Our Own Knowledge Bank: February 2011

The books that I have read so far are barely big in regards to the pages. I must have read 200-300 pages book and thought of myself as a champion. But here it goes….I picked up Rohinton Mistry’s Family Matters which was piled in the books that Manish bought some time back. It a pretty huge book…500 pages…that too from an unread author. But I took up the book after reading the summary and made a connection to the story. I comprehended what I read..and happily started the reading after that, thinking that even if I get stuck up in the middle or even before that…Manish has already read it and I will get the story from him. Tan tanaaan nana nana…..Manish too has not read the book. I felt responsible now for the book I held in my hand. And from that day I had the desire to read it every day. Also the enormity of the book does not bother me anymore.

To my amazement RM writes in a very simple and up to the mark. It’s a story about Nariman Vakeel, in his late seventies, living with his stepdaughter and son Coomy and Jal. He is widowed from Jal and Coomy’s mother. In addition he has a biological daughter Roxana who lives with her husband-Yezad & two boys Murad and Jehangir. NV suffers from Parkinson’s disease and does not liked to be limited in his capacity of movement due to his illness. Ideally a person in his medical condition is bed ridden and has restricted mobile tendency, instead NV out of his solitude likes to go for walks and be surrounded by active people. Jal and Coomy dislike NV rigidity towards his illness…as he is unable to take care and often fall down and hurts himself and ultimately the burden increases on Jal and Coomy of recuperating him. Amongst the two Jal is shown to be more mellow and comforting towards their ailing father. And Coomy is the typical, religious, cribbing Parsi lady who has problems with everything around her. She is jealous of Roxana and her family as they don’t have to do the taking care of NV. They visit them once or twice a week and NV likes the jovial atmosphere around his grandsons and son in law.

I am from Bombay. Being a part of the cosmopolitan I like to hear the words that remind me of Bombay and its BOMBAY WALLAS. Parsi’s have added distinctive style and mannerisms to my city. Like Gujuratis, Sindhi’s, Punjabi’s and Christian’s Parsis have a very guarded way of pronouncing words. That is the fun of speaking to them. While reading many words came by which gave me a zest to read more. Pappa, dikra, jehagla, patilo, gadhydaa, paatiyo, saalo, karko, paiso, bugger the mother of honesty.

The tale itself unfolds that in a family … nothing is irreversible. For starters they have shown that Yezad is not at all a religious Paris and avoids socializing with God. And so his children. They in their younger years were not forced to believe in the Fire Temple and prayers. But they were aware of them at least. Leaving apart Roxana none in their house feared God. Later in the story as dark clouds envelop around Yezad and his family, he has no where to go and thus takes shelter and peace in the name God. Even circumstances mould in a way that, Yezad does not have work again..and devotes his remaining life to prayers and religious activities. Here comes the contrast between him and his sons. Both Jehangir & Murad are more or less like how Yezad was…non believer. According to religious Parsis, even standing near an Almari of religious books after taking a shave or a haircut form a salon is impure act towards God. Their domestic helps were asked not to enter their houses while menstruating. They too beautify their house boundaries with flowers and rangolis. Their race is on its way to extinction. Hence they have strict sentences for people who marry outside their religion. They are upfront outcaste and not allowed to attend their own parent’s funeral. Hence Yezad also gets worried when his boys turn up in college and have girl friends who are non parsis. He keeps an eye on them and minds it when found comfortable situations with Non Paris girls.

The whole saga revolves around Nariman and his sickness…which matters his family time and time again. His old age and illness multiplied becomes a huge responsibility for whoever takes care of him. His step children do take care of him but after a point of time are tired and frustrated of being the men on guard. His own daughter Roxana took care of Nariman when his stepchildren migrated him from his own house to Roxana’s. Although she has love, affection and all that it takes to care for a Parkinson patient, she does not have enough room and money in her house to accommodate her ailing father thoroughly. Even though Yezad is understanding and caring towards Nariman, he does not allow his children and himself, to team up for cleaning and clearing activities of Nariman. He claims it to be unhygienic. After a brief period of family politics from his step children their life returns to Chateau Felicity. So beautifully they have depicted that when they were living in a small flat they all were in tune with each other. They knew what the other family member was doing, what they upto. In contrast while shifting in a huge house they lost touch with each other and kept to themselves.

In a nutshell… The start of book begins with Nariman and his family and ends with Yezad and his family. Although, not much glorified tale of the families but it does strike a cord about a few things as I read this book. Old Age: is it as simple as it seems to be where I am standing at the age of 30. New Generation: Or should I say Gen Next-We were rebellious in our nature to our parents. What sort of justifications will the coming youth need to get in sync with what we have followed through till now. I think once I have a family..and say about 20-25 years from now…I will have a better answer to my own questions.

The finish of the book follows like this:

“Can you help me for a minute in the kitchen, Jehengoo?” She calls on her way out of the drawing room. “”Yes”, I answer, but stay in my chair. I wonder what lies ahead for our family in this house, my grandfather’s house, in this world that is more confusing than ever. I think of daddy, who makes me feel that my real father is gone, replaced by this non-stop praying stranger.

My mother, hurrying as always, brings in more things from the kitchen. My face must have a faraway expression, for she comes closer, her hand reaching out towards my shoulder. She hesitates, leaving the gesture incomplete. I can sense her fingers an inch away.

Then she lets them settle lightly on my arm. “what is it jehnagoo? Aren’t you happy?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes I m happy”.

Some interesting texts from the book that keeps the story going:

Mummy and Daddy had been talking about something called ‘Increment. He hasked what it meant.”More money”’. Then daddy said that with inflation it would buy less, & he asked what inflation was.”A monster that dines on our future”.
If they were old notes she was more cautious-you never know who else had touched them,how hygienic were their hands, did they wash twice with soap after going to the toilet?
Jehangir liked the names on the Catholic team: Henry George,Francis. He wished he could change his own name Jehangir, Jhengla, Jhengloo. Could be shortened for Jehan, Which was like John. John Chenoy. He liked the sound of it, drawing him one step closer to the lovely world of those books.
Nariman shook his head sadly.” We always assume that people who suffer atrocities acquire a greater than average capacity for compassion. But there is no such guarantee. Anyway, I am glad you did not emigrate”. Because I think emigration is an enormous mistake. The biggest anyone can make in their life. The loss of home leaves a hole that never fills.”
“If they learn kindness, happiness will follow. And one day, when we are old and helpless, they’ll not turn their backs on us. Yezad said he hoped they would never come when they placed such a heavy load on their sons. He would make sure to arrange their affairs more wisely, so they wouldn’t end up without a rupee to their name when they were old.

Murad – Boon… a blessing.

Roxana – Dawn

Yezad- Guardian angel

Jehangir- Conqueror of the world.(A stomach ache cannot upset the conquerer of the world).

Their names taken together, thought Jehangir, made the perfect family: they were blessed, they possessed the whole world, they had their own guardian angel, and Mummy’s dawn light shone upon all of them. Yet Mummy & Daddy were fighting & unhappy.

All along the street, establishment seemed to have taken their cue from the Bombay Sporting Good Emporium. The Jai Hind Book Mart featured a barefoot Santa in padmasana, an English translation of the Bhagvad Gita open in his lap: perched upon his nose were half moon reading glasses. Rasoi Stainless Steel had an aproned Santa stirring a large cooking utensil. The Bhagat Opticals Santa wore stylish reflector sunglasses. Every shop had to have one, thought Yezad wearily, they were no longer content with a Christmas tree, a star, an angel. The men’s clothing store had one with shirts and ties draped over his outstretched arms. The show stores held a stack of shoeboxes. Mercifully, the sari shop had refrained from a six yard spree of cross selling.
“remember I said Bombay is like a religion? Well its like Hindusism. I think.“HIndusism has an all accepting nature, agreed? I am not talking about the fundamentalist, mosque-destroying fanatics, but the real Hinduism that has nurtured this country for thousands of years, welcoming all creeds and beliefs and dogmas and theologies, making them feel at home. Sometimes when they are not looking, it absorbs them within itself. Even false gods are accomadted. And turned into true ones, adding a few more deities to its existing millions.
The same way Bombay makes room for everybody. Migrants, businessmen, perverts, politicians, holy men, gamblers, beggars, wherever they come from, whatever caste or class, the city welcomes them and turns them into Bambayites. So who am I to say these people belong here ad those don’t? Janata Party okay, Shiv sena not okay, secular good, communal bad, BJP unacceptable, Congress lesser of evils?

Kusti - is the sacred girdle worn by Zoroastrians around their waists. Along with the Sedreh (Sudra), the Kushti is part of the ritual dress of the Zoroastrians.