The dustoorji cantillated the verses of the ancient Avesta. And as the notes and syllables were intoned, they mingled with the sounds of night. Steadily, from the trees and bushes rose the voices of night and nature, and from all the lush vegetation that grew here on the hill, around the Tower of Silence. The murmurings of leaf-hoppers and tree-dwellers, winged and crawling, ascended Doongerwadi, up towards the Tower of Silence. Their murmurings blended with the sandalwood and loban and prayer music floating forth from the room with the oil lamp, and Gustad understood it all.
iii
Dilnavaz was asleep, her head thrown back on the sofa. He opened the door with his latchkey, waking her.
‘Is it very late?’ she asked.
The clock showed just after ten. The pendulum was still. He checked his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty.’ He opened the glass and felt for the key.
‘What happened?’
He wound the clock, telling her about Alamai, Nusli, the hearse, their arrival at Doongerwadi. ‘When I went to the bungalee, I was so tired and sleepy, I said to myself, I’ll leave in five minutes. Then the prayers started and…’ He stopped, feeling a little foolish. ‘So beautiful. I kept listening.’
He moved the minute hand, waited for the ten-thirty bong, then pushed it to eleven. ‘Dinshawji’s face. On the marble slab. Looked so peaceful. And you will think I am crazy…I moved my head this way and that. Changed my way of seeing. Thinking it must be the light. But…’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘There was no doubt. He was smiling.’ He checked his watch again, and adjusted the clock’s minute hand. ‘Go on. Tell me I am crazy.’
‘Prayer is a very powerful thing.’
‘I saw his face when he was still at hospital. Also in the hearse. But nothing.’
‘Prayers are powerful. Prayers can put a smile on Dinshawji’s face, or in your eyes.’
He put his arm around her. ‘I hope when I go there will be a smile like that on my face. And in your eyes.’ The clock was still silent. He pushed the pendulum gently, and shut the glass.
Chapter Seventeen
i
Those who missed the funeral notice in Jam-E-Jamshed got the news at the bank, in a memo from the manager which included employees’ names under two headings: Funeral — Monday 3.30 p.m. and Uthamna Ceremony — Tuesday 3.00 p.m. Only Gustad was given a choice before the memo was written. Mr. Madon, who had also elected to attend the funeral, offered him a ride in his car.
There was a large turnout at Doongerwadi. Few relatives, but many, many friends and colleagues. The news had taken them by surprise, so they were neither dressed in white nor had their prayer caps. But they managed somehow, the women draping their saris over the head, the men using handkerchiefs or borrowing caps from the sandalwood shop at the bottom of the hill.
It was not yet three-thirty, and people were still arriving. The overflow was accommodated in a pavilion adjacent to the bungalee, along with the non-Parsis. Looking over the gathering, Gustad realized that Dinshawji had brought laughter into the life of almost every person now sitting there silently, waiting for the last rites to commence. Even Goover-Ni-Gaan Ratansa had been known to smile occasionally at Dinshawji’s jokes.
Alamai was saving a place for Gustad in the first row facing the marble platform. Mr. Madon accompanied him to the front, to offer his condolences to Alamai. She thanked him for coming and introduced Nusli. ‘It was Dinshawji’s hope that one day, before he retired, Nusli would start working with him, side by side, at the bank. Alas, now it is too late,’ she said, doing the first spadeful of groundwork regarding her plans for Nusli.
She decided it would be politic to seat Mr. Madon also in the first row, and offered him Nusli’s chair. And Nusli, to his credit, quietly moved further down. In his white dugli and maroon prayer cap the boy-man blended with the congregation, except at the moment when the dustoorjis gave the cue for the ritual of the dog. The Doongerwadi dog was led to the bier, the char-chassam dog, who, with his preternatural eyes, would contain the nassoo, the evil of death, and assist the forces of good. Nusli craned and peered, rising excitedly from his chair like a child seeing a dog for the first time. He made soft kissing sounds and snapped his fingers lightly to get the dog’s attention.
No one noticed Nusli, however, for when the dog walked round the bier, sniffed in silence and left, Alamai suddenly stood with her arms raised and wailed: ‘O dog! Make some little sound at least! O Parvar Daegar! No barking? Now it is certain! O my Dinshaw, now you have really left me!’
Women in her vicinity hastened to calm her. Gustad and Mr. Madon were only too glad to move aside, visibly relieved at not having to comfort Alamai. Gustad shook his head at the pathetic exhibition, more pitiful for its being based on her mistaken notions about the char-chassam dog. Poor Alamai, with her modernistic ideas and her orthodox confusions.
The women held her from rushing to the bier, hanging on to her arms, trying to wrestle her down into a chair. Of course, if tall, lean Alamai had really wanted to, she could have easily tossed aside the four or five gasping women. But she suddenly gave up and flopped back. The women hugged her, patted her cheeks, adjusted her sari and said variously comforting things.
‘God’s will, Alamai, God’s will!’
‘What can we do when Dada Ormuzd makes His Almighty Plans for us?’
‘Stay calm, Alamai, stay calm, please, for Dinshawji’s sake. Or he will have trouble getting to the Other Side.’
‘God’s will! God’s will!’
‘Peace, peace, Alamai! Too much crying makes the body very heavy. How will they carry him then?’
‘God’s will, Alamai, God’s will!’
The dustoorjis waited patiently until silence was restored, then continued with the Ahunavad Gatha. The rest of the prayers proceeded without interruption. At the conclusion, they invited Alamai to place loban and sandalwood on the afargan fire. All eyes were on her, the women alert lest she needed restraining again. But she seemed quite calm now.
After family members and relatives finished their obeisances, the other mourners filed past for the sezdoe. While they bowed and touched the ground three times, the room suddenly grew dark. The sunlight streaming into the prayer hall was blocked by four shadows. The nassasalers had arrived. They stood in the doorway, waiting to carry the bier to the Tower, to the well of vultures.
It was Gustad’s turn. He observed Dinshawji’s face carefully and bowed three times. Wish I could be one of the four. Surely Dinshu would prefer his friends. Silly custom, to have professional pallbearers. And on top of that, poor fellows treated like outcasts and untouchables.
The sezdoe ended. The nassasalers entered, clad in white from head to toe. They wore white gloves and white canvas shoes. People moved aside to give them a wide berth, fearful of contact. Dinshawji’s face was covered and the bier of iron carried from the prayer bungalee.