Daulat stopped herself. Ah, the bitter thoughts of a tired old woman. But of what use? It was better not to think of these visits which were as inevitable as Minocher’s death. The only way out was to lock up the flat and leave Firozsha Baag, live elsewhere for the next few weeks. Perhaps at a boarding-house in Udwada, town of the most sacrosanct of all fire-temples. But though her choice of location would be irreproachable, the timing of her trip would generate the most virulent gossip and criticism the community was capable of, to weather which she possessed neither the strength nor the audacity. The visits would have to be suffered, just as Minocher had suffered his sickness, with forbearance.
The doorbell startled Daulat. This early in the morning could not bring a condolence visitor. The clock was about to strike nine as she went to the door.
Her neighbour Najamai glided in, as fluidly as the smell of slightly rancid fat that always trailed her. The pounds shed by her bulk in recent years constantly amazed Daulat. Today the smell was supplemented by dhansaak masala, she realized, as the odours found and penetrated her nostrils. It was usually possible to tell what Najamai had been cooking, she carried a bit of her kitchen with her wherever she went.
Although about the same age as Daulat, widowhood had descended much earlier upon Najamai, turning her into an authority on the subject of Religious Rituals And The Widowed Woman. This had never bothered Daulat before. But the death of Minocher offered Najamai unlimited scope, and she had made the best of it, besetting and bombarding Daulat with advice on topics ranging from items she should pack in her valise for the four-day Towers Of Silence vigil, to the recommended diet during the first ten days of mourning. Her counselling service had to close, however, with completion of the death rituals. Then Daulat was again able to regard her in the old way, with a mixture of tolerance and mild dislike.
“Forgive me for ringing your bell so early in the morning but I wanted to let you know, if you need chairs or glasses, just ask me.”
“Thanks, but no one will —”
“No no, you see, yesterday was dusmoo, I am counting carefully. How quickly ten days have gone by! People will start visiting from today, believe me. Poor Minocher, so popular, he had so many friends, they will all visit —”
“Yes, they will, and I must get ready,” said Daulat, interrupting what threatened to turn into an early morning prologue to a condolence visit. She found it hard to judge her too harshly, Najamai had had her share of sorrow and rough times. Her Soli had passed away the very year after the daughters, Vera and Dolly, had gone abroad for higher studies. The sudden burden of loneliness must have been horrible to bear. For a while, her large new refrigerator had helped to keep up a flow of neighbourly companionship, drawn forth by the offer of ice and other favours. But after the Francis incident, that, too, ceased. Tehmina refused to have anything to do with the fridge or with Najamai (her conscience heavy and her cataracts still unripe), and Silloo Boyce downstairs had also drastically reduced its use (though her conscience was clear, her sons Kersi and Percy had saved the day).
So Najamai, quite alone and spending her time wherever she was tolerated, now spied Minocher’s pugree. “Oh, that’s so nice, so shiny and black! And in such good condition!” she rhapsodized.
It truly was an elegant piece of headgear, and many years ago Minocher had purchased a glass display case for it. Daulat had brought it out into the living-room this morning.
Najamai continued: “You know, pugrees are so hard to find these days, this one would bring a lot of money. But you must never sell it. Never. It is your Minocher’s, so always keep it.” With these exhortatory words she prepared to leave. Her eyes wandered around the flat for a last minute scrutiny, the sort that evoked mild dislike for her in Daulat.
“You must be very busy today, so I’ll —” Najamai turned towards Minocher’s bedroom and halted in mid-sentence, in consternation: “O baap ré! The lamp is still burning! Beside Minocher’s bed — that’s wrong, very wrong!”
“Oh, I forgot all about it,” lied Daulat, feigning dismay. “I was so busy. Thanks for reminding, I’ll put it out.”
But she had no such intention. When Minocher had breathed his last, the dustoorji from A Block had been summoned and had given her careful instructions on what was expected of her. The first and most important thing, the dustoorji had said, was to light a small oil lamp at the head of Minocher’s bed; this lamp, he said, must burn for four days and nights while prayers were performed at the Towers Of Silence. But the little oil lamp became a source of comfort in a house grown quiet and empty for the lack of one silent feeble man, one shadow. Daulat kept the lamp lit past the prescribed four days, replenishing it constantly with coconut oil.
“Didn’t dustoorji tell you?” asked Najamai. “For the first four days the soul comes to visit here. The lamp is there to welcome the soul. But after four days prayers are all complete, you know, and the soul must now quickly-quickly go to the Next World. With the lamp still burning the soul will be attracted to two different places: here, and the Next World. So you must put it out, you are confusing the soul,” Najamai earnestly concluded.
Nothing can confuse my Minocher, thought Daulat, he will go where he has to go. Aloud she said, “Yes, I’ll put it out right away.”
“Good, good,” said Najamai, “and oh, I almost forgot to tell you, I have lots of cold-drink bottles in the fridge, Limca and Goldspot, nice and chilled, if you need them. Few years back, when visitors were coming after Dr. Mody’s dusmoo, I had no fridge, and poor Mrs. Mody had to keep running to Irani restaurant. But you are lucky, just come to me.”
What does she think, I’m giving a party the day after dusmoo? thought Daulat. In the bedroom she poured more oil in the glass, determined to keep the lamp lit as long as she felt the need. Only, the bedroom door must remain closed, so the tug-of-war between two worlds, with Minocher’s soul in the middle, would not provide sport for visitors.
She sat in the armchair next to what had been Minocher’s bed and watched the steady, unflickering flame of the oil lamp. Like Minocher, she thought, reliable and always there; how lucky I was to have such a husband. No bad habits, did not drink, did not go to the racecourse, did not give me any trouble. Ah, but he made up for it when he fell sick. How much worry he caused me then, while he still had the strength to argue and fight back. Would not eat his food, would not take his medicine, would not let me help with anything.
In the lamp glass coconut oil, because it was of the unrefined type, rested golden-hued on water, a natant disc. With a pure sootless flame the wick floated, a little raft upon the gold. And Daulat, looking for answers to difficult questions, stared at the flame. Slowly, across the months, borne upon the flame-raft came the incident of the Ostermilk tin. It came without the anger and frustration she had known then, it came in a new light. And she could not help smiling as she remembered.
It had been the day of the monthly inspection for bedbugs. Due to the critical nature of this task, Daulat tackled it with a zeal unreserved for anything else. She worked side by side with the servant. Minocher had been made comfortable in the chair, and the mattress was turned over. The servant removed the slats, one by one, while Daulat, armed with a torch, examined every crack and corner, every potential redoubt. Then she was ready to spray the mixture of Flit and Tik-20, and pulled at the handle of the pump.