Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry Page B

tight about him. Once again he was gripped in the knowledge of his helplessness. What would happen to him now? Weeks left to go, and he was at their mercy for everything. Already they were fed up with the work, with him, with his being alive.
    No, that was uncharitable, they were doing their best. He checked the clock: hours to sunrise. On the window the patterns had changed, the leaf silhouettes formed a gaping maw. He closed his eyes, feeling a sob rising in his chest. It wouldn’t do to let them hear.

    “The strain is killing me, my back is shattered,” said Coomy, as she sat on the balcony with Jal. “We don’t go to bed tonight without deciding about Pappa.”
    “I agree,” said Jal. “Let’s hire an ayah.”
    “Impossible. There’s no money.”
    “You always say that.”
    “See for yourself. Check the bank book. The hospital bill has eaten up the dividends we had saved.”
    There was a commotion in the street, and they stopped talking as some men ran past on the pavement below, followed by a crowd shouting after them. It was hard to tell what was going on. Coomy said it looked like people chasing thieves, maybe pickpockets. Jal thought it was just some boisterous tomfoolery. The street soon resumed its normal state of busyness.
    “There is so little in my life,” said Coomy. “Home and market, market and home. I can’t even go to fire-temple.”
    “You’re not the only one. My work is also interrupted.”
    “You call that work? Visiting the share bazaar every morning and gossiping.”
    “If I didn’t look after Mamma’s investments carefully, there wouldn’t be a paisa in this house.”
    “And if you got a real job, there would be money to pay for an ayah or wardboy.”
    They were back where they started, hurt and angry, their reasoning clouded by fatigue and frustration as they gazed over the balcony railing at the never-ending streams of traffic. Then, pausing in their argument, they agreed tacitly to a truce.
    “I don’t want to be disgusted with Pappa while he lies helpless in bed,” said Coomy. “But I can’t help hating him.”
    “You don’t hate him,” said Jal, scared by the word’s power. “You hate the work. We just have to try our best to do our duty. Even as a stepfather, he was always kind to us, we mustn’t forget that.”
    After talking late into the night they rose to go to bed, still without a solution. Passing their stepfather’s room, they heard a peculiar sound from within.
    “Did you hear that?”
    “I’m not sure.” Jal stopped to adjust his earpiece. Now he, too, heard the whimper. They stood outside the door, and there was no mistaking it: he was crying.
    “What shall we do?” asked Coomy, tears of empathy rising in her own eyes.
    “Go to him, of course.”
    Without switching on the light, they entered the room and tiptoed to the bedside. “Pappa,” she stroked his shoulder gently. “We thought we heard you … are you okay?”
    Nariman was grateful the room had been left dark. He stirred to acknowledge their presence. “Yes, fine.”
    “Is it the pain?” asked Jal. “Would you like another pill?”
    “I’m all right. You two need rest, go to bed now.” And he made a kissing sound.
    “Good night, Pappa.”
    They kissed the darkness too and retreated, worried about this new development.
    Over the next few days they found him weeping again, sometimes in the afternoon during his nap, though most often at night. They decided to inform his physician.

    Nariman questioned Dr. Tarapore’s presence and the necessity of the thorough examination.
    “I thought I’d mentioned it in hospital,” bluffed the doctor. “A check-up, a week after you went home. To make sure everything’s going the way it should.”
    “Is it?”
    “Absolutely. And the pain is under control?”
    “The first two days were bad,” said Nariman, and Coomy held her breath – would there be a complaint about the commode?
    “But that’s only natural,” he continued. “I