Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry
Edul confided in Jal, assuring him there was no need to worry, he was parrying Manizeh’s bitterness with humour, that as long as she could hear his hammer, she was the proud owner of a happy husband.
“All is well,” he told Jal again and again.
But Jal suspected all was not as well as Edul pretended. His hunch was borne out on the day that full-scale hostilities ensued in the Munshi flat, at full volume.
“You think I haven’t figured out what is going on upstairs?” shouted Manizeh. “You and that unmarried woman together! While that chhinaal’s pandering brother goes out for a walk and leaves you with your tool box! How convenient!”
“Shh! Neighbours will hear!” pleaded Edul.
“Good, let them! Better than them laughing behind my back and saying her husband is making repairs for Coomy! Filthy woman, preying on a married man!”
“How can you be jealous of Coomy? Look at her, front and back she’s completely flat. Your bum is so lovely, and your —”
“Speak softly, you fool! You want the neighbours to have a complete description? Just give them naked pictures of me, why not!”
Next evening, when Edul came to work on the ceiling, Jal could see that he had arrived swaggerless. The usually swinging tool box hung still as a broken clock’s pendulum, and instead of his jaunty handyman style, he wore a sheepish smile. Following the hello, how are you, and his response of champion, there was an awkward silence.
“You must have heard my Manizeh last night,” Edul attempted casually. “She was a little upset.”
“Was she? No, we heard nothing. Is she all right now?”
“Champion. Just a little misunderstanding, women don’t understand repairs and renovations.”
He undid the clasp of the box and let the lid crash open. The tools clattered and clanged while he rummaged, his lips pursing to attempt a merry whistle. The tune emerged with some effort, and modulated into melancholy a few bars later.
This was the evening Jal had been awaiting eagerly, when Edul was to commence applying a new coat of plaster. But the handyman could not bring himself to it. His sack of plaster sat untouched by the front door.
The evening walk had to be renounced. Staying home, decided Jal, was the only way to silence Manizeh’s charges of pandering. He wished he could clarify things for her, invite her to watch her Edoo at work, see for herself there was no questionable behaviour.
But he desisted – the nightly quarrels he heard while standing at the window made it clear that Manizeh was in no mood to be placated. To her anger she added a note of fatalism: such misfortune befalling their lives was no surprise – Edul had ventured into the house of unhappiness, the house that had destroyed families, killed two women, given birth to generations of sorrow. And the contagion had affected her husband.
Coomy told Jal to stop eavesdropping. “Isn’t it strange how you can hear everything now? And when I talk to you, your ears have trouble understanding.”
“It’s easier from a distance,” said Jal. “I can adjust the volume better.”
He lamented that the couple used to be so lovey-dovey, and because of the broken ceiling their happy home was plunged into misery. Coomy noted it couldn’t have been all that happy, or it wouldn’t be affected by such a silly thing.
“Silly for you, not for Manizeh,” said Jal. “She doesn’t know the facts.”
“Facts have nothing to do with it. People make up the facts they need. It’s up to Edul to keep working or stop.”
To Jal’s relief, Edul kept working: on the ceiling, and at convincing Manizeh that she was mistaken. He admitted to her he was spending a lot of time upstairs, and enjoying the challenging work. This was no reason for his sweetie-pie to imagine dirty things, was it? Why couldn’t she accept his manly hobby? Would she be happier if he took up embroidery or knitting? Was that what she wanted, a sissy?
The perseverance paid off; Manizeh relented; and the quarrels subsided. Now she began turning up at the job site for snap inspections, armed with some excuse or the other.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said to Jal, relieved to see her husband up a ladder and Coomy nowhere near. “Edoo, dear, do you want the fish fried tonight or in a sauce?”
“Tonight I want it fried,” he answered, and winked. “Hot and sizzling I want it tonight.”
Smothering her laugh, she looked at Jal, who pretended that his hearing aid was switched off.
Another time, she came to inquire about the ironing: the blue shirt or the buff, which one would Edoo like?
“Blue shirt for tomorrow,” answered her husband, then added, thinking they were alone, “And you can press my birthday suit tonight.”
In panic Manizeh put a finger to her lips and motioned to where Coomy was standing, right outside the door. He covered his grinning mouth with a plaster-coated hand, as Coomy rolled her eyes and walked away, disgusted by their indecent behaviour.
Eight days after commencing the application of new plaster, Edul wiped his trowel clean and pronounced the drawing-room ready for habitation. He hailed Manizeh down the stairwell, and asked Jal to fetch Coomy from her room.
“Well?” he beamed. “What do you think?”
Though Jal and Coomy had been prepared for terrible results, they could not furnish a suitable response. They looked at the pockmarked ceiling covered with craters large and small, a domestic version of the lunar surface, and struggled to mask their dismay.
Manizeh jumped into the breach. “You know, Edoo, I can’t believe you did this all by yourself.” Turning to Jal and Coomy, she added, “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Good work, Edul,” they managed to say. “We’re so grateful.”
“It’s nothing,” said Edul with a modest wave of his hand, though his eyes shone. “Sorry to have taken so long.”
“Four weeks isn’t long for such a beautiful job, I was expecting longer,” said Coomy, while Manizeh glared at her.
“And now you can start on Pappa’s room,” said Jal.
But Edul informed them that he was first taking a break for three days. He and his wife went away hand in hand, Jal looking on like a happy father till Coomy shut the door.
After his little holiday, Edul began removing damaged plaster from the ceiling in Nariman’s room. He made rapid progress, for Jal’s hammering had been quite thorough. Now and again he paused in his whistling to marvel at the devastation wrought by the imaginary leak.
On the second day he said, “Son of a gun!” and summoned his clients to the room.
“You know the supporting beam across this ceiling?”
They nodded.
“Bad news. I’ve just discovered it’s rotten.”
“What?”
“Rotten,” he repeated, enjoying the effect of his announcement. “R-o-t-t-e-n.”
“Impossible!” said Jal, refusing to accept the spurious bombshell.
“Compose yourself, Jal my son. The news is shocking, but what can I do? I have to report honestly. See where it meets the third joist?”
“How can the wood rot so quickly?”
“Ah, but we don’t know how long it’s been wet. There could have been a slow leak for months before the plaster fell off.”
“Impossible!”
Edul was puzzled. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I know! Because —”
Worried that her brother might blurt something incriminating, Coomy intervened. “Let’s suppose it’s rotten. What happens next?”
“Why suppose? Are you doubting me? It is rotten. It must be replaced.”
“No! Please don’t touch it!”
“Stop acting like a child,” said Coomy. “Let’s consider it calmly. Edul, you’re sure about this?”
“One thousand per cent.”
“I see.” She calculated: with the beam complication, there would be a further delay before Pappa returned. “Can you do the job?”
“I won’t lie to you. It’s a serious job. Could be dangerous if not done rig
“And that’s you,” she said, which made him smile.
“Please, just do the plastering and leave it!”
“Enough drama, Jal,” said his sister.
“At least take a second opinion?”
“We handymen have a saying: Second opinion leads to a mountain of confusion.”
“Makes sense,” said Coomy.
“How does it make sense?” blustered Jal.
“Jal my son, relax, let me explain the method,” said Edul. He proceeded to describe the steel posts he would employ, and the hydraulic jacks, with the load transferred off the joists by using surrogate supports. The thoroughness with which he detailed the task befitted a qualified engineer, a master craftsman with years of experience.
Jal missed some of it as he pulled out his earpiece, blew upon it, and reinserted it.
“The most important point is: I’m adding the steel girder parallel to the existing wood. At no time will the structure remain unsupported.”
“Oh,” said Coomy, relieved. “So we’ll have two beams instead of one. You heard that, Jal? Two beams – even safer.”
There were no more objections. It was agreed that Edul would go ahead.
When Jal arrived at Pleasant Villa, his heart beat a little faster to see Daisy at the bedside, with her violin. He tried to greet her, and almost caught her eye, but she swayed, her bow arm rose, and he ended up mouthing hello to her elbow.
His stepfather acknowledged him silently as he patted his shoulder and tiptoed to a chair. Adjusting his hearing aid to listen better to Daisy’s music, he asked Roxana where Yezad was.
She whispered that he must have stopped at Wadiaji fire-temple on the way home from work.
Jal raised his brow. “Yezad? Fire-temple?”
She nodded. “Goes almost every day. Not to pray – he says the few minutes of peace and quiet help him.”
He smiled and nodded. “Pappa’s looking better too.”
“He always brightens when Daisy comes.”
“Shh,” said Jehangir, “you’re disturbing the music.”
“Sorry, dikra,” said Jal, and sat back. The violin, slow and evocative, drew him in as he listened. He felt the music speaking directly about things deep in his heart … those difficult emotions, impossible in speech. Sometimes, just for an instant, the sound seemed human, the instrument articulating words in a language he could almost understand …
The piece ended, they clapped, and Daisy said hello to Jal, apologizing for not greeting him when he came in.
“Oh, quite all right,” he smiled bashfully.
“Splen splen splendid,” murmured Nariman. “You must per perform it.”
“That’s my ambition – soloist with the BSO.”
“Excuse me,” said Jal. “What was the piece?”
“Beethoven’s violin concerto,” she replied.
“Number?”
“There is only one.”
“And the part you were practising … which movement?”
“Second – the larghetto.”
Daisy returned to telling Nariman about the difficulties of realizing her dream, and while she re-tuned, Jal’s admiring eyes followed her every move. Roxana nudged him, “Go on, talk to her.”
“Later,” he whispered, retreating as the violin started again.
Then Yezad arrived, let himself in quietly with his latchkey, and saw Jal. He was anxious to hear about the ceiling, but waited till Nariman was asleep. After Daisy left, they retired to the back room.
“So what’s the latest bulletin from Chateau Felicity?”
“A week ago, like Edul, I would have said champion. Now, I don’t know any more.” He delivered the news about the rotten beam, and looked anxiously from his face to hers.
“Not your fault,” said Yezad. “Don’t feel so guilty.”
“But I’m the one always bringing you Edul’s nonsense and —”
“Maybe the beam really is rotten,” said Roxana. “How long will it take?”
“A year,” said Yezad with a hollow laugh.
“Oh no, no,” said Jal, “not that long.”
He described Edul’s plan to get equipment in place over the next few days, prepare for hoisting the steel girder. “Latest by the twenty-fourth, because he wants to use the Christmas holiday for the job. He says it shouldn’t be left halfway, he’ll work into the night if necessary, to finish it.”
“Looks like a merry Christmas for you,” said Yezad.
“Certainly won’t be a silent night. And what about you, Jehangir? Are you going to hang up a stocking for Santa?”
“Yes,” sighed Jehangir. “I’m fed up of arguing with Murad. He’s driving me crazy, trying to make me believe it.”
“But he’s right,” said Jal. “You’re nine years old?”
“Yes,” admitted Jehangir cautiously.
“There you are. Santa comes till ten. Your last chance.”
“I’m not a small child, okay, Uncle? You can’t fool me so easily.”
Jal laughed, hugging him and shaking hands at the door with the others. He promised to bring news as soon as there was any. They shut the door and went to the balcony for the wave.
Roxana snuggled against her husband, enjoying the fragrance that sandalwood smoke had left in his clothes. “I think Jal really likes Daisy. Wouldn’t it be nice if they —”
“Please,” said Yezad. “Your family doesn’t have a very good record in matchmaking.”
Toying with his teacup, he sat at the dining table. She went to make dinner out of the odds and ends saved from the day before. He glanced at his father-in-law, hands and feet tossing helplessly beneath the sheet.
Like trapped animals struggling to break free. What a curse was sickness in old age. This damned Parkinson’s, cruel as torture. If the new research in America would hurry up, something with foetal tissue, embryos … But there were groups protesting against it – they probably weren’t living with Parkinson’s or watching an old man’s torment day after day. How nice the luxury, to argue about rights of the unborn, beginning of life, moment of death, all those sophisticated discussions. Empty talkers. Like Mr. Kapur … But no such luxury here. Should be a rule: Walk, first, through the fire, then philosophize …
Nariman groaned in his sleep, and Yezad broke off his rumination to go to the settee. “It’s okay, chief,” he touched his shoulder. “I’m sitting right here.”
He returned to his teacup, not sure if Nariman had heard him. Strange trip, this journey towards death. No way of knowing how much longer for the chief … a year, two years? But Roxana was right, helping your elders through it – that was the only way to learn about it. And the trick was to remember it when your own time came …
Would he, he wondered? What folly made young people, even those in middle age, think they were immortal? How much better, their lives, if they could remember the end. Carrying your death with you every day would make it hard to waste time on unkindness and anger and bitterness, on anything petty. That was the secret: remembering your dying time, in order to keep the stupid and the ugly out of your living time.
He pushed back his chair quietly and took his cup and saucer to the kitchen. He rinsed them, wiped his hands, and returned to watch Nariman. Curious, he thought, how, if you knew a person long enough, he could elicit every kind of emotion from you, every possible reaction, envy, admiration, pity, irritation, fury, fondness, jealousy, love, disgust. But in the end all human beings became candidates for compassion, all of us, without exception … and if we could recognize this from the beginning, what a saving in pain and grief and misery …
The groans from the settee grew louder. He rose again, touched Nariman’s shoulder again. Must be some way to help the chief.
The answer was easy: provide money for his medicines – and he didn’t have any. Always came down to money, everything did.
There was that envelope in his desk at work, sitting uselessly for over a wee
He had waited for Villie’s Matka dream, and for Mr. Kapur’s promised promotion. He had waited for Nariman’s ankle to heal, and for the ceiling to be fixed, and for the actors to deliver an epiphany.
He had waited enough, he decided. In the end, he could only depend on himself. And the fire-temple – his sanctuary, in this meaningless world.
The Santa suit was delivered before noon on the twenty-third, and Mr. Kapur modelled it for Yezad and Husain.
“Very beautiful, sahab,” said the peon, clapping his hands with unvarnished delight. “Lal colour looks so nice on you.”
Mr. Kapur posed for the silent Yezad, who glanced at the cheap belt of black plastic, and gumboots of the type that smelled, which Murad and Jehangir used to wear in the monsoon till they rebelled.
“On the whole, quite good,” was his verdict. “But your stomach needs fattening.”
They looked around the shop and made a paunch by combining a pair of junior-size batting pads and boxing gloves. Then Mr. Kapur decided to don the rest of the ensemble, but the fluffy white beard and moustache made Husain flinch. He said to Yezad that sahab looked too fierce for his liking.
“Ho-ho-ho!” started Mr. Kapur. “Ho-ho-ho!” waving his arms frantically to make the wrist bells chime.
The peon whispered in Yezad’s ear, “Why does sahab sound like something is paining?”
Yezad’s chortles made Mr. Kapur ask what was so funny. The answer had him laughing too, increasing Husain’s puzzlement.
“Aray, Husain miyan, that’s not a noise of pain! It’s the jolly laughter of Santa Claus!”
Husain seemed unconvinced but withheld further comment. In the afternoon he went to collect the sweets that had been ordered the previous day.
Mr. Kapur, still in the Santa suit, came up to Yezad and, peering into his face, asked why there were dark circles under his eyes. “Looks like you’re not sleeping well.”