But Nusli turned to Gustad and asked him, with pleading eyes and imploring hand, to go next. Gustad obliged. Finally Nusli crept in, cringing, sitting as far back as possible. The man outside shook his head, slammed the van’s rear door shut and made his way to the front, next to the driver.
The journey was uneventful except when the van went over an extremely bumpy stretch. Everyone was badly shaken, and the bier received a rough jouncing. The dead man’s head moved around a bit, and Nusli shrieked in terror. This incident affected Alamai too in some way; she started to sniff and dab at her eyes with a little hanky, and Gustad was utterly disgusted. Better to stay quiet than to pretend. Shameless hypocrite. Have to hire mourners if she wants more tears. Thank God the quality of afterlife does not depend on the quantity of tears.
But he was wrong. After sniffing and dabbing for a while, Alamai showed how badly he had underestimated her histrionic capabilities. For as the hearse turned into the Doongerwadi gates and made its way up the hill, she was convulsed by a great sob that burst forth without warning. She rocked back and forth, her tall, thin trunk swaying alarmingly in the narrow space, as she clutched her head in her hands and wailed. ‘O my Dinshaw! Why! Why! Why! O Dinshaw!’ Like Tom Jones and his Delilah, thought Gustad. Dinshu would have enjoyed this. His domestic vulture, finally singing her torch song.
‘You have left me? Gone away? But why?’ Since Dinshawji refused to tell her why, she sobbed some more, then directed her efforts at the roof of the hearse. ‘O Parvar Daegar! What have You done! You took him away? Why? Now what will I do? Take me also! Now! Now and now only!’ and she smote her chest twice.
The driver slowed by the prayer bungalows on the lower level and, receiving no instructions, continued to the upper level. But Alamai had not made any arrangements. Gustad asked to return to the office.
‘These people,’ grumbled the driver to his companion. ‘They think they are out for a Sunday drive at Scandal Point, making me go round and round.’
Alamai was still wailing and beating her chest as Gustad led her into the office. ‘It is God’s will, Alamai,’ he said, a little weary of the business. He tried to calm her with all the de rigueur phrases he knew. ‘Dinshawji has been released from his pain and misery. Thanks to the mercy of the Almighty.’
‘That’s true,’ she moaned, the volume of her sobs quite respectable for one with so skimpy a chest. ‘He is released! At least from his suffering he is released!’ Then the man in the office offered information about rates and expenses.
‘Let us think of Dinshawji now,’ said Gustad. ‘Prepare for his prayers.’ He deftly guided his words in through little windows that opened between her sobs. ‘Do you want four-day prayers? At upper bungalee? Or one-day at lower bungalee?’
‘One-day, four-day, what does it matter? He is gone!’
‘For upper bungalee, you will have to live here for four days. Can you manage that?’ He suspected that a question of a practical nature would stem the tears.
It worked. ‘A-ra-ra-ra! Are you crazy? Four days? Who will look after my little Nusli? Who will cook his dinner, hunh?’ It was all very quick from here on. The time for the funeral next afternoon was scheduled, and Alamai agreed to have the announcement in the morning’s Jam-E-Jamshed. The clerk promised to telephone the newspaper before the presses rolled.
Once more, they occupied their places in the van. The driver took them to the allocated bungalee. It had a little verandah in the front leading to the prayer hall, and a bathroom at the back, where the deceased would be given the final bath of ritual purity. Alamai, Nusli, and Gustad took turns to wash their hands and faces before doing their kustis.
Meanwhile, Alamai got into a passionate argument with the men who came to perform Dinshawji’s suchkaar and ablutions. She forbade them to follow the traditional method of sponging the corpse with gomez. ‘All this nonsense with bull’s urine is not for us,’ she said. ‘We are modern people. Use water only, nothing else.’ But she insisted that the water be warmed first, because Dinshawji, it seemed, had a habit of catching a chill if he bathed with cold tap water.
Embarrassed, Gustad left her to do his kusti. Nusli gladly went with him. However, Alamai soon finished dealing with the suchkaar and followed them to the verandah.
Here, it was discovered that Nusli had forgotten to bring his prayer cap. ‘You boy-without-brain,’ she said, gritting her teeth, softly, in deference to the place and the occasion. ‘Coming to a place of prayer without prayer cap. To collect what dust, I am asking?’
Gustad tried to restore peace by pulling out his large white handkerchief. He folded it along the diagonal and showed Nusli how to cover his head with it. This was a perfectly respectable method. But Alamai uttered another imprecation: ‘Marey em-no-em. Which fire burned all his wits, I wonder,’ then decided to let the matter pass.
Gustad fled the verandah as soon as he knotted the last knot in his kusti. He did not know how much more of this woman he could tolerate. He went into the empty room and sat in a corner, in the dark. Two men entered with the body, white-clad now, and laid it on the low marble platform. The face and ears were left uncovered by the white sheet. A priest arrived and lit an oil lamp next to Dinshawji’s head.
How efficiently everything proceeds, thought Gustad. All routine. As though Dinshawji died every day. Alamai and Nusli took their seats. The priest picked up a sliver of sandalwood, dipped it in oil and held it to the flame. He transferred it to the thurible and sprinkled loban upon it. The fragrance of frankincense filled the room. The priest started to pray. For some reason, the quiet prayers made Nusli restless and fidgety. He kept squirming, adjusting the handkerchief on his head. But Alamai soon settled that wordlessly, by directing her elbow and knee into his person.
The dustoorji prayed beautifully. Each word emerged clear and full-toned, pure, as if shaped for the first time by human lips. And Gustad, lost in his thoughts, began to listen. It sounded so soothing. Such a wonderful voice. Like Nat King Cole’s when he sang ‘You Will Never Grow Old’. Soft, smooth, rich as velvet.
The dustoorji was not praying loudly, yet, little by little, in ever-increasing circles, his voice touched every point of the prayer room. Now and again, he added a stick of sandalwood to the thurible, or sprinkled loban. A dim bulb burned outside on the verandah. So dim, the bulb, it barely outlined the entrance, hazy behind the veil of fragrant smoke. Inside, the oil-lamp cast its soft glow on Dinshawji’s face, the flame wavering sometimes, moving with any slight breeze. And the soft glow on Dinshawji’s face moved in waves with the movement of the flame. On his face light and shadow played like little children, touching it gently, now here, and now there.
The prayers filled the dark room slowly. Slowly, the prayer sound was the dark room. And before he was aware of it, Gustad was under its gentle spell. He forgot the time, forgot Alamai, forgot Nusli. He listened to the music, the song in a language which he did not understand, but which was wondrously soothing. All his life he had uttered by rote the words of this dead language, comprehending not one of them while mouthing his prayers. But tonight, in the dustoorji’s soft and gentle music, the words were alive; tonight he came closer than he ever had to understanding the ancient meanings.