Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry
Then she saw us, and broke through the crowd to shake Jal Uncle’s hand and give me a hug. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked.
I nodded, smiling, though I wanted to say something, not stay dumb like a shy little boy. I also wanted to tell her that I was feeling good for the first time since Grandpa died.
Meanwhile, Jal Uncle managed to murmur that the concert was wonderful, before becoming tongue-tied again. He too kept smiling, gazing with admiration at Daisy Aunty.
“It was very nice of you to come,” she said, and prepared to return to her fans.
It was now or never. “Not at all,” I said, “the pleasure was all mine.”
Daisy Aunty beamed; I could see she was delighted with my answer. Now she and Jal Uncle talked a little more. She asked him if he would like to go to another concert – she had passes for something called the Bolshoi Ballet. He said yes at once.
I was disappointed she didn’t invite me, but I knew it would be better for the two of them to be alone. I was sure Mummy would also like that.
Then, as she was getting ready to leave us, she stopped suddenly and came closer. “You know, just before I came out on stage this evening, I was thinking of Professor Vakeel. I was imagining him in the audience.”
I wanted to say that I too had been thinking of Grandpa. But I think she already knew that.
Daddy has caught Murad kissing a girl in the stairwell. He comes in grim-faced and announces it to Mummy, whose first concern is if it’s someone from the building, anyone we know.
“She is a non-Parsi,” he answers in a doom-laden voice, and leaves the room. Mummy hurries after him, inquiring anxiously if words were exchanged downstairs, how did it end, does he need his angina medicine?
“I would not give a parjaat girl the satisfaction of seeing me argue with my son. At least he had the shame to leave, the moment he saw me. But just wait till he’s home.”
The threat, and his tone, makes Mummy fear that a big fight is looming. She spends the next hour in the kitchen, cutting and chopping, preparing dinner, fretting, shaking her head, till the doorbell rings. She wipes her hands and rushes to the drawing-room, father and son must not be left alone.
As she goes in, Jal Uncle puts down his newspaper and returns to his room. I can see Mummy wanting to tell him, Stay, it’s your house too, but she thinks better of it.
“So what do you have to say?” begins Daddy as Murad enters.
“About what?” he asks innocently.
“That girl. Who is she?”
“Oh, you mean Anjali – she’s in my college. We were just waiting for some friends.”
“So you always kiss girls when you’re waiting for friends?”
Then Daddy stops himself and lowers his voice. He sits on the sofa, asks Murad to sit in the chair opposite. “I don’t want us to shout at each other. This is very serious, please listen carefully. This friendship of yours …”
He pauses to clear his throat, searching for words. “Your relationship with this girl is not possible.”
“What relationship?” laughs Murad. “We’re just friends, I told you.”
“A girl you kiss in that way cannot be just a friend. Either she’s your girlfriend, which is unacceptable, or you’re having your fun with her, which is even more unacceptable.”
“We’re both having fun.”
Daddy clutches his forehead. “A child thinks playing with matches is fun. But we still have to stop it. This will go nowhere, it cannot have a happy ending.”
“We’re not thinking in those terms, okay?”
“You see?” he appeals to Mummy. “He listens to nothing. From the trivial to the most significant matters of life, he listens to not a word.”
He turns to Murad again. “I’m warning you, in this there can be no compromise. The rules, the laws of our religion are absolute, this Maharashtrian cannot be your girlfriend.”
“It’s just prejudice,” says Murad.
“Nothing of the sort. My best friend was a Maharashtrian, Vilas Rane, the letter-writer. Remember, he used to give me picture books for you when you were little? You can have any friends you like, any race or religion, but for a serious relationship, for marriage, the rules are different.”
“Why?”
“Because we are a pure Persian race, a unique contribution to this planet, and mixed marriages will destroy that.”
“You think you’re superior?”
“Inferior or superior is not the question. Purity is a virtue worth preserving.”
Now Murad appeals to Mummy. “See? It proves he’s a bigot. Hitler had the same kind of ideas about purity, and look what happened.”
Daddy loses his temper. More because he is hurt than because of Murad’s obstinacy. He shouts and bangs his fist on the teapoy, complains his chest pains are returning, then leans back exhausted, muttering under his breath – how can two boys be so different, look at Jehangla, obedient, hard-working, caring, and look at this fellow, also my son but behaving like a total ruffian, what kind of person calls his father by the name of the greatest monster of the twentieth century?
“Yes, really, Murad,” says Mummy. “That’s shameful. You should not call your father Hitler.”
“I didn’t. Don’t you listen? I said he had the same kind of ideas about purity.”
Daddy is not interested in semantics. “Just to show you the contrast, I suggest you consider what your Maharashtrian friend was doing with you under the stairwell. A Parsi girl would never behave in such a way.”
“That’s pathetic,” snaps Murad, and goes to his room. “You can keep ranting.”
I remain in the drawing-room with my face down in my book. I feel like telling my father that he is mistaken. Farah Arjani, who lives on the ground floor, is the great-granddaughter of the late Mr. Arjani, the one who had the feud with Grandpa’s father. She and I were alone in the lift last week. We were laughing about something, and I teased her, she shoved me, I shoved back, and soon we were holding each other tight, pretending to fight, pressing against each other and kissing, and I squeezed her breast. If the lift doors hadn’t opened, she would have let me slip my hand inside her T-shirt.
Mummy tries to reason with Daddy. “What Murad is doing is only natural, Yezdaa. Next week he’ll be eighteen complete, nineteen running. How long can we treat him like a boy?”
“Till he behaves like a man. Till he understands his duties as a Zarathustrian.”
She clasps her hands together and looks towards the holy cabinet, at the flickering filament in the plastic afargaan, as though seeking divine intervention. “I just had a great idea, Yezad. About your friend the letter-writer.”
“What idea?”
“It’s difficult for you and Murad to talk calmly. He says silly things, you get angry, and it turns into a fight.”
“Is that my fault?”
“No, it’s not. But why don’t you write him a nice long letter? Explain everything logically? Our son is sensible, and you always say there is a scientific basis to our religious laws, so show him that. And you could ask your friend to help you write it, he’s a professional.”
“Are you mad?” says Daddy, highly insulted. “First of all, that old life of mine is finished, I don’t want to renew contact with Vilas. Second of all, he wrote for illiterates. For unschooled labourers who never learned their ABC or Ka Kha Ga. He was not some Shakespeare who could compose a letter to melt your son’s uncaring heart. And third of all, if a father cannot talk to his son face to face and has to write letters, he might as well forget his son.”
Mummy winces, and looks again towards the prayer cabinet.
Jal Uncle, careful to stay away from this huge argument, has kept busy cleaning out the cupboards in the spare room, sorting out items for donation to a charity drive that Daisy and the BSO have initiated. Now he brings some things to show us, and I get the feeling he is trying a diversionary tactic.
But he is very emotional as he opens a small box. “Look what I found,” he says,
Inside, there are two pairs of gold cufflinks and two sets of shirt studs. There is a note with them: For Murad and Jehangir, on their wedding.
“That’s Coomy’s handwriting!” says Mummy.
“Yes,” says Jal Uncle. “You know how methodical she was. And these buttons – they belonged to our father, to Palonji Pappa. Seems like Coomy saved them for the boys.”
My mother has tears in her eyes now, and wipes them away quickly. The discovery of Coomy Aunty’s box is confusing. And makes me feel sad. What am I to think now? There were such few hints from her about her feelings towards Murad and me.
“Put them in a safe place, Jal,” says my father. “We’ll honour Coomy’s wish when the happy day arrives. What else have you got there?”
Jal Uncle shows us a stack of holy pictures he found in one of the cupboards: Sai Baba, Virgin Mary, a Crucifixion, Haji Malang, several Zarathustras, Our Lady of Fatima, Buddha.
“Where did these come from?” asks Daddy.
“? remember seeing them as a child,” says Jal Uncle. “They used to hang all over the flat. You know how, in those days, it was usual for most Parsis to keep tokens of every religion. Pappa took them down after Mamma and Lucy died.”
Daddy examines the pictures, some in frames and some yellow and curling. There are dates on the framing boards of several, I notice, going as far back as 1869.
While on the subject, Jal Uncle mentions the dour portraits of Grandpa’s ancestors hanging in the long passage. “I’m not particularly attached to those gloomy faces,” he jokes. “If you want to use the frames for something else, feel free.”
“No,” says Daddy. “They are the elders and achievers of the community, the stalwarts. If there were more of them alive today, the Parsi komm wouldn’t be in such dire straits. They must stay as an inspiration to us all. Especially to the boys.”
“And the holy pictures?”
My father wants time to decide about them.
Because it will be Murad’s eighteenth birthday in two weeks, Mummy plans to make it special. She suggests inviting a dozen of his college friends for a little party from five o’clock to seven o’clock. Dinner would be restricted to eight people: our family and three of his closest friends – my father doesn’t like big crowds.
“Just make sure that the Maharashtrian girl is not one of the three,” said Daddy when he heard about the plan.
“She is,” said Murad at once. “Anjali will stay for dinner.”
And the fighting begins again.
My father resorts to preaching what he has assimilated from the meetings and discussions of his religious societies, citing scripture, quoting commentaries by high priests. I’ve heard it so often, I could rattle it off by heart.
“You’re becoming more and more fanatical,” says Murad. “I don’t understand what’s changing you, Daddy.”
“You will, as you get older. It’s a spiritual evolution. You will reach a stage in your life when you too thirst for spirituality.”
This makes no impression on Murad. He says that perhaps the League of Orthodox Parsis could invent a Purity Detector, along the lines of the airport metal detector, which would go beep-beep-beep when an impure person walked through.
“You think the question of purity, the life and death of our community, is a joking matter?”
“I think bigotry is certainly to be laughed at.”
“Don’t throw words around. It’s a modern trend to call people names if you don’t agree with them.”
“What do you have against my friend?”
“We’ve been through that. I know where your friendship is going with that girl, and I won’t tolerate it in my house. If she comes to dinner, it will make me sick. I will vomit on the dining table, I’m warning you.”
Murad says to Daddy that his ideas make him feel like vomiting too, and between the two of them they could launch his birthday party on a sea of vomit.
“Stop it, Murad!” cried Mummy. “Don’t say such disgusting things!”
“He started it. He’s using religion like a weapon. Do you know the obsession with purity is creating lunatics in our community? I’m never going to accept these crazy ideas.”
“Shameless rascal! Calling his father a lunatic! That’s it, I’m leaving, I’m going to fire-temple, I cannot look at his face any more!”
“Why don’t you set up a little tent in the main hall? You could live inside it, the amount of time you spend there.”
“Hear that? Your son wants to turn me out of the house!”
“He’s cracking a silly joke, Yezdaa. Aren’t you, Murad.”
“No, I’m serious, I’m planning to go to Pleasant Villa and borrow Villie Aunty’s big tablecloth for Daddy.”
“Oh, Villie was so helpful to us,” laments Mummy upon being reminded. “And we never did thank her properly. Never even told her we were moving, till the very last minute. I’m so ashamed.”
“She should be the one to feel ashamed,” says Daddy vehemently, astonishing all of us. “She tempted me with Matka and made me gamble, something I’d never done in my life.”
This is more than even Mummy can take. Without a word she leaves the room.
On the Zoroastrian calendar, which we follow for prayers and religious ceremonies, the roj for Murad’s birthday falls four days earlier. To mark this day, Mummy has ordered sweetmeats from Parsi Dairy Farm. The servant, Sunita, who comes to clean every morning, is sent to buy flowers: toruns to hang in the doorways. And Mummy cooks ravo for breakfast, seasoned with cardamom, nutmeg, and cinnamon and garnished with lots of raisins and blanched almonds. The kitchen smells delicious this morning.
“Why are you celebrating his birthday twice?” asks Daddy.
“Because it’s his eighteenth – you know that.”
“Two treats for a boy who does not deserve even one,” he remarks, and she makes a disapproving face at him.
When I return from school in the afternoon, Mummy wants me to go to the building across the road and deliver two sweetmeat boxes: one to Dr. Fitter, the other to Inspector Masalavala.
I put up a mild protest: I hardly know them, she should have sent the mithai with Sunita in the morning. Their names, of course, are familiar to me; I know they were very helpful after Coomy Aunty’s accident. And I’ve also heard the stories about the doctor and the inspector’s father intervening on Grandpa’s behalf, when Lucy and my grandmother died.
“Sending a servant is not the same,” explains Mummy. “It shows more respect when a family member presents the mithai.”
So I take the boxes of jalebi on a tray, covered by a cloth embroidered with peacocks in its four corners. First I stop at Inspector Masalavala’s flat. He is not home, his servant informs me at the door, and following Mummy’s instructions, I ask for Mrs. Masalavala.
“Yes?” she appears suddenly, as though she has been listening in the next room. “Who is it?”
“Jehangir,” I say, “Roxana Chenoy’s son, from Chateau Felicity.” I point over my shoulder, hoping that will help identify me. “Nariman Vakeel’s grandson.”
“Oh yes yes yes, I recognize you,” she says to my relief.
I put my hand under the cloth and slide one box out. “Mummy has sent mithai for Inspector and you. It’s my brother’s roj birthday – his eighteenth.”
“Oh yes yes yes, how nice. Please say happy birthday to him from us. And say thank you to your mummy.” She takes the box as though it were her due, seeing me off briskly.
Glad that it was short, I go to the flat opposite the Masalavalas’, hoping for a similar swift exit. But Dr. Fitter, who opens the door, interrupts my introduction and, with a broad smile, takes me by the arm.
“Of course I know who you are, young man. Come in, come in for a minute. Tehmi! Tehmi!”
Mrs. Fitter answers from inside: “Now what is it, Shapurji, how will I get your dinner ready if you keep bothering me?”
Scolding away, she comes to the veranda, wal
She puts the knife down on the teapoy, wipes her hands on her skirt, and pinches my cheek. I smell coriander, fragrant on her fingers. Then I uncover the tray and hand over the jalebi, delivering Mummy’s message.
“Murad eighteen already!” she says, taking the tray from me. “How wonderful! And you are?”
“Fourteen,” I answer, “fifteen running.”
Dr. Fitter smiles. “The new generation, ready to rule the world. And you will make it a much better place, I hope? Sit, tell me which school you go to.”
He chats with me for a while as Mrs. Fitter disappears with the mithai. I am anxious about the tray – will she remember to bring it back? Meanwhile, Dr. Fitter declares how good it is that our family is living in Professor Vakeel’s flat.
“For much too long there was an emptiness in that house. An absence … Your grandfather, he had a very unfortunate life. I still remember the day he came downstairs to speak to his girlfriend – the day he was wearing only a towel around his waist.”
Dr. Fitter chuckles at the memory. I nod knowingly and try to prompt him to talk some more: “My parents always say you were so kind to help my grandfather.”
He shakes his head to dismiss the thanks. “The least we could do, Superintendent Masalavala and I. And even then, even without a police case, how many rumours were flying – was it double murder, was it double suicide, was it pure accident?”
I feel as though the colour is leaving my face, and hope he doesn’t notice. “Rumours are always on the human agenda,” I remark smartly, grateful for the words.
Dr. Fitter laughs. “Just the kind of thing Professor Vakeel would say. Of course, you can’t blame people, it did look suspicious.”
Mrs. Fitter returns for the knife she has left behind, and overhears. “What are you doing, Shapurji,” she reproaches him. “These are not matters to discuss with a little boy.”