Free Family Matters by Rohinton Mistry Page B

But the absence of the silver tray hit him keenly.
    “When will she be back?”
    “Soon. You don’t have to go to the bathroom right away, do you? Have a nap, I’ll put some music on for you.”
    Glad to be in his own bed, Nariman nodded off while the Schubert quintet played in the drawing-room, till voices trying to keep low disturbed him a short time later.
    “A commode?” said Jal, as the taxi driver put it down with a thump in the hallway. At Coomy’s beseeching, the man had carried the box up in the lift for her, but the meagre tip disgusted him.
    “If I wanted to work for a coolie’s salary, I wouldn’t drive a taxi,” he muttered as he left.
    “Thank you, bhai, thank you very, very much,” said Coomy, pretending she hadn’t heard, and shut the door. “How is Pappa?”
    “Sleeping. But you were supposed to buy a bedpan.”
    She began unwrapping the smaller parcel, which was an enamel wash basin, and placed it beside the covered wooden box with four stumpy legs. “I felt this would be better than a bedpan.”
    “What do you mean, better? Doctor said a month in bed. The foot must not touch the floor.”
    “Listen. I was in the shop, looking at bedpans, and I began to imagine the … the … procedure. What it would be like to place it under Pappa, and when he was done, to remove it, and clean him, and wash it, and … Don’t make me say everything. You know what I mean. The whole thing is embarrassing.”
    So she had decided a commode would be more decorous, Pappa could sit right beside the bed, relieve himself more easily. “All we do is empty out the pot.”
    “But Doctor said the bones will take months to heal if we’re careless.”
    “We are not making Pappa walk to the wc or anything. Let’s try it out, see how he feels.”
    They carried the commode to their stepfather’s room, and he pretended to be awakened by their presence. “Oh, Coomy, you’re back. What’s that, a new night table for me?”
    She laughed. “No, Pappa, it’s a lovely commode, look,” and she opened the lid.
    “We thought it would be more comfortable than a bedpan,” said Jal. “Don’t you think?”
    “Whatever is most convenient for you is fine with me. I’m such a burden already.”
    “Don’t worry, Pappa, we’ll manage. It’s only for four weeks.” Jal dragged the box closer, positioning it by the bed. “Feel like going?”
    Nariman nodded. They raised him by his arms to a sitting position. Next came the trickier part: to help him stand and make a quarter-turn for the commode. They reminded him to take the strain on his right foot, leave the left aloft, then hoisted him.
    To lift an almost dead weight vertically was more difficult than they had expected. And as soon as Nariman was upright, his broken ankle sank to the floor.
    “Don’t put it down!” yelled Jal in panic.
    “I can’t help it, the plaster is too heavy.” He stifled a moan as they half-carried and half-pulled him till he was in position. They knew his pain from the sharp intake of breath and stiffening of the body. They began to lower him.
    “Wait!” cried Coomy. “The pyjama isn’t untied.”
    Summoning his last vestige of strength, Jal held on with one hand and yanked the drawstring. The fabric clung, refusing to slide down. He wiggled his hips against his stepfather’s till the pyjama bottom dropped around the ankles.
    After seating him they stood back, breathing hard. Sweat had broken on Nariman’s forehead, his eyes were closed. His bladder was taking a while to function.
    “Are you okay, Pappa?”
    He nodded. Then a muffled ringing from the aluminium pot made them exchange looks of triumph and relief.
    “Take your time,” said Jal. “No rush, do it all – number one, number two, everything.”
    His bowels did feel heavy, but the pain had left him no energy to effect an evacuation. “I’ve finished.”
    Coomy knelt at his feet and slipped off the pyjamas. To get him back in bed they struggled and panted