Puja looks right at him, not giving an inkling of her lurching heart and her fear. If Ma and Da hear of this, will it be the last straw? How will she charm her way out of this one?
‘What are you talking about?’ she asks, affecting nonchalance.
He laughs, and his eyes crinkle pleasingly in his stubbly, perspiration-soaked face.
‘Well, your laugh is much better sounding than that racket your motorbike makes,’ Puja says, and he laughs harder.
She gives a silent prayer of thanks to the god in the temple that she has always been able to make people laugh.
The devotees have given up looking for their chappals and have hailed the bus which comes to a trundling stop beside the temple. She watches them squat wearily on the rusty seats and gather their feet up onto their laps to massage their scalded soles.
‘You are one mischievous girl,’ the boy says.
Shall I? Oh why not? What else is there to do here?
‘I have always wanted to know how it feels like to zoom around on a motorbike. It must be real fun to compensate for all that ugly noise it makes,’ she says, and he laughs again, slapping his knees. ‘So will you give me a ride?’
If he says yes, it will relieve the monotony at least a while, get me out of the village for a bit. If he says no, no harm done. If he tells Ma and Da on me, so be it.
The river laps softly at the shore. The boatmen call out to each other. The fisherwomen squatting on the bank gossip as they try to shift their sorry-looking catch of fish that are starting to reek in the unrelenting sun.
‘Come on then, what are you waiting for?’
Puja lets out the breath she has been holding and crosses the road with him.
He gives the coconut fronds a kick, dislodging a chappal or two, but she pointedly does not look, which makes him laugh even harder.
His friends stare as Puja climbs onto his bike.
‘How many times have we asked you for a ride?’ they yell. ‘But no, it is too precious for our ordinary backsides. And now you give this slip of a girl a ride?’
He grins at them, and kick-starts the engine.
A thrill of excitement tickles Puja’s spine.
‘You haven’t given your friends a turn on your bike?’ she asks.
The humid air is thick with adrenaline and the smell of gasoline and dust.
‘It’s the best bike around you know, the latest model. Nobody else in the surrounding villages or even in the whole of Dhoompur owns this make.’ He gives the front of the bike an affectionate rub. ‘Only special people allowed on.’
Puja opens her mouth and tastes the warm gold essence of bliss. ‘How many people have you given a ride to?
She sees the side of his face visible to her turn red.
‘Only you,’ he mumbles.
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear that,’ she teases.
He grins. ‘Ready? Hold on to me or you’ll fall off.’
Puja clutches his waist as the bike takes off. She throws her head back, her plaits jiggling, and savours the zesty air rushing past. She feels invincible.
‘I’m flying,’ Puja says, shouting to be heard above the roar of the wind and the growl of the motorbike, ‘Thank you. You are the coolest person in the world.’
He laughs. ‘So are you,’ he says.
KUSHI
ONE PERFECT PACKAGE
I put down Ma’s letter in which she describes meeting her sister for the first time and blink, as I come back into myself. Everything aches—my body still complaining from the battering it has received. My head feels heavy and there is a rough dryness at the back of my throat.
With great effort, I push my physical discomfort aside and ponder instead over what I have always believed. Other families in the village boast more siblings, cousins and second cousins than they can keep track of, but I was told that we didn’t have any relatives, that Da was an only child and so was Ma, and that their parents had long gone by the time I came along.
Ma used to say she’d wanted lots of siblings for me. But then God gave her just me.
‘You are everything we ever hoped for and more’, she told me. ‘All the answers to our prayers distilled into one perfect package. Da and I blessed many times over. Hence your name: “Kushi” meaning happiness.’
Two women sit on the bed next to mine, side by side, talking. One has a bush of hair the silver grey of a scouring brush; the other is bald. But they have identical sandalwood eyes set deep into gaunt faces. Sisters.
This sister Ma describes in her letter, this baby girl she fell in love with, this woman I can’t quite believe is for real, is even now making her way here. Does she look like a younger version of my ma?
Tears glint on the bald woman’s sparse eyelashes. The other gently wipes them away with her sari pallu.
My ma is the most loving person I know. And yet she has lived my lifetime pretending her sister doesn’t exist. Why doesn’t Ma speak of her? What happened to the bond between my mother and her sister? Why didn’t they get back in touch before now?
The bushy haired sister sets a lime green sari on the bed beside mine. It contrasts brightly with the institutional yellow tinted cream of the hospital sheets. She pulls out a tiffin box from the cloth bag by her side and opens it up on the sari that serves as tablecloth. She breaks off a piece of chapathi, wraps it around some potato and feeds it to her distressed sister. The gesture is so tender that it makes me ache.
I suddenly, desperately, want my Ma here with me. In the letters I have just read, Ma describes how she used to cook with her ma. Ma carried on that tradition with me, with the two of us cooking together every evening, when I got home from school.
‘You know how to fix the world, Kushi. This is how you own the world,’ she would say, setting out a chopping board and knives, red onions, a head of garlic and a knob of ginger.
‘First we chop,’ she said, and as if giving in humbly to a master, the onion would collapse into a hundred perfectly sized pearly pieces under her able fingers—her sprightly fingers jigging effortlessly as they wielded the knife.
‘This is how we own the world?’
She would laugh at the disdain in my voice.
‘Sweetie,’ she said. ‘Cooking is art, it is creation. It is, for me, the closest I get to knowing how God feels. If you are able to manipulate stubborn ingredients into imparting their flavour, and if you are able to make the obstinate onion dance to your tunes, if you are able to master it without shedding tears at its mutilation, then you can do anything. In my opinion, beautiful food, seasoned with love and affection, is the greatest gift you can offer someone. And when you do that, people want to give something back. Dictators buckle, kingdoms fold. You own the world, peacefully.’
I had shared in my ma’s laughter then, called her a visionary, not quite believing what she said. Truth is, I have come round to her way of thinking. (Although, I’m still not convinced and doubt I ever will be about the ‘owning the world’ bit.) I love standing side-by-side with Ma, chopping and stirring, frying and poaching, flavouring it all liberally with gossip and laughter.
I wish I could do that now. I wish I could stand, walk to the end of this room and slip out the door of this hospital, into the sweet-smelling world outside, bathed in the amber glow of afternoon sun.
I am overcome by a blinding flash of frustrated rage. I want to pull off all these tubes binding me to this bed. Tears blind my eyes, and blur the letters I am holding. I hate that this has happened to me. I hate that my life is dependent on this unknown aunt’s whims, on whether she’ll agree to be my donor. I hate everything and everyone, even the sisters in the adjacent bed.
I want to cook, study, organise a rally. Anything would be better than being stuck here—with machines doing my body’s work for me—counting down the hours until I meet this aunt whose existence I was unaware of. This aunt in whom I must place my trust, and hope that, whatever has happened in the past, my condition will rouse enough pity in her to agree to save me . . .
I turn my mind away from the only-ifs to cooking with Ma instead.
The first time I prepared a dish all on my own—green masala chicken garnished with coriander and served with a helping of steamed red rice—Ma had gasped in delight and with a smile that looked as if it would burst from her face, invited every woman in the village to sample it.
I understood then, the joy my ma gets from cooking. You mix together all these disparate ingredients that you would swear would never go together, that individually taste like nothing much at all, apply a bit of heat, add some well-chosen spices and hey presto, their communion is beautiful, delicious, heavenly—a perfectly matched marriage. The best part about cooking is the delight in sharing with others, seeing their taste buds jive, and their faces come alive, as they sample your latest concoction. I told Ma this and it was gratifying to see the joy light up her face like the moon on a cloudless summer’s night.
You fell in love with your sister when she was born. Then what happened, Ma? What went wrong?
I pick up the next letter.
SHARDA—CHILDHOOD
HOT BARLEY SPICED WITH NUTMEG
Extract from school report for Sharda Ramesh, Ninth Standard, Age 15
Sharda is a delight to have in class. Hardworking and extremely bright, she is an example to everyone, regularly topping all of her subjects.
Dearest Ma,
I recall this period of time, which I am about to relate, as happy, and yet now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that even then a shadow loomed, casting a pall. A warning.
These letters to you, Ma, they are helping so much. Now that I am a mother myself, I want to put everything that happened down in writing, in the hope of seeing where it all went wrong. I want to pinpoint my part in all of this, so that I can then stay clear of the mistakes I made whether wilfully or in ignorance. So that I can bring up my innocent little girl well, without tarnishing her with the sins of the past, or marking her with new offences committed because I did not learn from bygone mistakes.
So then, to my account . . .
‘Sharda,’ Sister Rose says. ‘You are the only person in this class who has grasped the concept of compound interest. Please could I ask you to explain it to this group over here?’
I glow, Ma, at this unexpected compliment from my strict teacher, and I squat underneath the peepal tree with the group I’ve been assigned. I brush the earth around us clear of pebbles and set about sharpening a twig to use as a pen on this makeshift board.
Our school, as you know, Ma, is too small to house all of its pupils, even though most village children do not attend school, and help out at home or in the fields instead. Hence, on days when there is no rain, we have lessons in the shade of the fruit trees in Anthu’s orchard, which he kindly allows the school to use.
The air smells tart, of raw mango and ripe tamarind. It is dense with moisture and makes the wisps of hair escaping my plait stick wetly to my neck. The group I have been assigned consists only of boys, and it includes Gopi, the most handsome boy in the village, the one that all the girls collect in groups to admire, giggling and blushing if he so much as looks their way.
I see Rupa and Suggi frown as Gopi smiles at me and says, ‘Go on then, Sharda, do your best. Try and explain this, let’s see if it penetrates our thick heads.’
I feel colour flood my cheeks, and hating myself for acting just like the other girls simpering in Gopi’s presence, I look down at the ground which serves as my board.
‘So, imagine that you want to buy this house,’ I begin, drawing a rectangle topped by a triangle in the dirt. The irony that the parents of most children in the school, with the possible exception of Gopi’s father, can hardly afford to buy a cow let alone a house, does not escape me.
I patiently explain the mathematics of compound interest until the puzzled expressions of the boys clear and they begin to reward me with smiles of relieved comprehension.
A crow caws somewhere among the trees. A damp breeze rustles. It smells sweet, of honeyed cashews, and makes my stomach twinge with hunger. Two women call to each other in the fields.
‘You are the best teacher, Sharda,’ Gopi says. He leans so close I can smell his hot breath, feel it prickling my ear, raising goose bumps. ‘Even better than Sister Rose.’
My whole body feels warm, as if I am in the throes of a fever and I imagine my face must look as red as an overripe watermelon. I sense Rupa and Suggi’s violent gaze branding me a traitor, labelling me a shameless slut. When Sister Rose bangs the stainless steel plate that serves as a bell, Rupa and Suggi loop their arms and flounce off, not waiting for me to walk with them as I usually do.
The next morning, as we squat in the mud waiting for Sister Rose to call out the register, Gopi swans in, late as usual. He makes a beeline for me, saying, rudely, ‘Move,’ to Rupa, pushing her out of the way when she doesn’t move fast enough. He digs in his pocket, ignoring Sister Rose looking at him over the top of her glasses, and takes out a Campco chocolate éclair, a sweet I have always craved but never eaten, as we can’t afford luxuries when necessities are in short order.
‘Here,’ he whispers. ‘This is to say thank you for yesterday. My da was very impressed when I explained compound interest to him.’ And then, when Sister Rose rushes back into the school building to get something, ‘My da tests me on what I have learnt at school every evening,’ he grimaces, ‘and most days I do not pass muster. But yesterday, he couldn’t fault me.’ He grins at me, and it is as if I have been bestowed with a gift far more precious than the chocolate.
I take the sweet he is holding out, hot and wet from nestling in his pocket and palm. As I do so, I notice Rupa wiggling her hips and moving imperceptibly closer to Gopi.
‘Thank you.’ I murmur. And seized by an urge to continue our conversation, ‘Is he very strict, your da?’
I have never talked during lessons, not being the sort of girl who does anything I am not meant to, and I feel a thrill tremble up my spine as I do so now, even though the entire class is raucously taking advantage of Sister Rose’s temporary absence.
‘Horribly,’ Gopi grumbles. ‘He wants me to be top of the class, which is impossible of course, given you are in it.’
I cannot help the rush of blood rouging my face. ‘I . . .’
‘Just joking, Sharda,’ he grins. His eyes, the ochre of the sun at twilight, gleam at me.
‘Why does he send you to this small school when you can go to the best school in Dhoompur?’ I have always wondered about this.
‘Oh,’ he frowns. ‘According to him this will teach me how to deal with the common man, which he says will stand me in good stead when I am older.’ He leans closer to me, and I breathe in the musky tang of his sweat, ‘I think he sends me here because it’s free. He does not like spending money, my da, despite the fact that he has more than most.’
I nod, not knowing what to say, running my thumb over the chocolate, wondering if it will taste as deliciously sweet as I have fantasized.
‘Can you teach me profit and loss as well in the break?’ he asks.
‘Of course,’ I smile even as I wonder why he is singling me out.
Tutoring Gopi in maths soon becomes a regular event.
One day, I gather up the courage to ask, ‘Why don’t you get Shimy to teach you? She is bright as well.’
He grins at me, his eyes glowing. Is that fondness I see in his gaze? ‘I like you teaching me. You are an enigma, Sharda. So bright and yet so strangely innocent. So clever and yet so vulnerable.’
His words warm me like a tumbler of hot barley spiced with nutmeg and tart with lemon.
I think I know why he gravitates to me. It is because I do not fawn over him like the other girls. I am not coy with him, blushing and smirking and playing games.
I treat him as an equal, something he’s not used to, with everyone always looking up to him, boys and girls alike. I do not give in to his charm, or bend over backwards to please him. I teach him, but do not indulge
him. I take care never to be alone with him. I try not to get too close, and only help him with his maths at lunch time, in full view of all my classmates. I am very protective of my reputation, which is, as you have told me often enough, Ma, my ‘most important asset’.
And yet, in the nights, after I have finished studying, after I have blown out the candle and settled down to sleep beside you and Puja, it is a boy with shining eyes whom I see flickering before my closed eyes. It is his face that eases me into sleep, his face inhabiting my dreams.
Puja must sense something, for she asks me, one day, out of the blue, ‘Have you ever been in love?’
Have I said his name in my sleep? I wonder. Why am I beginning to care for him, of all people? I worry.
Gopi embodies the very opposite of all the qualities I admire and hold dear. He is brash, cocky, someone who disregards rules just as much as I value them. And yet, every so often a chink of vulnerability perforates his smug exterior.
‘Do you like me, Sharda?’ he had asked just the previous day.
I laughed, making sure to keep my eyes on the ground, where I was teaching him the basics of algebra.
‘I do, I suppose,’ I said after a pause during which I pretended to consider his question.
I looked up just in time to see his face fall briefly, a puzzled little boy appearing through the veneer of bravado, before he righted it and laughed, saying, ‘You tease.’
I do not want to be one of his conquests. I have seen the way he treats the girls who shadow him, who hang on his every word. I would much rather have the respect he affords me. But that look lodged right in my heart, and it blossomed—a ruby bloom unfurling.
‘Answer me, Sharda, have you been in love? In fact, are you in love right now?’ Puja asks, and her voice is as insistent as the Muslim call for prayer that blasts every sleeping body for miles around out of their slumber at daybreak.
A Sister's Promise Page 9
