Family Matters Read Online Free PDF Page A

minute. The joy and laughter and youth they brought was an antidote to the sombreness enveloping his flat, the hours when he felt the very walls and ceilings were encrusted with the distress of unhappy decades. The furniture too, of teak and rosewood, the huge armoires and four-poster beds looming darkly, glum hulks waiting for some dreaded end, seemed once again welcoming and hospitable. And that long row of family portraits in the passageway – today their dour grimaces seemed comical.
    Roxana asked, keeping to a whisper, “Things okay with Jal and Coomy?”
    “The usual theatrics and keech-keech, that’s all,” said Nariman. “Most of the time —”
    He fell silent as Coomy, carrying a bowl of potato chips, entered with a loud hello to everyone. The collapsed curtains drew her eyes at once, but before her outrage became words Roxana apologized, “This naughty boy pulled the whole thing down. He’s going to get a solid punishment.”
    Pre-empted, Coomy was magnanimous. “Never mind, Jal will fix it later. I just hope no shameless mavaalis try to peer into our house.”
    “But we’re on the third floor, Aunty,” said Jehangir.
    “So? You think mavaalis are only at street level? They could be in the building opposite. They could be with a telescope in that skyscraper a mile away.”
    Puzzled, Jal asked, “Who’s in the skyscraper?”
    “Just switch it off,” advised Coomy. “We’re not discussing anything important.”
    “Let him listen!” said Roxana indignantly. “He wants to enjoy the conversation.”
    “And who will pay for new batteries? Do you know how expensive they are, how quickly that little box eats them up?”
    “But it’s a necessity, like medicine.”
    “Calling it a necessity doesn’t magically produce money for it,” said Coomy, and recited the prices of items she thought were necessities: onions, potatoes, bread, butter, cooking gas.
    “You should budget for every expense,” said Roxana. “Keep separate envelopes.”
    “Thank you very much, I also studied home economics in school. Envelopes are no use without money to put in them.”
    “You’re right,” said Yezad to conclude the argument. “We all have the same problem.”
    “Rubbish,” snapped Coomy. “You don’t have the problem of looking after Pappa, with all his expenses.”
    Roxana wanted to snap back that Pappa’s pension paid for everything. But Yezad gave her a little sign – the silly disagreement over batteries was turning into a major fight – and changed the subject: “By the way, Coomy, what’s that non-stop hammering?”
    “Idiot Edul Munshi, who else.”
    “Now he’d be thrilled to fix your curtains,” teased Yezad.
    Jal retreated in mock horror. “Please, anyone but Edul. Unless you want the house to tumble on our heads.”
    They laughed, for Edul Munshi who lived one floor below fancied himself a talented handyman. Signs of his incompetence were evident on his front door: the nameplate hung crookedly, and the hasp didn’t quite meet its staple. He was famous in the building for his fine set of tools, and notorious for his willingness to share them – by playing his cards right, he was able to follow them into someone else’s fixing and repairing. And this meant the world to him, since there was very little he could do nowadays in his own flat; Mrs. Munshi had decided there was a limit to how much of their home her husband should be allowed to ruin.
    “I wonder who is the buckro trapped this time in Edul’s tool box,” said Yezad.
    They laughed again, and Nariman looked around with satisfaction, glad the fight had been avoided. “Come, let’s have a drink.”
    “Just wait five more minutes,” said Coomy. “My coals are ready for loban, the sun has gone down.”
    She left the room to return with the silver thurible, walking in a haze of white smoke. Her head was now covered with a white mulmul scarf.
    The fragrance of frankincense delighted Roxana, for ritual and religion meant more