by Meera Syal
‘I have made two million pounds. I have had two heart by-pass operations. My next million will probably kill me,’ he said quietly.
Tania’s father slapped his knee roguishly. ‘OK then, when you get it, give it to me, hah?’
Jolly Sikh Uncle shook his head. He picked up a glass bowl of peanuts from the table and offered them to Tania’s father. ‘When we were boys, back in Ambala, you asked to share my moongphooli once. Remember?’
Tania’s father nodded his head slowly, a softness uncreasing his face. ‘Hah, I remember, sitting on the roof of your house after kite flying. Our hands were cut to ribbons. We put ground glass on the string so we could cut down the other boys’ kites. My mother slapped me for that. What a memory you have!’
‘And what did I say to you then?’
‘You offered me the bowl and you said . . . you said, I wish these were diamonds.’
Jolly Sikh Uncle inclined his head. Tania had thought he looked like an old grizzled lion, dignified in his dotage. Then, he had emptied all the peanuts onto the table, produced from his inside pocket a velvet pouch and tipped an iridescent avalanche of diamonds into the bowl. Tania had yelped in amazement. Her mother had reeled backwards into a chair, fanning herself with a paper plate. Jolly Sikh Uncle picked up the bowl, which seemed to vibrate with white sharp heat in the dimmed room, and handed it to her father.
‘Tendon-sahib, believe me when I say, I wish they were peanuts.’
Peanuts and a necklace of burning bulbs. Tania knew they were connected, belonged together. She felt sand shifting in her back brain. There was an answer there, if she could just dig deeper. Her happiness depended on it. She closed her eyes waiting for revelation.
‘There’s a film here with your name on it.’ Mark was standing in front of her. ‘Heard of the Jasbinder Singh case? Woman whose kids got barbecued by her ex?’
‘I read about it.’ Tania stared at him blankly. Part of her was still in an incense-smelling sitting room counting treasure.
‘There’s a few people chasing this one, but you could do something special here. The bigger picture, and so on. Prime time heavyweight slot. Fancy it?’
Tania shrugged. ‘I don’t want to do any more Asian stories.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why, Mark, we’ve discussed this. No more grubbing in the ghetto, I’m mainstream now.’
Mark sat on the edge of his desk wearily. Tania waited for the explosion, but instead, he massaged his temples with his fingers, collecting his thoughts. His tall, skinny frame folded into right angles, save his left leg which pointed bonily to the floor, a flamingo in deep contemplation. Tania noticed the tidemark of sweat on his collar, the thinning hairline. He was about the same age as her. His sharp, inquisitive features made him look younger, but he looked up with wise, beady eyes.
‘The ghetto got you where you are today, Tania. It’s what makes you different. And a good story is a mainstream story, end of story.’
Tania stood up defiantly. ‘Why does everything I do have to come back to me? People like me? My family? My background? Our dirty linen? I’m an artist not a bloody social worker. Nobody asks Scorsese to only make Italian mob movies—’
‘No,’ Mark cut in sharply. ‘He chooses to do them because he knows he can do them better than anyone else. He started out telling his own stories and their success gave him the power to choose. You can’t see the join, Tania. You can’t separate what you’re good at from what you are. But you can use it to get you into a position of power and take it from there. First, you’ve got to know your voice, and then you’ve got to like it. Get it?’
Tania steadied her breathing. ‘Are you Jewish, Mark?’
Mark laughed. ‘Are you joking, asking a question like that to someone called Stein?’
‘Does being Jewish inform your every daily activity? Do you wake up, check you’re still circumcised and hum “Hava Nagila” all the way to the office?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Mark replied, getting up stiffly from the desk. ‘I know who I am, so I’ve got nothing to prove. Bloody hell, I’d have never started this conversation if I’d known you were going to be so defensive.’
‘Who’s defensive?’ said Tania, defensively.
‘Fine.’ Mark sighed and returned to his executive chair. ‘Go do a nice film about lady golfers in Weybridge. At least it will be funny, exposing them while you give away nothing. You’re good at that.’
Sunita finally managed to coax Sunil’s arm into the sleeve of his top. She zipped him up quickly and sat him next to Nikita on the settee. Nikita had pulled her hood up and was concentrating on tying her toggles, humming along to the private choir in her head. Sunil watched his sister, wide-eyed, and carefully dragged his hood over his head, grunting with effort. They sat together, legs splayed, like two malevolent shrouded pixies, plotting devious deeds in their secret language.
Sunita paused, halfway through collecting toys from the floor, a bubble of joy expanding her ribs. Tiny perfect people, flesh of her flesh. Whenever she looked too carefully at their vulnerable bodies, when a bruise bloomed from a tumble, when they started, blinking owlishly, at a sudden noise, when they watched her applying face cream like astonished spectators at a circus, she was winded by an urge to swaddle them in bubblewrap and place them on a high shelf, away from predators and pollution. The responsibility, at these times, was overwhelming. Her life beyond their immediate sphere seemed banal. And the relief when she left them to fly through the door with essays and plans was enormous.
I am a good mother, she told herself as she stuffed a couple of Tellytubbies into an overflowing toy box. I will not feel guilty, she told a plastic dinosaur sternly. If I am happy, they are happy too, she reminded an entire family of Pretty Ponies before they were unceremoniously shoved under a cushion.
‘I like your song, Nikki,’ Sunita called over her shoulder, interrupting the musical babble coming from the settee. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Poo!’ shouted Nikki firmly.
‘Oh. That’s, er, lovely,’ replied Sunita, remembering from some book that Nikki was right in the middle of her anal phase and she really ought to encourage her to explore it fully. ‘Is it a talking poo? Does it sing to you from the loo? Maybe it has a special name, eh?’
‘No,’ said Nikki, ‘I want a poo now!’
Sunita tuned into the noises coming from upstairs. The shower was still going and, as usual, Akash had the radio on full blast.
‘Beti, Papa’s in there, can you wait a minute?’
‘No!’ cried Nikki, ‘it’s poking out right now!’
Sunita suppressed an expletive, scooped Sunil under one arm and frogmarched Nikita up the stairs. Nikita complained loudly all the way to the landing about how the poo would come out right now and spoil her Spice Girl socks. Sunita pushed at the bathroom door and found it locked. Akash never locked the door. He paraded about semi-nude on principle, claiming the children ought to feel comfortable about their bodies. Sunita rapped on the door impatiently.
‘Akash? Nikki needs to go to the loo. Why have you . . .?’
A cloud of steam hit Sunita in the face as Akash threw open the door and disappeared quickly behind the shower screen. Nikita settled happily onto the toilet seat while Sunil emptied a plastic bucket of bath toys onto the lino and banged them together, satisfied. Akash stood with his back to them, soaping himself vigorously. The muscles in his neck and back pulsated softly as he reached around himself, water coursing down his spine, the valley of his long strong back. Sunita surveyed him critically through the misty shower screen. Diffused by droplets and steam, his body looked as it did when she first discovered it, greedily and with some gratitude. The shock of his naked skin at such close quarters brought her up sharply. Here was reality; the family unit, hermetically sealed in domestic vapours. Her daughter’s knickers on the floor, her son’s fat fists around yellow ducks, Akash’s emerging love handles, soap-bubbled smooth – the ballast in her days, bearing no connection
to the woman who sat in waiting rooms, twirling the ends of her hair and smiling.
Sunita raised her voice over the blare of the radio: ‘I’m dropping the kids off at Mum’s soon.’
Akash glanced at her for a moment, squinting through the haze, and nodded before turning his back on her again, holding a flannel to his groin protectively.
‘What’s up with you?’ Sunita called. ‘We’ve seen it all before, you know.’ She extended a playful hand around the screen and made a grab for the flannel.
Akash caught her arm with his free hand. Water soaked her sleeve. ‘Please!’ he shouted.
Sunita withdrew as if she’d been stung. She patted her sleeve with a hand towel, smarting. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m doing today?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Akash turned the volume on the radio down with a quick, irritated flick.
‘I said, do you want to know what I’m up to?’
Akash shrugged. Needles of water bounced off his raised shoulders, ricocheting like bullets. ‘Why?’ He smiled sadly. ‘Got something to tell me?’
Sunita replaced the towel precisely on the radiator. ‘Phone’s ringing,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m not going to hospital today, Sunny,’ Chila sounded muffled, mumbling through cotton wool.
‘Why?’ blurted Sunita, and then, ‘I mean, anything wrong?’
‘Deeps is taking me to a consultant in Paddington. She’s an old family friend. I’ll have all the tests there.’
‘Oh. OK then.’ Sunita sank onto the stairs, disappointment dragging her limbs.
‘Sunny? Is that OK? We can still go tomorrow.’ Chila was sorry for her. Chila was apologizing for not attending her own hospital appointment.
Sunita rested her head on the telephone receiver, feeling foolish. Days of meandering chatter in steamy bathrooms stretched ahead of her. It was good enough for most people, she told herself, so why feel cheated now? Before she had read all those books, she had considered herself one of them, one in an amorphous mass, wedded to collective compromise. That was the trouble with dabbling in therapy, she now realized; she had the vocabulary to dissect, justify and validate every feeling. Every desire was reasonable because, after all, there was always a reason behind it. Before she would have said, with stony stoicism, Why not me? Now she asked, saturated with dissatisfaction, Why me?
‘That’s fine, Chila. I’ve got loads to do anyway today. Give me a ring later on, let me know how it goes. Acha curie?’ The Punjabi balm – never failed, erased all polite English niceties.
‘Acha bhain-ji.’ Chila smiled. ‘Later.’
Tania checked her A–Z again, and gingerly manoeuvred her jeep into a small gap between a three-wheeler and the burnt out chassis of what was once a BMW. She was less than a mile from where she had grown up and this area was unfamiliar as moonscape. Long ago, some visionary architect, who had no doubt lived in a traditional mews house the other side of town, had decided to reinterpret the East End ideals of family and neighbourly doorstep chats. And came up with five lozenge-shaped tower blocks, facing each other in a surly pentangle, each floor sharing a common balcony which ran the length of the building and overlooked what he fondly imagined would be verdant communal gardens filled with the cries of cheeky-chappy children, dropping their aitches and swallowing their glottals as they spun hoops through their patch of urban paradise. The grass was still there somewhere, visible in tufts beneath litter and mud, while the play area itself had been concreted over, supporting metal skeletons of rocket-shaped climbing frames and swingless bars.
The address Tania had scribbled on an envelope seemed to bear no relation to where she found herself. She exited the car, double checked the alarm was on, and walked towards the entrance to Jubilee Tower.
Finally she stumbled onto the third-floor balcony, rasping for air. She wanted to stop for a breather, but knew if she did she would only have a quick fag, so she forced herself to quicken her pace, checking the numbers on the uniform row of red front doors which seemed to stretch out for miles ahead. There were splashes of individuality here and there, a hanging basket of yellow pansies, nodding dogs peeking through net curtains, even a welcome mat which sat defiantly between two mock Greek urns outside a newly painted door. But mostly, the inhabitants had chosen anonymity over greeting; only their washing gave them away, hanging from overhead racks above the front doors. Someone here had a newborn, miniature Baby-Gros in lemons and blues suspended like pastel starfish in nets. Many of the residents must have been old, judging by the number of flowery pinafores and huge shapeless vests that fluttered like tattered flags on parade.
Somewhere in the distance, Tania’s eye was drawn to a flash of colour, a beacon of green, a pasture amongst the concrete, emerald-belligerent. As Tania walked towards it, she knew she was in the right place. The shalwar kameez rippled slowly in the breeze outside number 1209. A playful puff of wind inflated the kameez, momentarily inhabited by a Rubenesque headless woman with heaving bosoms. Tania rang the bell and crossed her fingers.
‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice, firm, slightly accented, suspicious, came from behind the net curtains. The door remained firmly shut.
‘Hello,’ Tania began, ‘I’m looking for Jasbinder Singh.’
‘Who wants her?’
Tania felt increasingly that she had walked onto the set of a Seventies cop show. She had an urge to reply, Tania the Ferret don’t take no as answer, you slag! but instead smiled, aiming it in the vague direction of the twitching lace, catching the faint outline of a spiky head.
‘My name’s Tania Tendon. I’m a film maker and I was wondering if—’
The door swung open and Tania recognized Suki immediately. The hair was shorter, the glasses were bigger but the expression was exactly as Tania remembered it, vaguely mocking, as if she had been expecting her.
‘Oh, hi. Suki, isn’t it? We met at my première . . . at the Buzz Bar . . . a while back now.’ She kept leaving gaps, hoping Suki would pick up the conversational baton and at least attempt a slight trot.
Suki stood square in the doorway. There was no mention of a cup of tea.
Suki’s lip curled slightly. She had seen Tania approaching and had ushered Jasbinder upstairs straight away. She had wanted to laugh out loud, watching the Armani-clad princess tottering along the balcony, out on a slumming expedition. Strange; she had quite liked Tania, admired her even as she’d observed her operate on the incestuous circuit where they all converged eventually. Tania’s reputation preceded her. Difficult, abrasive, arrogant were some of the adjectives used, but as they were mainly attributed to men, or other rivals, Suki had never taken them seriously. Her own ambition and attitude had earned her a few expletives over the years; mouthy women tended to upset people. They would have all been labelled witches once. From what she had seen, Tania was ferociously bright and sussed with it, and being beautiful as well was just greedy, but not her fault. (Suki had worked extremely hard on loving herself. The theory was just about catching up with the reality of her mirror, so she could afford to be generous.)
In fact, it had been Tania’s friendship with those other two women that had impressed Suki. It softened her, contradicted her machiavellian image, bestowed upon her a certain tenderness, a seam of common sense. After seeing Tania’s film, Suki was so shocked she had not been able to speak. In her world, populated by unthinkable betrayals and violent revenge, loyalty was all. And to rub it in, the woman had talent.
‘Jasbinder’s not here. Can I take a message?’
Tania changed tack. She was used to dealing with slammed doors, except they were usually being slammed by men, who would always, after a few minutes, unlock all bolts and defences and wave her in.
‘Well, I hope you might be able to help, Suki.’ Always use their name, it encourages intimacy. ‘I know you’ve been part of Jasbinder’s support committee—’
‘I run it. We set it up.’
‘Yes, of course, sorry, and I was wondering . . . I would really like to tal
k to her. Off the record, of course.’ That was stupid, she scolded herself, using journo-speak. God, why did she want to talk to her? She had not considered this detail up until now. ‘I think her story deserves to be told. I’m not sure how at the moment. But I know I could give her the kind of platform she needs. I mean, I’d take my cue from her.’
Suki blinked once, waiting.
‘Um, well, do you have any idea of what her response might be to this?’
Suki folded her arms languidly. ‘Well, I know what mine is. Piss off.’
Tania did not flinch as the door banged inches from her face. She stood with her nose pressed against the wood, and then almost toppled over as it flew open again, with Suki in front of her, spitting as she spoke.
‘You have got a bloody nerve, haven’t you? This must be a good story to get you out of Soho, sniffing round like some culture vulture when it suits you! This is someone’s life, you know, and you’re not stealing it so you can make your name on Jasbinder’s back!’
Tania lurched backwards, her heels slipping under her. ‘I . . . no, listen . . . I really do—’
‘Save it, eh? You’ve made it clear who you work for. Anyone who shits on their friends isn’t going to care about a stranger. You don’t live here any more. And this stuff is not for tourists. Go home.’
Tania did not wait to watch the door closing again. She began running, and only paused when she reached the ground floor, wheezing through burning lungs, taking shaky steps across the forecourt towards her jeep.
She did not register the patch of charred ground in the far corner of the car park, nor the few bunches of Cellophane-wrapped flowers laid on it, nor the weather-beaten, dull-eyed soft toys that had been fastened to the green wire fence beyond. Tourists had been here; a few malevolent ones had ripped down the sympathy cards, stamped on the carnations, urinated on the teddies like dogs marking out their territory. But others had merely stood at the spot, shaking their heads at the blackened concrete, weeping at the memory of the fire, closing their eyes to blot out the image of a mother watching and screaming from the balcony of Jubilee Tower.
