in the doorway, till at last Gustad got to his feet slowly. Then he went up and put his arms around him. ‘Yes,’ said Gustad, running his bloodstained fingers once through Sohrab’s hair. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes,’ and hugged him tightly once more.
iv
A stench still hung in the air around the work area cordoned off by police, where the morcha’s barrel of sewer sludge and slime had been overturned. Malcolm sputtered and quavered, unable to find the words. His hands shook like crippled bird wings. ‘You won’t believe it! Crazy! Bloody crazy, I am saying. Absolute madness!’
Gustad put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You want to come inside? Drink tea or something?’
‘Just imagine it! Bloody thing hits me in the face! Big, furry, smelly thing! Imagine it! Rotting stinking rats, right in my face! Aagh! Chhee! Thoo!’ Malcolm clutched his head as though it was going to explode. ‘What if I catch plague or something?’
He refused Gustad’s offer to wash up. ‘I at once opened a hydrant. And I’ve already promised a candle for Mount Mary. Some of those bloody bandicoots were still alive!’ He shuddered again. ‘I am also going to my doctor.’
But first he had to await replacements for the injured workers. ‘Bastard police, taking their own sweet time. I bet you anything it was a bloody municipal plot. These crooks all work hand in hand.’
‘I believe you,’ said Gustad. ‘Nothing is beyond the government. Ordinary people like us are helpless against them.’
The workers had started chiselling out the mortar between the stone slabs. Malcolm hurried to supervise, shouting instructions. ‘O baba, arya ghay! Carefully, arya, arya!’ The labourers set up a vigorous chant, full of muscle and vitality: ‘Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato! Ahiyo-tato! Tahi-to-tato!’ A truck of gravel and sand was being unloaded. The unmistakable crunching rose over other noises and reached Gustad’s ears. Crunching, grating, rasping, as men with shovels trampled through the gravel. The sound made Gustad freeze for a moment.