Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry Page B

opportunity of a lull in the rain, had ventured out for a short walk. The monsoon had been unrelenting for the last fortnight, and he had refused to pass up this fine evening.
    The sound came again, louder, so that Jal heard it too. “Shall I go?” he asked.
    “Wait by the window – in case you have to shout for help.”
    She approached the door on tiptoe to look through the peephole. Anything suspicious and she could withdraw, pretend no one Was home. There was urgent shouting in Hindi to open quickly. First one voice, then another: “Darvaja kholo! Jaldi kholo! Koi gharmay hai kya?”
    She retreated, gathered her courage, went forward again. Dreading she might see what she saw in bad dreams, she looked. And she knew, in that instant, that it was the other nightmare, the one concerning her stepfather, upon which the curtain was rising.
    From the arms of two men hung Nariman, a helpless dead weight. One was carrying him at the knees; the other had passed his arms under the shoulders, fingers interlaced over Nariman’s chest. The man gripping the knees was hitting the door with his bare foot, producing that muffled thud.
    When Coomy flung the door open in mid-kick, he almost lost his balance. Nariman’s birthday gift was hooked onto the man’s shirt-front. Its weight made the button strain at the hole.
    “Jal! Jal, come quick!”
    The two men were panting, and sweat poured off their faces. They smelled terrible, thought Coomy, recognizing them from the ration shop, where they carried bags of grain home for customers, their muscles for hire. Mustn’t be strong ghatis, she felt, if the weight of one medium-built old man tired them.
    “What are you waiting for?” said Jal, frantic. “Chalo, bring him in! Nahin, don’t put him on the floor! Sofa ki ooper rakho! Wait, maybe inside on the palung is better.” He led them to Nariman’s room. “Theek hai, gently, that’s good.”
    The four of them stood around the bed and looked at Nariman. His eyes remained closed, his breathing laborious.
    “What happened?”
    “He fell into a khadda and we pulled him out,” said the man with the walking stick dangling at his chest. Exhaustion made him succinct. He lifted his shirt-tail and wiped his face.
    “The stick, Jal, the stick,” whispered Coomy. Her brother understood her concern – the sweat would soil it – and plucked it off the shirt.
    “It was a khadda dug by the telephone company,” said the second man. “The old sahab’s leg is hurt.”
    Nariman groaned, “My ankle … it may be broken.”
    They were relieved that he had regained consciousness. The sound of his voice made Coomy feel it was all right now to scold a little. “Every day we warned you about the danger, Pappa. Are you pleased with yourself?”
    “Sorry,” said Nariman feebly. “Wasn’t on purpose.”
    “These fellows are waiting,” whispered Jal. “We should give them something.”
    She consulted her stepfather: how far had the ghatis carried him? She wanted to calculate the amount by applying the ration-shop standard of payment. But hovering on the edge of consciousness, Nariman was not precise.
    “Just give them a decent bakshis and let them go,” said Jal. “They haven’t delivered a sack of wheat, it’s Pappa they rescued from a ditch.”
    She disagreed; what difference did it make, in terms of labour, whether they were lifting Pappa or a gunny of rice or furniture? Load and distance were the main thing. “And just because Pappa is hurt doesn’t mean money grows on trees.”
    She had a better idea: the ghatis could carry Pappa across the road to Dr. Fitter’s house. “Remember how obliging he was for Mamma? He took care of death certificates and everything, from beginning to end. I’m sure he’ll help us with Pappa.”
    “You’re not thinking straight, Coomy. That was more than thirty years ago. Dr. Fitter is an old man now, he has closed his practice.”
    “Retirement doesn’t mean his medical knowledge evaporates