Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry Page A

window. They were about to pass their father’s childhood home.
    “There it is,” said Jehangir, “my building!” as Jehangir Mansion came into view.
    They laughed, and the boys stared at the ground-floor flat where their father had spent his youth. They tried hard to get a glimpse through its windows, as if that would tell them more about their father, about his life before he was Daddy. But some of the rooms were dark, and curtains on the others concealed the secrets of the flat.
    “Can we go in one day?”
    He shook his head. “You know it was sold. There are strangers living in my house now.”
    The bus completed the turn, and the boys craned their necks to keep Jehangir Mansion in sight. The ensuing silence was touched with sadness.
    “I wish you had kept on living there after marrying Mummy,” said Jehangir. “Then Murad and I could also be there now.”
    “Don’t you like Pleasant Villa? Such a nice home?”
    “This looks nicer,” said Murad. “It has a private compound where we could play.”
    “Yes,” said Yezad. A wistful look passed over his face as he remembered childhood years, and friends, and cricket in the compound. “But there wasn’t room for everyone in that house.”
    “And Daddy’s three sisters didn’t like me,” added Roxana.
    “Now,” protested Yezad, then let her continue, for he was the one always saying no need to keep secrets from the children.
    Youngest among the four, Yezad had been the recipient of his sisters’ unrelenting adoration. It was a fierce and jealous love, the three doting on their baby brother with a zeal that verged on the maniacal. In childhood, such a love posed few problems; it was considered cute and charming. During the teenage years, he was their guardian, their knight-at-arms. Many were the fights he got into when schoolboy teasing and off-colour remarks happened to include his sisters. In college, it was more serious; during his first year he thrashed two louts who were harassing his youngest sister in a part of the back field.
    Then other girls became part of his circle of friends at college, and his sisters’ fierce love turned oppressive, the first hint of trouble ahead. That women who were nothing but strangers should presume to share their brother’s attention was unthinkable. Their reactions ranged from indignation to anger to bitterness; Yezad often had to choose between peace at home and an evening out with friends.
    “And when Daddy and I got engaged, it was too much for them,” said Roxana. “They treated me so rudely, they wouldn’t take part in any of the wedding ceremonies. I was stealing their baby. No matter who Daddy married, they would have treated her the same. Isn’t that right, Daddy?” She patted Yezad’s hand, and he nodded.
    “Maybe if you had stayed, they would have become friendlier,” said Murad.
    Yezad shook his head. “You don’t know your aunties, it would have meant years of fights and quarrels. When Grandpa gave us Pleasant Villa, that was the best thing for us.”
    Jehangir said he always wondered why they had only Jal Uncle and Coomy Aunty, whereas his friends had so many uncles and aunties. “We never go to see the others.”
    Then Yezad said they had learned enough family history for one evening, what with all the things Coomy Aunty was upset about, and now this discussion about his sisters. And Jehangir said he was going to write a big fat book when he grew up, called The Complete History of the Chenoy and Vakeel Families.
    “As long as you say only nice things about us,” said his mother.
    “No,” said Yezad. “As long as he tells the truth.”

T HERE WAS NO KNOCKING , no doorbell, only a muffled thud, making the hairs on the back of Coomy’s neck stand on end. She kept her head inside her newspaper, but racing through her mind were recent reports of daylight robbery, thieves forcing their way into homes, killing occupants, looting flats.
    She and Jal were alone. Nariman, taking the