Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer by Cyrus Mistry Page B

even stand before him, let alone give you a job! Are you going to start muttering prayers day and night, like your poor father here? Didn’t I tell you?’ she said, addressing Framroze now. ‘All peas in a pod are not the same. We should be thankful that God has given us one bright boy. Studies were never Phiroze’s cup of tea. How much I have struggled, year after year, just so they wouldn’t hold him back, make him repeat the class. . .Maths, English, Science. Every evening after school,
I’
ve been sitting with him, trying to drill a smattering of knowledge into his head, hoping he would retain it until the next morning. Sometimes, his studies were too difficult even for me to grasp. I won’t deny it—the same things that were smooth sailing for Vispy. But what do you know about all that? What do you
want
to know about all my struggles?’
    ‘Stop complaining!’ my father raised his voice, then muttered below his breath, ‘Silly woman. . .’
    But before the war of words between my parents could escalate, it was Vispy who butted in:
    ‘See, again! How cleverly he has deflected the conversation from his misdemeanours to his studies. But what studies? Jaalbhoy Master told me he hasn’t attended a single revision class!’ I stared at my elder brother, amazed. I had no inkling until now that he harboured so much resentment against me.
    ‘And just this morning, Temoorus Kaka phoned me at my office. I had to take a half-day’s casual leave to meet him at Doongerwaadi. I felt so ashamed to hear all the things he had to tell me.’
    I had never felt anything but admiration and pride towards Vispy and his achievements. What was it that had made him turn on me so viciously? If Temoo Kaka had indeed complained to him about me, he could have spoken to me privately. I could hardly believe my own ears as he went on. And from the way my mother kept nodding her head emphatically and righteously as he ranted, as if to confirm that she already knew the truth of all these sordid details, it became obvious to me that, while working himself up into a rage, Vispy was repeating them for a second, or perhaps even a third time. The animosity of this terminal confrontation was essentially on display for my father’s mortification, it seemed to me, as if to prove to him, finally, who was the worthier son.
    ‘. . .days on end, days on end, from morning till evening in their hideout in the woods until even Nusli Kavarana, the warden, noticed their goings-on and complained to Temoo that he must put an end to this public indecency—and imagine, with that slut!’
    ‘Enough said,’ rumbled my father, looking completely distraught. ‘I have heard enough. . .’
    ‘Not the half of it, Daddy,’ continued Vispy venomously, ‘I haven’t told you the worst part: Temoo Kaka’s ultimatum to Phiroze is that if he wants to meet Sepideh again, he should be willing to marry her. And work and live with her at Doongerwaadi!’
    ‘
Saalo badmaash
!’
    That was my father’s only impulsive outburst, and for the first time in my life I saw a spark of hatred in his eyes. But it was there for only a moment, before it faded. Meanwhile Hilla and Vispy were speaking at the same time.
    ‘An insult to our family! Proposing such a thing to the son of a high priest!’
    ‘How dare he talk like that, the drunkard! He should be thrashed! Flogged with sticks and chains!’
    ‘A thousand lashes would be too little. Teach him a lesson, Daddy. Complain to the Punchayet and get him sacked from his job. Then he’ll learn his position. Such insolence. . .!’
    While my mother and brother were engaged in this monody of vengeance, I remained completely silent, my eyes transfixed by that great jumble of my father’s grey beard that seemed to me to quiver and twitch ever so slightly. His eyes, beneath those shaggy eyebrows, were on the verge of dissolving into tears. When he spoke, the other two persons in the room fell silent.
    ‘Listen to me, Phiroze. . .