The bus came, and Gustad cast an anxious glance at his basket. The old dread about dripping blood still haunted him. Although in the last few weeks he had perfected his basket technique: layers of newspaper at the bottom and sides, and a polythene bag within — if the polythene leaked at the seams, then the newspaper would soak up the effluence. It was performing flawlessly, but as though to justify his anxiety, the woman in front turned and eyed him nastily. She reached for a sari corner to cover her nose and mouth. Her eyes continued to swivel from the basket to his face.
She knows what’s in there. Smells my fear, like a dog. Eyes of a Doberman. These bloody vegetarians. A sixth sense for meat. No luck on buses…that time from Chor Bazaar. Bumped into Madam Wide-Arse. How upset. But how quickly I charmed her.
He smiled at the memory, and the vegetarian woman read arrogance into it. She made her eyes spit venom.
iii
‘I’m off to see Dinshawji,’ Gustad told Dilnavaz after lunch. He hoped to return early enough to stop at the hospital and convert his lie into a half-truth. He felt guilty, using up Dinshawji’s afternoon visiting hours.
At two o’clock, a fast train to Virar pulled into Grant Road station. The surging, jostling exchange of bodies commenced, then the train pulled out: the overflowing third class; the cushioned first class; the Ladies Only, windows covered with special metal grills, with chinks so tiny, not one molesting, Eve-teasing finger could poke through. On the platform, the sign changed to show the next arrival. Gustad examined the display, trying to unravel its intricacies. Meanwhile, the train came in, and Malcolm called to get his attention. In a few minutes, at Bombay Central, the two were able to get window seats. ‘Slow train,’ said Malcolm. ‘Supply and demand, always.’
Gustad read the station names as the blue, white and red signs on the platforms periodically swept past his window. Mahalaxmi. Lower Parel. Elphinstone Road. Dadar. ‘Dadar,’ said Gustad. ‘I had to come here with Sohrab when he was in seventh standard. To get his textbooks at Pervez Hall.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They do social work, helping students.’ He smiled as he remembered. ‘Sohrab was so excited with all the books there. He wanted to see everything, the books for eighth standard, ninth standard, tenth standard, SSC, all of them. The old lady said to him, dikra, do it slowly, one year at a time, gobbling too much will give you indigestion.’ Malcolm laughed at the imitation of the old lady’s voice, as Gustad continued: ‘I used to be the same way, when I first began going to my father’s bookstore. Trying to examine every book immediately. As if they were all going to vanish.’ His face clouded over at his inopportune words. ‘But they did. With the bailiff.’ Matunga station.
‘But you remember how we took my uncle’s van to hide the furniture? In the night?’
‘Yes, just one day before the bloody bailiff’s truck.’
‘You still have that furniture?’
‘Of course. What superb quality. My grandfather made it, you know. Still in perfect condition,’ he said proudly. The train passed over Mahim Creek, and the stink of raw sewage mingled with salty sea smells made them wrinkle their noses.
‘How much longer?’ asked Gustad.
‘Next one is Bandra.’
An old woman shuffled towards them on the platform. Her shoulder was weighed down by a khaki cloth bag crammed with candles. Rheum, like stubborn tears, lingered at the corners of her eyes. Out of the bag’s fraying mouth, the white candlewicks peeked clownishly, a silent cluster of tiny tongues supplicating on the old woman’s behalf. Her wizened face and grey-streaked white hair reminded Gustad of the bird-woman in Mary Poppins, on the steps of St Paul’s. Poor thing, how old and tired…feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag…special film première, it was. St Xavier’s High School’s gala night, to raise funds for the new gymnasium. And that other song. Such a long word. Sohrab was the only one who could remember it when we all got home. ‘Superca…superfragi…Supercalifragi…’
‘What?’ said Malcolm.
‘Oh, nothing.’ What a memory, what a brain the boy had. And such a waste.
‘Candles for Mount Mary,’ the old woman murmured, pulling a handful out of the khaki bag.
Gustad hesitated. ‘Keep walking, man,’ said Malcolm. ‘Cannot trust these people. They mix impurities, then the candle does not burn properly. Near the church you get better quality.’
The old woman hawked feebly, spat her reproach, and called after them: ‘If everybody buys near the church only, what will happen to me, henh? How will I put a morsel in my mouth?’ She said more, but the words were lost in a fit of coughing.
Outside the station, Malcolm negotiated the fare with an unmetered taxi. When they were off, the driver reached under his seat and came up with a bunch of medium-sized candles. ‘For Mount Mary?’ he asked eagerly.
‘No,’ said Malcolm.
The driver persisted. ‘You want bigger? I have all different-different sizes in the dickey.’
‘No man, we don’t need your candles.’ He gave the I-will-handle-it look to Gustad, who was preoccupied with the partly-raised window rattling violently. The handle was missing, so the glass could not be wound up or down.
‘I have everything for Mount Mary in the dickey,’ said the driver. ‘Complete set. Hands and feet, legs and thighs. Full heads. Separate fingers and toes.’ The litany of body parts distracted Gustad from the clattering window. ‘Knees and noses, not to forget eyes and ears. Everything that you—’
‘How many times to say no before you understand?’ snapped Malcolm. Sulking, the driver shifted gears vengefully as the hill approached. The car began to climb. Gradually, between trees and buildings, they glimpsed slices of the sea, coruscating like shards of a mirror. The rocky beach became visible now, shining hot and black in the sun. ‘We can go there,’ said Malcolm, ‘after church. It’s so pleasant to sit on the rocks when the tide comes in with the breeze. So peaceful.’
Children clutching candles ran up to the taxi as it halted by the gates. The driver shooed them off. Gustad offered to share the fare but Malcolm refused: ‘You are my guest today.’ They turned their attention to the two carts by the gates, seeing which, the taxi-driver-cum-spurned-candleseller flung his arms in the air. He drove off, spinning his wheels and turning sharply. A cloud of dust enveloped the two men. ‘Bastard,’ said Malcolm.
The four-wheel carts were stacked with everything for the churchgoer. They had tarpaulin roofs supported on a frame of metal rods. One was being attended to by an elderly woman, portly and in black, who sat like a statue on a wooden stool. A smartly dressed young fellow looked after the other cart. Their inventories were virtually identicaclass="underline" rosaries, holy pictures, plastic Jesuses, pendant-size silver crosses on silver chains, desk-size crucifixes, wall-size crucifixes, Bibles, framed photographs of Mount Mary, souvenirs of Bombay for out-of-town pilgrims. But all these items occupied the peripheries of the carts. The central display was dedicated to the wax products.
Arranged in neat rows were fingers, thumbs, hands, elbows, arms (inclusive of fingers), kneecaps, feet, thighs and truncated legs. The hands and feet came in left and right, in two sizes: child and adult. Skulls, eyes, noses, ears, and lips were grouped separately from limbs and digits. Complete male and female wax figures were also available. There they all lay, corresponding to the catalogue the taxi-driver had recited, divisions and subdivisions of limbs and torsos anatomically organized.