‘Has someone died?’ Monty asked. ‘She’s in white.’
Mehar made a face, as if to say, how would she know?
‘Go and wash that rubbish off,’ Monty hissed, and Mehar took a careful step back and was inching towards the water pump when someone spoke from inside.
‘Mehar, come in here at once.’
Mehar looked to Monty, alarm in her eyes as she pointed to her blackened face, to the devil’s red tongue painted down her chin.
‘She can’t bear to come to you empty-handed, dearest aunty,’ Monty said. ‘Please allow her to arrive at your feet with an offering of lemon-water.’
‘I’ve had water. What I don’t have is time to wait. In here now.’
Mehar shook her head and her hands, and took another step back.
‘Please don’t embarrass her by forcing her into your orbit with nothing to give,’ Monty replied, his fist at his mouth.
‘Mehar Kaur’ – this was Ma – ‘your mother has come to see you. Inside, this second.’
Mehar’s shoulders fell, defeated, and she took a moment to prepare her apology before stepping across the yard. As she passed Monty, he hastily uncoiled the grubby, white wrap from his hair, shook it out with a single snap of the material and draped it over her head and down her face.
‘It’s see-through,’ Mehar whispered.
‘Not enough to worry about. Keep looking at the floor,’ he murmured, as he opened the wooden door and followed her in.
Mehar touched Mai’s toes, then took a seat opposite her, beside Simran.
‘There are no unfamiliar men here,’ Mai said.
‘She’s grieving,’ Monty said.
‘Who for?’ Mai asked.
‘For whoever has passed,’ he said, gesturing at her own white clothes.
‘You do not know who you are grieving for?’
Mai’s tone left no doubt that she wanted only Mehar to speak, and so, behind the makeshift veil, she mouthed a silent prayer and took a chance: ‘I had a vision that my father was not well and when I saw that today you made that long journey alone, I felt God tell me to enter into a period of mourning.’
There was a sudden swelling stillness. For a daughter-in-law even to think of her father-in-law’s death, let alone voice it aloud, was unforgivably insolent. The waiting silence ballooned and was punctured by the sound of humming; they all turned to watch as the neighbour’s child padded down the stairs, crossed the yard and disappeared into the passageway.
‘He died nearly a month ago,’ Mai said. ‘His heart gave way.’
Simran laid down the fan, about to summon up the required amount of tears, but Mai warded them off with a raised hand.
‘What’s done is done. He served us well.’ She ploughed on with a sigh. ‘I’ve brought your official mourning clothes.’ From her cloth bag, she took a brown parcel secured with red-and-white twine and passed it to Simran to hand across to Mehar.
‘I will wear them for a full year,’ Mehar said seriously. ‘I will honour my father’s life.’
‘A week will do. Winter’s coming.’ Mai stood. ‘Would you accompany me to the door, Mehar.’ It was not a question.
They went down the passageway together, Mehar half a step behind Mai because the path was too narrow. The light never fully penetrated this part of the house, this alley linking home-yard to village lane, lending it all a secretive, confidential air.
‘What other visions have you had?’
‘This was my first.’
Mai made a noise of assent. ‘Have you started bleeding yet?’
‘Yes,’ Mehar replied, feeling herself redden.
‘Perhaps that did it.’
They’d reached the threshold of the passageway and Mehar waited for Mai to step into the lane, turn round and allow Mehar to touch her feet in farewell. She wanted her gone so she could rush back inside and laugh about it all with Monty. Mai, however, moved closer to Mehar and pushed her against the cold stones of the wall. She felt Mehar’s breasts, coarsely, squeezing them hard through the tunic, using all her fingers and the heel of her palm. Though it hurt and her mouth dropped open, Mehar said not a word, her arms limp at her side.
‘Get some unstitched cloth and wrap it round and round. Tight as your cunt. They must be kept small. We’re not a family of obscenities.’
Mehar nodded.
‘You are a pretty little thing.’ Mai smiled. ‘And the next time I ask you to come to me you’ll come straight away, won’t you?’
Mehar nodded again, and perhaps it was the gulp disappearing into Mehar’s throat that widened the smile on Mai’s lips.
‘Well done.’ She kissed Mehar’s forehead through the material, told her to enjoy Dussehra, and strode out into the sunny lane, not permitting Mehar to ask for a farewell blessing.
Mehar walked back down the passageway, feeling disturbed and dislocated by the encounter, but stepping into the light of the courtyard had a galvanising effect, wrenching her back into the known world. She ran into the room, where Monty was bent double and laughing so hard that tears were visible.
‘Your brother’s gone chukpatty crazy,’ her mother said, only to let out a loud yelping gasp of her own when a grinning Mehar tore away her veil.
* * *
*
They recounted that afternoon many times over the following months, always with embellishments from Monty. ‘The witch even went to lift the veil, but quick as lightning I interjected with a plate of sweetmeats,’ he said to Mehar’s father. ‘Uncle, you should have seen her face as I kept stopping her from getting a look at our Mehar!’ But as months produced years, it was spoken of less and less, reprised for one last time a few weeks before the wedding. Mai was set to pay them a final visit and had sent word, via a travelling sadhu, that on this occasion she’d be arriving with one of her sons.
‘Kali Mata would scare him off. Still got the guts?’ Monty said, as Mehar mixed a little more ghee into the soot. She took a small flint from the top of the mirror and lined her eyes with kajal. It was just the two of them in this new room that her father had built on to the roof, and as he joined her on the broad green cushion of the stool, Monty, seventeen years old and searching for a bride of his own, looked every inch the disapproving older brother.
‘I’ll tell you something for free. I’ll never ever ask my wife to make-up herself. I’ll forbid it.’
Mehar smiled through her nerves and patted his hand, which had been resting on her shoulder this whole time. She loved him, uncomplicatedly. When she’d got him alone one evening a few moons after Mai had manhandled her, Mehar had asked him what her cunt was and Monty had held her close and told her not to worry about things like that, which had only confused her further, more so because she could feel against her own chest the small sobs coming from his.
‘I think they’re here,’ Mehar said, standing, licking her finger and running it along her eyebrows. Nerves or not, there was no point in waiting. You couldn’t outrun your fate.
‘Ants in your pants?’ Monty said. He tugged her back down as he stood up, as if a pulley operated them both. ‘We’ll call you when we’re ready.’
An hour passed and still Mehar was waiting in the rooftop room. She could hear their voices, muffled, and the rattling of crockery as teas and sweetmeats were passed round. She dared not sneak outside and glance over the wall, knowing the squeal of the doors would give her away, especially now winter had come and the black grease was impossible to get hold of. Instead, she brought out the jamawar shawl from under the charpoy and freed it of its paper wrapping. It was a beautiful thing, all burnt umbers and handwoven browns, stitched and decorated with care and delicacy to reveal some fresh pattern every time Mehar looked at it. The intricate red border (‘French embroidery,’ the seller had said, bafflingly) felt like a caress against her cheek. Mehar loved the texture of it in her hands, and the feel
ing of owning something so ravishing. She was certain her mother-in-law would love it too, that it would only elevate Mehar’s standing in her new family, because the shawl was the most captivating element of Mehar’s trousseau, and, along with new furniture, two bulls and five burlaps of grain, would form part of Mehar’s procession at the end of the wedding. She kissed the shawl, rewrapped and returned it under the charpoy, and then, not entirely accidentally, stood to find that she was once more assessing herself in the long wardrobe mirror. Her turquoise tunic with gold trim and matching salwar had been a congratulatory gift from her maternal grandmother, who’d made the three-day journey to her daughter’s house six months ago. On Mehar’s feet were gold satin slippers, the seams scratching against the arch of each foot. Her hair, washed, oiled, combed, hung in a single plait down her back. She tried to peer at herself from the corner of her eye, to catch herself unaware, as if that might enable a more candid assessment: the pale mouth, the wheatish complexion, the large – some said too large – eyes. Would I think I was beautiful?
‘Come on.’
She turned round, unstartled despite not hearing Monty come in, nodded once and reached for her chunni, wearing it like a veil.
Monty steered her down the stairs, whispering inanities: ‘So big, I’m not sure if he’s man or elephant,’ and, ‘Did they tell you about his missing teeth?’
She wasn’t sure if he was trying to comfort her or distract himself from his own grief. In any case, she played along and elbowed his ribs, hissing: ‘You’ll make me trip.’
In the courtyard, Mehar steeled herself, pressed her lips together and tried to remember that she had nothing to worry about. She harboured a lingering fear of his mother, true, but Mai had approved her. They wouldn’t – surely couldn’t – go back on it all now, at this late stage, even if he thought her as ugly as a wild pig. She touched her forehead, as though pressing it back into place, a tic whose origin she could no longer recall. Then the door was opened and she walked inside, her eyes cast down. All she could see was floor, and the floor’s odd faded chalk lines that she didn’t think she’d ever noticed before. Monty’s hand at her back guided her to a seat and, lowering herself with infinite care, she recognised her mother’s feet to her right and, on her left, her father’s sandals, his squared-off toenails. The table was laid in front of her. Empty cups, plates still piled high with sweetmeats, miniature bowls of half-eaten faluda.
They were talking politics and had been for some while because this marriage was taking place at a time of horrific and continuing falls in crop prices. The English mills had ceased buying, the viceroys had simultaneously raised rents, and local farmers were being forced to sell (to the canny British, no less) what gold they still had so that they might keep hold of their land. All things that, up and down the country, were sparking anti-British marches and freedom movements.
‘It’ll end in riots if they’re not careful.’
Mehar listened hard over the sound of her heart’s hammering. That must be him. He sounded strong and forceful, tall and handsome. The thrills of projection!
He continued: ‘Everywhere you go, there are agitators.’
‘Anyone can agitate. It takes real guts to take the fight to them,’ said Monty.
‘I’m sure you’ve guts for all of us,’ Mai’s son replied, eliciting a little laughter from the room.
They continued like this, as if Mehar hadn’t even joined them, until Simran (as she must) asked if she might make another pan of tea and Mai (as she must) declined, saying time was moving on and they’d have to leave soon if they wanted to miss the Mussulmans, today being their godforsaken Friday. That seemed to be the sign Simran had been waiting for, and Mehar felt her mother’s arm come around her back and saw her rouged fingertips pinching the hem of the veil. She unveiled Mehar as if she were raising a curtain, and throughout the ordeal Mehar held her breath, quivering with nerves, listening for gasps of horror, praying that there wouldn’t be any. Finally, Simran folded the veil across Mehar’s head and they all sat in silence while Mehar, still trembling, continued to fix her gaze to the ground. She knew she didn’t possess the audacity to look up into his face. From Monty, Mehar would later learn that at this point Mai and her son exchanged a confirmatory look, before the woman said, ‘I spoke to our priest and the stars look auspicious next month, preferably on the seventeenth day.’
‘We’d be delighted to welcome you and your son on whichever day best suits you,’ Arvind said, sounding distinctly relieved.
‘I’ll confirm by telegram,’ Mai said. ‘My other sons are marrying too.’ She spoke with measured boastfulness. ‘We came straight from the other girls’ homes, hence our late arrival. Three weddings, one ceremony. I’ll send word once we’ve finalised the date.’
‘As you wish,’ said Arvind, though his voice betrayed a slight confusion.
‘But is it you my sister will be marrying?’ asked Monty, a question that almost earned him a slap once the guests had departed and Simran stormed that he had no right being so impertinent.
The old witch (Monty later said) had been about to speak, when the son cut in: ‘That decision will be made in consultation with my younger brothers. But you need not worry. I promise you that your sister will be marrying one of us,’ he finished, to more nervous laughter from Mehar’s parents.
Such arrangements weren’t new – far from it – but Monty was incensed and, later, during his outburst with Simran, said that this was the twentieth century, for pity’s sake. Mehar had the right to know who she’d be marrying.
‘She has the right to be married into a good family and these are good Kala Sanghian people. The specific man doesn’t matter. A real brother would see that,’ Simran added, in a hurtful swipe uncharacteristic of her, which only made the wound slice deeper.
As they entered the new month and the seventeenth drew closer, preparations for the day – are there enough blankets if the guests are cold? Have the chamars been bribed to steer clear of the temple? – overwhelmed any thoughts of who precisely Mehar would be following around the holy book. Mehar, too, tried not to worry. Her mother was right: what difference would it make? It was not as if she’d be able to reject the boy, or say, No, thank you, I’ll take the other one instead, as though she were choosing eggs in the market.
On the wedding day itself no one in the family knew for sure who she’d ended up with. Mehar was shrouded from head to foot in her heavy red gown and gold drapes, her hands and even her feet wrapped in chenille, the material folded back and bound with gold threads around her ankles and wrists. She couldn’t walk, talk or hear, and neither was she expected to, so Monty carried her across his arms, from the cart, up the steps, through the half-full temple and seated her beside the man waiting near the front of the hall. The groom wore his sehra, his curtain of white marigolds braided with crimson blooms, clipped to his turban and hanging down over his face. Monty tried to see if it was the same man who’d come to the house, and perhaps he managed to. Who knows? Even had he succeeded, there was no way of delivering news to Mehar. Having carried her to the groom, he found no other opportunity to speak to her that day: once the ceremony was over she followed her husband into the cart, the driver kicked the horses into action and Monty, determined not to cry, never saw his sister again.
* * *
In July 2019 my father underwent surgery to have his entire left knee replaced. After four days in hospital he was discharged with a blister pack of pain relief, some blood thinner, a pamphlet promoting ten lots of exercises, and a pair of crutches. He and Mum were going to need daily help on all sorts of fronts, so my wife and three kids drove down to my in-laws for the summer while I returned to the house and shop where I grew up, moving back into my old bedroom, behind a door that still read S—’s. Some of my duties rendered me to my teenaged self: Mum calling me down to unload a delivery, or to drive over to the cash-and-carry in the van, or trudge out with the ne
wspapers because the paperboy was hungover from the night before. When it came to Dad, it was all new. I held his hand while he completed circuits of the dining table. I bore his weight up and down the stairs. I removed his compression socks and moisturised his massively swollen, woody and unflexing leg. I helped him dress. I also had to show people round, because the knee surgery had finally forced Dad, however recalcitrantly, and after thirty-one years, into putting the place up for sale. So there I was, hurrying prospective buyers past Dad lying on the sofa, who far from acknowledging their bright hellos, pointed his crutch after them like some sniper. He was going to miss the place desperately, and something like sweet melancholy filled those sunny afternoons when people came to tramp in and out of the rooms.
By the second week, the three of us seemed to have found our groove, a routine. I came to recognise once again the 6 a.m. sounds of the milk-and-bread man, sounds that had me crushing toast into my mouth and heading out to agree our order. Twenty years on, I was again totting up the takings, allowing for the Lottery, the Instants, the Paypoint cash, mindful that a float needed to be left in the till. I adjusted my meal plans once Mum reminded me (how could I have forgotten?) that Dad liked raita only with his evening meal, not his afternoon one. I didn’t have much spare time, but between cooking and showing people round, fetching Dad his Codeine and administering the Tinzaparin, between helping him through his exercises and helping Mum with the shop, I tried to read. I’d brought a pile of books with me: The Little Virtues; Under the Volcano; a biography of Leonora Carrington; Les Murray’s Waiting for the Past. Though I realised it only later, the books were all by or about people who had already taken their leave. Not that I read any of them: I was too distracted, my mind too tense. I couldn’t give my attention to comprehending someone else’s world when I was, for the first time in two decades – and for the final time, too – living in the place that had once unravelled my own. Instead, I’d sit at the dining table in the late evenings, with overlarge images of Sikh gurus on the wall behind me and family photographs on the wall ahead.
China Room Page 3
