Free Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry

I —”
    “Hah. And how do you think I feel when former students talk to me about their youth? ‘Let the dead Past bury its dead,’ ” he said to close the topic.
    “ ‘Act – act in the living Present!’ ” completed Dr. Tarapore, and awaited kudos for recognizing the quote.
    “Excellent. So let us follow Longfellow’s advice. Tell me when you will return my ankle to me.”
    Sufficiently inspired, the student strapped on the years he had shed. Dr. Tarapore was restored to the bedside, tapping on the hard, white plaster of Paris carapace and pronouncing, “The cast is sound.”
    His action seemed frivolous to Nariman. “Of course it’s sound – there’s enough cement here to resurface my flat. Your plasterer got carried away.”
    Dr. Tarapore laughed. “The tarsus is one of the most troublesome group of bones, especially at your age. We must give it sufficient support, shield the metatarsus, immobilize the leg. We have to be extra careful because of Parkinsonism. We’ll take another X-ray in four weeks, but you can probably be discharged tomorrow.”
    He shook hands and left to speak with Jal and Coomy in the corridor, to give instructions about Nariman’s care.
    During the two days at Parsi General, Jal gave up his daily session at the share bazaar to spend the hours with his stepfather. Coomy too stayed the entire day at the hospital. Nariman was touched, and urged them to go home, relax, there was very little they could do here.
    “It’s okay, Pappa, we’ll keep you company.”
    He asked if Roxana and Yezad had been informed.
    “We decided not to worry them right now,” said Coomy.
    Then, to amuse him, they related Edul Munshi’s visit to their flat, who had overheard someone in the building talking about the accident. The only words he had caught were “Nariman Vakeel” and “broken,” but that was enough to make him hurry over with his tool box, offering his services.
    “Wait till you hear what Coomy told him!”
    “ ‘Sure, Edul,’ I said, ‘we’ll be very grateful for the repair. Only thing is, you have to go to Parsi General.’ He was puzzled: ‘Why Parsi General?’ ‘Because Pappa is there,’ I said. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘The broken item is Pappa’s ankle,’ I said.”
    “You should have seen his face, Pappa,” said Jal.
    “I had no idea he was that desperate,” chuckled Nariman.
    His dinner arrived, and they helped him with the tray, sharing his custard because he didn’t want any and it seemed a shame to waste good food. They put the tray outside for collection and said good night.
    He did not mind being alone. The wardboy on the night shift was an older man, much older than the dynamic day fellow. Early sixties at least, thought Nariman, and wondered if his shaking hands were also due to Parkinson’s, or something else. He made up for the imperfection of his hands with the perfection of his smile. A smile of enlightenment, thought Nariman, so like Voltaire’s in old age, in the portrait that graced the frontispiece in his copy of Candide.
    And how did one acquire such enlightenment, he wondered, here, in a grim ward, collecting faeces and urine from the beds of the lame and the halt and the diseased? Or were these the necessary conditions? For learning that young or old, rich or poor, we all stank at the other end?
    Nariman wanted to draw him into conversation, but hesitated each time he came by. The aging wardboy asked him how he was feeling, did he need anything, were the pillows comfortable.
    Then he smiled – and Nariman felt as though they had just concluded a long and heartfelt exchange of ideas.
    Next day Mr. Rangarajan returned to inspect his handiwork. For the most part, the cast had set uniformly, without weaknesses. But there were two places where he wanted to apply more plaster. “Better to be on the safe side than the sorry side.”
    Concerned about Nariman’s haggard appearance, he tried to regale his patient with more stories and anecdotes