by Cyrus Mistry
‘Can’t tell you how much this means to me. . .as well,’ said Rohinton, driving out of the wrought iron gateway of the Towers of Silence, and taking a sharp right. ‘I mean, apart from what it means to my dad. . . Joseph is fourteen years older than me, you know, and I can’t say I ever got to know him well before this visit. He’s a really nice guy though, you should meet him sometime. . .’
Then, as an afterthought added, ‘Well, there may not be much time. . .’
‘What are the doctors saying?’
‘They don’t give us any hope. It’s only a matter of days now.’
Shops at Kemps Corner were downing their shutters, or were already shut. There were hardly any other cars on the road.
‘He must be in a great deal of pain, then?’ I asked.
‘If he is, he doesn’t show it,’ answered Rohinton. ‘He’s medicated a lot, and dopey sometimes, but still surprisingly cheerful.’
A few hawkers with their baskets could be seen squatting on the pavements as we drove past. A man selling purple grapes, another selling oranges, yet another pineapples; then a balloon seller with a gas cylinder on wheels filling up more balloons to add to a bunch of already inflated ones secured to his wrist with long lengths of string, the whole profusion of colourful gas balloons swaying gustily in a strong breeze as it aspired towards a darkening sky.
A family of street performers was tiredly wending its way home: a man, a woman, two kids and a puppy—you could tell they were performers or acrobats by the paraphernalia they were carrying between them: thin, long wooden poles, metal hoops, sharp skewers and one large cogged wheel whose precise application I had no way of guessing; though it was probably used in some trick the little dog performed.
‘Even in this condition he believes, with complete sincerity, that every suffering we undergo in life is perfectly calibrated to serve as a platform for surmounting specific flaws in one’s own character. . .opportunities to polish our spiritual selves, become better persons. . .
‘Everyone whose paths we cross—Joseph believes—our partners in life, our friends, all who give us grief or joy or frustration are merely playing out their insensible moves in perfect consonance with a preordained framework of spiritual conflicts and imperatives planned for our growth. “The planet itself is a veritable crucible,”’ said Rohinton, quoting his half-brother, ‘“and our time in it intended to purify weaknesses, purge baser instincts, clarify the soul essence through—how else, but through suffering?” That’s why,’ Rohinton went on, speaking mellifluously as he cruised along, ‘Joseph is so fascinated by the Zoroastrian symbol of fire, a symbol of cleansing and purity. In his hospital suite, he keeps an oil wick burning day and night at his bedside.’
The Buick halted at an intersection. In the stream of cars and buses cutting across us diagonally in the direction of Warden Road raced an ambulance with its bell clanging furiously, recklessly overtaking the slow moving traffic that impeded its progress.
‘I’m only representing to you the conclusions Joseph has come to after all his years of study. Myself, I can’t say I’m sure what I believe.’
‘Well logically speaking, Joseph’s point of view may well be the only one possible to espouse,’ I said. ‘To ensure that all the senseless suffering we see around us doesn’t become. . . a desperately paralysing burden. However, whether logical plausibility can be seen as evidence of certainty. . .it’s a big leap to take!’
‘Who can say? I guess you and me just don’t have the time to think about these things. Only a philosopher like Joseph has that luxury.’
Meanwhile, a very old, bent and obviously poor woman wearing a faded Koli-style sari hitched loosely between her legs stepped off the pavement and approached our stationary vehicle. She tottered momentarily; then steadying herself, bent a little to peer through the window I was sitting at. She wasn’t a beggar, no; only bent on peering inside out of some sort of curiosity, appraising the interior of the exclusive car we were seated in. But it was not to her taste, for she shook her head from side to side disapprovingly, as though finding something in it deficient. Or she may have been appraising the car’s inmates rather than its decor.
Rohinton’s hand went to his shirt pocket feeling for change to give the old woman, but just then the traffic began to move, and so did we. The charitable impulse was quickly abandoned.
‘I turn left into the next lane, right?’
‘No, no. You better park somewhere outside here. I’ll walk up.’
‘Best of luck, Phiroze.’
(iv)
At this time of evening, the lane that meandered up to my father’s small fire temple was entirely deserted; not a soul about. Though it wasn’t completely dark yet, most houses on both sides of the lane didn’t have any lights on. A solitary street lamp at the end of the footpath threw a sallow, bluish glow on the fire temple’s spacious portico, with its finely hewn, bare stone benches. Evidently, the fire temple had closed for the night.
I went around the temple following a small pathway that led to its rear to my father’s quarters. I had hoped the back entrance would be ajar. No such luck. It was tightly shut; however, I could see that the kitchen light was on.
I knocked. No one answered. There was no sound from inside. Then I knocked again, harder. After a minute the back door opened, cautiously. And my father’s hoarse voice asked:
‘Kaun? Vispy?’
‘No, it’s me. Phiroze.’
When he had opened the door wider, he still didn’t step aside to let me in.
‘I thought Vispy had forgotten his key. But it’s you. . .why have you come here?’
‘I have something to ask of you, Papa. Something important. A favour.’ I explained. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. I’ve washed myself very carefully before coming here. Including application of taro at all key points of my body, as you taught me.’
When we met at my mother’s funeral, Father himself told me that the nine-day ceremony of purification could be abridged in cases of extreme emergency, and what procedure to follow in such cases.
‘But what was so urgent? Now, at this time of the night. . .? Is there some problem, son? Come on, come in.’
In that instant, I saw something in his eyes, or imagined it: a flicker of warmth that made me want to embrace my father— but I’m glad I held myself back; for as I entered he stepped aside, rather deliberately, ensuring no physical contact was made between us. I stood there sheepishly, looking around my mother’s kitchen, which was as it had always been: only dustier, more cluttered and, overall, gloomier than I remembered it. My father and I remained standing just within the doorway.
‘You’re alone, Papa? Where’s Vispy?’
‘God alone knows where he goes loitering every night. I thought he had forgotten to take his key again, and it was him knocking. . . Can’t expect anything from that boy; never could expect anything from you either. If that’s the way it has to turn out, I’m content. . .I’m content. . .’
This last was practically an aside, muttered to himself. I felt sad to see him so lonely, yet too proud to admit it.
‘Well, tell me: what is it you want from me now?’
It was his way of inviting me to speak my mind, but considering I hardly ever met him, let alone craved favours of him, seemed a little unfair. But I felt it expeditious not to point that out.
‘You remember my friend from school, Rohinton Kanga?’
‘H’mm.’
‘This is about his half-brother, Joseph Maloney Kanga, who is dying. . .’
‘Ah. I thought it would be some such murky business. . .’
‘He believes. Joseph truly believes. . .he wants to become a Zoroastrian before he dies. At least he wants to go out of the world like a Zoroastrian.’
‘Well he isn’t a Zoroastrian, can never be. . . He should have thought of it earlier. If he wants the vultures to make a meal of him, he should request the vultures. Why ask me? Whether they’d be willing to consume the product of a mixed marriage? I’m sure
they won’t be that finicky. . .’
It was many years since my father last shared a joke with me. Many years, perhaps, since he had a shy at making any joke at all. As such this wasn’t such a bad attempt. Both of us broke out into chuckles at first, then guffaws of laughter that continued for a whole minute. . .and I was reminded for a moment of our closeness in younger days.
‘But seriously, Papa. . .I’m told that it really does mean a lot to him. He would like to go through the Zoroastrian rites at death.’
‘But all these years, where was he? Having his malido, I suppose, and eating it too?’
Once again, Father revelled heartily in his own sense of humour, but this time I could only smile.
‘In any case, what have I to do with it?’ Framroze continued. ‘Nariman Kanga has already done the needful. Trustees know which side their bread is buttered on. Ho-ho-ho. . .’ His amusement with the relevant facts of the issue, which he was clearly better informed about than me, seemed compulsive.
‘But public opinion is against it. They will be making a reference to you, I believe. To the priests.’
‘That’s all eyewash, Phiroze. Show-shaa for public consumption. Tell Rohinton, it’ll be okay. Where there’s so much money involved, why should they care for the opinion of priests? When Joseph dies, his body will be placed in the dokhma, and the three-day ceremonies too will be permitted. Whether he’s had a navjote or not. . .’
‘But he hasn’t, you know that.’
‘Who cares? Do you? Only those who care for the religion feel it matters. The founding fathers of the Punchayet had vision. Today’s trustees are nothing but a bunch of banias. Panhandlers and money managers. I tell you, they’ll allow the funeral to take place.’
I could feel the irritation mounting in my father. Perhaps he was just getting tired of having to stand in the doorway through such a long conversation. Or perhaps I pushed my luck just a little too far when I asked him in a philosophic vein:
‘Personally, Papa, do you really believe it matters how we go out of this world? I mean, whether one is a Hindu or Muslim or Parsi, after we die in what manner our corpse is disposed of ? I mean, does it make a difference to the soul that survives the body’s destruction? The means of our arrival into the next world? After all, the body is no more than a worn-out shell, I would think. . .’
I should have kept my mouth shut. For it was then my father’s notorious bad temper flashed. And once again, I became painfully aware of the abyss separating our ways of thinking.
‘Of course it does! What are you saying? Every soul has a predetermined destination. And if it does not follow every detail of its spiritual map into the next world, it is bound to lose its way, and suffer terrible confusion and disorientation—possibly for millennia to come. . .!’
He suddenly stopped short, refusing to discuss anything further with me. Within a few seconds his whole bearing and manner had changed. His large body was hunched over now, and more tense.
‘You!’ he shouted at me, almost viciously. ‘A nussesalar asking such a question? You who are supposed to minutely oversee the correct transmission of every Zoroastrian soul on its trajectory into the beyond! It’s because of people like you our religion and community have suffered! When you were small I would dream of a day when you would mature and become a priest! Or a serious scholar! But what did you become? Apostate! Go away! Get out, I say! I want to sleep. That’s all you could make of yourself. . . Apostate!’ he muttered to himself, trembling with suppressed rage as he showed me out and slammed the door on me.
I hesitated in the dark, outside. But the moment was lost, and he had even switched off the kitchen light. I had wanted to say something nice before leaving, something grateful—‘Look after yourself, Papa. Try not to get so angry. Try to get a good night’s sleep, Papa. I love you. . .’ But perhaps it was wiser to leave quietly, lest the vehemence I inspired in him did violence to his health.
Well. I stumbled back to the car waiting at the end of the dark lane, disturbed by my father’s final explosion of temper, wondering what exactly the word ‘apostate’ meant; although I could guess at its meaning. I assumed it meant someone like myself who had betrayed his father and his religion.
After I got into the Buick, Rohinton was keen to learn every word of how the interview had gone. It cheered him greatly to hear Framroze’s prediction that the Punchayet would oblige the Kangas, and Joseph’s funeral—after he died—would be allowed to proceed along Zoroastrian lines.
I was in no mood for the kind of evening Rohinton had planned, but it turned out a novel experience for me, which I can’t say I didn’t enjoy. He drove me to the Taj hotel at Apollo Bunder which I had only seen once or twice from the outside during the youthful days of my wanderlust. Upon entering it for the first time, I was already feeling somewhat dazed by its opulent interiors, its liveried and impressively large-built doormen who were very formal and severe, though welcoming, its high stuccoed ceilings and glittering chandeliers, finally its plush carpeted elevator that took us up to an exclusive bar and restaurant on its terrace called ‘The Rocking Boat’; I got very quickly sozzled on a couple of strong Scotch whiskies with soda and ice, thereafter losing any inhibition I might have had about enjoying myself.
Rohinton ordered an array of delightful food as well— crabmeat, fried pomfret, asparagus and a mutton dum pulao. An astonishing dessert completed the meal: sugared peaches in caramel custard with pineapple and cherries and a topping of ice cream!
(v)
Although it was about one o’clock when we finished our meal, Rohinton was in no hurry to leave and ordered more coffee. He was keen to get on with the ‘catching-up’ he’d said we’d do. He wanted to know about Sepideh, how I’d lost her so early in life, whether I enjoyed my work or found it oppressive, how I felt about the social stigmas that were imposed on my profession. I enjoyed talking to him about myself, my feelings in these and other matters, but every now and then found myself so completely absorbed in the grand view we had of the bay from our table, that I felt as though I had to tear my attention away from it to address some question Rohinton had put to me; the large ships anchored in the distance, the mesmeric pulsating of their lights on the dark waters, the immense glittering canvas of the starry skies: momentarily I actually felt a resurgence of my youthful longing for the life at sea!
We were the last customers still left in the restaurant; everyone else had left long ago. Two waiters hovered at a discreet distance, wondering how to tell us they were closing. But I suppose they must have sensed from Rohinton’s manner a handsome tip coming. My friend was in fact in no mood to wind up. He was so elated by the outcome of my meeting with my father, and the words I had reported to him, he ordered cognac. Then he started off about his life in London.
Of the flat he maintained there at a place called King’s Cross, and a woman called Lizbeth, who looked after it for him when he wasn’t there, and lived with him as his wife when he was, though they had never married. He said England was a wonderful place, but most of its people were small-hearted and racist. He told me of an ultra-nationalist group he was part of, some of them Indian, others Irish, who met every week, usually at his place in King’s Cross, to plan the overthrow of imperial rule in India.
‘Most of our group just don’t approve of Gandhi’s methods, they find them too soft. I wonder. . . In fact, before I came to India this time—I’ll let you into a secret, but you must keep this to yourself,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper—‘a proposal was made to me: now just keep this to yourself. . .’—Rohinton actually glanced around, to ensure that no one was listening, but all the other tables were unoccupied—‘that I help build a bomb at a secret location in Bombay. You know the new viceroy’s just been appointed?—the idea was to find someone to throw it at him during a visit he has planned to the Gateway of India, after his investiture in Delhi. When the question of a secret location in Bombay came up, I immediately thought of you, and the Towers of Silence. But let me tell yo
u, I completely rejected the idea. I didn’t agree to do it.’
(When he told me this, I, too, immediately thought of the ‘grotto’ as an ideal place for building bombs!)
‘In principle, I found it impossible to agree with the idea of “a parting kick for the British”, or “a lesson to imperialists for all time to come”. I thought it rather foolish to endanger negotiations for independence with a terrorist act at such a late stage. Besides, after I arrived in Bombay, my dad apprised me of Joseph’s condition, which is how I approached you for a completely different and more meaningful purpose.’
Twice, a waiter drew near our table respectfully bowing, and said the restaurant and bar were closing now. But Rohinton wanted a last round of cognac for the both of us, which the waiter obliged us with. We knocked it back with gusto and finally made our way out of the restaurant.
We didn’t feel like going home right away, so we spent another half-hour sitting on a wooden bench on the pier, listening to the lapping of the waves, gazing at the stars in a cloudless sky.
‘Thank you, Phiroze, for a great evening,’ Rohinton said when he finally dropped me home at almost four in the morning. Both of us felt flushed with a mutual sense of warmth—our youthful bond had been revived, of that there was little doubt.
At Kemps Corner, before he turned into the gate of the Towers of Silence, we heard an itinerant hawker who was carrying a wooden tray of glasses containing something white and viscous on his head. In the stillness of the cold morning, he was calling in a sharp, high-pitched voice:
‘Doodh na puff. . .doodh na puff. . . Jelleee. . .’
‘I should thank you, Rohinton,’ I replied. ‘After all, you paid what must have been a whopping bill at the Taj!’
‘Aargh!’ he said, making his favourite deprecating grimace once more that evening, ‘Money’s no object. Did you have a good time, Phiroze?’
‘I had a great time.’
