from his head. He could at least tell us how serious it is, whether to go to hospital.”
They argued back and forth till Jal said the men should wait while he went to inquire. If Dr. Fitter was willing, he could just as easily examine Pappa here, not put him through the agony of being manhandled across the road.
The doctor didn’t recognize Jal, and seemed annoyed at being disturbed at dinnertime. But when Nariman Vakeel’s name was mentioned, he remembered the long-ago incident at once, and asked him to step inside.
“How can I forget such a tragedy?” He hesitated. “So unfortunate for you and your two poor little sisters …”
“It’s Pappa,” interrupted Jal, “he’s hurt his ankle,” and elaborated on the circumstances.
“Whenever your father leaves in the evening, I watch him from my window. He suffers from Parkinson’s, doesn’t he?”
Jal nodded.
“Hmmph,” the doctor grunted. “I could tell from the way he takes his steps.” He paused, becoming angry. “You people have no sense, letting a man of his age, in his condition, go out alone? Of course he’ll fall and hurt himself.”
“We told Pappa, but he just won’t listen, he says he enjoys his walks.”
“So one of you cannot go with him? To hold his hand, support him?” He glared reproachfully, and Jal, unable to meet the accusing eye, stared at the doctor’s slippers. “Now the damage is done, what do you want me to do?”
“If you could please take a look,” pleaded Jal, “see if it’s broken …”
“A look? Who do you think I am, Superman? I didn’t have X-ray vision in my youth, and I certainly don’t have it now.”
“Yes, Doctor, but if you could just —”
“Just-bust nothing! Don’t waste time, take him to hospital right away! Poor fellow must be in pain. Go!” And he pointed to the door, out of which Jal hurried, glad to get away.
Dr. Fitter secured the latch and went to grumble to Mrs. Fitter in the kitchen that Parsi men of today were useless, dithering idiots, the race had deteriorated. “When you think of our forefathers, the industrialists and shipbuilders who established the foundation of modern India, the philanthropists who gave us our hospitals and schools and libraries and baags, what lustre they brought to our community and the nation. And this incompetent fellow cannot look after his father. Can’t make a simple decision about taking him to hospital for an X-ray.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Fitter impatiently. “Now tell me, Shapurji, do you want your egg on the kheema or on the side?”
“On the side. Is it any wonder they predict nothing but doom and gloom for the community? Demographics show we’ll be extinct in fifty years. Maybe it’s the best thing. What’s the use of having spineless weaklings walking around, Parsi in name only.”
He kept complaining, pacing between kitchen and dining room, till Mrs. Fitter told him to sit. She brought the dinner to the table and served him a generous helping. The aroma of her masala mince, and the egg beaming with its round yellow eye, cheered him up at once.
“Whatever’s going to happen will happen,” he said after chewing and swallowing his first morsel. “In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry. Absolutely delicious kheema, Tehmi.”
Dr. Fitter’s lack of cooperation outraged Coomy, and she was not convinced by the sense of urgency Jal carried back with him. “If it’s that serious, why didn’t he come to help? Before we rush to hospital we should call Pappa’s regular doctor.”
“But even Tarapore will need an X-ray. We’ll end up paying for his visit here, and then again in hospital.”
Eventually, they agreed to go to Parsi General. The two men put Nariman, who was semi-conscious again, in the back seat of a taxi, and she rode in front with the driver. Whenever the wheels hit a bump in the road or went through a pothole, Nariman groaned in pain.
“Nearly there, Pappa,” said Coomy, reaching over her seat to
They argued back and forth till Jal said the men should wait while he went to inquire. If Dr. Fitter was willing, he could just as easily examine Pappa here, not put him through the agony of being manhandled across the road.
The doctor didn’t recognize Jal, and seemed annoyed at being disturbed at dinnertime. But when Nariman Vakeel’s name was mentioned, he remembered the long-ago incident at once, and asked him to step inside.
“How can I forget such a tragedy?” He hesitated. “So unfortunate for you and your two poor little sisters …”
“It’s Pappa,” interrupted Jal, “he’s hurt his ankle,” and elaborated on the circumstances.
“Whenever your father leaves in the evening, I watch him from my window. He suffers from Parkinson’s, doesn’t he?”
Jal nodded.
“Hmmph,” the doctor grunted. “I could tell from the way he takes his steps.” He paused, becoming angry. “You people have no sense, letting a man of his age, in his condition, go out alone? Of course he’ll fall and hurt himself.”
“We told Pappa, but he just won’t listen, he says he enjoys his walks.”
“So one of you cannot go with him? To hold his hand, support him?” He glared reproachfully, and Jal, unable to meet the accusing eye, stared at the doctor’s slippers. “Now the damage is done, what do you want me to do?”
“If you could please take a look,” pleaded Jal, “see if it’s broken …”
“A look? Who do you think I am, Superman? I didn’t have X-ray vision in my youth, and I certainly don’t have it now.”
“Yes, Doctor, but if you could just —”
“Just-bust nothing! Don’t waste time, take him to hospital right away! Poor fellow must be in pain. Go!” And he pointed to the door, out of which Jal hurried, glad to get away.
Dr. Fitter secured the latch and went to grumble to Mrs. Fitter in the kitchen that Parsi men of today were useless, dithering idiots, the race had deteriorated. “When you think of our forefathers, the industrialists and shipbuilders who established the foundation of modern India, the philanthropists who gave us our hospitals and schools and libraries and baags, what lustre they brought to our community and the nation. And this incompetent fellow cannot look after his father. Can’t make a simple decision about taking him to hospital for an X-ray.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Fitter impatiently. “Now tell me, Shapurji, do you want your egg on the kheema or on the side?”
“On the side. Is it any wonder they predict nothing but doom and gloom for the community? Demographics show we’ll be extinct in fifty years. Maybe it’s the best thing. What’s the use of having spineless weaklings walking around, Parsi in name only.”
He kept complaining, pacing between kitchen and dining room, till Mrs. Fitter told him to sit. She brought the dinner to the table and served him a generous helping. The aroma of her masala mince, and the egg beaming with its round yellow eye, cheered him up at once.
“Whatever’s going to happen will happen,” he said after chewing and swallowing his first morsel. “In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry. Absolutely delicious kheema, Tehmi.”
Dr. Fitter’s lack of cooperation outraged Coomy, and she was not convinced by the sense of urgency Jal carried back with him. “If it’s that serious, why didn’t he come to help? Before we rush to hospital we should call Pappa’s regular doctor.”
“But even Tarapore will need an X-ray. We’ll end up paying for his visit here, and then again in hospital.”
Eventually, they agreed to go to Parsi General. The two men put Nariman, who was semi-conscious again, in the back seat of a taxi, and she rode in front with the driver. Whenever the wheels hit a bump in the road or went through a pothole, Nariman groaned in pain.
“Nearly there, Pappa,” said Coomy, reaching over her seat to
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