by Balli Kaur
Gurdev
Karam offered to drive Gurdev home in his new car and Gurdev declined quickly, saying that he would take the bus. ‘Nonsense,’ Karam scoffed. ‘I’ll be passing your neighbourhood anyway.’ Gurdev insisted but somehow he ended up in the car anyway, listening to Karam’s thinly veiled boasts about his new purchase. ‘It took a bite out of my salary,’ Karam said woefully. ‘But I just couldn’t resist. There’s nothing like being in control of where you’re going.’
‘Yeah, must be nice,’ Gurdev said, vaguely. In his chest, a pebble of jealousy over Karam’s accomplishments had lodged itself years ago. He concentrated on the view outside on the darkening island as they rolled out of the Naval Base – squat houses jammed together, patches of swampland, and the Chinese graveyard studded with plaques and flowers.
‘The bus would have taken a very long time,’ Karam said. ‘How’s your new place?’
‘Good,’ Gurdev replied. ‘It’s very orderly. The blocks are quite modern.’
‘Public housing,’ Karam pronounced, as if it were a novel term. He was able to afford a semi-detached house in Tiong Bahru, with a small yard. ‘It’s a nice option in terms of pricing but I suppose everybody’s flats will look the same.’
‘That won’t happen,’ Gurdev said hastily. ‘We were assured there’d be plenty of renovation options. Banu and I have decorated the place. We’ve been looking at paint colours for the baby’s room.’ Whenever he thought of Banu’s pregnancy, the memory of his own mother’s bulging belly – the tiniest version of Amrit curled inside – came to mind. Fifteen years ago: that was the last time he was near a woman in that state. He blinked away the thought, the sting of his earlier conflict with Father still fresh.
Outside, a man pushed a rickety cart down the street, his legs making perfect bows. Patches of swampland shot past the windows as the car gained speed. These views did nothing to distract Gurdev, and soon the question was bursting from his lips. ‘Do you think somebody has taken Amrit?’ Better to say it now than in the presence of his wife.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Karam said. ‘She’s probably just gotten into some mischief. It can’t be anything serious.’
‘I hope so,’ Gurdev said.
‘She’ll probably be back by tomorrow. Then when Narain returns, I’m going to give him a few days to settle in and then I’ll have a talk with him,’ Karam said. ‘You know, remind him that he needs to protect his sister and set a good example while he’s around.’
‘I could do that,’ Gurdev said, sitting up. ‘Don’t trouble yourself.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Karam said.
‘I think Narain needs to hear it from his own older brother,’ Gurdev said. ‘We’re closer.’
‘That’s the problem, though,’ Karam replied. ‘You aren’t very assertive with him. Your father already asked me to sit him down, so I’m happy to do it.’
‘He asked you, did he? He made a special request that you discipline Narain and you couldn’t help but say yes,’ Gurdev retorted.
Karam kept quiet until they arrived at a red light and then he turned to Gurdev. ‘You have to stop turning everything into a contest. Your father had Narain’s and Amrit’s best interests in mind when he approached me.’
Best interests. Greater good. Karam had used these phrases when he proposed that Father send Narain off to America. Gurdev had been invited to the discussion as well but it had been a token gesture. None of his input seemed to count once Father was convinced that Narain could be reinvented.
Karam continued. ‘Some things should be reinforced. Narain’s been taking advantage of his freedom over there. Your father showed me a letter that Narain sent home. It was full of opinions about how Singapore was never going to be successful. Very hurtful words, considering how hard we’ve all been working. Your father handed it to me and told me to give him a call, straighten him out. I had to think about what to say to Narain – it was disappointing, this letter. It showed he might be changing in all the wrong ways. Now Amrit’s gone missing and he’s been called back. He’ll learn from this. I’ll just have to remind him how hard his father is working to make sure he has a future.’
Gurdev seethed silently, staring out the car window. Karam did not say anything until they pulled into the housing estate. A sprinkling of stars studded the night sky hidden behind the row of apartment blocks. ‘You sure you don’t want to come in for a drink or anything?’ Gurdev asked to be polite.
‘No thanks,’ Karam replied. ‘I have an early morning tomorrow. I’m going in to the lab first thing.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Scientific research doesn’t just pause on the weekends, Gurdev.’
‘Right,’ Gurdev said. They said goodbye and Gurdev climbed out of the car. Conscious of his anger and the matching force he might use to shut the door behind him, Gurdev swung it gently – too gently. Rather than click, it thudded lightly, leaving their evening unfinished. Gurdev hastily opened the door and ducked his head in. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s all right,’ Karam said with a smirk. ‘You’re not used to having a car.’
Gurdev gave the door a hard shove and walked quickly, hoping to abandon the implied insult floating on the kerb. As children they used to play-wrestle, a challenge in which Gurdev triumphed by instinctively knowing the exact combination of gentle pushes and harder shoves required to wear out his opponent. Then one day, Karam swiftly knocked him to the ground. Flat on his back, a stunned Gurdev realised that Karam must have studied his moves to anticipate them, proving that they were not nearly as complex as Gurdev had thought.
The next morning, a breeze passed through the open window and filled the limp curtains. Gurdev turned away from the sunlight to face his sleeping wife. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her cheeks and her breathing was a loud pronouncement of the additional life she carried into her sleep.
Today was full of errands, all for the baby. Every weekend had turned into a checklist. Gurdev wanted to be prepared so that when the baby arrived, there would be few surprises. It had already exerted so much control over their lives. In the first months of Banu’s pregnancy, he had watched helplessly as nausea contorted her face and sent her rushing to the toilet each morning. This was followed by her refusal to eat laksa noodles with him, claiming that the smell of coconut had become sickeningly sweet, like wet rubbish. There was also her constant tiredness, which led to a certain unwillingness. Gurdev did not like to consider himself overly demanding, but often when he tried to initiate something in the bedroom – a stroking of her lower back, a kiss on her shoulder – she heaved a sigh and turned away. In better moods, she reminded Gurdev of the superstitions attached to sex and pregnancy. ‘Our child could be born with all kinds of problems,’ she said. ‘Do you want that?’ She gave similar warnings when he wanted to buy lottery tickets (tempting fate at a vulnerable time) or eat pumpkin curry (making a cut to a pumpkin would shorten a child’s lifespan). As the pregnancy continued, so did the list of superstitions. Every simple consideration became governed by its potential for a devastating consequence.
Gurdev swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stepped out of the room. He rubbed the heaviness from his eyes and flipped through the paint catalogues that Banu had left on the dining room table. Next to three squares of colour – three shades of yellow almost indistinguishable from each other – Banu had placed a check mark. He heard her house slippers swishing against the tiles as she approached. ‘Morning,’ she mumbled. ‘You want tea?’
Gurdev nodded. ‘The shop will open in about twenty minutes. I’ll go and buy the paint for the baby’s room. You’re sure about these colours?’
Banu glanced at the catalogue. ‘Any one of those three.’
‘They’re all very… yellow,’ he said. Their flat was a bursting testament to Banu’s obsession with sunflowers. Over the short time they had been married, she had accumulated tablemats, framed paintings and ceramic replicas of bright bouquets.
‘The man to
ld me a bright colour would help to open up a small room,’ Banu said. ‘Really, Gurdev, does this have to be such a big deal? There are some more subdued yellows in the other catalogue but they’re expensive.’
‘How expensive? This is our child’s room. We’ll have to face these walls every day. I’d rather pay a bit more.’ He trailed off once he noticed the prices of the other palette squares. These colours were restrained and calm but three times the price.
The phone rang. Gurdev held onto the catalogue with one hand and picked up the receiver with the other. ‘Hello,’ he said absent-mindedly, as he did a series of calculations.
‘Sat sri akal, Gurdev,’ Father said. Gurdev immediately dropped the catalogue on the table.
‘Sat sri akal, Father. Any news?’
‘Nothing,’ Father said. ‘I’ve informed some colleagues. They’ve been searching for Amrit since early this morning.’
‘The police?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, this is the only choice we have.’ His voice was heavy with reluctance. ‘If they find her, I’d rather she doesn’t come home. Everybody in the community will know now.’
‘Please don’t say that, Father,’ Gurdev said. ‘When they find her, we should be thankful she’s home safe.’ Those ideas about Amrit’s whereabouts danced in his consciousness: teenage boys with cigarettes; glasses clinking in coffee shops; a network of shadowy laneways where a girl could simply vanish. He shook them away, seeing Banu at the corner of his vision, placing two cups of tea on the dining table.
‘I’m hoping Karam finds her first. If he does, at least my colleagues won’t see the worst of Amrit. Who knows what she is up to? What if they find her with some boy?’
‘Karam is looking for her as well?’
‘Yes. I said so.’
‘No, actually you didn’t.’ Gurdev saw the hostility in his voice reaching through the phone lines and twisting Father by the ear. Instantly, he wished he had not spoken this way.
‘Am I supposed to feel bad for this?’ Father demanded. ‘I forgot to mention it. You want me to say I’m sorry, is that it? There are enough problems going on in this house.’
‘I know. I understand,’ Gurdev said. He felt his face burning. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Father continued. ‘This is the problem with you, Gurdev. Too emotional. You overreact to everything.’
‘I just thought that Karam was working this morning. Last night when he dropped me off at home, he said he had to go into the lab.’
‘Yes, well, he’s taken time off from his work to help. God knows I need someone in this family who can make my reputation a priority.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ Gurdev repeated. Banu gave him a questioning look. He turned away, showing her his back. Indignation gnawed at his insides. Father muttered that he would call with any further news and hung up before Gurdev had a chance to say goodbye.
‘What was that about?’ Banu asked. She rose from the table with difficulty as Gurdev marched past her to their bedroom. ‘Have they found Amrit?’ she whispered. Gurdev pulled on a pair of trousers and grabbed his wallet. ‘I’m asking you a question,’ she called. He emerged from the bedroom to find her waddling towards the doorway, one palm resting on the mound of her enormous belly.
‘I’m off to buy the paint.’
‘But your tea,’ she protested as he left. Father’s taunts clawed through the doors of the lift and travelled along with Gurdev, despite his best attempts to dodge them.
The heartland neighbourhood woke lazily on Sundays, incongruous with his quick steps. He arrived at the entrance of the shop with ten minutes to spare. Next door, a vendor arranged cubes of watermelon, papaya and ice on a plate. He set it down on the counter and made a visor of his hand to block the sun’s glare. Above this row of shops, an even stack of open corridors displayed the lives of Gurdev’s many neighbours.
The paint shop owner arrived, tugging his singlet away from his chest. He was a thin Chinese man with greying hair. ‘So hot already,’ he lamented in Malay, looking up at the sky. Gurdev followed his gaze to a blazing sun and then stepped inside the shop where the air was just as stiff. The shopkeeper turned on a few small electric fans. From floor to ceiling, rows of shelves held cans of every colour.
‘Okay, which one do you want?’ the shopkeeper asked. ‘The yellow?’
‘How do you know?’
The shopkeeper smiled. ‘Your wife came to get the catalogue. I’ve seen you walking together on some evenings.’
‘Can I see the catalogues again?’ Gurdev asked. ‘We’ve changed our minds about the colours.’
The shopkeeper obliged, bringing out copies of the catalogues Gurdev had pored through at home. Gurdev pushed away the familiar catalogues with newfound disdain for the gaudy, tasteless colours that lay inside them. ‘Here,’ he said to the shopkeeper. ‘The premium ones.’
‘Ah,’ the shopkeeper said, his face brightening. ‘Very nice.’ He disappeared behind the rows of shelves and emerged moments later with three cans. ‘Standard government flat room?’ he asked. ‘You’ll need three cans.’ Gurdev nodded and opened his wallet to pay quickly, before he changed his mind.
Leaving the shop with the cans of paint, Gurdev began to formulate his justification to Banu. We should allow ourselves a small luxury, he would say. This is for our child. He had already made the same case for the tall toy cupboard and the crib with the lacquer finish. He couldn’t help wanting their child to be surrounded by wealth. The cans began to feel weightless as he headed home. He had decided years ago that he would excel at being a father when it came his turn – nothing would be out of reach for his children.
The sun beat against Gurdev’s face. Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead and tickled his cheeks as they rolled down. He put the cans down and looked over his shoulder at the row of shops in the distance, thinking about the cold fruits.
Then he saw her. Racing across the road, her loose rubber sandals slapping against the concrete. ‘Amrit,’ he said in disbelief. He squinted to track her movements. She was walking in the void deck of the government apartment block across the road. An oversized red T-shirt hung from her slender frame and stretched to her knees. Gurdev kept his eyes fixed on her as he walked towards the road. The paint cans thumped against his knees. She stopped and looked around. Gurdev quickened his pace to catch up with her but then she headed off again, this time towards a courtyard. Panting and grunting, Gurdev followed. He pushed impatiently through a small crowd of boys gathered around a drain, taking turns to jab at something with a stick. She broke into a run and disappeared behind another block. ‘Amrit!’ Gurdev yelled. The neighbourhood seemed to pause for a moment. Gurdev did not know if the burning in his cheeks was from the sun or from people’s stares.
Gurdev slumped against a wall and shut his eyes. Specks of light danced against a blacked-out world. If asked to describe Amrit to the police, he would not know her actual dimensions. To him, she was small enough to fit in his pocket. Gurdev opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the blocks again but all he saw was blank pillars framing a white-hot day.
His heart still throbbing, he made his way back to the fruit vendor and ordered a plate. As he waited, the neighbourhood slowly unfolded. Accordion doors rattled open and housewives struggled to haul the weight of their shopping trolleys.
‘You again.’ Gurdev turned to see the paint shop owner waving. ‘Thought you went home already.’
‘Just having something to eat,’ Gurdev answered.
The shopkeeper glanced at the cans of paint at Gurdev’s feet. ‘You’re expecting a baby, right?’
Gurdev nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘You want a girl or a boy?’
‘A boy,’ Gurdev said instantly.
The shopkeeper chuckled. ‘I asked your wife and she said, “anything, as long as it’s a healthy child”.’
‘She wants a boy as well,’ Gurdev said. ‘She just doesn’t think we should tell people what we prefer.’
�
�Why?’ the shopkeeper asked.
‘It’s tempting fate.’ An image of Amrit flashed into his mind. He turned to look over his shoulder, feeling an inexplicable tingle. When he turned back to face the shopkeeper, he was met with an apologetic look.
‘I shouldn’t have asked then,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘It’s good not to talk too much. You have bad luck otherwise. The Chinese believe this, too.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Gurdev said. ‘We’re just making sure we don’t get ahead of ourselves.’
The vendor arrived with Gurdev’s plate. ‘I have a boy and a girl,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Doesn’t matter what the child is, you worry about them the same way. The night of the race riots – you remember that? I was very scared. My son spends so much time playing football in the sun that he has dark skin. People often think he’s Malay. I thought, if this thing takes over our country, how do I convince anybody he’s my child? The Chinese will attack him, thinking he’s Malay. The Malays will attack him if he insists he is Chinese.’ The shopkeeper sighed and shook his head. Gurdev winced, recalling the riots. Father had worked overtime to help set up cordons. On the news, Gurdev had seen policemen lining the streets, their staunch expressions giving them an identical hardness.
The shopkeeper told Gurdev to enjoy his snack. He had to go back to work. ‘No rest, even on a Sunday,’ he said with a grin. ‘Good luck to you.’
Gurdev thanked him. He finished eating his fruit and headed back to the flat, climbing against the intensifying heat of the day.
He noticed Banu pacing in the living room before he realised that the door and gate to the flat were wide open, as if to speed up his arrival. Banu looked up sharply and stopped walking when he entered. Her face was taut with pain.
‘The baby,’ Gurdev said. ‘Banu, is it… is it time?’ His mind was muddled. Didn’t they have another month to go?
Banu shook her head. ‘Call your father. They’ve found Amrit.’ The words were spoken so quietly, Gurdev mistook them for something less newsworthy. ‘Call him,’ Banu repeated, this time with more force. Gurdev dropped the cans and made a beeline for the phone. As he waited for Father to pick up, Banu’s grumbles faded in the background. ‘Why did you take so long? I got the call and then I had to wait here, worrying. I nearly went out to look for you–’
