Family Matters Read Online Free PDF Page B

word for the clutter of knick-knacks, toys, and glassware that packed the shelves of the cabinet venerated by Jal and Coomy. Their sacred icons included a clown with ears that waggled when his stomach was squeezed, a white fluffy dog with a bobbing head, tiny replicas of vintage cars, and a battery-operated Elvis who would soundlessly strum his guitar. At one time, the Elvis doll could also sing a verse of “Wooden Heart,” but, as Jal liked explaining to visitors, something had gone wrong with the mechanism on the very day in August that the King had died.
    When they acquired a new toy, they would demonstrate it proudly, then perform its solemn installation behind glass. All that was missing in this ritual, according to Yezad, was incense, flowers, and the chanting of prayers. He dismissed Nariman’s explanation that Jal and Coomy’s sickly father and their unhappy childhood was the reason for the shrine. There were lots of deprived children, said Yezad, and they didn’t all grow up into toy fanatics.
    Besides the toys, the showcase held some silver cups, prizes Jal and Coomy had won long ago at school. Little tags on the trophies recorded their achievements: Jal Palonji Contractor, 3rd Prize, Three-Legged Race, 1954; Coomy Palonji Contractor, 2nd Prize, Lemon-and-Spoon Race, 1956; and many more. They had not kept all their prizes, just the ones for which their father had been present on Sports Day to cheer them on.
    There were also two watches, much too small for their wrists now, and two fountain pens, presented to them on their navjote by their father, almost forty years ago. The ceremony had been arranged hurriedly on the advice of the family dustoorji, when it seemed Palonji did not have much longer to live. The children had yet to commit to memory all the requisite prayers, but the dustoorji said he would overlook that deficiency: better for the father to witness the navjote, even if the initiates were a few verses short, so he could die secure in the knowledge that his progeny had been properly welcomed into the Zoroastrian fold.
    Bored with looking through the glass, Murad decided to open the cabinet doors. Roxana alerted Yezad, who warned their son not to touch anything.
    “The glass is dusty, I can’t see.”
    He glanced over the assortment of items, ignoring the vases, silver cups, a plastic gondola with gondolier, the Air-India maharaja perched atop the nose of a jumbo jet, an Eiffel Tower. Two grinning monkeys at the centre of the display had snared his curiosity.
    One was equipped with a drum and sticks, while the other clutched in its paws a bottle labelled Booze; both had keys in their backs. Standing so as to shield his hands, Murad began winding the drummer. Jehangir the accomplice provided additional cover.
    But the telltale clockwork betrayed them. The sound, to Coomy’s ears, was as familiar as the breath of a cherished infant. She abandoned the drinks and rushed to her beloved cabinet.
    “Very bad of you, Murad, very bad,” she said, managing a spurious calm before the distress slipped out and made her shrill. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t touch the showcase!”
    “Put it back at once,” said his mother.
    Murad ignored the command and kept winding. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
    “You heard Mummy,” said Yezad.
    “Hand the monkey to Jal Uncle, you wicked boy!” said Coomy, frantic now. “He’ll work it for you.”
    “But I want to do it.”
    Yezad rose. Time to give in, decided Murad. Before he could relinquish the toy, however, Coomy slapped his cheek.
    For a moment it seemed to Roxana that Yezad would strike Murad and Coomy. She jumped off the sofa and dragged her son by his arm into a chair, then restrained her husband with a firm touch on his shoulder. To Coomy she said sharply that if any hitting was required, his parents were right there to complain to.
    “I have to complain? Here you are, watching the boy misbehave! If you did your duty, I wouldn’t need