Their Language of Love (13 page)

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ said Zalmai, becoming suddenly almost curt.

‘But you said it’s safe,’ Ruth said, crestfallen.

‘Not for them … You would put them at risk,’ Zalmai said, making no attempt to soften his tone or disguise the bite of impatience that gave his voice a harsh edge. ‘If they are seen to be fraternizing with Americans, their lives would be on the line. Despite what we like to think in this country,
the Americans, with their military footprint, are considered occupiers.’

Ruth felt suddenly on the verge of tears.

Zalmai noticed the tears in Ruth’s eyes and softened as quickly as he’d been angered. ‘Perhaps you can go in a few years,’ he said, his kinder tone acknowledging their claim to more consideration as old friends of his parents. ‘Once things have settled a bit …’

He put an arm around her and gave Ruth the kind of affectionate hug one reserves for good friends. He took the hand Rick held out in both of his, in the old Pashtun way Ruth remembered. ‘I hope we meet again,’ he said with genuine feeling before he turned to the small bunch of people waiting to speak to him.

As they moved away Ruth was glad—at least he had no compunctions about touching unrelated women.

It is Friday, the day to remember the angels Behram-Yazad and Mushkail-Asaan.

Crouched in slim-waisted, long-limbed glory, her buoyant bottom solemnly skimming the oblong brick, Mother diligently mops the bedroom floor. She closes all the doors and disappears into the bathroom.

I dawdle on the bed, absently attuned to the sky-blue dazzle of spring outside the window, the shrill trill of distantly wheeling kites, the buzz of servants talking in the kitchen.

The prayer cap slips down my forehead and makes it itch. I become impatient. I wish Mother would get along with the ceremonial story, and not take so long with her preliminary prayers. I hear the swish-swish of the kusti as she whips the sacred-thread, woven out of sixty-four strands of wool, behind her to banish evil. She will tie the thread thrice round her waist, knotting it in the front and in the back, and, so, gird her loins in the service of the Lord.

When Mother emerges from the bathroom—the gauzy scarf covering her head tied in a soft loop beneath her chin,
her face pious—the bedroom air smells holy. And she has not even lit the joss-sticks or the fire yet.

I help her spread the durrie on the brick floor, and, on it, a spotless sheet. It is immaculate except for a few holes burnt by errant sparks from previous prayer-fires. Mother places the fire-altar tray, with its portion of sandalwood shavings and frankincense, in the centre of the sheet. Around it she arranges a portrait of our prophet Zarathushtra—one finger raised to remind us of the one and only God—and of the ragged-looking, saint Mushkail-Asaan (literally: Trouble-Easer). A silver bowl containing water, a mirror, chickpeas and jagged lumps of crystallized sugar, complete the arrangements.

I take my place across Mother. Shaded by the scarf, her features acquire sharper definition. The chin, tipped to a dainty point, curves deep. The lips, full, firm, taper from a lavish ‘M’ in wide wings, their outline etched with the clarity of cut crystal. The soft curve of her cheeks is framed by a jaw as delicately oval as an egg. The hint of remoteness, common to such classically sculpted beauty, is overwhelmed by the exuberance and innocence that marks her personality. Mother is luscious beyond bearing. My heart beats fast. She does not look at me. I am observing an aspect of her that is too private. A shy and guilty voyeur, I remove my eyes from her face.

We sit cross-legged. Praying under her breath in sibilant whispers, Mother lights the joss-sticks, and arranging the sandalwood in a crisscross pattern atop a thin bed of ashes in the fire-altar, sets it alight with a match-stick. Turning
her face slightly to avoid the smoke, she gently fans the sandalwood to start a crackling little fire the size of the palm of my hand. She adds a pinch of frankincense and the room is so filled with smoke and fragrance that I can already feel the presence of the angels. My eyes and my nose water.

At last Mother utters in Gujarati—the language adopted by the Parsees when they came to India—the words that will usher in the story of Pir Khurkain and Mushkail-Asaan.

‘Once upon a time there was a wood-cutter named Pir Khurkain.’

‘Ji-re-ji,’ I respond reverently. Yes ji yes.

I too have a part to play. Each time Mother comes to the end of a sentence I must say, ‘Ji re ji.’ If I fail to respond promptly, Mother peeks into the mirror and quickly says: ‘Yes ji yes,’ to herself, becoming both the teller and the listener, and I am done out of my rightful part.

Right through the ceremony we shell the small golden chickpeas and collect them in a dish. The dark discarded husk floats in the silver bowl. The bowl’s contents will be chastely tipped into a gardenia hedge or a flower-pot later.

As the story progresses my mother’s pure, rich voice picks up the spellbinding rhythm of all great tellers of tales: it is a simple story, simply told.

Once upon a time there was a woodcutter.

‘Yes ji yes.’

Every day he chopped wood and provided for his wife and daughter.

‘Yes ji yes.’

One day his neighbours were cooking liver. The aroma from the frying liver drifted to his house and made his daughter’s mouth water.

‘Yes ji yes.’

The girl wondered, ‘What excuse shall I make to visit their house?’ She decided she would call on them to ask for some fire.

I don’t recall anyone telling me, but I know that everything in the story happened a long time ago, before matches were invented. People lit their fires from a central hut—or a temple—where a fire was kept alive all the time, or they carried it from each other’s hearths.

When the girl went to her neighbours’ house to ask them for the fire, they told her that she should take it herself, but no one invited her to partake of the liver.

A little later she went to the neighbours’ house again. This time they fetched her the fire, but still no one offered her the liver.

The daughter’s craving for the liver grew into a tormenting hunger and she could think of nothing else.

In the evening, when the woodcutter returned to the house, he asked his daughter: ‘What is the matter, why are you looking so sad?’

So the girl told her father what had happened: ‘The neighbours were cooking liver. The fumes from it drifted to our house and I wanted to it taste it so badly that my hunger became unbearable. I went to their house on the pretext of asking for fire. They did not bring me the fire, but asked me to fetch it myself. Thrice I went to their house. The third
time I went they had settled down to dinner. This time they fetched me the fire, but no one asked me to stay to dinner. I hankered for the liver, but they did not give me any. That’s why I’m so unhappy.’

The woodcutter said, ‘Don’t worry, child. Tomorrow I will cut a huge stack of wood in the forest and buy you all the liver you desire.’

‘Ji-re-ji.’

Pir Khurkain went to the forest to cut wood early the next morning. He chopped the trees until he had gathered a large stack of wood. But when he went to collect it in the evening, there was nothing there because the stack of wood had caught fire and burnt to ashes.

Then Pir Khurkain thought: ‘How can I face my wife and daughter empty-handed?’ Too ashamed to return to the house, he decided to spend the night in the forest.

The next day the woodcutter cut a bigger stack of wood. But when he went to fetch it later, the wood had again burnt to ashes.

The woodcutter could not bear the thought of returning home without the liver his daughter craved. Again he spent the night in the forest.

Then Pir Khurkain spent the third day cutting and chopping an even larger stack of wood. But when he returned to cart it to the market he found only ashes. Pir Khurkain thought to himself: ‘It is three days since I’ve eaten, but how can I show my face to my wife and daughter empty-handed.’ He felt utterly defeated and despondent.

‘Yes ji yes.’

The woodcutter waited in the forest till the daylight began to fade. He decided that he would slip into his house after dark, and spend the night concealed in a corner.

When he arrived at his street he sat upon a stone amidst the shadows cast by a banyan tree and waited for the darkness to thicken.

Now it so happened that the angels who relieve our troubles, Behram-Yazad and Trouble-Easer, were out for a stroll in the city that evening. While wandering through the streets they spotted Pir Khurkain slumped dejectedly in the shadows and asked him: ‘Why are you out here in the dark? Is anything the matter?’

The woodcutter was too embarrassed to give them a reply and he remained quiet. On their way back they again saw the woodcutter. ‘Why are you still here?’ they asked. The woodcutter did not know what to say, so he remained silent. Then the angels looked into his saddened heart and said kindly: ‘Tell us what is worrying you and we will ease your troubles.’

‘Ji-re-ji.’

At this point Mother adds a pinch of frankincense to the fire and holding her palms together and bowing her head, requests the angels to ease her troubles. She kneels and makes a motion with her hands, as if drawing the smoke towards herself, and continues:

‘The woodcutter then told them the tale of his misfortunes …’

Mother proceeds to repeat the story almost from scratch, starting with: ‘One day the neighbours were cooking liver—
my daughter hankered for some …’

I can listen to the sad litany of the poor woodcutter’s woes a million times and still respond afresh to his grief.

‘… then moved to pity by the poor woodcutter’s story, the angels Trouble-Easer and Behram-Yazad scooped three fistfuls of sand from the ground and poured it into his lap. “Cherish what we have given you, and keep it safe,” they said. “Think of us when your troubles are eased, and distribute some shelled chickpeas and sugar every Friday to remember us by.”’

The woodcutter thought: ‘What good will this fistful of sand do for me? I will throw it away as soon as they leave.’

But Behram-Yazad and Mushkail-Asaan could read what was going on in his mind, and they said: ‘O Pir Khurkain, don’t throw away what we have given you. Cherish it and guard it with your life. You will find that each grain of sand is of great value to you. Sell it at a high price, don’t sell it short; and remember to remember us.’

‘Yes-ji-yes.’

Mother must again place frankincense on the fire. She does so, and using the unctuous tone of the obedient child her trust and troubles have regressed her to, says: ‘I will never forget you, O Behram Yazad and Mushkail-Asaan.’

I also add a pinch of frankincense to the fire and piously parrot her words.

‘When the woodcutter returned home,’ Mother continues, ‘his wife and daughter were asleep. He poured the sand into a corner of the kitchen, and huddling against the wall in the darkness, fell fast asleep.

‘When his neighbours set out for work shortly before dawn they noticed that the woodcutter’s rickety house was blazing with light. They shouted: “Wake up, Pir Khurkain, wake up. Your house is on fire.”

‘Only the girl woke up. She was frightened to see the house lit up as if with a thousand lamps. She awakened her father and told him that their house was on fire. The woodcutter said: “Go back to sleep, child, it must be one of our neighbours’ houses that is on fire. What do we own that could possibly burn? We have nothing, and bare mud walls don’t catch fire.”’

Reassured by her father’s presence, and his words, the girl went back to sleep. Now Pir Khurkain got up and saw that the whole house was incandescent with light and unnaturally bright. He went into the kitchen and saw that the sand that he had thrown into a corner of the kitchen had turned into a dazzling heap of diamonds, emeralds, rubies and sapphires.

‘Yes ji yes.’

The woodcutter gathered the gems in the ragged turban he usually wound round his head, and laying his head on it, drifted back into an exhausted sleep.

‘Yes ji yes.’

The next day the woodcutter selected one ruby from the heap and took it to a gem merchant to sell. The jeweller asked him: ‘What should I give you for this? One million rupees or two million?’

Then the woodcutter cried, ‘You are making fun of me—don’t mock me,’ and went to another jeweller.

The other jeweller said: ‘I don’t have enough money to make you an offer for a ruby such as this.’

Then the woodcutter went to the biggest jewel merchant in town. This jeweller said: ‘I do not know how to place a value on a gem as magnificent as this. But here’s what I can do: I’ll make three mounds of gold sovereigns of different sizes. Throw the jewel into the air and whichever mound it falls on will be yours.’

The woodcutter flicked the gem up into the air and it fell on the largest mound of gold.

The woodcutter collected the gold coins and went to the bazaar streets. He bought the liver, and he bought meat, bread, sugar, butter, pickles and all the produce that pleased his eyes and teased his appetite. Then he hired porters, and after helping the men raise the loaded baskets on to their heads, gave them directions to his house. As he took the road home Pir Khurkain bought a bag full of roasted chickpeas. He evoked the names of Trouble-Easer and Behram-Yazad with gratitude and gave three chickpeas to whoever happened to cross his path.

In the meantime the first lot of porters arrived at the woodcutter’s house. They knocked at his door, and when his wife and daughter saw what they had brought, they cried: ‘You have come to the wrong house … Pir Khurkain is a poor fellow, he can never afford such fancy stuff. You have made a mistake.’ And they sent the men away.

The porters met Pir Khurkain on the road. When they told him what had happened, Pir Khurkain asked them to return to the house with him. As he walked ahead of them
he continued to give three chickpeas to whomever he met.

When his wife saw him return with the porters she cried: ‘We are dirt poor … How can you suddenly afford to buy all this stuff? I’m fearful. I think you must have committed a theft.’

Then the woodcutter told his wife and daughter the story of his meeting with the angels Behram-Yazad and Trouble-Easer and the fistful of sand they had given him. When his wife and daughter heard the story, and remembered the brightness that had lit their house, they finally believed him. They told the porters to bring the provisions he had bought into the house. Then they washed and cooked the liver and opened the jars of pickles and broke the bread and ate till they were replete. The woodcutter’s daughter’s enormous hunger was at last satisfied and she was completely happy.

‘Yes ji yes.’

Some days later the woodcutter heard that his neighbours were going to Mecca to perform Hajj. They invited him to accompany them on the pilgrimage, and he decided to go with them.

It dawns on me only now that Pir Khurkain is Muslim. Zoros don’t go for Hajj to Mecca. I have just turned eleven. A touch of unease creeps into my mind. What are Zoroastrian angels doing, messing around with Muslim wood-cutters? I’ve heard this story countless times and never had this thought before—but being on the threshold of adolescence changes one’s perspective somewhat.

‘Before he left he made a necklace out of those diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires,’ intones Mother, and the hypnotic rhythm of her voice, the momentum of the story, again cast their accustomed spell. Mother’s unbounded trust in the efficacy of narrating the woodcutter’s story every Friday, accompanied by the ceremonial and solemn distribution of the prescribed three chickpeas, vanquishes my doubts. I am once again immersed in the story.