Such A Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry Page A

father’s law practice if he had lived.’ That was all she said, grief no longer being something that needed unburdening. Over time, her carapace of spinsterhood had accreted in isolation. And there was no way for a person to tell if, under that hard shell, fate’s cruelly inflicted gashes were still raw or had scarred over.
    ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ started Dilnavaz.
    ‘No need. Tears have all been cried long ago. Not one drop remains.’ She placed two fingers on the bags under her eyes and tugged downwards. ‘See? Fully dry.’ Dilnavaz nodded sympathetically. ‘But I called you because I heard everything last night. Do you know why Sohrab is behaving like this?’
    Dilnavaz was grateful for the concern after her night of lonely anguish. ‘My mind refuses to work when I try to understand. Makes no sense at all.’
    ‘You are saying that suddenly he does not want to study at this IIT place?’ Miss Kutpitia narrowed her eyes as Dilnavaz nodded. ‘And up to now he wanted to go, no one forced him?’
    ‘No one. I am trying to remember, but I think it was his own idea, when he was just a young boy in school.’
    Miss Kutpitia’s eyes became thin slits. ‘In that case, only one thing is possible. Somebody has fed him something bad. In his food, or in a drink. Definitely jaadu-mantar. ’
    Dilnavaz politely masked her scepticism; and yet, she thought, how tempting, to believe in magic—how quickly it simplifies and explains.
    Miss Kutpitia looked grim. ‘Do you know someone who would profit by Sohrab’s failure? Who would like to steal his brains for their own son, maybe?’
    ‘I cannot think of anyone.’ Dilnavaz shivered suddenly in spite of herself.
    ‘It could even be an evil mixture he stepped on in the street. Many ways exist to do such black things.’ Her eyes blazed wide with warning now. Big as meatballs, thought Dilnavaz. ‘But don’t worry, there are also ways to fight it. You can start with a lime.’ She explained the process, and the precise gestures required. ‘Do it for a few days. Before the sun sets. Then come to me again.’ Turning to go inside, she said, ‘By the way, you saw how right my lizard’s tail was.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Your dinner. All spoilt by quarrelling. And the power also went off. Chicken slaughtered in your house was very unlucky. The curse of the death-scream stayed under your roof.’
    ‘It was Gustad’s idea,’ said Dilnavaz. On her way home, there floated in her sleepy mind a droll parallel between the chicken and Darius’s revenant, pneumonia-inflicting fishes and birds. Poor Miss Kutpitia, such a sad life.
    In her eagerness to get back to bed, the letters on Gustad’s desk went unnoticed.

ii

    She was still asleep when Sohrab awoke and found his father’s writing implements abandoned after the long night of rumination and reverie. The vigil for dead days and dying hopes had ended when the early, bleary hours of morning crept upon Gustad, the rum-beer exacting its toll.
    Sohrab picked up the holder-steel, wondering why his father had been using that fossil. He, too, had lain awake, agonizing over the hurt, the confusion, the harsh words—was he to blame for all of it? The answers were not easy to come by, they lay in the garden of the past, which memory had dug up and replanted in plots of its own choosing. The seed of Sohrab’s troubles had germinated long ago, long before last night, when his parents discovered how easily things came to their first-born, at home, in school, at work or play. There seemed to be nothing Sohrab could not do, and do well. Whether it was arithmetic, or arts and crafts, or moral science, he bagged several prizes each year on Prize Distribution Day. Regularly, there were awards for elocution and debating. In the interschool drama competition, the play he acted in walked away with the trophy. His exhibits in the school science fair finished first. And before long, Gustad and Dilnavaz were convinced their son was very