‘OK, let me think about it,’ said Gustad, making the concession solely to get away from the persistent entreaties.
The night air was thick. Stifling as that rascal’s presence was. Smelling like the black stone wall before the artist came. The gutters were overflowing again, the stench and noxious gases bubbled steadily. Gustad wondered if Dr. Paymaster, the shopkeepers, whores and mechanics were getting results from their complaints to the municipality. He hurried along, holding his breath and, when he had to, inhaling as shallowly as possible.
Tehmul was waiting in the compound when he got back. ‘GustadGustadveryveryimportantletter.’ It was from the landlord, thanking the tenants for signing the petition against road-widening. He promised to keep them informed about the lawsuit. Of the thirty copies, Gustad kept one and instructed Tehmul to deliver the rest. Way the courts work, we will all be old and dead. By the time there is a verdict. Thank God.
ii
Through the remaining days of October, Dinshawji’s condition did not improve. He seemed to shrink in his hospital bed. His arms, legs, neck, face — everything withered, except the lump in his stomach, that insidious mound under the sheet. And his size twelve feet, erect, like twin sentries at the foot of the bed.
Gustad visited as often as he could, at least twice a week, and thought it curious that he never came across Dinshawji’s wife during the bedside hours. He brought Dinshawji up to date on bank news and personalities. To amuse him, he narrated Mr. Madon’s row with an employee, or described what Laurie Coutino had worn to work. ‘Down to here, her blouse was today,’ he said, undoing the top three buttons of his shirt and tucking the fronts in sideways to make a deep plunging V.
‘Go, go! Couldn’t be,’ Dinshawji chuckled.
‘Swear,’ he said, pinching the skin under his Adam’s apple to validate the oath. ‘Down to here. Without exaggeration. When she walked, her boblaas shivered like mounds of Rex Jelly, I am telling you.’
‘Arré, stop torturing me, yaar. Please, I touch your feet!’
‘All day long, the fellows kept going to her desk with some excuse. Those buggers. Even Goover-Ni-Gaan Ratansa. You won’t believe it, finally old Bhimsen also, tottering and crawling. Memsaab, he said, you want tea-coffee? Some cream-cracker biskoat? That was just too much.’
Dinshawji shook with laughing. ‘What about Madon?’
‘He got his share in his private cabin. In the Officers’ Enclave. Said his own secretary was busy, so he wanted to give Miss Coutino some dictation.’
‘Sure,’ said Dinshawji. ‘He must have given her the d-i-c and forgotten about the t-a-t-i-o-n after seeing her Rex Jelly.’
The subject exhausted, Gustad told him the money had been returned to Ghulam Mohammed, and showed him the Major’s note. ‘So what do you think of that?’
‘Difficult to say,’ said Dinshawji, ‘but if I were in your place I would go.’
‘And if it is another trick?’
Dinner arrived, and the bed-table was positioned over Dinshawji. The ward boy briskly served a bowl of soup and a covered platter, then wheeled the food trolley to the next bed. Dinshawji looked quite helpless, pinned under the trestle.
‘Shall I raise the head a little?’ asked Gustad. He wound the handle but the feet began to rise. He inserted the key in the next slot and tried again; the top half slowly elevated. ‘Comfortable?’
There was a grateful nod, and he flipped the lever to lock the bed in place. Dinshawji dipped the spoon in the bowl and conveyed it to his mouth. But his hand shook wildly, the soup dribbled throat-wards down his chin. He smiled sheepishly, trying to wipe it with the back of his hand. Hesitantly, Gustad unfolded the napkin and cleaned him up. When Dinshawji let him do that without protest, he took the spoon and began feeding him. ‘A little bread with it?’
‘Yes, please.’ Gustad broke a slice into the soup. He sank the floating pieces, then fished them out one by one.
The covered dish held a mutton cutlet and a small helping of boiled vegetables. ‘Bas, I am full,’ said Dinshawji.
‘No, no, you must eat.’ Gustad divided the cutlet into manageable mouthfuls, forked a piece and held it to his mouth. ‘Come on, come on. Open up. It’s very tasty.’
‘Please, yaar, the soup filled my stomach and my chest.’
‘Be a good boy, now, Dinshu.’
‘OK, on one condition — we eat half-half.’ Gustad agreed. Midway through the meal he tried to pass on an extra piece. ‘Cheating, cheating,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Your turn.’ After they had emptied the plate in this way, he drank a little water through the spout of his feeding cup. He watched Gustad put the tray aside for the ward boy and wind down the bed slightly. ‘Sorry for all this, Gustad.’
‘Rubbish. I got to enjoy your tasty cutlet,’ said Gustad. Unless he kept up the façde, he knew he would descend into gloom and sadness, which would not be good for Dinshawji.
Later, as he was leaving, Dinshawji thanked him again. His voice was almost tearful. ‘Don’t know what I would do without your visits.’
‘Forget it, yaar. It’s nothing. Actually, helps to pass my time also.’ He straightened the pillow. ‘Chaalo, goodnight. And don’t do any ghaylaa-chayraa with the night nurse.’
‘Have you seen her? Real futaakro. My Lady with the Lamp. She can borrow my candle any time her lamp is out of order.’
Gustad walked down the cold, clattering corridor, wondering how Dinshawji managed when he did not come. Did the ward boy or nurse feed him, or was he left to spatter and spill? And where was the domestic vulture? He had wanted to ask, but it would have embarrassed Dinshawji.
So all through the rest of October and the first half of November, he visited regularly. On Sundays, he spent the entire afternoon and evening with Dinshawji. Towards the middle of November, his condition worsened, and he was fed intravenously. Now Gustad could only sit, helpless, and watch as the bottles, hanging cold and spiritless from the rack, poured their indifferent fluids into his friend. He suddenly realized how much he had come to look forward to feeding Dinshawji. Now the transparent tubes and shiny needles had taken over.
But he did not falter in his visits, especially the Sunday afternoon ones, which, for some reason, meant more to Dinshawji than all the weekday ones. Sundays had become extremely busy days for Gustad. Dr. Paymaster’s new strict diet for Roshan forced him to resume his hated Sunday morning Crawford Market routine. She had to be fed a variety of boiled foods, not even a hint of spice. Also, coconut water every morning, chicken soup for lunch and dinner, the juice of three sweet lemons in the afternoon, and a drink of Bovril as and when desired in between.
The money from the sale of Gustad’s camera was swallowed by the medicine bills. And the special diet was proving very expensive, especially the Bovril, which could be bought only on the black-market. He wondered whether to sell his watch or his gold wedding cuff-links next. But while he was at work one day, Dilnavaz got Mrs. Pastakia to keep an eye on Roshan, and went to Jhaveri Bazaar. She checked at three different shops and accepted the best offer for her two gold wedding bangles.
She gave the money to Gustad, and it was too late for his objections. She added, ‘For God’s sake, don’t bring home the chicken alive again.’
If it had not been for his child’s sake, nothing could have induced Gustad to endure the sights and smells of Crawford Market; it still repulsed him as much as ever. Every Saturday night he went to bed with a trace of nausea that grew stronger towards dawn. But one morning, when he entered the great crowded hall and made his way towards the back where the chickens were, he was pleasantly surprised. The sharp, importunate smells of provisions and spice shops came first, then the fruit stalls, where a huge pile of discarded pineapples and oranges, on the verge of putrefaction, emitted a sickly sweet odour. In the open space near the egg shops, next to the poultry, a tall, lean man was approaching. He looked so familiar that Gustad stared, trying to place him. When their eyes met, the tall man had the same look of partial recognition on his face.