Tales From Firozsha Baag (9 page)

After a long and troubled illness, Minocher had suddenly eased into a condition resembling a state of convalescence. Minocher and Daulat had both understood that it was only a spurious convalescence, there would be no real recovery. All the same, they were thankful his days and nights passed in relative comfort. He was able to wait for death freed from the agony which had racked his body for the past several months.

And, as it so often happens in such cases, along with relief from physical torment, the doubts and fears which had tortured his mind released their hold as well. He was at peace with his being which was soon to be snuffed out.

Daulat, too, felt at peace because her one fervent prayer was being answered. Minocher would be allowed to die with dignity, without being reduced to something less than human; she would not have to witness any more of his suffering.

Thus Minocher had passed away in his sleep after six days spent in an inexplicable state of grace and tranquillity. Daulat had cried for the briefest period; she felt it would be sinful to show anything but gladness when he had been so fortunate in his final days.

Now, however, the inescapable condolence visits would make her regurgitate months of endless pain, nights spent sleeplessly, while she listened for his breath, his sighs, his groans, his vocalization of the agony within. For bearers of condolences and sympathies she would have to answer questions about the illness, about doctors and hospitals, about nurses and medicines, about X-rays and blood reports. She would be requested (tenderly but tenaciously, as though it was their rightful entitlement) to recreate the hell her beloved Minocher had suffered, instead of being allowed to hold on to the memory of those final blessed six days. The worst of it would be the repetition of details for different visitors at different hours on different days, until that intensely emotional time she had been through with Minocher would be reduced to a dry and dull lesson learned from a textbook which she would parrot like a schoolgirl.

Last year, Daulat’s nephew Sarosh, the Canadian immigrant who now answered to the name of Sid, had arrived from Toronto for a visit, after ten years. Why he had never gone back he would not say, nor did he come to see her any more. After all that she and Minocher had done for him. But he did bring her a portable cassette tape recorder from Canada, remembering her fondness for music, so she could tape her favourite songs from All India Radio’s two Western music programs: “Merry Go Round” and “Saturday Date.” Daulat, however, had refused it, saying “Poor Minocher sick in bed, and I listen to music? Never.”
She would not change her mind despite Sarosh-Sid’s recounting of the problems he had had getting it through Bombay customs.

Now she wished she had accepted the gift. It could be handy, she thought with bitterness, to tape the details, to squeeze all of her and Minocher’s suffering inside the plastic case, and proffer it to the visitors who came propelled by custom and convention. When they held out their right hands in the condolence-handshake position (fingertips of left hand tragically supporting right elbow, as though the right arm, overcome with grief, could not make it on its own) she could thrust towards them the cassette and recorder: “You have come to ask about my life, my suffering, my sorrow? Here, take and listen. Listen on the machine, everything is on tape. How my Minocher fell sick, where it started to pain, how much it hurt, what doctor said, what specialist said, what happened in hospital. This
R
button? Is for Rewind. Some part you like, you can hear it again, hear it ten times if you want: how nurse gave wrong medicine but my Minocher, sharp even in sickness, noticed different colour of pills and told her to check; how wardboy always handled the bedpan savagely, shoving it underneath as if doing sick people a big favour; how Minocher was afraid when time came for sponge bath, they were so careless and rough – felt like number three sandpaper on his bedsores, my brave Minocher would joke. What? The
FF
button? Means Fast Forward. If some part bores you, just press
FF
and tape will turn to something else: like how in hospital Minocher’s bedsores were so terrible it would bring tears to my eyes to look, all filled with pus and a bad smell on him always, even after sponge bath, so I begged of doctor to let me take him home; how at home I changed dressings four times a day using sulfa ointment, and in two weeks bedsores were almost gone; how, as time went by and he got worse, his friends stopped coming when he needed them most, friends like you, now listening to this tape. Huh? This letter
P?
Stands for Pause. Press it if you want to shut off machine, if you cannot bear to hear more of your friend Minocher’s suffering…”

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.

But before plunging in the piston she glimpsed, between the bedpost and the wall, a large tin of Ostermilk on the floor. The servant dived under to retrieve it. The tin was shut tight, she had to pry the lid open with a spoon. And as it came off, there rose a stench powerful enough to rip to shreds the hardy nostrils of a latrine-basket collector. She quickly replaced the lid, fanning the air vigorously with her hand. Minocher seemed to be dozing off, olfactory nerves unaffected. Was he trying to subdue a smile? Daulat could not be sure. But the tin without its lid was placed outside the back door, in hopes that the smell would clear in a while.

The bedbug inspection was resumed and the Flitting finished without further interruption. Minocher’s bed was soon ready, and he fell asleep in it.

The smell of the Ostermilk tin had now lost its former potency. Daulat squinted at the contents: a greyish mass of liquids and solids, no recognizable shapes or forms amongst them. With a stick she explored the gloppy, sloppy mess. Gradually, familiar objects began to emerge, greatly transmogrified but retaining enough of their original states to agitate her. She was now able to discern a square of fried egg, exhume a piece of toast, fish out an orange pip. So! This is what he did with his food! How
could
he get better if he did not eat. Indignation drove her back to his bedroom. She refused to be responsible for him if he was going to behave in this way. Sickness or no sickness, I will have to tell him straight.

But Minocher was fast asleep, snoring gently. Like a child, she thought, and her anger had melted away. She did not have the heart to waken him; he had spent all night tossing and turning. Let him sleep. But from now on I will have to watch him carefully at mealtimes.