Rohinton Mistry - Family Matters

Tales from Firozsha Baag (1987)
Such a Long Journey (1991)
A Fine Balance (1995)
Family Matters (2002)

Rohinton Mistry is the author of a collection of short stories, Tales from Firozsha Baag (1987), and three internationally acclaimed novels, Such a Long Journey (1991), A Fine Balance (1995), and Family Matters (2002). His fiction has won many prestigious international awards, including The Giller Prize, the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Book, the Governor Generals Award, the Canada-Australia Literary Prize, the SmithBooks/Books in Canada First Novel Award, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction, The Royal Society of Literatures Winifred Holtby Award, and the Kiriyama Pacific Rim Book Prize for Fiction. A Fine Balance was also an Oprahs Book Club selection.

Born in Bombay in 1952, Rohinton Mistry came to Canada in 1975.

A SPLASH OF LIGHT from the late-afternoon sun lingered at the foot of Narimans bed as he ended his nap and looked towards the clock. It was almost six. He glanced down where the warm patch had lured his toes. Knurled and twisted, rendered birdlike by age, they luxuriated in the suns comfort. His eyes fell shut again.

By and by, the scrap of sunshine drifted from his feet, and he felt a vague pang of abandonment. He looked at the clock again: gone past six now. With some difficulty he rose to prepare for his evening walk. In the bathroom, while he slapped cold water on his face and gargled, he heard his stepson and stepdaughter over the sound of the tap.

Please dont go, Pappa, we beseech you, said Jal through the door, then grimaced and adjusted his hearing aid, for the words had echoed deafeningly in his own ear. The device was an early model; a metal case the size of a matchbox was clipped to his shirt pocket and wired to the earpiece. It had been a reluctant acquisition four years ago, when Jal had turned forty-five, but he was not yet used to its vagaries.

There, thats better, he said to himself, before becoming loud again: Now, Pappa, is it too much to ask? Please stay home, for your own good.

Why is this door shut that we have to shout? said Coomy. Open it, Jal.

She was two years younger than her brother, her tone sharper than his, playing the scold to his peacemaker. Thin like him, but sturdier, she had taken after their mother, with few curves to soften the lines and angles. During her girlhood, relatives would scrutinize her and remark sadly that a fathers love was sunshine and fresh water without which a daughter could not bloom; a stepfather, they said, was quite useless in this regard. Once, they were careless and spoke in her hearing. Their words had incandesced painfully in her mind, and she had fled to her room to weep for her dead father.

Jal tried the bathroom door; it was locked. He scratched his thick wavy hair before knocking gently. The inquiry failed to elicit a response.

Coomy took over. How many times have I told you, Pappa? Dont lock the door! If you fall or faint inside, how will we get you out? Follow the rules!

Nariman rinsed the lather from his hands and reached for the towel. Coomy had missed her vocation, he felt. She should have been a headmistress, enacting rules for hapless schoolgirls, making them miserable. Instead, here she was, plaguing him with rules to govern every aspect of his shrunken life. Besides the prohibition against locked doors, he was required to announce his intention to use the wc. In the morning he was not to get out of bed till she came to get him. A bath was possible only twice a week when she undertook its choreography, with Jal enlisted as stage manager to stand by and ensure his safety. There were more rules regarding his meals, his clothes, his dentures, his use of the radiogram, and in charitable moments Nariman accepted what they never tired of repeating: that it was all for his own good.

He dried his face while she continued to rattle the knob. Pappa! Are you okay? Im going to call a locksmith and have all the locks removed, Im warning you!

His trembling hands took a few moments to slide the towel back on the rod. He opened the door. Hello, waiting for me?

Youll drive me crazy, said Coomy. My heart is going dhuk-dhuk, wondering if you collapsed or something.

Never mind, Pappa is fine, said Jal soothingly. And thats the main thing.

Smiling, Nariman stepped out of the bathroom and hitched up his trousers. The belt took longer; shaking fingers kept missing the buckle pin. He followed the gentle slant of sunlight from the bed to the window, delighting in its galaxies of dust, the dancing motes locked in their inscrutable orbits. Traffic noise had begun its evening assault on the neighbourhood. He wondered why it no longer offended him.

Stop dreaming, Pappa, said Coomy. Please pay attention to what we say.

Nariman thought he smelled the benign fragrance of earth after rain; he could almost taste it on his tongue. He looked outside. Yes, water was dripping to the pavement. In a straight drip. Not rain, then, but the neighbours window boxes.

Even with my healthy legs, Pappa, walking is a hazard, said Jal, continuing the daily fuss over his stepfathers outing. And lawlessness is the one certainty in the streets of Bombay. Easier to find a gold nugget on the footpath than a tola of courtesy. How can you take any pleasure in a walk?

Socks. Nariman decided he needed socks, and went to the dresser. Looking for a pair in the shallow drawer, he spoke into it, What you say is true, Jal. But the sources of pleasure are many. Ditches, potholes, traffic cannot extinguish all the joys of life. His hand with its bird-wing tremble continued to search. Then he gave up and stuffed bare feet into shoes.

Shoes without socks? Like a Pathan? said Coomy. And see how your hands are shaking? You cant even tie the laces.

Yes, you could help me.

Happily if you were going somewhere important like the doctor, or fire-temple for Mammas prayers. But I wont encourage foolishness. How many people with Parkinsons do what you do?

Im not going trekking in Nepal. A little stroll down the lane, thats all.

Relenting, Coomy knelt at her stepfathers feet and tied his laces as she did every evening. First week of August, monsoon in fury, and you want a little stroll.

He went to the window and pointed at the sky. Look, the rain has stopped.

A stubborn child, thats what you are, she complained. Should be punished like a child. No dinner for disobedience, hanh?

With her cooking that would be a prize, not a punishment, he thought.

Did you hear him, Jal? The older he gets, the more insulting he is!

Nariman realized hed said it aloud. I must confess, Jal, your sister frightens me. She can even hear my thoughts.

Jal could hear only a garble of noise, confounded by the earpiece that augmented Coomys strong voice while neglecting his stepfathers murmurings. Readjusting the volume control, he lifted his right index finger like an umpire giving a batsman out, and returned to the last topic his ears had picked up. I agree with you, Pappa, the sources of pleasure are many. Our minds contain worlds enough to amuse us for an eternity. Plus you have your books and record player and radio. Why leave the flat at all? Its like heaven in here. This building isnt called Chateau Felicity for nothing. I would lock out the hell of the outside world and spend all my days indoors.