by Balli Kaur
Finally, they emerged on the main road and Harbeer flagged down a taxi. He held open the door and waited just for a moment to let Dalveer scoot in before he entered. Inside the car, a sharp wind from the airconditioner blasted her face. She blinked uncomfortably and turned away. Harbeer gestured for the driver to direct the vents elsewhere. An upbeat Chinese song played on the radio and a jade buddha on the dashboard tipped towards Dalveer. His smile was familiar to her – she had seen his expression on the faces of spirits during the Hungry Ghost Festival. Dalveer wished for a Punjabi tradition that honoured the dead and invited them to feast with the living. It would be an occasion where Harbeer would not be the only person to acknowledge that she breathed, ate and slept. These days, she did not encounter other spirits very often. The island used to pulse with their presence. In the old swamplands, Dalveer would encounter them draped over palm tree branches and bathing in the muddy waters. In the evenings, their chatter used to buzz excitedly alongside the chirping of crickets, as families settled down to eat their dinners. Then the island changed – the tangled weeds were combed through to form neat bouquets and square hedges. This was no longer a home for spirits.
Looking out of the taxi window now, Dalveer saw that they were passing the river. Small boats bobbed gently from the weight of the tourists, and the water glowed with the melted lights of the restaurants along the banks. Through the crack of the open taxi window, Dalveer breathed in the air but did not catch a whiff of the water’s pungent stink. It was something different now, something unwelcoming. Harbeer disagreed, of course. ‘This is what a river should be,’ he would argue. She was tempted to lean closer to the window and make a show of her sorrow over this loss. Harbeer would struggle to maintain his composure and resist scolding her in front of this taxi driver. Yet Dalveer often felt remorse when she forced this conflict onto her husband; it wasn’t right that anybody thought he was mad for acknowledging her presence. Even their children regarded him with apprehension, and Dalveer felt the injustice of this as strongly as Harbeer did. She reached out to squeeze his palm and felt him gripping hers back tightly.
When they arrived back at the flat, Dalveer went to Amrit’s room first. Amrit wasn’t there, and the room was a mess of books and clothes. A suitcase had been dragged out from the storeroom and next to it, two cardboard boxes overflowed with hangers, shoes and photo albums. For a week now, the flat had been clanging with the sounds of Amrit’s impending departure. Dalveer led Harbeer into the room and they both sat on the edge of Amrit’s bed. She placed Harbeer’s palms over the wrinkles in the sheets, calling to his memory the press of the iron over Amrit’s school uniform.
Together, they remembered the softness of Amrit’s hair as Dalveer guided Harbeer to braid it each morning. Harbeer’s eyes glistened. Soon he would jerk away from her and march out of this room, grumbling about her sentimentality. Your unnecessary tears, he would scornfully call them. Alone in his room, he would get dressed and they would wait for the flat to fill with their children. Banu would bring the birthday cake and Gurdev would hover over the candles, making sure his daughters did not get burnt. Narain would stay close to Amrit all night, chatting and laughing in their own secret world. Throughout the evening, Dalveer’s heart would fill to the point of bursting, so grateful was she to be surrounded by her children. Softly, she would lament that the family only came together for special occasions, and Harbeer would grumble to the children that their mother was being tearful again. ‘She can’t just enjoy a nice evening. She must spoil the occasion,’ he would say. He would go on about their differences – men and women, like adults and children. Where she was weak, he was strong. Where he was practical, she was full of emotion. Later he would retreat to his room to write a letter, confident in his ideas, while Dalveer stood aside, tending to her simpler tasks.
But for this moment Dalveer and Harbeer were the same.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to many people for their inspiration, encouragement and faith in this novel.
Without the love, support and friendship of the following people, I would have struggled to finish this story and see it published. Thank you Mum, Dad, Manmeet, my grandparents and my extended family in Singapore and Malaysia. Thank you Paul for being my favourite reader.
I was very fortunate to have learned to create and sustain characters and stories in the Creative Writing Programs at Hollins University and George Mason University. My sincere thanks to the following teachers for teaching me to read my own drafts critically: Pinckney Benedict, Pauline Kaldas, Inman Majors, Richard Bausch, Steve Goodman and Susan Shreve. Your feedback and advice over the years have been invaluable.
I was also very fortunate to be given the space and time to write this novel at the University of East Anglia. Special thanks to the writers and administrators who made me feel most welcome during my nine-month stay in England. To Anna Power, who had the patience to read through multiple drafts, provide detailed notes and push me to consider what this story was really about – thank you.
My Hollins creative writing workshop mates and NEFA women – thank you for being such energetic, independent and creative souls. To Lucy and Jim Lee – thank you for your love and warmth in those unforgettable years.
John Monash Science School colleagues and students: your support in my role as a teacher allowed me the room to be a writer.
Louise Swinn and Zoe Dattner: without your infectious enthusiasm and compassion for this story, I would not be able to call myself an author.
To the late Amarjit Kaur: I wish that this story’s hopeful resolution could have been yours as well. Rest in peace.
