A Son of the Circus

What does he mean—do I know? Farrokh thought. Why doesn’t he know? But neither Father Julian nor Father Cecil could remember exactly when Martin Mills was arriving; they blamed Brother Gabriel for losing the American’s letter.

Brother Gabriel had come to Bombay and St. Ignatius after the Spanish Civil War; he’d been on the Communist side, and his first contribution to St. Ignatius had been to collect the Russian and Byzantine icons for which the mission chapel and its icon-collection room were famous. Brother Gabriel was also in charge of the mail.

When Farrokh was 10 or 12 and a student at St. Ignatius, Brother Gabriel would have been 26 or 28; Dr. Daruwalla remembered that Brother Gabriel was at that time still struggling to learn Hindi and Marathi, and that his English was melodious, with a Spanish accent. The doctor recalled a short, sturdy man in a black cassock, exhorting an army of sweepers to raise more and more clouds of dust from the stone floors. Farrokh also remembered that Brother Gabriel was in charge of the other servants, and the garden, and the kitchen, and the linen room—in addition to the mail. But the icons were his passion. He was a friendly, vigorous man, neither an intellectual nor a priest, and Dr. Daruwalla calculated that, today, Brother Gabriel would be around 75. No wonder he’s losing letters, Farrokh thought.

So no one knew exactly when Dhar’s twin would arrive! Father Cecil added that the American’s teaching duties would commence almost immediately. St. Ignatius didn’t recognize the week between Christmas and New Year’s as a holiday; only Christmas Day and New Year’s Day were school vacations, an annoyance that Farrokh remembered from his own school days. The doctor guessed that the school was still sensitive to the charge made by many non-Christian parents that Christmas was overemphasized.

It was possible, Father Cecil opined, that young Martin would make contact with Dr. Daruwalla before he contacted anyone at St. Ignatius. Or perhaps the doctor had already heard from the American? Already heard? thought Dr. Daruwalla, in a panic.

Here was Dhar’s twin—due to arrive any day now—and Dhar still didn’t know! And the naive American would arrive at Sahar Airport at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning; that was when all the flights from Europe and North America arrived. (Dr. Daruwalla presumed that all Americans coming to India were “naive.”) At that dreadfully early hour, St. Ignatius would quite literally be closed—like a castle, like an army barracks, like the compound or the cloister that it was. If the priests and brothers didn’t know exactly when Martin Mills was arriving, no one would leave any lights on or any doors open for him—no one would meet his plane. And so the bewildered missionary might come directly to Dr. Daruwalla; he might simply show up on the doctor’s doorstep at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. (Dr. Daruwalla presumed that all missionaries coming to India were “bewildered.”)

Farrokh couldn’t remember what he’d written to Vera. Had he given the horrid woman his home address or the address of the Hospital for Crippled Children? Fittingly, she’d written to him in care of the Duckworth Club. Of Bombay, of all of India, it was possibly only the Duckworth Club that Vera remembered. (Doubtless she’d repressed the cow.)

Damn other people’s messes! Dr. Daruwalla was muttering aloud. He was a surgeon; as such, he was an extremely neat and tidy man. The sheer sloppiness of human relationships appalled him, especially those relationships to which he felt he’d brought a special responsibility and care. Brother-sister, brother-brother, child- parent, parent-child. What was the matter with human beings, that they made such a shambles out of these basic relationships?

Dr. Daruwalla didn’t want to hide Dhar from his twin. He didn’t want to hurt Danny—with the cruel evidence of what his wife had done, and how she’d lied—but he felt he was largely protecting Vera by helping her to keep her lie intact. As for Dhar, he was so disgusted by everything he’d heard about his mother, he’d stopped being curious about her when he was in his twenties; he’d never expressed a desire to know her—not even to meet her. Admittedly, his curiosity about his father had persisted into his thirties, but Dhar had lately seemed resigned to the fact that he would never know him. Perhaps the proper word was “hardened,” not “resigned.”

At 39, John D. had simply grown accustomed to not knowing his mother and father. But who wouldn’t want to know, or at least meet, his own twin? Why not simply introduce the fool missionary to his twin? the doctor asked himself. “Martin, this is your brother—you’d better get used to the idea.” (Dr. Daruwalla presumed that all missionaries were, in one way or another, fools.) Telling the truth to Dhar’s twin would serve Vera right, Farrokh thought. It might even prevent Martin Mills from doing anything as confining as becoming a priest. It was most definitely the Anglican in Dr. Daruwalla that stopped short of the very idea of chastity, which seemed utterly confining to him.

Farrokh remembered what his contentious father had had to say about chastity. Lowji had considered the subject in the light of Gandhi’s experience. The Mahatma had been married at 13; he was 37 when he took a vow of sexual abstinence. “By my calculations,” Lowji had said, “this amounts to twenty-four years of sex. Many people don’t have that many years of sex in their entire lifetime. So the Mahatma chose sexual abstinence after twenty- four years of sexual activity. He was a bloody womanizer flanked by a bunch of Mary Magdalenes!”

As with all his father’s pronouncements, that voice of steadfast authority rang down through the years, for old Lowji proclaimed everything in the same strident, inflammatory tones; he mocked, he defamed, he provoked, he advised. Whether he was giving good advice (usually of a medical nature) or speaking out of the most dire prejudice—or expressing the most eccentric, simplistic opinion—Lowji had the tone of voice of a self-declared expert. To everyone, and in consideration of all subjects, he used the same famous tone of voice with which he’d made a name for himself in the days of Independence and during the Partition, when he’d so authoritatively addressed the issue of Disaster Medicine. (“In order of importance, look for dramatic amputations and severe extremity injuries before treating fractures or lacerations. Best to leave all head injuries to the experts, if there are any.”) It was a pity that such sensible advice was wasted on a movement that didn’t last, although the present volunteers in the field still spoke of Disaster Medicine as a worthy cause.

Upon that memory, Dr. Farrokh Daruwalla attempted to extricate himself from the past. He forced himself to view the melodrama of Dhar’s twin as the particular crisis at hand. With refreshing and unusual clarity, the doctor decided that it should be Dhar’s decision whether or not poor Martin Mills should know that he had a twin brother. Martin Mills wasn’t the twin the doctor knew and loved. It should be a matter of what the doctor’s beloved John D. wanted: to know his brother or not to know him. And to hell with Danny and Vera, and whatever mess they might have made of their lives—especially to hell with Vera. She would be 65, Farrokh realized, and Danny was almost 10 years older; they were both old enough to face the music like grownups.

But Dr. Daruwalla’s reasoning was entirely swept away by the next phone message, alongside which everything to do with Dhar and his twin assumed the lesser stature of gossip, of mere trivia.

“Patel here,” said the voice, which instantly impressed Farrokh with a moral detachment he’d never known. Anesthesiology Patel? Radiology Patel? It was a Gujarati name—there weren’t all that many Patels in Bombay. And then, with a sensation of sudden coldness—almost as cold as the voice on his answering machine—Farrokh knew who it was. It was Deputy Commissioner Patel, the real policeman. He must be the only Gujarati on the Bombay police force, Farrokh thought, for surely the local police were mostly Maharashtrians.

“Doctor,” the detective said, “there is quite a different subject we must discuss— not in Dhar’s presence, please. I want to speak with you alone.” The hanging up of the phone was as abrupt as the message.

Had he not been so agitated by the call, Dr. Daruwalla might have prided himself for his insight as a screenwriter, for he’d always given Inspector Dhar a similar succinctness when speaking on the telephone— especially to answering machines. But the screenwriter took no pride in the accuracy of his characterization; instead, Farrokh was overcome with curiosity regarding what the “different subject” that Detective Patel wished to discuss was, not to mention why this subject couldn’t be discussed in front of Dhar. At the same time, Dr. Daruwalla absolutely dreaded the deputy commissioner’s presumed knowledge of crime.

Was there another clue to Mr. Lal’s murder, or another threat to Dhar? Or was this “different subject” the cage-girl killings—the real-life murders of those prostitutes, not the movie version?

But the doctor had no time to contemplate the mystery. With the next phone message, Dr. Daruwalla was once more ensnared by the past.