He walked down the long cold corridor and down the stairs. Through the reception area, through the lobby, till he was outside, in the hospital grounds. The lawn was slightly damp, there was a pleasing fresh-cut scent in the grass. The grounds were dark except for the dim light from an ornate cast-iron lamppost by the walkway. He headed for the little garden with the arbor where he had sat many Sundays ago, when Dinshawji had newly arrived at the hospital.
The bench, like the lawn, was damp. Too early for dew, it must have been made wet when the maali watered the flowers. Gustad spread his handkerchief and sat. The exhaustion he had kept at bay now overtook him. He felt drained, emptied of the last bit of energy that had got him through the day, took him to Crawford Market and to Mount Mary, that kept his limp under control, that made him suffer Alamai with forbearance.
It was cool on the bench under the trees. Peaceful. Like the countryside. Or a hill station, with the nocturnal insect sounds. Matheran, when I was eight years old. Where Pappa had taken the entire family: Grandma, Grandpa, the younger brother’s family (the one who was to betray Pappa’s trust and ruin him), and two servants. They had reserved four rooms at Central Hotel. It was raining when they alighted from the toy train that chugged slowly up the hill. Everything was damp as they arrived by rickshaw at the hotel. The manager was Pappa’s personal friend. He sent cups of hot Bournvita to their rooms. When it got dark and the lights went on, the mosquitoes came. It was the first time for Gustad, sleeping under mosquito nets. He slipped in through the opening, then his mother tucked the flap securely under the mattress. It was strange to say goodnight-Godblessyou through the gauze-like material and then listen to her say it. Her voice came clearly, but she looked so insubstantial behind the enveloping veil, far away, beyond his reach, and he was all alone, under the canopy of white, entombed in his mosquito-free mausoleum. It had been such a long journey, and he fell asleep.
But that picture. That picture of my mother — locked away for ever in my mind: my mother through the white, diaphanous mosquito net, saying goodnight-Godblessyou, smiling, soft and evanescent, floating before my sleepy eyes, floating for ever with her eyes so gentle and kind. That was the way he chose to remember her, when he was eighteen and she was dead.
And there had never again been cornflakes as delicious as the ones he ate at breakfast in Matheran. Or toast, with roses of butter, and marmalade. With the jabbering brown monkeys always waiting to snatch what fell or was carelessly left around. One had even grabbed a packet of Gluco biscuits from his hand. There were pony rides. Long walks in the mornings and evenings, to Echo Point, Monkey Point, Panorama Point, Charlotte Lake. With walking-sticks. Pappa bought one for each member of the party: freshly carved, with the smell of the tree still strong upon it. The cool, crisp mountain air filled their lungs, driving out the city staleness. At dusk it was chilly, and they needed pullovers. The manager told them stories of tiger hunts he had been on in these hills. And on the last night, the chef made a special pudding for them. After it was eaten, he came out to say goodbye, then pretended to be disappointed that they did not enjoy his pudding. They thought he was joking, for the bowl had been licked clean. But the chef picked up the empty bowl, broke it before their startled eyes, and distributed the shards in their plates, eating one himself to demonstrate. Everyone laughed at how well they had been fooled, crunching the pieces moulded from sugar and gelatine. ‘Now this is what you call a sweet dish,’ said Pappa.
But Gustad sat silent and downcast throughout dinner, thinking of the morrow, the end of the holiday. His father had tried to cheer him up, saying they would come again another year. And then, the bowl was broken and eaten. There was something so final and terrible about the act. He refused to eat a single piece of the flavoured sugar and gelatine.
And when the bookstore was bankrupt and the bailiff arrived, I remembered the broken bowl. Watching helplessly as the shelves were emptied and the books were loaded on lorries. Pappa begging and pleading in vain with the bailiff. The cleats on the bailiff’s shoes clattering brazenly on the stone floor. The men continuing their task, dismantling Pappa’s life, breaking it up into little pieces, feeding the pieces into the bellies of the lorries. Then rolling away, leaving in their wake a noxious smell. Diesel fumes. And I remembering the dinner-table in Matheran, the crunching down of the broken bowl — such a terrible, final act.
But what pudding was it that night? Lemon? No, it was pineapple. Or maybe caramel? Perhaps. Even memories do not stay intact for ever. Have to be careful, scrupulous, in dealing with them. And Dinshu is dead. Tomorrow, the vultures. Then, nothing. Except memories. His jokes. About the two men whose wives. And the other one, the bicycle pump. O give me a home where the nurses’ hands roam…
Gustad closed his eyes, nodded. Jerked his head up. But down it went again. And up. His spectacles slid a little bit lower. The third time he did not struggle to raise his head.
A loud honking across the dark, damp grass silenced the crickets and cicadas in the foliage, and ended Gustad’s brief nap. He pushed up his spectacles. A car was blocking the hospital driveway; a van waited to get through. He stood up. The building lights illuminated the legend on the van: HEARSE, and then the rest: Bombay Parsi Punchayet. The unpainted body of the vehicle shone eerily, silvery-white in the darkness.
He hurried across the lawn. The chirr-chirr-chirr-chirr started up in the grass again, as the cicadas reasserted their shrill presence. Hearses can be impeded by cars and barricades, he thought. But death. Death gets through every time. Death can choose to be prompt or fashionably late.
The offending car drove away, and the hearse rumbled over the remaining few yards. He reached the entrance just as two men emerged and climbed the steps into the lobby. Alamai was waiting. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Where were you all this time, Gustadji? I was thinking that by mistake-bistake you forgot and went home.’
Who does she think she is speaking to? Her mai-issi Nusli? Outwardly calm, he said, ‘I saw the hearse just arriving. Are you ready?’
The hospital formalities were completed, papers checked and handed over, and the two khandhias went to work. Nusli stood by with Alamai’s handbag while she did some last-minute rummaging in Dinshawji’s trunk. She asked the men as sweetly and politely as she could, ‘Please, can you also put this little paytee inside? So we can drive by my house and leave it there?’
‘Maiji, we are not allowed to do that. Straight back to Doongerwadi we have to go. Only one van is on duty.’
Alamai folded her hands meekly and bent her head sideways. ‘Look, bawa, a helpless old widow will give you her blessings if you can do this.’
But the two men were adamant: they had already glimpsed her true colours. ‘Sorry, not possible.’
She flung down her hands and turned away in a huff, walking stiff and straight as a ramrod to the door, muttering about the extra trip by taxi she would have to make. ‘Lazy, stubborn loafers, she said under her breath, to no one in particular. Nusli followed her with the handbag, then the khandhias with the bier of iron, and finally Gustad.
In the hearse, the bier was secured to one side. Along the length of the van was a bench seat for passengers. The driver started the engine, and Alamai motioned to Nusli to get in. Hunching his shoulders, he crossed his hands over his chest and backed away. ‘No, Auntie! Not me first! Please, not me first!’
‘You boy-without-courage! You will remain a beekun-bylo for ever.’ She pushed him away with the back of her hand. ‘Move aside, muà animal, move aside! I will go first.’ Ignoring the attendant’s hand waiting to help her up, she was inside in one bound. ‘Now muà coward! You climb now and hide under my petticoat.’