“I enjoy your playing. You should practise more.”
“Are you joking? I sound worse than the fellow last week at Patkar Hall. And he played as though his f-holes were blocked.”
“Chhee, how filthy!”
He laughed at the face she made. “I can’t help it — that’s what they are called. Come, let me show you my f-holes.” He took the violin case down from the top of the cupboard. “See the shape of the two openings in the soundboard?”
“Oh, it looks just like a running-hand f.” She traced the curves with a finger, and touched the strings gently. “Play something while you have it open.”
He shut the case and, rising slightly on his toes, slipped it on top of the cupboard. “Play, play, play — that’s what my parents used to say.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I wish I had at least kept their double bed.” Then he asked shyly, “Were you comfortable last night?”
“Oh yes.” She blushed at the fresh memory of the narrow single bed in which they had clung together.
After a breakfast of an omelette and buttered toast, he opened the front door and said there was a surprise for her. “It was too dark to show you last night.”
“What is it?”
“You have to step outside.”
She saw the new brass nameplate gleaming in sunlight, engraved Mr. amp; Mrs. Rustom K. Dalai. He basked in the pleasure it gave her. “Day before yesterday is when I screwed it on.”
“It looks lovely.”
“Changing the nameplate was easy,” he chuckled. “It’s much more difficult to change the name on the rent receipt.”
“What do you mean?”
“The rent is collected in my father’s name though he’s been dead for nine years. The landlord hopes I will get impatient, offer money to transfer the flat to my name. He keeps hinting.”
“Are you going to?”
“Of course not. There’s nothing he can do, the Rent Act protects us. It doesn’t matter in whose name the rent receipt is issued. And you are entitled to live here too, as my wife. Even if I were to die tomorrow.”
“Rustom! Don’t say such things!”
He laughed. “When the rent-collector comes with the receipt in my father’s name, sometimes I feel like telling him to go up, to heaven, to the renter’s new address.”
Dina rested her head against his shoulder. “For me, heaven is in this flat.”
Rustom drew her close and hugged her. “For me too.” Then he gave the nameplate another shine with his sleeve. While they were admiring it, two handcarts rolled up and stopped by their door, laden with things from the Shroff residence.
At first, Rustom had arranged for a small lorry because Dina had requested Nusswan to let her have Daddy’s huge wardrobe, the one with the carved rosewood canopy of a sunburst and flowers. She would forgo everything else, she said, for this one item. Nusswan promised to consider it but refused in the end. He said that squeezing the wardrobe through the narrow door of Rustom’s flat would damage it, the scratches would be unfair to their father’s memory, and, besides, its proportions wouldn’t suit the tiny rooms.
So he let her have another cupboard, smaller and plainer, a little desk, and twin beds. There was also a large box of kitchen utensils that Ruby had put together after discreetly inquiring whether Rustom’s kitchen was properly equipped. To get them started, she included pots and pans, a stove, some cutlery, a board and a rolling pin.
The two handcarts were unloaded and the twin beds assembled. One of the carters offered to buy the old single. Rustom let him have it for thirty rupees, and got ten for the mattress from the other man.
As Dina watched them carry it away, he said, “I know what you’re thinking. But this flat has no space for an extra bed.” She wondered how close they would sleep that night, now that there were twin beds.
But one of the two was as good as unslept in when they woke on their second morning. Reassured, she spent the day getting her new home organized the way she wanted it. First, she gave notice to Seva Sadan, terminating delivery of Rustom’s evening meals. And for lunch, she would pack something for him when he returned to work the following week.
“No more nonsense of eating out or not eating at all,” she said, and climbed up on a chair to examine the high shelf in the kitchen. She discovered a series of brass and copper vessels, a kettle, and a set of kitchen knives.
“Those are all gone bad,” said Rustom. “I’ve been meaning to sell them for scrap. Tomorrow, I promise.”
“Don’t be silly, these are solid old things. They can be repaired and tinned. Nowadays you can’t buy such quality.”
The next time a tinker yelled outside their window, she called him to fix the leaking vessels and rivet the broken handle of the kettle. She watched to make sure he did the work properly. As he finished each pot, she took it to the bathroom and tested it with water.
The knife-grinder went by with his wheel slung over his shoulder. The tinker stopped hammering while she clapped twice to get his attention.
The dull blades soon began glinting with sharp edges. She relished the energy, the attention, the pounding and banging that went into getting her household shipshape for decades of wedded bliss with Rustom. A lifetime had to be crafted, just like anything else, she thought, it had to be moulded and beaten and burnished in order to get the most out of it.
The knife-grinder averted his face as sparks flew from the spinning grindstone. Like Divali fireworks, she thought, while the tinker’s hammer blows rang gaily in her ears.
Dina and Rustom celebrated their first wedding anniversary by going to the cinema and dining out. They saw
The following year Dina wanted to see something less grim. So they picked Bing Crosby’s
“I don’t know if you should wear that,” said Rustom, coming up behind her and stroking her hips.
“Why?” she smiled, wiggling to tease him.
“You’ll drive the men wild in the streets. Better carry your pointy pagoda parasol to protect yourself.”
“Won’t you protect me, and fight them off?”
“Okay. In that case, I’ll carry your spear. Better still, I’ll bring my violin — the screeching will scare them more.”
They enjoyed the film immensely. The blue frock was their private joke all evening as they imagined envious women and lustful men thirsting to get their hands on it. For dinner they went to Mongini’s; the desserts there had a wonderful reputation.
On their third anniversary, they decided to invite Nusswan, Ruby, and the children (there were two now) to dinner. Relations between them had been cordial since the wedding. Dina and Rustom were always asked to the children’s birthdays, and also on Navroze and Khordad Sal. Dina, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rustom, had taken to dropping in with sweets for her nephews, or just to say hello. The ill feelings had disappeared so completely that it was hard to remember them with any clarity. One was tempted to conclude that it had all been exaggerated by the imagination.
The little anniversary party proceeded most amicably. Dina could not afford a new outfit, and wore last year’s blue frock. Ruby admired it, and praised Dina’s cooking. She said that the pulao-dal was really tasty. Dina replied graciously that she had learned a lot from her sister-in-law. “But I still have a long way to go before reaching your standards.”
For the two boys, who were only six and three, Dina had cooked separately, without spices. But Xerxes and Zarir insisted on having what the adults were eating. Ruby allowed them a taste of it, and they wanted more despite their tongues hanging out.
“Never mind,” said Dina, laughing, “the ice cream will put out the fire.”
