Family Matters (4 page)

“No, Pappa, it goes straight to my head and then down to my legs.”

“But he’s right, Roxie,” said Yezad. “Today is special.”

Jehangir and Murad added their voices to the demand: “Yes, Mummy, you must have liquor today!” They liked the slight tipsiness that overcame their mother once or twice a year, erasing her look of perpetual worry.

Sighing, she consented to rum and Thums-Up as though undertaking a difficult task. “Listen, Jal, very little rum, lots of Thums-Up,” she instructed, then sat back, anticipating the drink with pleasure.

Still Fanta-less and propelled by boredom, Murad went to the showcase, which had pride of place in the drawing-room. Jehangir followed. This cabinet was a magnet whenever they visited, made more powerful by their uncle and aunt’s interdiction against touching anything.

Roxana watched them with growing concern. Nariman moved his hand through the air as though patting his daughter’s arm to assure her that it was all right.

“But, Pappa, you have no idea what a chaavat Murad is. And his brother as well, when they’re together. Otherwise, Jehangir will sit still for hours, reading or making his jigsaw puzzles.”

She nudged Yezad to keep a sharp eye on the two. “The last thing we want is them fooling around with the shrine.”

“Shrine” was their secret word for the clutter of knick-knacks, toys, and glassware that packed the shelves of the cabinet venerated by Jal and Coomy. Their sacred icons included a clown with ears that waggled when his stomach was squeezed, a white fluffy dog with a bobbing head, tiny replicas of vintage cars, and a battery-operated Elvis who would soundlessly strum his guitar. At one time, the Elvis doll could also sing a verse of “Wooden Heart,” but, as Jal liked explaining to visitors, something had gone wrong with the mechanism on the very day in August that the King had died.

When they acquired a new toy, they would demonstrate it proudly, then perform its solemn installation behind glass. All that was missing in this ritual, according to Yezad, was incense, flowers, and the chanting of prayers. He dismissed Nariman’s explanation that Jal and Coomy’s sickly father and their unhappy childhood was the reason for the shrine. There were lots of deprived children, said Yezad, and they didn’t all grow up into toy fanatics.

Besides the toys, the showcase held some silver cups, prizes Jal and Coomy had won long ago at school. Little tags on the trophies recorded their achievements: Jal Palonji Contractor, 3rd Prize, Three-Legged Race, 1954; Coomy Palonji Contractor, 2nd Prize, Lemon-and-Spoon Race, 1956; and many more. They had not kept all their prizes, just the ones for which their father had been present on Sports Day to cheer them on.

There were also two watches, much too small for their wrists now, and two fountain pens, presented to them on their navjote by their father, almost forty years ago. The ceremony had been arranged hurriedly on the advice of the family dustoorji, when it seemed Palonji did not have much longer to live. The children had yet to commit to memory all the requisite prayers, but the dustoorji said he would overlook that deficiency: better for the father to witness the navjote, even if the initiates were a few verses short, so he could die secure in the knowledge that his progeny had been properly welcomed into the Zoroastrian fold.

Bored with looking through the glass, Murad decided to open the cabinet doors. Roxana alerted Yezad, who warned their son not to touch anything.

“The glass is dusty, I can’t see.”

He glanced over the assortment of items, ignoring the vases, silver cups, a plastic gondola with gondolier, the Air-India maharaja perched atop the nose of a jumbo jet, an Eiffel Tower. Two grinning monkeys at the centre of the display had snared his curiosity.

One was equipped with a drum and sticks, while the other clutched in its paws a bottle labelled Booze; both had keys in their backs. Standing so as to shield his hands, Murad began winding the drummer. Jehangir the accomplice provided additional cover.

But the telltale clockwork betrayed them. The sound, to Coomy’s ears, was as familiar as the breath of a cherished infant. She abandoned the drinks and rushed to her beloved cabinet.

“Very bad of you, Murad, very bad,” she said, managing a spurious calm before the distress slipped out and made her shrill. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t touch the showcase!”

“Put it back at once,” said his mother.

Murad ignored the command and kept winding. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“You heard Mummy,” said Yezad.

“Hand the monkey to Jal Uncle, you wicked boy!” said Coomy, frantic now. “He’ll work it for you.”

“But I want to do it.”

Yezad rose. Time to give in, decided Murad. Before he could relinquish the toy, however, Coomy slapped his cheek.

For a moment it seemed to Roxana that Yezad would strike Murad and Coomy. She jumped off the sofa and dragged her son by his arm into a chair, then restrained her husband with a firm touch on his shoulder. To Coomy she said sharply that if any hitting was required, his parents were right there to complain to.

“I have to complain? Here you are, watching the boy misbehave! If you did your duty, I wouldn’t need to raise my hand.”

“That’s a joke-and-a-half,” said Yezad. “Children wanting to play with toys is not misbehaviour.”

“Go ahead, defend him. That’s how children become bad.”

“You see, Murad dikra,” said Jal, wincing, a finger to his ear, “the mechanism is delicate. One extra turn and the spring could break. Then my drummer would be silent, like my Elvis.”

He finished winding and placed the monkey on the table. Its arms began moving up and down, the sticks striking the drum with a feeble tap each time. “Wonderful, isn’t it? I’ll start the other fellow as well.” And the monkey with the Booze bottle now raised it to his mouth, lowered it, repeated the sequence. “I tell you, these two are great. You never tire of watching them.”

The boys took no interest. The pleasure of winding the toys, setting them in motion, was what they had sought.

“Ungrateful children, turning their backs on the monkeys,” said Coomy.

“Enough now, Coomy,” said Nariman. “Let’s forget it.”

But a tide of grievance had risen in her veins. She said she would not forget it – maybe that was the way he dealt with problems. No wonder he had ruined his own life, and everyone else’s. No wonder he had carried on shamelessly with that Lucy Braganza, and destroyed Mamma’s life and …

Nariman looked at the others, raising his hands in a helpless apology, and Roxana tried to stem the outburst. “From where to where are you jumping, Coomy? Why drag up all that? In front of the children? And what’s the connection with the monkeys?”

“Don’t interfere between Pappa and me. If you want to see the connection, think a little.”

Six lives he, a father in name only, had drenched with unhappiness, she continued, and she would never forgive that, especially his disgraceful behaviour with his mistress after marriage. What character of woman – not woman, witch – would do such things? And if she wanted to die in that manner, then why hadn’t she done them all a favour and —

“Coomy, we must show Roxie the new doll you got,” interrupted Jal. “Look, it’s a Japanese doll, Roxie.”

He was partly successful; Coomy lowered her voice, but kept muttering. Dutiful admiration from Roxana for the pretty kimono, the rich colours, and the pure gold threads in it, made her roll to a stop. She pointed out the little parasol, which was her favourite detail, even more than the sweet little slippers.

Then the toys were shut away in the cabinet. Having made up for her children’s sins at the shrine, Roxana sat again beside her father, thankful that peace had been restored.

Three Scotch and sodas, two Fantas, one rum with Thums-Up, and Coomy’s homemade sarbut were finally ready. They drank a toast to Nariman, after which he proposed they drink to the health of the four monkeys.

“Four?” asked Jal.

“Two of Coomy’s and two of Roxie’s.”

They laughed, and Coomy smiled sportingly. Nariman asked the boys how things were shaping up at St. Xavier’s since the start of the new school year. “Do you like your new classes?”

“They’re not new any more, Grandpa,” said Jehangir. “School reopened a long time ago: eleventh of June. Almost two months ago.”

“That long?” smiled Nariman, remembering his own childhood when time behaved with the same good sense instead of tearing past insensitively as it did now, whole days and weeks gone in the blink of an eye. “And how are your teachers?”

“Fine,” the two answered together.

“Tell Grandpa what Teacher has made you,” Roxana prompted.

“I’m a Homework Monitor,” said Jehangir, elaborating that there were three of them in the class and they had to check if the students had completed the previous day’s homework.

“And what happens when someone hasn’t?” asked Nariman.

“I have to tell Miss Alvarez, and the boy gets a zero.”

“And do you?”

“Of course,” said Jehangir, while his mother made a face to protest the question.

“What if the boy is your friend? Do you still tell Teacher?”

“My friends always do their homework.”

“Smart answer,” said Jal.

“Well, whose son?” asked Yezad, and they laughed.

“Now if this Homework Monitoring system was a Government of India scheme,” said Jal, “rich boys wouldn’t do homework, and offer bribes to the teachers.”

Yezad made a noise between laughing and snorting. “And the principal would threaten to sack the teachers unless he got a percentage.”

“Stop corrupting the children,” said Roxana.

“Corruption is in the air we breathe. This nation specializes in turning honest people into crooks. Right, chief?”

“The answer, unfortunately, is yes.”

“The country has gone to the dogs. And not well-bred dogs either, but pariahs.”

“Maybe the
BJP
and Shiv Sena coalition will improve things,” said Jal. “We should give them a chance.”

Yezad laughed. “If a poisonous snake was in front of you, would you give it a chance? Those two parties encouraged the Hindutva extremists to destroy the Babri Mosque.”

“Yes, but that was—”

“And what about all the hatred of minorities that Shiv Sena has spread for the last thirty years.” He paused to take a long swallow of his Scotch and soda.

“Daddy, did you know, Shiv Sena is going to have a Michael Jackson concert,” said Murad.

“That’s right,” said Jal. “I saw it in the newspaper. And Shiv Sena will pocket millions – they’ve obtained tax-free status by classifying it as a cultural event of national significance.”

“Well,” said Yezad. “Michael Jackson’s crotch-clutching and his shiny codpiece must be vital to the nation. I’m surprised the Senapati doesn’t find him anti-anything, not even anti-good taste. Otherwise, the crackpot accuses people left and right of being anti-this or anti-that. South Indians are anti-Bombay, Valentine’s Day is anti-Hindustan, film stars born before 1947 in the Pakistani part of Punjab are traitors to the country.”

“I suppose,” said Nariman, “if the Senapati gets gas after eating karela, the gourd will be declared an anti-Indian vegetable.”

“Let’s hope his langoti doesn’t give him a groin rash,” said Jal. “Or all underwear might be banned.”

They laughed, and Yezad made himself another Scotch and soda. “Frankly, I don’t care who the government is, and what they do. I’ve given up on a saviour. Always turns out to be a real saviour-and-a-half.”

“Daddy, why do you say ‘and-a-half’ for everything?” asked Jehangir.

“Because the half is the most important part.”

Jehangir didn’t understand, but laughed anyway. He was happy to see his father holding forth.

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Roxana. “Politics is very boring.”

“You’re right,” said Yezad. “So, chief, what did you think of the World Cup?”

Nariman shook his head. “I don’t approve of these coloured uniforms they wear. Cricket is white flannels. Fixed overs and rushing to finish a match in one day is not cricket.”

“The worst part is the fanaticism,” said Yezad. “Every time India and Pakistan play, it’s like another war in Kashmir.”

“I thought you were going to stop talking politics.”

“Sorry, Roxie. So, chief, when will you open your present?”

“Right now.”

The boys ran to the hall table for the gift. They laid the long, narrow package in Nariman’s lap, where it rocked to the palpitations of his legs.

“Can you guess what it is, Grandpa?”

“A rifle? A sword?”

They shook their heads.

“A long rolling pin, to make very big chapatis?”

“Wrong again, Grandpa.”

“I give up.”

Roxana said to wait for Coomy, who called out from the dining room to go ahead and open it, she couldn’t stop what she was doing. To remind them she was in the background, getting things ready for dinner, she allowed plates and dishes to clatter from time to time.

Roxana watched her father tackle the wrapping paper, and nudged Murad to help him. She asked if the new medicine was an improvement.

“Much better, look,” Nariman held out a trembling hand. “Steady as a rock. Relatively speaking.” As the padding of crumpled paper fell away, a walking stick stood revealed. “It’s beautiful,” he said, running his fingers along the gleaming surface.

“Pure walnut, chief.”

“And look, Grandpa, we put this special rubber cap on the end, so it won’t slip.”

“Perfect,” said Nariman. He passed the stick to Jal, who admired it, tapping the floor with a flourish.

Coomy came in and, halfway into the room, stopped in her tracks. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

“What is it, wrong colour?” asked Roxana, for her sister was superstitious about such things.

“Think for a moment,” said Coomy. “What are you giving, and to whom? A walking stick. To Pappa.”

“He likes to take walks,” said Yezad. “It’ll be useful.”

“We don’t want him to take walks! He has osteoporosis, Parkinson’s disease, hypotension – a walking medical dictionary!”

“And you want to install me on the bookshelf. But I won’t stay cooped indoors twenty-four hours a day.”