Dinshawji’s anxiety and nervousness returned once she left. He began toying with his newspaper again, rolling and unrolling it. Its edges were in tatters, his clammy hands covered in black smudges.
iii
Gustad insisted that the compounder deliver his message immediately to Dr. Paymaster: it was an emergency. He waited by the tiny cubicle in the little storage space, amid medicine bottles of green glass, foul-smelling powders, and boxes containing pharmacological paraphernalia. Everything covered with dust. Unused for God knows how long. Why does he bother to store all this? Always prescribing his same standard four-five remedies. And calls himself a doctor. God knows why we keep coming to him.
The patient inside emerged, and through the ground glass the doctor’s figure could be seen walking towards the cubicle. An ill humour had settled upon Dr. Paymaster after a day of dealing with fools and misguided militants. All morning, he had spent his energies convincing his neighbours that the way to make the municipality repair and improve things was through the democratic process, through petitions, through the ballot box, or the judiciary. Just because the gutters stank was no reason for them to sink to the gutter-level rowdyism of the ruling party, or take out a big morcha to threaten the municipality. Finally, they agreed to try his way. But after they left, he had to argue for an hour with the gas company, to get a replacement cylinder — explaining to the idiots that if he could not light his burner and sterilize his equipment, the clinic would shut down. But the idiots would not understand. How was the country going to fight a war at this rate, he wondered.
He was not in a pleasant mood as he listened to Gustad. ‘Hope you followed my instructions properly. Or did you modify the prescription? Any more Entero-Vioform? Sulpha-Guanidine? I know how much you like those.’ His grouchiness surprised the compounder too. ‘But you know what the biggest problem is? Everybody wants to be a doctor. Worse, everybody thinks he is a doctor.’
Shortly after, Gustad left with a new list of pills. How dare he say such things! Taking advantage, just because he knows me for so many years. What does he think of himself? First virus, now colitis. Easy to keep throwing out new names. Doctors think everyone else is stupid.
By the time he passed the House of Cages, he was yawing wildly, battling to stay afloat in the storm of Dr. Paymaster’s making. There was a temporary lull at the House. Here, as in any business, things were wont to happen in spurts and starts. Peerbhoy Paanwalla waited idly for the next round of customers, arranging and rearranging his trays and tins. When Gustad hurried by with a leg that seemed lame, he could not resist calling out, ‘Arré, gentleman, hallo, how are you!’
Gustad thought he was being solicited by one of the many pimps who lurked in these doorways. Peerbhoy had used the favourite greeting of the pencil-thin moustachioed, oily-haired, gaudy-neckerchiefed individuals with ingratiating smiles, who sidled up at the least opportunity. Doubtless Peerbhoy had picked up the line from them. Gustad turned, saw him wave, and realized his error.
‘Hallo, gentleman! You did not come back for Mr. Mohammed?’
‘No, it’s all right. That problem is OK now.’ What else to say about that rascal? And bloody Bilimoria.
‘Just this morning Ghulambhai was here,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘He was looking very worried, very upset. I asked him what was wrong, but he would not say anything. Do you know what happened?’ Gustad shook his head and started off.
‘Wait, wait,’ said Peerbhoy. ‘I will make a paan for your leg. Make your bones strong. No more lameness.’
‘No need. It’s fine.’
‘No, huzoor, it’s not,’ he insisted, ‘Just now you were swaying so badly. Up and down, and side to side. Like a launch at Apollo Bunder in the monsoon sea.’
Gustad trimmed his sail, straightened the rudder, and demonstrated with a few steps. ‘See? It’s OK.’
‘Ah, yes, I can see it is OK now. Means the trouble is in the head. And for that, also, I have a paan.’ Without waiting for consent, his hands began to whizz around, opening cans, trimming a leaf, crushing a nut.
Why not, thought Gustad. ‘OK. But not too expensive.’
‘All my paans are reasonably priced. All except one. That one you need only if you are going to the House.’
‘You still make the palung-tode?’
‘While there are men, there will be palung-tode.’
How old he has grown, thought Gustad. The large hands had lost none of their skill or dexterity, but his fingers were gnarled, the nails yellowing like old newsprint. ‘I remember you selling paan here since I was a child.’
‘Oh yes. A very long time.’
‘May I ask how old you are?’
Peerbhoy laughed. ‘If you can count all my years to the day of my death, and subtract the number left from now till then, you will have my present age.’ He folded the betel leaf and tucked in the corner. ‘Eat that and tell me.’
Gustad opened wide, pushed it in. His mouth could barely contain the paan. ‘Very nice,’ he mumbled indistinctly. ‘How much?’
‘Only one rupee.’
Before getting on the bus, Gustad spat out half. The taste was a mixture of sweet and sour. Slightly pungent. Also tart and bitter. And mouth starting to feel funny.
Outside Khodadad Building, he jettisoned the rest. By now, the numbness had spread to his mind, which was not unpleasant, but made it difficult to think about Dr. Paymaster’s advice. He opened the door with his key. ‘Dinshawji? What brings you here?’
‘Forgive the trouble,’ he murmured. ‘It’s very important.’
Dilnavaz saw the red on Gustad’s lips and got a whiff of the bitter-sweet odour. She was disgusted. ‘You smell horrible! Behaving like a mia-laanda!’
‘Sorry, Dilnoo-darling,’ he said feebly, and went to the bathroom, gargled, used toothpaste. That got rid of some of the smell and colour. But the numbness continued to clutch at his mind as he returned to the front room.
‘What did doctor say?’ she asked. ‘And whatever made you eat a paan?’
‘Peerbhoy Paanwalla said it would be good for my leg.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘A cup of tea, please?’
‘Like children, you men are. Doing stupid things.’ She remembered the tea he had poured down the drain. ‘You are sure this time you want one?’ But he was too far gone to catch the sarcasm, and nodded meekly.
‘What about doctor?’
‘Saying idiotic-lunatic things. That we are not giving proper rest and diet. Blaming us! Wants to put Roshan in hospital. Everyone knows what happens in hospital. Blunders and botches, wrong injections, medicine mix-ups.’
Dinshawji nodded in agreement. ‘Go to a hospital when you are ready to die, is what I always say.’
‘Absolutely correct,’ said Gustad. ‘Bas, with doctors, any time they don’t know what to do — throw the patient in hospital. Who is there in the world that can take better care of my Roshan than I, I would like to know. He made the blood in my brain start to boil!’
‘Few months ago,’ said Dinshawji, ‘my doctor wanted to admit me to Parsi General. I said to him, General is no, and Field Marshal is also no. Then my Alamai took his side, so what to do? I had to go.’