‘But it’s impossible to go to Delhi. My office—’
‘Mr. Noble, please,’ he pleaded. ‘Three days is all it will take. You leave by train, arrive next morning, and go to the prison. I will arrange for the visit. You will be back on the third day.’ He pulled a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and held it towards Gustad.
‘What’s that?’
‘Return ticket. Please.’
Gustad opened the envelope and saw a sleeping-berth reservation for Friday. The prison address, too. He pushed it back at Ghulam. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Please, Mr. Noble. For the sake of your friend. Who still loves you like a brother.’
Like a brother. Yes. That’s how I loved him. All these years in the building. Our prayers at sunrise, the children growing up, so many kindnesses, the fun and laughter we shared. And what has it all come to now? Jimmy sitting in jail. Asking for me. What can I say?
‘OK.’ He accepted the train ticket. And as he said the word, his hatred of Ghulam sublimated as well.
‘Thank you, Mr. Noble. Bili Boy will be so happy to see you. But one thing. Please don’t tell him what I said. If he still has some hope, please let him keep it.’
On his way to the door he noticed the empty bottle of Hercules XXX on the sideboard. Gustad had not been able to throw it away.
‘That was Bili Boy’s favourite. Right from the very old days, in Kashmir.’
‘I know,’ said Gustad. ‘He gave me that bottle.’
Dilnavaz returned from Miss Kutpitia and let herself in. She was surprised to hear them chatting pleasantly as Ghulam left. ‘What did he want?’
Gustad explained. She was suspicious about the whole arrangement but did not argue, as the telephone message was very urgent: ‘Parsi General phoned. They could not get Alamai’s number.’
He looked up, and knew. ‘Dinshawji…?’
She nodded. ‘About one hour ago.’
He covered his face with his hands. ‘Poor Dinshu. Was it peaceful? Did they say?’
‘He became unconscious late in the afternoon.’
He stood up. ‘I must go at once. If they could not get Alamai, it means he is alone.’
‘But I don’t understand. You were there. What time did you leave him?’
His lie, his attempted half-truth, was no longer of any consequence. ‘I did not go to Dinshawji today. I went to a church in Bandra. Mount Mary.’
It baffled her. ‘Church? All of a sudden?’
He sat again, supporting his chin. ‘Don’t worry, I have not converted or anything. I met Malcolm Saldanha at Crawford Market this morning. It was amazing — we talked like we never lost touch.’ He narrated the story of Mount Mary. ‘And Malcolm says miracles are still happening every day.’
She understood perfectly. After all, Gustad and she desired the same destination, only their paths were different.
‘But,’ he said bitterly, ‘one thing is sure. There was no miracle for Dinshawji.’
She touched his shoulder gently. ‘You tried your best. It’s not your fault.’
Her attempt to comfort struck like the arrowhead of an accusation. He thought of the illegal deposits, of Laurie’s complaint, and then Dinshawji’s silence. It was my fault. Everything changed when Dinshu became quiet. I silenced him.
‘He was sickly for so long,’ Dilnavaz tried again. ‘Remember how he looked when he came for Roshan’s birthday?’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Thussook-thussook, my cart rumbles along. Over and over he heard it in his mind, thussook-thussook, my cart keeps rolling. Now, finally, the cart had come to a rest, its wanderings halted. Peace at last, my Poet Laureate.
‘It’s all right if the crying comes.’ She leaned against his chair to put her arm around him. He raised his eyes, burning with the tears that could not flow. He lifted his eyes defiantly to her face, so she could see them dry, observe them dry and unblinking. Only then did he put his arm around her. And while they were thus, Roshan entered the room and rejoiced to see her parents hugging. She tried to encircle them both with her skinny arms. Gustad lifted her into his lap.
‘How are you feeling, sweetoo?’
‘OK.’ She examined their faces. ‘But why are you looking so sad, Daddy?’ She put her fingers to the corners of his lips and tried to stretch them into a smile, giggling at her efforts.
‘Because we received some sad news,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘You know Dinshawji who came for your birthday?’
Roshan nodded. ‘He kept tickling me and making me laugh, with gilly-gilly-gilly. He said, “I wiss you health, I wiss you wealth, I wiss you gold in store.” ’
‘What a memory. My clever little bakulyoo.’
Dilnavaz continued: ‘He was very sick, in hospital. Today he passed away and went to Dadaji, to heaven.’
Roshan considered this gravely. ‘But I’m also very sick. When will I go to Dadaji?’
‘What idiotic-lunatic talk.’ Gustad used the phrase of anger to mask his dread. ‘You are not very sick, you are much better. First you will grow up and get married, have children. Then they will marry and have their children, and you will be an old, old dossi before Dadaji is interested in calling you to heaven.’ He looked at Dilnavaz reproachfully: she should not have spoken like that. He hugged them both again before leaving for the hospital.
In the compound, Cavasji’s voice was ringing: ‘Tomorrow is Monday morning, do You know that? And the Tatas will have their board meeting! When You bestow Your bounties on them, remember us also! Be fair now! Bas, it is too much for—!’
Mrs. Pastakia screamed: ‘Shut up, you crazy old fellow! My head is bursting into a thousand pieces!’ Gustad wondered where her husband was, allowing her to talk this way to his father.
ii
Visiting hours had ended. He explained to the nurse on duty why he was there, and she accompanied him to the ward. ‘When did he pass away?’
She consulted the watch pinned to her chest. ‘For the exact time I have to check the records. But about two hours ago. His pain was too much just before he became unconscious. We had to give him lots of morphine.’ Her voice was sharp, it echoed along the cold corridor walls. A chatty one. Usually they have no time for the simplest question. Rude as rabid bitches. ‘Very unfortunate, no one was here with him,’ she said accusingly. ‘You are brother? Cousin?’
‘Friend.’ Poking her nose. None of her business.
‘Oh,’ said the nurse, in a tone that withdrew the accusation. But the barb remained, goading his flesh, along with the others he had twisted in himself. On Dinshawji’s day I went with Malcolm. Left him to die wondering why I did not come.
‘Here we are,’ said the nurse.
‘He’s still in the ward?’
‘What to do? If empty room is available, patient is put there.’ She pronounced it ‘avleble’. ‘Otherwise nothing we can do.’ He wondered about the way she used patient — he would have expected ‘deceased’ or ‘body’. ‘That is why we like relatives to come soon to make arrangements. Beds are in such short supply.’
‘His wife is inside?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said the nurse, halting at the ward entrance.
Gustad entered hesitantly and looked towards Dinshawji’s bed. The figure of the woman he expected to see, seated in vigil, was missing. He gazed absently upon the rows of sleeping patients, heard their breathing and snores.
And if I did not know Dinshawji is gone, he would also have the sleeping look. Strange feeling. To stand beside his bed, and he cannot see me. Unfair advantage. As though I am spying on him. But who knows? Maybe Dinshu is the one with the advantage, spying from Up There. Laughing at me.