now in his once-dexterous embraces. But the name of Dustoor Daab-Chaab clung to his autumnal years even as all else was withering. “It’s disgraceful,” he grumbled to a colleague. “Especially after my long association with the Shroff family. For death, they come to me — for saros-nu-paatru, for afargan, baaj, faroksy. But for a happy occasion, for wedding ashirvaad, I am not wanted. It’s a matter of shamefulness.”
In the evening there was a party at the Shroff residence. Nusswan insisted on at least this much celebration, and arranged for a caterer. There were forty-eight guests, of which six were Rustom’s friends, plus his Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. The rest were from Nusswan’s circle, including extended family members who could not be left out without risking criticism from relatives — the insinuating, whispered kind of criticism to which he was so sensitive.
The dining room, drawing room, Nusswan’s study, and the four bedrooms were rearranged to allow mingling and movement, with tables set up for food and drink. Little Xerxes and his friends ran from room to room in a frenzy of adventure and discovery, screaming and laughing. They were thrilled by the sudden freedom they enjoyed in a house where their previous visits had felt like time spent in prison, grimly supervised by the very strict daddy of Xerxes. Nusswan himself groaned inwardly each time one of them collided with him, but smiled and patted the child on its way.
During the course of the evening he produced four bottles of Scotch whisky to general applause. “Now we will put some life in the evening, and into this newly married pair!” said the men to one another, with much nodding and laughter, and the whispering of things not meant for women’s ears.
“Okay, brother-in-law,” said Nusswan, clinking two empty glasses before Rustom. “You’re the expert, better start mixing a dose of Johnnie Walker medicine for everyone.”
“Sure,” said Rustom good-naturedly, and took the glasses.
“Just joking, just joking,” said Nusswan, holding on to the bottle. “How can the bridegroom be allowed to work at his own wedding?” It was his only pharmaceutical dig during the evening.
An hour after the Scotch was taken, Ruby went to the kitchen; it was time to serve dinner. The dining table had been moved against the wall and set up for a buffet. The caterer’s men staggered in with hot, heavy dishes, calling “Side please! Side please!” to get through. Everyone reverently made way for the food.
The aromas that had been filling the house with appetizing hints all evening, teasing nostrils and taunting palates, suddenly overwhelmed the gathering. A hush fell across the room. Someone chuckled loudly that where Parsis were concerned, food was number one, conversation came second. Whereupon someone else corrected him: no, no, conversation came third, and the second thing couldn’t be mentioned with ladies and children present. Those within earshot rewarded the worn-out joke with hearty laughter.
Ruby clapped her hands: “Okay, everybody! Dinner is served! Please help yourselves and don’t be shy, there is lots of food!” She hovered around to play the host in the time-honoured fashion, repeating regretfully before each guest, “Please forgive us, we could manage nothing worthy of you.”
“What are you saying, Ruby, it all looks wonderful,” they replied. While helping themselves, they took the opportunity to inquire after her pregnancy and when she was expecting.
Nusswan examined the plates that passed before him, lightheartedly scolding the guests who took too little. “What’s this, Mina, you must be joking. Even my pet sparrow would go hungry with this quantity.” He spooned more biryani for Mina. “Wait, Hosa, wait, one more kabab, it’s delicious, believe me, one more, come on, be a sport,” and deftly plopped two onto the reluctant plate. “Come back for more, promise?”
When everyone had served themselves, Dina noticed Rustom’s Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle on the verandah, a little secluded from the rest, and went to them. “Please eat well. Have you taken enough?”
“More than enough, my child, more than enough. The food is delicious.” Shirin Aunty beckoned to bring her closer, and beckoned again, to make her bend till Dina’s ear was close to her mouth. “If you ever need anything — remember, anything at all, you can come to me and Darab.”
And Darab Uncle nodded; his hearing was very sharp. “Whatever the problem. We are like Rustom’s parents. And you are like our daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Dina, understanding that this was more than a customary welcoming speech from the other side. She sat with them while they ate. Near the dining table Nusswan, miming with plate and fork, signalled to her to get some food for herself. Yes, later, she mimed back, and stayed with Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle, who watched her with adoring eyes as they ate.
A few guests still remained when Nusswan gave the caterer’s men the go-ahead for the cleanup. The lingerers got the hint and said their thanks and goodbyes.
On the way out, someone clutched Rustom’s lapel and giggled, whispering with whisky breath that the bride and groom were fortunate not to have a mother-in-law on either side. “Not fair, not fair! No one to question you whether the equipment worked on the first night, you lucky rascal! No one to inspect the bedsheet, hahn!” He prodded Rustom in the stomach with one finger. “You’re getting off very lightly!”
“Good night, everybody,” said Nusswan and Ruby. “Good night, good night. Thank you very much for coming.”
When the last guest had departed, Rustom said, “That was a lovely evening. Thank you both for arranging it.”
“Yes, it really was, thank you very much,” added Dina.
“You’re welcome — most welcome,” said Nusswan, and Ruby nodded. “It was our duty.”
Originally, Dina and Rustom had agreed with Nusswan’s suggestion to spend the night there. Then they realized that the rooms would have to be put back in order after the party. So it was more convenient to go straight to Rustom’s flat.
“Now don’t worry about anything, these fellows will clear up, that’s what they are paid for,” said Nusswan. “You two carry on.” He gave them both a hug. It was the second time that day for Dina. The first time had been in the morning, after the dustoorji had finished reciting the wedding benediction; it had also been the first time in seven years.
A small lump came to her throat. She swallowed as Nusswan quickly passed his fingers over his eyes. “Wish you lots of happiness,” he said.
Dina fetched a valise that was packed and ready for the night. The rest of her things would be delivered later. Nusswan was going to let her have some furniture from their parents’ possessions. He accompanied them down the cobbled walkway to a taxi and waved goodbye. She noticed with surprise that his voice quavered as he said, “All the best! God bless you!”
They woke up late the next morning. Rustom had taken a week’s leave from work, though they couldn’t afford to go anywhere on a honeymoon.
Dina made tea in the gloomy kitchen while he watched anxiously. The kitchen was the dingiest room in the flat, its ceiling and plaster blackened by smoke. Rustom’s mother had cooked over coal fires all her life. Her brief acquaintance with kerosene had not been propitious — there had been a spill, and flames, and burns down her thighs; coal was more obedient, she had concluded.
Rustom had wanted to paint the kitchen before the wedding, along with the other rooms, but the money had refused to stretch that far. He began to apologize for the flat’s condition. “You are not used to living like this. Just look at these horrible walls.”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s fine,” she said happily. “We’ll get it painted later.”
Perhaps it was due to her presence in the flat, unusual at breakfast time, but he began detecting new deficiencies around him. “After my parents died I got rid of things. Seemed like clutter to me. I was planning to live like a sadhu, you see, with only my violin for company. Instead of a bed of nails, the screeching of catgut to mortify myself.”
“Are the strings really made of cat intestines?”
“Used to be, in the olden days. And in the very olden days, violinists had to go out and hunt down their own strings. There were no music shops then, like L. M. Furtado or Godin amp; Company. At all the great conservatories of Europe, they taught music as well as animal evisceration.”
“Now don’t be silly so early in the morning,” she scolded, but his bizarre humour was what she liked most about him.
“Anyway, I have found my beautiful angel, and the sadhu days are over. The catgut can take a rest.”
