‘Marwaris,’ muttered Doreen. ‘My dad says we need to kick them all out of our state.’
Natalie shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t dare say anything, but she didn’t quite like it when they spoke this way about the others. Her friends in the neighbourhood where she lived, whom she played with in the evenings, were Assamese. Like her, born and brought up here, and who considered Shillong their home. If Doreen knew this she’d call Natalie an ieid-dkhar. A dkhar lover. The thought made her nervous. Was it something that could be sniffed out, as dogs sense fear? Did it show? Could they tell? ‘So, Nat–’ She looked up in alarm at Iba addressed her. ‘What was it like sitting next to Carmel?’
Everyone’s attention was suddenly trained on her. This was her chance to say something witty, clever, and impressive.
‘She smells,’ blurted Natalie.
Iba burst out laughing, and a moment later so did everyone else. A chorus of voices rose—‘Tell us, what does she smell of?’ Like a ripple in a pond the circle had expanded.
‘Old socks and sour milk.’
‘Very kinjing!’ said Miranda.
‘Chee … chee,’ said Amesha, pinching her nose.
‘I heard,’ Iba began conspiratorially, and everyone instinctively drew closer, ‘that over New Year, Carmel went to Breeze Dale.’
The girls shuddered in delight. The resort, half an hour out of town, courted a reputation for being a disreputable getaway.
‘And,’ Iba’s eyes widened, ‘she didn’t go with just one boy…’
It was deliciously scandalous. The air hummed with hushed, excited voices, buzzing like a cloud of summer bees. Which boys? How many? Did she kiss them? Did she do more? A quarter of an hour later, when the subject had been exhausted, Iba declared she was bored with Carmel, and that they needed to do something exciting to liven up the term.
‘There’s the fête next month,’ offered Natalie.
‘Who cares about that?’ Miranda had swung her long legs onto the windowsill and looked like a reclining queen.
The girls dismissed it with scorn. It was deemed a dull affair, which, this year, they’d undoubtedly outgrown. Natalie retreated into silence. Doreen stood up to imitate Sister Josephine—she exaggerated the headmistress’s slight limp and nasal voice. ‘Girls, girls, no running down the corridors. Young ladies must walk. Iba, your skirt can be two fingers above the knee, not an entire arm. Otherwise you’ll drive the St Edmund’s boys mad.’
‘She already drives them mad,’ said Miranda and exchanged glances with Iba.
Natalie watched in awestruck wonder. There were universes unfolding before her like crisp white bedsheets. Eager to be the centre of attention again, Doreen added, ‘Yes, but that Daniel is too short…Reuben is cuter.’
‘I wish we could invite them to the fête,’ said Amesha. She was braiding Eve’s hair with a length of silky red ribbon.
‘Maybe we could let them in secretly.’ Miranda giggled. ‘Sneak them in somehow.’
The girls laughed at the impossibility of the suggestion—the nuns would be keeping a hawk-eyed watch over all possible entrances.
‘Remember how Sister Mary caught Langkupar last year?’ said Doreen. The boy and his friends had tried to sneak into the girls-only dance at the end of the fête.
Miranda nodded. ‘She almost whacked him with her walking stick.’
Every year, the fête yielded a new crop of stories—boys run off the school grounds for smoking, for smuggling in alcohol, and worse, for attempting to speak to the girls.
‘We’ll have to dance with each other.’ Doreen turned a dainty pirouette.
‘Unless we find the secret passage,’ said Natalie.
‘What secret passage?’ asked Miranda.
Natalie flushed. What she had said suddenly seemed very silly. ‘They say there’s a secret passage from the summer house in the front lawns that runs all the way to St Edmund’s.’
‘Nonsense.’ Doreen sometimes threw out words like sharp, steely knives.
‘My mum told me…she studied here too. She said…’ Natalie fumbled, she felt pinned to the wall.
‘And no one has ever found it in all these years? What rubbish!’ Doreen’s voice seethed with scorn.
‘I’ve heard that too…’ It was Eve, her voice calm and steady. ‘My mother studied here, and she also told me the same thing.’
It was an impasse. Doreen didn’t dare treat Iba’s cousin with contempt. Natalie didn’t dare say anything at all. The girls waited for Iba to react, but they knew she wouldn’t belittle Eve.
‘Let’s go look for it then,’ said Iba finally.
As they trooped out of the summer house, swinging their lunch bags, the bell sounded from within the recesses of the school building. It was time for afternoon lessons, so they turned towards their classroom instead. Iba chose to walk beside Natalie while some of the others looked on enviously.
Miss Tina John’s gaze swept across the room, at rows of heads in neat twosome columns, and wished she were anywhere but here. It was her second week on the job, her first job, and she was nervous. The girls knew it and spared her no mercy.
‘Miss, miss,’ a tall girl near the door had piped up earlier. ‘What’s the meaning of “gay”?’
They were studying Guy de Maupassant’s The Necklace. Miss John didn’t recall coming across that word in the story.
‘It means happy,’ she’d replied in her most teacher-ly tone.
The girl persisted. ‘But, miss, is that the only meaning?’
Only when Miss John noticed the stifled giggles did she tell them to get back to their books. They were a tough class at a tough age, Sister Josephine had told her, but she was sure Miss John would manage them. She looked at the textbook in front of her and felt hugely doubtful. A handful of girls seemed to be the main mischief-mongers in the class, and their fretfulness affected the others. Miss John could see she wasn’t the only one at the receiving end of their attention. A girl with a ponytail and light, freckled skin was also being troubled, in the most surreptitious of ways. When Miss John had entered the classroom at the beginning of the lesson, the girl was pulling off a piece of paper taped to the back of her sweater. At her desk, it looked like the inkpot had overturned and stained her textbooks. Miss John glanced at her; her head was bent so low she couldn’t see her face. The girl next to her had turned round and was signalling to someone sitting at the back.
‘I asked everyone to read the chapter quietly,’ said Miss John in a tone that surprised even herself. ‘You can discuss it with your friends later. Anyone caught talking will be sent to the principal.’
‘Sorry, miss,’ the girl mumbled, and a wave of quiet washed over the room. No one noticed the small, brief smile that flitted over Miss John’s face. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
‘We’ll eat at the tennis courts today,’ declared Iba as they hurtled out of class during tiffin break. No one disputed her. On their way down, past the corridor and long flight of dark green stairs, the girls laughed over their morning escapades.
‘Did you see her face?’
‘She looked like she wanted to jump out of the window.’
‘She should have!’
Natalie walked along unsure whether they were referring to Carmel or the new English teacher. Her mind was elsewhere, on their plans for the next hour—a quick lunch and then a stealthy expedition to the front of the school (where students were strictly not allowed), down to the sloping lawns, within which was ensconced an octagonal wooden summer house built on a high brick platform. This was older than the one in the playground, with diamond-shaped window panes and dark Tudor-style beams, surrounded by a tangle of rhododendron bushes and tall pine trees.
‘We had our singing lessons there,’ Natalie’s mother had told her on their way to school that morning. ‘With Sister Catherine. This huge Irish nun with a voice as loud as a trumpet.’
‘Did you ever look for the secret passage?’
Her mother laughed.
‘Many times. All of us liked some St Edmund’s boy or the other.’
‘But did you find it?’
‘Find it? Nat, I’m not sure it even exists!’
That had made Natalie nervous. Doreen would never let her forget it. She glanced at the girl walking ahead with Amesha. Something told her Doreen was still smarting from yesterday’s incident. She didn’t seem like the kind of person to forgive, or forget, easily. To make things worse, Iba linked her arm through Natalie’s.
‘This is so exciting,’ she sang. Today, her hair was pinned up with red bow-shaped clips. Even in school uniform—a dull grey pleated skirt and plain white shirt—Iba stood out from all the rest. Even Carmel, Natalie thought. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, burning as much as the touch of Iba’s skin.
After lunch, Miranda acted as a lookout while the rest scrambled past the auditorium and into the garden. Sunlight patch-worked the short, tough grass and the wind, a trifle gentler today, rustled the leaves around them. They made their way undiscovered to the summer house and when they reached, sat on the ground, leaning their backs against the brick platform. No one spoke as they caught their breath.
‘Is it open?’ whispered Iba, turning to Natalie.
‘What?’
‘The door, you beid.’
Natalie winced at being called an idiot and scampered to the entrance. The lock, rusty and unused, broke in her hand. Inside, sunlight filtered through the windowpanes and made a pattern on the floor. Swirls of golden dust rose lazily as they entered.
‘So, where is it?’ asked Doreen.
Natalie thought it a silly question, but didn’t say so. Instead she got down on her knees and peered under the seat that ran the length of the room. The others followed. They pressed their fingers along the wooden planks, tapped the walls, squirmed into corners, and soon the silence was broken by giggles and proclamations that this was a waste of time. Doreen complained the loudest, while Amesha, Eve and Miranda treated it as a joke. Natalie sat in a corner, watching the others. She longed to wipe the streaks of dirt from Iba’s cheek, to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Iba was exuberant, her hair wild and undone, her eyes shining with delight.
‘Look at me, I’m a little dog,’ she squealed, scampering around on all fours. She pretended to nip at Miranda’s hand, then stopped in front of Natalie and brushed the tip of her tongue against Natalie’s cheek. It was an electric shock; Natalie’s stomach fluttered, something inside her constricted like a coiled snake. Then a long shadow fell across the floor. There was someone at the door.
‘Good afternoon, Sister,’ everyone mumbled when they saw who it was.
Sister Josephine remained silent. It wasn’t a good sign. The girls scrambled to their feet, nervously dusting their hands and skirts.
‘Your parents shall be informed of this,’ said the headmistress and stepped aside to indicate that they were to file out quietly.
When they were back in the school building and out of Sister Josephine’s earshot, Natalie began to apologize—‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get my friends in trouble…’
‘Friends?’ spat Iba. ‘Don’t you dare call us that.’ She was flanked by Miranda and Doreen who stared down at Natalie like a pair of avenging angels.
‘Keep away from us, beid.’
Natalie’s words died in her mouth as she watched them stride off. When they were gone, she ducked into the nearest doorway. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry. She leaned against the wall and swallowed her grief in great, empty mouthfuls. Only when she’d steadied herself did she notice where she was—the abandoned bathroom near the library. In front of her hung a cracked, dirty mirror and, against the wall was a row of broken, bone-dry washbasins. The doors to the toilet cubicles hung awkwardly on their hinges. Natalie stared at her warped reflection—beid, beid, beid.
From a faraway place came the clanking of the bell. It was time for afternoon lessons. If she didn’t go, she’d be in more trouble, yet how could she face them? As she stood undecided, and the clatter of footsteps in the corridor outside faded, she thought she heard a sound. A low, muted sobbing. Yet that couldn’t be. There was no one else around. Suddenly, stories she’d heard of L—Convent being haunted came flooding back. The white lady on the staircase. The old nun near the chapel. The boarder who’d died in the days when this was a residential school. The sobbing continued, hollow and consistent. It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the toilets, from behind a door she hadn’t noticed before, the wood blending with the dirty wall. It was ajar.
Ghosts don’t leave doors open, Natalie told herself. She stepped into a long rectangular room lined on one side with wrought-iron beds. There were white bedpans and trays stacked in a corner and thin mattresses piled against the windows, blocking out the light. On the floor, leaning against a tall almirah was a girl with a ponytail and pale, freckled skin. She was crying, her head between her hands. A pang shot through Natalie.
‘Carmel,’ she said softly.
The girl looked up with startled red-rimmed eyes. Then she hid her face again and continued weeping quietly. Natalie made her way to her, bumping her knee against a bed in the dimness, and sat down. She didn’t know what to say so she waited until Carmel’s sobs subsided. She’d lied the other day—her benchmate didn’t stink of old socks and sour milk; in fact she smelled quite nice, of fresh linen and talcum powder. Natalie dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. Carmel accepted it with a mumble of thanks.
‘What’s this place?’ asked Natalie.
‘Don’t you know?’ Carmel dabbed at her face. She looked like a girl out of a magazine despite the sore, red nose. Natalie shook her head.
‘It’s the old hostel dormitory.’
‘Why’s all of that here?’ Natalie pointed to the bedpans.
‘They used this as a military hospital during the Second World War.’
Natalie’s mother had told her about this once, but she’d never quite believed her. On another day, she might have explored the room, its drawers and containers, but this afternoon, Natalie wanted to leave. It was a place of illness and pain and death.
‘My grandmother met my granddad here. She was a nurse,’ Carmel continued. ‘He was a British soldier. A Major-General.’ There was a flicker of pride in her voice. After a moment’s silence she handed the handkerchief back. Their fingers brushed. Carmel’s eyes met hers. Her lashes were wet and dark. ‘You’re kind.’
Natalie didn’t know what to say; she had the grace to blush.
‘Not like the others.’
Carmel put her hand on Natalie’s knee. Her fingers felt hot against her skin. She leaned in closer, her hair undone, framing her face. Natalie closed her eyes before their lips met. It was nothing like she’d ever felt before. A low roar filled her ears, as though she was listening to a shell and could hear the sea. Something inside her unravelled, it uncoiled to the floor, and filled the room, every inch of its dusty corners. The world, with its scorn and derision, receded, and she was left with Carmel’s mouth, which was soft and warm and tasted of tears. For a moment, the ghosts around them, and within, fell silent.
19/87
Kite warriors wage a faceless war. In the city, on rooftops and terraces and small open car parks, the enemy is hidden, concealed at the other end of the string, probing the sky with slim, curving weapons. Hardened troopers like Suleiman, however, come to know their rivals well, their style of play and combat, even though they wouldn’t recognize them on the streets of Shillong. Amid the carousing flutter of kites during the season, usually deployed by kids after school, there were a few to watch out for, the ones that swirled and snuck around, their string dipped in shards of powdered glass. Most of the expert fighters, down towards Umsohsun and up the hill in Mawkhar, flew small, insidious, single line kites. They were all good at the ‘pull’—when a kite is flown ahead of the others and then tugged quickly, cutting all the lines in its path. Suleiman preferred to fly a larger kite, one with a pastiche of tissue paper that he pasted tog
ether with great care. When he was a boy, he would hold the spool for his father, learning to release just the right amount of line. Later their roles were reversed. And now, well, he hadn’t flown many kites since his father died three years ago. Most of the time he didn’t feel like it; it brought back too many memories. The last few evenings, though, Suleiman had noticed a new rival in the neighbourhood. Someone who flew a kite as large as his, and who seemed, Suleiman admitted grudgingly, to be almost as good. He itched to find out if it was true.
This afternoon, he looked repeatedly out of the window, past the guava tree, beyond the line of low tin roofs, at the sky. There were more kites than usual this August, perhaps because of all the trouble in town. Weeks of curfew forced everyone to stay home, and there wasn’t much to do on these long autumn evenings. At least a kite was free to travel, over electric wires and telephone cables and treetops. The large kite was there, swimming invitingly above the rest. So far it had beaten the ones who’d challenged it to a fight. ‘All confident now, saala,’ muttered Suleiman. He was annoyed. Even if he did make a kite that evening, he had no one to hold the spool for him. A few times, he’d called Usman, a young boy from across the courtyard wall, to be his charkha gir. Trying not to lose patience when he released the line too quickly, or not at all, forcing the string to snap. ‘I’m sorry,’ Usman would say, sounding rather miserable, as they stood watching Suleiman’s kite sail untethered, swooping lower and lower until it dropped out of sight. ‘I’ll be better next time.’ But there couldn’t be a next time any more for Usman’s family had packed up and left a week ago. He’d hopped over the wall to say goodbye, and explained, ‘My father says it’s getting too dangerous to live in Shillong.’ It wasn’t an uncommon refrain; Suleiman’s father had told him he’d heard the same from the time Meghalaya was carved out of the expanse of Assam in ’72. After that, many locals in town, frustrated with having ‘outsiders’ running the state and controlling banks and businesses, organized themselves into various insurgent groups—the Khasi Students Union (KSU) and the Hynniewtrep National Liberation Council (HNLC)—and waged a civil war against the government and the ethnicities they saw as most threatening. The ones who had taken their jobs, their resources, their women. Now, around him Suleiman heard ‘It was the Nepalis in ’79, the Bengalis in ’81, then the Marwaris…who knows when it’ll be our turn. We are what they call dkhars too.’ The cluster of Muslim families living in the area rapidly grew smaller.
Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories Page 7
