‘Oh my gosh!’ said the tall man. ‘It’s Gustad Noble, isn’t it?’
‘Malcolm! After how many years!’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Where have—!’
They put down their shopping baskets and shook hands, all four of them, and laughed and hugged, and slapped each other’s backs. Then Malcolm placed his left hand on Gustad’s shoulder to squeeze it — he still had that habit — and shook hands all over again. Overcome by the chance meeting, it was a while before they could talk sensibly and exchange news, catch up in some meagre way on their decades of separation. Malcolm was still single, and had fulfilled his early ambition of earning his living by music. ‘But who can afford pianos and lessons these days? With the refugee tax and all? Remember, supply and demand — too many teachers around.’ Now he had barely enough pupils to keep him in sheet music and scores, and to pay the piano-tuner to come regularly. ‘Records also getting difficult to buy. Bloody smugglers charge more and more. Even at Stanley & Sons, the selection is hopeless now, and prices so high.’ In the end, he had had to take a job at the municipality, he confessed.
‘What a shame,’ said Gustad. ‘You have such a gift.’
‘Only ones who make money in music are those monkeys who play for recording studios. Rubbish like jingles or Hindi movie soundtracks. But I cannot sell my soul that way. Bloody ting-ting-ting-ting all day on the piano? After my years of classical training? Forget it.’
Finally, the conversation came to the present. ‘So that’s great,’ said Malcolm. ‘You still come here for your beef.’
‘No, not really. We buy from the goaswalla. More convenient, comes to the building every day.’ He did not reveal his main reason for abandoning Crawford Market; it would sound silly, his fear of riots and bloodshed.
But cliché or no cliché, thought Gustad, better to be safe than sorry where fanatics were concerned. Like all riots, it had started with a peaceful rally. A vast congregation of sadhus wielding staffs, tridents, and various other equally sanctified religious instruments, staged a demonstration outside Parliament House to protest against cow slaughter. Familiar with modern trends in political campaigning and public relations, they also brought along a herd of cows. Slogans were raised, banners unfurled, curses showered on government personnel; drums, bells, horns, cymbals added to the clamour; and the gentle creatures in their midst began lowing nervously. The wrath of the gods was invoked upon the murderers of sacred Gomata, and suddenly, quite inexplicably (some claimed it was the Hand of Providence), the gathering turned violent. The police opened fire. Cows and sadhus stampeded. Staffs and tridents, hooves and horns, bullets and truncheons, all took their toll. And there was also a political death: the Home Minister who sympathized with the sadhus and encouraged their demands had to hand in his resignation. Then the Registered Trade Union of Sadhus and Holy Men sanctioned country-wide agitation, and it was a long time before cow-slaughterers and beef-eaters could breathe freely again. Gustad stayed clear of Crawford Market; his beef-buying trips were never resumed.
‘Buying from goaswalla?’ said Malcolm. ‘Chut-chut, man, it’s just not the same thing. That goaswalla will never get you the neckie part. But then what brings you here today?’
Gustad told him about Roshan’s illness. Despite the gap of thirty years, he felt as comfortable with Malcolm as he had during their college days. He also confided the disappointment about Sohrab, the heartache, the blighted future. Then the subject of Dinshawji came up: ‘It’s so sad, so painful, to see this wonderful character lying helpless. My one true friend ever since you and I lost touch.’ While Gustad said this, he was also thinking of Jimmy Bilimoria, but kept that story untold — the Major was to be expunged from his life.
Malcolm was touched by his friend’s troubles. ‘There is a way to help your child,’ he said. ‘And your sick friend. Have you heard of Mount Mary?’
Gustad started. What a coincidence! ‘Yes, I have.’
‘I don’t mean the joke we used to tell in college,’ Malcolm said laughingly. ‘You know, asking the girls the way to mount Mary. I am talking about the Church of Mount Mary.’
‘Oh, so that’s what the joke meant. But yes, I know the church also. Just recently a pavement artist told me the miracle of Mount Mary.’
Malcolm was impressed by Gustad’s account of the brilliant artist who had transformed the black stone wall. ‘But come with me to Mount Mary,’ he said. ‘Ask Mother Mary for help. She will cure Roshan and your friend. Miracles are happening every day, I have personally witnessed so many.’ He offered to help pick out a chicken first, and they started walking in that direction. Gustad learned more about the church, how it had a tradition of welcoming Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, regardless of caste or creed. Mother Mary helped everyone, She made no religious distinctions. And as they made their way through the chicken coops, Gustad felt it was like their college Sundays again, those long-ago mornings of church and beef and Christianity. He listened to his friend while examining the fowl the shopkeeper held out.
‘Wait, wait,’ Malcolm interrupted, ‘see that?’ He pointed to a misshapen foot. ‘Must have had a fight. Never buy a chicken that’s been in a fight.’ He made the man put it back, admonishing him: ‘You think we are blind or what?’ He took over the selection process, and Gustad was glad. Malcolm reminded him of Pappa during the prosperous days — in his element at Crawford Market.
‘Damn good chicken,’ said Malcolm, finding one that pleased him. ‘Feel here. Under the feathers, man.’ Poking perfunctorily with one finger, Gustad agreed. The man took his knife and went to the back. Malcolm followed, beckoning to Gustad to come too. ‘Have to be very sharp with these buggers, or they exchange it.’ The man asked if they wanted the head. Gustad declined, and it was tossed into the gutter, to the waiting crows.
‘Come with me,’ said Malcolm, as they retraced their steps to the bus stop. ‘We can go to Mount Mary this afternoon.’
In the old days, Gustad would have promptly dismissed such an invitation. Dabbling in religions was distasteful and irreverent, an affront to the other faith and his own. But Mount Mary was different — a feeling almost of pre-ordination about it. First, the pavement artist, describing the miracle. Then suddenly meeting Malcolm today. And hearing the same thing. Like divine intervention. Maybe Dada Ormuzd is telling me something.
‘OK, we will go.’
‘Good,’ said Malcolm, pleased. ‘See, I will catch the two o’clock local from Marine Lines. You wait on the platform at Grant Road and watch for me.’
‘Right,’ said Gustad. ‘What’s the time now?’ It was ten-thirty, ten-thirty by the hundred-year-old clock in Crawford Market’s façade, faithfully keeping the hours (except during power cuts) for butchers and pet-shop owners, merchants and black-marketeers, shoppers and beggars, all under one vast roof.
Gustad watched Malcolm walk home down the road to Dhobitalao where Sohrab’s old school was. From the bus stop he could see the walls and railings around the police station near St Xavier’s. They used to train police dogs in that yard. Once, he and Sohrab had watched through the barred gate, as the Doberman pinschers attacked dummies and mauled their trainers’ heavily padded arms.