They walked in, her rancid-fat-dhansaak-masala smell embroidered by the attar of Ramchandra’s hair oil. The combination made Daulat wince.
“Forgive me for disturbing you again, I was just now leaving with Ramu, many-many things to do today, and I thought, what if poor Daulat needs chairs? So I brought them now only, before we left. That way you will…”
Daulat stopped listening. Good thing the bedroom door was shut, or Najamai would have started another oil lamp exegesis. Would this garrulous busybody never leave her alone? There were extra chairs in the dining-room she could bring out.
With Sarosh’s cassette recorder, she could have made a tape for Najamai too. It would be a simple one to make, with many pauses during which Najamai did all the talking. Neighbour Najamai Take One — “Hullo, come in” — (long pause) — “hmm, right” — (short pause) — “yes yes, that’s okay” — (long pause) — “right, right.” It would be easy, compared to the tape for condolence visitors.
“ … you are listening, no? So chairs you can keep as long as you like, don’t worry, Ramchandra can bring them back after a month, two months, after friends and relatives stop visiting. Come on Ramu, come on, we’re getting late.”
Daulat shut the door and withdrew into her flat. Into the silence of the flat. Where moments of life past and forgotten, moments lost, misplaced, hidden away, were all waiting to be recovered. They were like the stubs of cinema tickets she came across in Minocher’s trouser pockets or jackets, wrung through the laundry, crumpled and worn thin but still decipherable. Or like the old program for a concert at Scot’s Kirk by the Max Mueller Society of Bombay, found in a purse fallen, like Scot’s Kirk, into desuetude. On the evening of the concert Minocher, with a touch of sarcasm, had quipped: Indian audience listens to German musicians inside a church built by skirted men — truly Bombay is cosmopolitan. The encore had been Für Elise. The music passed through her mind now, in the silent flat, by the light of the oil lamp: the beginning in A minor, full of sadness and nostalgia and an unbearable yearning for times gone by; then the modulation into C major, with its offer of hope and strength and understanding. This music, felt Daulat, was like a person remembering — if you could hear the sound of the working of remembrance, the mechanism of memory, Für Elise was what it would sound like.
Suddenly, remembering was extremely important, a deep-seated need surfacing, manifesting itself in Daulat’s flat. All her life those closest to her had reminisced about events from their lives; she, the audience, had listened, sometimes rapt, sometimes impatient. Grandmother would sit her down and tell stories from years gone by; the favourite one was about her marriage and the elaborate matchmaking that preceded it. Mother would talk about her Girl Guide days, with a faraway look in her eyes; she still had her dark blue Girl Guide satchel, faded and frayed.
When grandmother had died no music was allowed in the house for three months. Even the neighbours, in all three blocks, had silenced their radios and gramophones for ten days. No one was permitted to play in the compound for a month. In those old days, the compound was not flagstoned, and clouds of dust were raised by the boys of Firozsha Baag as they tore about playing their games. The greatest nuisance was, of course, to the ground floor: furniture dusted and cleaned in the morning was recoated by nightfall. The thirty-day interdiction against games was a temporary reprieve for those tenants. That month, membership in the Cawasji Framji Memorial Library rose, and grandmother’s death converted several boys in the Baag to reading. During that time, Daulat’s mother introduced her to kitchen and cooking — there was now room for one more in that part of the flat.
Daulat had become strangers with her radio shortly after Minocher’s illness started. But the childhood proscription against music racked her with guilt whenever a strand of melody strayed into her room from the outside world. Minocher’s favourite song was “At the Balalaika.” He had taken her to see Balalaika starring Nelson Eddy at a morning show. It was playing at the Eros Cinema, it was his fourth time, and he was surprised that she had never seen the film before. How did the song … she hummed it, out of tune: At the Balalaika, one summer night a table laid for two, was just a private heaven made for two …
The wick of the oil lamp crackled. It did this when the oil was low. She fetched the bottle and filled the glass, shaking out the last drop, then placed the bottle on the windowsilclass="underline" a reminder to replenish the oil.
Outside, the peripatetic vendors started to arrive, which meant it was past three o’clock. Between one and three was nap time, and the watchman at the gate of Firozsha Baag kept out all hawkers, according to the instructions of the management. The potato-and-onion man got louder as he approached now, “Onions rupee a kilo, potatoes two rupees,” faded after he went past, to the creaky obligato of his thirsty-for-lubrication cart as it jounced through the compound. He was followed by the fishwalli, the eggman, the biscuitwalla; and the ragman who sang with a sonorous vibrato:
Of old saris and old clothes I am collector,
Of new plates and bowls in exchange I am giver…
From time to time, B.E.S.T. buses thundered past and all sounds were drowned out. Finally came the one Daulat was waiting for. She waved the empty bottle at the oilwalla, purchased a quarter litre, and arranged with him to knock at her door every alternate day. She was not yet sure when she would be ready to let the lamp go out.
The clock showed half past four when she went in with the bottle. Minocher’s things lay in neat brown paper packages, ready for the Old-Age Home. She shut the doors of the cupboards now almost empty; the clothes it took a man a lifetime to wear and enjoy, she thought, could be parcelled away in hours.
The man would soon arrive to see Minocher’s pugree. She wondered what it was that had made him go to the trouble of advertising. Perhaps she should never have telephoned. Unless he had a good reason, she was not going to part with it. Definitely not if he was just some sort of collector.
The doorbell. Must be him, she thought, and looked through the peephole.
But standing outside were second cousin Moti and her two grandsons. Moti had not been at the funeral. Daulat did not open the door immediately. She could hear her admonishing the two little boys: “Now you better behave properly or I will not take you anywhere ever again. And if she serves Goldspot or Vimto or something, be polite, leave some in the glass. Drink it all and you’ll get a pasting when you get home.”
Daulat had heard enough. She opened the door and Moti, laden with eau de cologne, fell on her neck with properly woeful utterances and tragic tones. “O Daulat, Daulat! What an unfortunate thing to happen to you! O very wrong thing has come to pass! Poor Minocher gone! Forgive me for not coming to the funeral, but my Gustadji’s gout was so painful that day. Completely impossible. I said to Gustadji, least I can do now is visit you soon as possible after dusmoo!’
Daulat nodded, trying to look grateful for the sympathy Moti was so desperate to offer to fulfil her duties. It was almost time to reach for her imaginary cassette player.
“Before you start thinking what a stupid woman I am to bring two little boys to a condolence visit, I must tell you that there was no one at home they could stay with. And we never leave them alone. It is so dangerous. You heard about that vegetablewalla in Bandra? Broke into a flat, strangled a child, stole everything. Cleaned it out completely. Parvar Daegar! Save us from such wicked madmen!”