The artist was far from his usual reticent self; he confided that he was going to save up to buy new painting supplies: ‘From now on, no more crayons. All pictures in oil and enamel only. Completely permanent. Nothing will spoil them.’ Then he introduced Gustad to brief hagiographies of saints such as Haji Ali, who had died while on pilgrimage to Mecca. The casket containing his mortal remains floated miraculously across the Arabian Sea, back to Bombay, till it came to rest on a rocky bed not far from shore. Devotees constructed his tomb and a mosque on the very spot, as well as a causeway to the mainland which could be walked at low tide.
Then there was Mount Mary, another place of miracles. A band of frightened fishermen, caught in a violent storm, were certain they would drown. But the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared and assured them they would be safe, for she would watch over them. In return, they were to build a church atop a hill in Bandra, and place in it a statue which would wash ashore at the foot of that hill. The fishermen reached dry land safely. Next morning, when the seas grew calm, a statue of Mother Mary with the Infant Jesus in her arms floated ashore at the very beach.
The artist unfolded one story after another, and Gustad listened, engrossed. What a wealth of knowledge, he thought. And apart from the way the wall had been transformed into a clean place, there was such a sense of goodness about it, about the holy pictures.
When it got too dark to see, Gustad went into the compound. Inspector Bamji’s Landmaster rolled in. ‘Arré bossie! Amazing thing you have done, really. In one shot all the fucking pissers gone. No more goo-mooter, no more stink. Just like a bloody miracle, bossie.’
‘With so many saints and prophets on the wall, one miracle should be easy.’
‘Too good, bossie, too good!’ said Bamji. ‘You have made it pisser-proof. But you know, I don’t understand the maader chod mentality of our neighbours. Can you believe it? Some of them (I won’t say names) are grumbling — that why should all perjaat gods be on a Parsi Zarathosti building’s wall. I’m telling you, sawdust in their brains.’
‘I think I can guess who they are.’
‘Oh, forget it, bossie. Not worth thinking about. Instead of being happy that smell is gone, nuisance gone, mosquitoes gone, saala maader chods find something else to cry about.’
‘Anyway,’ said Gustad, ‘the artist has drawn Zarathost Saheb. And also Meherji Rana and Dustoorji Kookadaru.’
‘Of course, bossie. More the merrier. A good mixture like this is a perfect example for our secular country. That’s the way it should be. The ghail chodias will complain even if God Himself comes down. Something they will find wrong with Him. That He is not handsome enough, or not fair enough, or not tall enough.’ Inspector Bamji waved and drove off. Gustad entered with his latchkey, laughing quietly to himself. Roshan was sobbing on the sofa.
‘She won’t stop,’ complained Dilnavaz. ‘Being so silly.’
‘Is it paining somewhere? What’s wrong?’ He rushed to the sofa and held her.
‘Nothing is paining. Her doll is lost, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean, lost? Such a big doll? It’s not a needle or button.’
‘We can’t find it anywhere in the house.’
‘Then say stolen. Lost!’ He wiped Roshan’s eyes. ‘Where was it left?’
‘On the sofa, for many days.’
‘Bas, you must have left the door open. So many times I have warned you. How long does it take for the fruitwalla or biscuitwalla or anyone to grab something and run?’
‘I never leave the door open,’ Dilnavaz stated emphatically, simultaneously remembering her frantic rushings to and from Miss Kutpitia’s.
‘Don’t worry,’ he comforted Roshan. ‘We will find it.’ Where on earth, he wondered helplessly. A miracle would be required, like the wall. Why did miracles and misfortunes always come hand in hand?
Chapter Fifteen
i
‘The money is all here. You better count it.’
Ghulam looked hurt. ‘Please don’t say that, Mr. Noble. I trust you with my life. You are Bili Boy’s friend, and mine.’
Bastard hypocrite, thought Gustad. Last time, menacing and vicious — like a cobra spreading its hood. Now all sweet and grateful. Bloody actor. ‘I hope the need to be your friend and the Major’s is ended.’
Ghulam sighed and opened a newspaper. ‘You saw this report from Delhi today? About Bili Boy.’ Curiosity got the better of Gustad’s bitterness.
‘See?’ said Ghulam. ‘They are out to get him. Three different magistrates in three days, to dispose of Bili Boy’s case.’ He mauled the paper angrily. ‘People at the very top are involved, believe me.’
The bastard is right. Something funny going on. ‘Major Bilimoria lied to me from the beginning. How can I believe or not believe? Who can I trust? You? The newspaper?’
Ghulam looked pained again. ‘Please, Mr. Noble, things are not what they seem. He is trapped by the ones at the top.’ Gustad’s face showed scorn for his words. ‘And what’s hurting him most in prison is not his enemies’ blows, but his friend thinking he has been betrayed. That’s why he wants to meet you and explain.’
‘What? But you said he is in prison.’
‘It can be arranged. If you will go to Delhi.’
‘Impossible. I have no leave, and my child is sick, besides, with—’
Ghulam reached inside his jacket. ‘He has written to you. Please read.’ Gustad opened the envelope:
My dear Gustad,
Where shall I start? Things have gone wrong. So hopelessly wrong. And I almost got you into trouble. Can you forgive me?
I have only one request to make now. Shameless of me to even mention the word request, but I want you to come to Delhi, so I can tell you what happened. It is a long complicated story, and you will not believe words on paper, because I sent you words on paper before and could not keep them from turning false. Please visit me. I want you to know and understand, hear from your own lips that you forgive me. Ghulam Mohammed will arrange everything. Please come.
Your loving friend,
Jimmy
Gustad folded the note and slipped it in his pocket.
‘Will you go?’ asked Ghulam.
‘I was tricked by him once.’
‘You are making a mistake, he is really your friend. But not for long if his enemies finish him off.’
‘Come on, now.’ Bloody actor. Will say anything to convince me.
‘No, really. Not exaggerating. If you dealt with these people, you would know. Please go.’