‘Don’t worry about Madon. I am going to stay here till the doctor sees you.’
‘Not necessary, yaar. This place is like a vacation home for me.’ His eyes twinkled the way they used to before Laurie Coutino’s complaint. ‘All the comforts and conveniences I can imagine.’ Then he sang softly, out of tune:
O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam,
Where they all have big beautiful tits;
But where seldom is heard an encouraging word,
And the patient is treated like shit.
Gustad laughed. ‘Shh! If they hear you, they will give you a tough time. These people don’t know how to appreciate a Poet Laureate. You know their favourite way to harass patients?’
‘What?’
‘When you ask for the bedpan, they make you wait and wait till you think you cannot hold it any more.’
Dinshawji chortled, holding his stomach where it hurt. ‘Arré, let them try that with me. I will just let go, dhuma-dhum, dhuma-dhum. Right in the middle of the bed. And make the whole hospital stink. More work for them only.’ They laughed again. Then Gustad shook his hand and left. At the registration desk, he made the clerk note Miss Kutpitia’s telephone number next to Alamai’s, just in case.
He did not return immediately to the bank. Outside, in the hospital grounds, the sun was shining on the lawns. He found a bench along a path between flowerbeds. A butterfly flitted among the flowers. He saw its brilliant orange and black patterns before it floated away. Sohrab had one like that in his collection. Monarch, he said its name was. I can remember perfectly. After the rain, at Hanging Gardens. Everything was in bloom. Sohrab all excited the night before, making plans. And so shy in the garden, with his sudra—and — racquet net. But he caught five that day. Monarch was first. He removed it from the killing-tin with his tweezers, its antennae crippled, thorax contorted. A cloud had passed over Sohrab’s face when he saw that twisted butterfly, and Gustad knew his son would not pursue the hobby for long.
How much of all this does Sohrab remember, he wondered. Very little, I think. For now. But one day he will remember every bit. As I do, about my father. Always begins after the loss is complete, the remembering.
The butterfly returned, gliding on a slow breeze. He watched till it became a speck and disappeared from sight.
iv
When the lumps of alum fell on the hot coals, they fused into a single blob. The blob bubbled and frothed, making a hissing, gurgling sound as it perched viscously atop the coals. Roshan watched with interest till the coals lost their red heat and the seething activity ended.
‘Now back to bed,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You will feel better after these prayers.’ She observed curiously, fearfully, the smooth, white contours the alum had assumed. How wickedly it sits on the coals. This evil thing. It separated easily from the embers, light and brittle. Like a fresh khaari biscuit, she thought, concealing it in a paper bag — the clue to the dark force harming her child.
Miss Kutpitia was delighted with the results. ‘Good, very good,’ she said. ‘What a nice, complete shape. Often it crumbles, and then it’s difficult to read. But you have done it so well.’ She placed the indeterminate mass on the telephone table and inspected it. ‘Come, you also look,’ she said. ‘But look at it without seeing it. That way it will take on different meanings. Look with the eyes you use when you dream.’
Dilnavaz tried, unsure of the instructions. ‘Reminds me of the Sister who brought Roshan home when she was sick.’
‘What?’ said Miss Kutpitia disbelievingly.
‘See, looks like the long white jhabbho the nuns wear.’
‘But would they want to hurt Roshan? They are good and godly people.’ She explained again. ‘Listen. If you use only your eyes, you will only see the things of this world. But we are dealing with forces from another world.’ They studied the alum again, silently, turning it this way and that.
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘Yes, definitely. Stand here,’ she said, pulling Dilnavaz over to the other side. ‘Now what do you see?’
‘A hat? No. A house? A house without windows?’
Sorely disappointed with Dilnavaz’s hamstrung imagination, Miss Kutpitia dismissed the suggestions with the contempt they deserved, then guided her eyes with the benefit of her own expert vision. ‘Look, what is this? A tail. And this, this, this, and that? Four legs. And over there?’
‘Two upright ears!’ said Dilnavaz, excited, catching on at last, to her mentor’s relief. ‘And that, that’s a snout!’
‘Right!’ said Miss Kutpitia. ‘What does it all add up to?’
‘A four-legged animal?’
‘Of course. A dog, I think.’
‘A dog? Sending out a dark and evil force?’
‘You are not remembering what I said before.’ Miss Kutpitia was impatient. ‘I said the alum shape will give us a clue. That does not mean it will show the culprit. Someone who owns a dog could be the one we are looking for.’
Dilnavaz clutched her face with both hands. ‘O my God!’
‘Now what is it?’
‘Mr. Rabadi! He has a white Pomeranian! He was—!’
‘Calm down. First of all, does he have a reason?’
‘Yes, yes! He and Gustad have been fighting all the time, since the time of the big dog. Tiger, who used to do his chhee-chhee in Gustad’s flowers. And now the small dog also barks at him. Then there was trouble with newspapers, and he thinks my Darius is after his daughter. Rabadi really hates us!’
Miss Kutpitia picked up the crucial shape. ‘You know what you have to do next.’
v
A fragrance was in the air near the compound wall. ‘Where is it coming from?’ asked Gustad. The artist was fixing up his pictures. Some people had the annoying habit of touching the wall when they performed their obeisances. This had never bothered him in the past: during his years of wandering and drawing, he had learned that impermanence was the one significant certainty governing his work. Whenever the vicissitudes and vagaries of street life randomly dispossessed him of his crayoned creations, forcing him to repaint or move on, he was able to do so cheerfully. If short-panted, knobbly-kneed policemen did not stamp out his drawings with regulation black-sandalled feet, then eventually they became one with the rain and wind. And it was all the same to him.
But of late, something had changed, and he became very protective of his work. ‘Hallo, sir. Not seen you for many days,’ he said, putting down the crayon. ‘Lots of new pictures are complete.’
‘Beautiful.’ Gustad sniffed the air again. ‘Such a nice smell.’
‘It’s coming from Laxmi,’ said the artist, and Gustad walked towards the goddess of wealth. Someone had stuck an agarbatti in a pavement crack next to the picture. The incense stick was down to the final inch, its vital end glowing a bright orange. Frail wisps of grey-white smoke rose gently, floated towards Laxmi’s face, then vanished in the evening air. Gustad enjoyed the delicate fragrance. As the agarbatti burnt itself out, a length of ash dangled momentarily before falling in a sprinkle around the stub.
‘The wall is getting more and more popular,’ said Gustad. ‘But what about money, you are getting enough?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the artist. ‘This is a very good location.’ He showed off his new clothes. ‘Terylene pant — latest fashion, bell-bottoms, with seven belt loops. And Tery-Cotton shirt, drip-dry.’ He tugged at the collar to display the label on the inside. But his feet were still bare. ‘I went to Carona, Bata, Regal Footwear. Tried lots of different-different styles. Shoes, sandals, chappals, but they all pinch and hurt. Barefoot is the best.’ Then he led Gustad to his most recent artwork: Gautama Buddha in Lotus Position under the Bodhi Tree; Christ with Disciples at the Last Supper; Karttikeya, God of Valour; Haji Ali Dargah, the beautiful mosque in the sea; Church of Mount Mary; Daniel in the Lions’ Den; Sai Baba; Manasa, the Serpent-Goddess; Saint Francis Talking to the Birds; Krishna with Flute and Radha Holding Flowers; the Ascension; and finally, Dustoor Kookadaru and Dustoor Meherji Rana.