Brrrrring! Brrrring! Brrrrrring! The high pitched tone of the Rotary dial pierced the melancholy stillness of the room for the fifth time. It was all Shirin’s pappa could take. Exasperatedly, he trudged through the cavernous drawing room. The gothic house gave a sense of abandonment. Would a present day visitor be enthralled by the resplendent character of the house?
A fine coat of dust had gathered around the Burmese teak furniture with intricately carved late baroque back and armrests, and peacock glass paintings. The fragile British chandelier’s appeared like demure corseted French girls in labyrinthine gowns. At the entrance, a stuffed tiger wondered at the unfair flow of time. Towards the left corner, two dusty figurines from the Harappa Mohenjo-Daro archives stood frozen in time. Printed silks depicting the generous prophet Zoroaster staring up at the almighty Ahura Mazda, a king being crowned and other royal images were pasted on the eggshell wall for onlookers to gaze at in fascination. Stylish terracotta and cane chairs were wasted away in the dining area and the balcony. Candles of all shapes and sizes lay strewn about in parts of the household. An eternal fire burned throughout the day. This was the Farsanwala’s shrine. The walls in the corridor leading to the three bedrooms had the prophet Zoroaster framed in rectangular, square and round frames. The house resembled an antique collector’s home. One grandfather clock nailed above an elegant ghara sari wall hanging, chimed every one hour, reminding Pappa of the wretched day and time.
Pappa was now aged; he walked around the ancient house with a customized teak wood walking stick. This stick had a story to tell. Shirin had gifted Pappa this walking stick or what he preferred calling laakdi on her last birthday, he was both ecstatic and angry at the same time. The spendthrift nature of his children had been a cause for trouble in the past.
“Shirin dikra, why buy such expensive vastu?”
“Pappa who told it is expensive? And even if it is, can’t I give you a gift? If Mummy was here, she would have told you to accept it graciously without another word.”
The conversation would usually end there. With the discussion closed, he would mutter a thank you and that was that. Soon the topic would drift to kebabs and then ceremoniously to Delafruz. Delafruz was Pappa’s only son and Shirin’s elder brother, although there was nothing elderly about his nature. He was like Pappa many times put it, ‘that bekaar chokro’. He had flown to Canada, five years ago, promising to make something out of himself. Mummy had just newly died then and Shirin was in school, Pappa did not utter a word and Delafruz left the following week. It was quiet at home for the next couple months, Pappa and Shirin dealing with the loss of Mummy and the abdication of Delafruz. With Mummy’s big sized frame resting against the wall on a blue table which appeared to have battled the storms of time and yet withstood, Shirin and Pappa would often find themselves loitering towards the frame, when either one of them was not home. Pappa’s tales to his wife would be about what was cooked that day and how another cousin had expired, Shirin would be more realistic and rather straight. Staring up at the elongated frame of her mother, Shirin would often rant about her day in college and in not less than a moment, tears would well up, ready to wash out. This was an immediate indication of her loneliness and her father’s suffering.
Often, to fill time, in those days, when Shirin would be in college or busily burning the lamp in a library, Pappa would find himself playing a classic number from the olden days. Kishore Kumar would be singing, ‘Haal kaisa hai janaab ka…’ while Pappa dressed in a pair of white kurta-pyjama, remained lost in thoughts of an age long past.
On Sundays though, nostalgia sat cross-legged opposite the father and his daughter. This time it would be the starkly decorated photo album with instant audio attached to it. Beautiful pictures of Mummy and Pappa getting married to pictures of baby Shirin and Delafruz crying, looking lost, eating, sleeping, drinking and playing, stared back at them.
Every two months a call would come from Canada asking Pappa to send money and that he was just about hitting the jackpot. For the first two years Pappa sent him consequently, not knowing how to deny and justifying it by saying, “maro dikro che”. One day it was Pappa’s turn to take back the money lent to his dikro. Pappa called him for days till Delafruz finally lifted.
“Kya hato? Where were you? I have been ringing and ringing for days now.”
“Su thayu Pappa? Has the sky fallen or what?”
“No no… I have been meaning to ask you, paisa nu su thayu? You were going to return the borrowed money. This is the right time Delafruz dikra. I need it… actually Shirin nu college vaaste I have to deposit the…”
“Jo Pappa I don’t have any money.”
“Aa su, how you don’t have any money, I have been sending you every two months and didn’t you say about that lottery?”
“That lottery didn’t happen and now I have to go I’ll talk later…”
“But, Delafruz how do I pay for your sister?”
And that was the end of the call. Pappa pulled through that year. Shirin had won a scholarship from college. The year flew by in books and eating burun maska and sipping irani chai with Pappa from the opposite Yazdani bakery. Delafruz would call now and then, enquiring about his sister; Pappa would instantly hand over the phone to Shirin.
“Ley vaat kar. Talk.”
“Pappa wait. Hello bhai, how are you?”
“Theek chu Shirin. How is college? How are your friends and Pappa?”
In those times Shirin felt like her brother had a heart somewhere hidden in the rock solid exterior. That all this that he did was just a random play at pretense. This misunderstanding would soon be crushed when Delafruz would get to the point at the end of each conversation.
“Is Pappa still mad at me? Has he forgiven yet? Can you ask him to lend me some… you know Canada and the expenses, everything has hiked. You say Pappa will listen. Please Shirin, you are my only sister, you understand my state right?”
Initially Shirin would get carried away, requesting Pappa repeatedly, but she too was clever and more so she loved her him. The amount would increase every one month, soon they stopped answering calls. Yet his pig-headed persistence knew no end, he would then phone their neighbour or their maasi and sometimes even his grandfather. That was the last straw. Pappa was angry and he wanted to cut all relations with his son.
One auspicious day when family and friends were home, he phoned his son and said, “Don’t ever call me aaj pachi. That’s it. I have had enough.” That was the end of the situation for the next 6 months.
This time it was not Delafruz who called, it was Pappa, but Delafruz never answered. Repeatedly Pappa phoned and no reply came back. The next six months passed in sending his son messages about what had happened. No reply came. Pappa was under manic depression, he wanted his miserable existence to end. But he was no coward; he never cut himself or choked himself. Those thoughts did travel his brain very often, his pride and his prophet Zoroaster made him live.
That evening and before that, numerous calls had come. Pappa was understandably fed up. ‘Who was calling at these odd times,’ he wondered. The sixth call came that day, on the fifth ring, he picked up.
“Hello, Bakhtyar Farsanwala speaking. Kon boley che?”
“Pappa Delafruz bolu … I know you’re upset, but I need the money. I have nowhere to go. This season is mine, I will hit my jackpot, but I need to invest this time.”
“Sharam nai aavti? Don’t you have any shame? Not even an ounce of it? She died in the accident and you’re calling me for money? My Shirin died in the accident and you’re calling for money? The past six months I have been ringing non-stop, not once did you pick up. So many messages I sent, so many and now you want money?”
“Pappa I know that and I am sorry. But now I am your only son, you have to give me the money.”
“Ek pai nai aapu hoon thane. I will not give you even one penny. Don’t call me again.”
“But Pappa I am your only son.”
“Don’t call me Pappa. I am dead to you.”
***
‘And that dear children is the end of Pappa’s tale,’ Masterji told his students. In the tiny claustrophobic village classroom, one boy raised his hand. At this the Masterji clucked and made a face.
“It is always you Rohan. What is it?”
“But Masterji, what happened to Pappa? Did he die? And his son, Delafruz? Did he contact Pappa again?”
A small smile appeared on the old master’s wrinkled face. “What do you think happened? It is an open ending, you can each interpret it in your way.”
“Can we have Pappa Bakhtyar living?”
“You can have anything. The pen is mightier than the sword, remember that.” With that said, the Masterji was out of his creaky hundred year old chair.
***
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