“I don’t want to get married so soon.”
“Soon? You call this soon? You are twenty-six years old. What are you hoping for? For Rustom to return miraculously? Be careful, or you’ll go crazy like Bapsy Aunty — she at least had an excuse, her husband’s body was never found after the dock explosion.”
“What a horrible thing to say!” Dina turned away in disgust and left the room.
She had been very young when it happened, but remembered the day clearly, during wartime, when two British ammunition ships had blown up after docking, killing thousands within a large radius of the harbour. Rumours about Nazi spies had begun to spread while the detonations were still in progress. The authorities said that many of those unaccounted for were vaporized during the deadly blasts, but Bapsy Aunty refused to accept this theory. She felt her husband was alive, wandering amnesiac somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before he was located. Alternately, Bapsy Aunty allowed that he might have been hypnotized or fed something by an unscrupulous sadhu and led away into slavery. In either case, she believed her husband would be found. That seventeen years had passed since the calamity did not diminish her faith. She spent her time chatting busily with his photograph, which sat in a heavy silver frame at her bedside, narrating for his benefit each day’s news and gossip in detail.
“It’s your depressing behaviour which reminds me of Bapsy Aunty,” said Nusswan, following Dina into the next room. “What excuse do you have? You were at the funeral, you saw Rustom’s body, you heard the prayers. He has been dead and digested for more than a year now.” As soon as he said it, he rolled his eyes heavenward to ask forgiveness for this bit of irreverence.
“Do you know how fortunate you are in our community? Among the unenlightened, widows are thrown away like garbage. If you were a Hindu, in the old days you would have had to be a good little sati and leap onto your husband’s funeral pyre, be roasted with him.”
“I can always go to the Towers of Silence and let the vultures eat me up, if that will make you happy.”
“Shameless woman! What a loose mouth! Such blasphemy! All I am saying is, appreciate your position. For you it is possible to live a full life, get married again, have children. Or do you prefer to live forever on my charity?”
Dina did not answer. But the next day, while Nusswan was at work, she began moving her belongings back to Rustom’s flat.
Ruby tried to stop her, following her from room to room, pleading with her. “You know how hotheaded your brother is. He does not mean everything he says.”
“Neither does he say everything he means,” she replied, and continued packing.
In the evening Ruby told Nusswan about it. “Hah!” he scoffed, loud enough for Dina to hear. “Let her go if she wants. I would just love to see how she supports herself.”
After dinner, while still at the table, he cleared his throat. “As the head of the family, it’s my duty to tell you I don’t approve of what you are doing You are making a big mistake, which you will regret. It’s a hard world out there, but I’m not going to beg you to stay. You are welcome here if you will be reasonable.”
“Thank you for the speech,” said Dina.
“Yes, make fun of me. You have done it all your life, why stop now. Remember, this is your decision, no one is kicking you out. None of our relatives will blame me, I have done all I can to help you. And will continue to do so.”
It was not long before the children understood that Dina Aunty was leaving. First they were bewildered, and then angry. Xerxes hid her handbag, screaming, “No, Aunty! You cannot go!” When she threatened to leave without it, Zarir brought it tearfully from the hiding place.
“You can always visit me,” she tried to pacify the two, hugging them and drying their eyes. “On Saturday and Sunday. And maybe during the vacation. It will be such fun.” They were excited at the prospect but would have much preferred that she stay with them forever.
The morning after she was back in her flat, Dina went to visit Rustom’s Darab Uncle and Shirin Aunty. “Darab! Look who’s here!” Shirin Aunty shouted excitedly. “Our dearDina! Come in, my child, come in!”
Darab Uncle emerged, still in his pyjamas, and hugged Dina, saying they had waited a long time for this. “Excuse my appearance,” he said, sitting down opposite her and smiling broadly.
As always, Dina was touched by their happiness at seeing her. She felt their love pour over her like something palpable. It reminded her of the milk bath she was given as a child on her birthday, by her mother, when half a cup of warm milk, with rose petals afloat, came trickling down her face and neck and chest in tiny white runnels over her light-brown skin.
“The hardest part,” she said, “is leaving the two little boys. I have become so attached to them.”
“Yes, that’s how it is with children,” said Shirin Aunty. “But you know, Rustom had told us how shabbily your brother treated you in the years before you were married.”
“He is not a bad person,” Dina objected feebly. “He just has his own ideas about things.”
“Yes, of course,” said Shirin Aunty, sensing the weight of family loyalty. “Anyway, you can stay with us. We are so happy you came.”
“Oh,” said Dina, anxious to keep the misunderstanding from going further. “Actually, I have decided to live in Rustom’s flat from now on. I came only to ask if you could find me some work.”
Her words made Darab Uncle’s mouth begin to move. He laboured to swallow the disappointment suddenly filling it, his soft slurping sounds teasing the quiet while Shirin Aunty played desperately with the hem of her dustercoat. “Work,” she said, blank, unable to think. “My dear child … yes, work, you must work. What work, Darab? What work for her, do you think?”
Dina waited in guilty silence for his answer. But he was still struggling with his mouthful. “Go change your clothes,” Shirin Aunty scolded him. “Almost afternoon, and still loitering in your sleeping suit.”
He rose obediently and went inside. Shirin Aunty relinquished her hem, rubbed her hands over her face and sat up. By the time Darab Uncle returned, having exchanged his blue-striped pyjamas for khaki pants and bush shirt, she had the beginnings of a solution for Dina.
“Tell me, my child, can you sew?”
“Yes, a little. Ruby taught me how to use a sewing-machine.”
“Good. Then there will be work for you. I have an extra Singer you can take. It is quite old, but runs well.”
For years, Shirin Aunty had supplemented her husband’s salary from the State Transport Corporation by sewing for a few families. She made simple things like pyjamas, nightgowns, baby blouses, bedsheets, pillowcases, tablecloths. “You can be my partner,” she said. “There is lots of work, more than I can manage now with my weak old eyes. We will start tomorrow.”
Dina picked up her handbag and hugged Shirin Aunty and Darab Uncle. They accompanied her to the front door. Then a commotion in the street drew them to the balcony. A huge protest march was surging down the road.
“It’s another silly morcha about language,” said Darab Uncle, spotting the banners. “The fools want to divide the state on linguistic lines.”
“Everyone wants to change things,” said Shirin Aunty. “Why can’t people learn to be happy with things as they are? Anyway, let’s go back inside. Dina cannot leave now. All the traffic is stopped.” She sounded quite pleased about it, and enjoyed Dina’s company for two more hours, till the streets had returned to normal.
Over the next few days, Dina was taken around and introduced to the customers. At each stop she waited nervously by Shirin Aunty’s side, smiling timidly, trying to grasp the barrage of names and the tailoring instructions. Shirin Aunty kept handing over most of the new jobs to her.
At the end of the week, Dina finally protested: “I cannot accept so much, I cannot deprive you of your income.”
“My dear child, you are not depriving me of anything. Darab’s pension is enough for us. I was going to give up the sewing anyway, it was becoming too hard for me. Here, don’t forget this new pattern.”
Along with the assignments, Shirin Aunty passed along background material on the customers, information that would help Dina in her dealings with them. “The Munshi family is the best — always pays promptly. The Parekhs too, except that they like to haggle. You just be firm, tell them I have set the rates. Who else? Oh yes, Mr. Savukshaw. He has a big problem with the bottle. By the end of the month his poor missis has hardly any money left. Make sure you take advance payment.”
