by Sharon Maas
While she sat on the swing, she’d sip at the sweet clear coconut water while Rajan, sitting on the bare earth before her, would tell her stories of the backlands and the bush and the forest. He had spent his forgotten early years in Georgetown; after his father’s death, his mother had taken him and his siblings back to his grandparents’ farm on the Pomeroon River. There he had grown up, a happy barefoot boy who went to school by boat, never happier than with his hands in the earth. When he won a place at the prestigious Queen’s College, his mother brought him back to Georgetown and since then they had lived at the Waterloo Street house where Basmati had been given the job of carer for the ageing van Dams. A job, as it turned out, which had been found for her by Granny.
* * *
Rajan brought light into Rika’s life. Rajan knew her, he saw her. For him she was not strange; her being ‘different’ was not a source of derision for him. Most of all, he nourished her with books; and for the first time in her life, she devoured non-fiction.
She discovered René Guénon, and others of his ilk. Being is divine, she read; Divine Being is the essence of the human soul! That was the essential teaching of all religions, proclaimed openly, as in the Eastern religions, or veiled and secret as in Christianity and Islam. The Kingdom of Heaven is within you! Within you, quite literally! To be experienced, here and now! All religions are unanimous in their essence, and though incompatible and contradictory in their external applications, doctrine, theology, and rituals, that was their final teaching, their final truth: that God is the Self of our self, waiting for us at the core of our being. Her heart soared. This was IT, the nourishment she had hungered for.
She read books with arcane titles: The Cloud of Unknowing and the Book of Mirdad and The Way of a Pilgrim; scriptures of the old traditions, the Tao te King and the Vedas. She learnt of the Christian Mystics and the Sufis and the great sages of India, Shankara and Ramakrishna and Ramana Maharshi. She drank it all in, and talked it all through with Rajan. But The Book of Mirdad remained the best, her Bible, her source of wisdom and joy; whatever she found hard to understand she discussed with Raj, her friend, her mentor.
But in spite of all the comfort and confidence this friendship and mentoring gave her, still a part of her yearned for normality, yearned to be just one of the others. It seemed an impossible dream. Jen Goveia and her cronies lived in a universe light years away from her own. The sense of rejection – by her mother, by her peers – ran deep, and could not easily be dissolved by the newfound light. It was as if she were split in two: at home with Rajan and the secret kingdom of books, and leaning out, grasping, aching for a foothold in real life, in the real world.
She wanted so much to belong, to be just like other girls her age; to fit in. She tried to keep up with her own generation by a subscription to the American Teen Magazine – a birthday present from Uncle Matt – but it was all theory; in practice, she failed at every level. She lived in two worlds, one foot in each: the ethereal world of the spirit, where she felt at home, light-footed and true, and the very physical world of people and things, where she continued to be a misfit, an outsider, bumbling as ever before, and yearning to fit in. How could she ever bridge the gap between these two planes of existence? Was it even possible? And Jen, the lost friend of her childhood, remained the epitome of this longing. Perfect, lovely Jen.
* * *
And then, all of a sudden Jen had a boyfriend; a real live boyfriend like the ones in Teen. His name was Donald deSouza, and he was Portuguese, like Jen (who was half-Portuguese) and he went to Saint Stanislaus but he was old – probably in Sixth Form already. He was one of those boys who hung around at Bookers’ Snack Bar eyeing up girls in uniform, whistling at them and calling out compliments.
Though she couldn’t identify most of the boys by name, she did know Don, because who could miss him? He was the handsomest of the lot – evil, the girls all said – with chiselled cheekbones, Elvis sideburns (she couldn’t imagine how he was allowed those at Saint; usually they were forbidden, just as girls were forbidden hair decorations and short skirts at St Rose’s) and a long lanky frame. He was loud and cocky and very popular; he had a motorbike – the very zenith of coolness – a red Yamaha, and a really evil nickname.
All the boys had nicknames, she knew that much, and Don’s nickname was ‘The Jaguar’ – ‘Jag’ for short. Jen, having snapped up the most popular boy in town, now soared into the upper echelons of teenage society, invited to all the fetes and courted even by older girls, Sixth Form girls. Jen had made it; Jen belonged.
Rika had never actually seen Jag and Jen together (what an evil combination of names!) – it was strictly forbidden to talk to boys while in school uniform, and Rika and Jen hadn’t been anywhere together out of uniform for years – but Rika was had always been a listener; and she picked up all the gossip at school, before classes, in the corridors, at the bicycle stand, during break. She listened in because otherwise how was she ever to learn about real life? You had to learn about life to become a novelist.
* * *
Then came the day that everything changed. Rika had gone to the library after school to return some books and borrow new ones, after which she popped over to Bookers to get a new pair of tennis shoes; she’d had a growth spurt recently and everything was too small or too tight or too short; her feet, her blouses, her skirts. School skirts could be let down – this she did herself – and Granny had had her measured for new white blouses – this time with darts! For a growing bust! – but shoes would have to be new. She wheeled her bike across Main Street and parked it outside the eastern entrance to Bookers. She locked it and walked into the store and through to the shoe department. Shoes tried on and bought, she wandered over to the book department to see if they’d brought in any new books since last week – they hadn’t – after which she decided to have a milkshake at the snack bar. She made her way over there, and stopped.
The bar was full; not only full, but overflowing. Three or four girls in St Rose’s uniforms sat at the bar giggling and sucking at ice cream sodas and milkshakes, their stools swivelled around to face the gaggle of boys in Saints uniforms fidgeting in the standing space before them, eating hamburgers and hot dogs and drinking Cokes and things like that, and flirting. Rika didn’t know these boys, though she had heard their nicknames: Bonesy, and Rats, Pumpkin and Hotshot and, of course, Jag. Hobnobbing like this in school uniform was of course strictly forbidden. Should any of the nuns or lay teachers pass by there would be deep trouble for all concerned, but school rules were made to be broken; that much Rika knew. Granted, she had never had the chance to break them herself in this particular way, because of course no boy would ever speak to her. She was just too ugly and boring. She shrank into herself.
One of the girls was Jen; one of the boys was Jag. Somebody made a joke and everyone laughed. Probably they were laughing at her. There was no spare seat at the bar, so Rika turned to walk away; she wasn’t all that keen on a milkshake any more.
But a cry brought her up short: ‘Hey!’ She swung around, frowning; it was a boy’s voice, short and sharp. Not for her, surely? But Jag was looking her straight in the eye, gesturing to an empty bar stool; the business-suited woman next to Jen had left. Jen was frowning, and seemed to be arguing with Jag; the stool was clearly meant for him but no, he was pointing to it and motioning to her, Rika, to come and take it. Rika hesitated. She couldn’t do it; couldn’t take Jag’s stool. Obviously. Everyone was staring at her. She flushed, and hunched her shoulders, and turned to go, but Jag reached out and grabbed her elbow and pulled her to the bar. He turned to Jen and laughed, and bowed and gestured to the stool, and said, ‘You know I’m a gentleman!’ and Rika had no option but to let herself be pulled back and then to slide onto the stool. She flashed a shy half-smile and a mouthed ‘thank you’ to Jag. She glanced at Jen to see if it was OK with her and to smile and exchange a greeting, but Jen only looked away in annoyance.
This was terrible. It wasn’t right to aggravate Jen
; clearly she, Rika, had made a grave faux pas and needed to vacate the seat and let Jag take it, so she slid off in order to flee but Jag grabbed her arm – again! – and pushed her back.
‘Take no notice of Madam here!’ he said with a grin. ‘Ladies first!’
She looked at him, met his eyes and turned all hot with embarrassment, and looked away again. Jen had turned away from her completely, ignoring her, and everyone was laughing – at her! – and then Jag joined in the laughter and he too was ignoring her. She ordered her milkshake, glad that the attention had shifted away from her, and bent over to fish her purse out of her satchel just as Jen picked up her second ice-cream-soda from the counter. She bumped into Jen’s arm and the soda spilled and landed on Jen’s school uniform.
‘Idiot!’ yelled Jen. Everyone stared and laughed and Rika died a little death. ‘Sorry! So sorry!’ she whispered, and whipped a napkin from the napkin holder on the counter and tried to dab at the glob of ice-cream sliding down Jen’s skirt but Jen slapped her hand away. ‘Just leave it! Go away!’ she snapped, while her friends laughed and Jag himself grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the mess.
‘I’m really sorry!’ Rika mumbled again.
‘Just go away!’ cried Jen, so Rika went. She left her milkshake untouched as well as the coins to cover it on the counter, leapt from the stool and ran, not walked, away from the scene. If only the earth would open up and swallow her, she would be the happiest girl in the world. But, of course, she wouldn’t be in the world any more, would she; and the world would be a better place without her.
* * *
That’s what she told Rajan later that afternoon. After returning home, changing clothes and doing her homework, she slipped through the paling and down the alley and into her grandparents’ yard. Rajan was at the back of the garden, on his knees, pulling up weeds. She sat down on the sandy path beside him. She still smarted all over from the shame of the clash, from the sting of Jen’s words and the overwhelming sense of her own futility.
‘I’m just a waste of space!’ she said to him. ‘Clumsy and – and stupid.’
But Rajan only laughed. ‘You’re clumsy, true,’ he said, ‘but no way you’re stupid.’
‘Mummy says I am. And I’m not doing well at school. All my teachers say so. The only thing I’m good at is English, and maybe French. But everything else …’
She shrugged and let out a long-drawn-out sigh of despair. Maths, she thought, the bane of her life, and her downfall. It had improved, indeed, under Rajan’s tutelage, but would it be enough to pass O Levels? No. She reached over and pulled at a couple of weeds herself.
‘You’re bored, that’s all,’ said Rajan. ‘But bored isn’t stupid. It might even be the opposite of stupid.’
‘But everyone hates me. Everyone thinks I’m an idiot. Jen even called me that, in front of everyone. And they all laughed at me. I’m such a bloody fool.’
‘I don’t hate you. I don’t think you’re a fool. And people call me names, too.’
‘Really?’ She was astonished. Rajan seemed so outstanding in every way, so confident, so established in himself; surely he would walk among people as a king!
‘Of course they do! You should hear what the boys at Queens say about me.’
‘What could they possibly call you? You’re bright; brilliant! You’re so …’ She couldn’t find the right word. What was it? Rajan was different, just as she was, but in a good way, a superior way, and it seemed to her that everyone must acknowledge that.
Rajan chuckled. ‘Anti-man, fairy, queer, sissy, namby-pamby, pansy, panty-waist … to name just a few!’
Rika was shocked. ‘No! Really?’
He chuckled, and said, ‘What do you think? And that’s not all. What about: coolie-boy, yard-boy, jailbird?’
‘Jailbird?’
‘Because of my father.’
‘Your father was in jail?’
Rajan did not speak for a while. Then he said,
‘I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it.’
‘No! No Rajan! I’ve told you so much about myself. I confide in you so much. You can confide in me! Why was your dad in jail? What for?’
‘For manslaughter.’
‘Really! Oh, wow! How awful! What did he do? Who did he kill?’
But Rajan was not forthcoming.
‘I really can’t tell you, Rika. Sorry.’
Rika felt strong. Here, at last, was something she could do for Rajan. He had given her so much; now she could lend him her support. What an awful burden he must be carrying! He had said, once, that his father was dead; now she wanted to hear the whole story. She softened her voice.
‘Tell me, Rajan. Just tell me. It’s OK.’
‘Rika – I can’t.’
‘You can! You must! Rajan, if you don’t tell me now I’ll never speak to you again! You can’t just tell me a bit of a shocking story like that, and then not tell me the rest! Stop treating me like a baby!’
She put fire into her voice, and into her eyes, and stared him down. Their eyes locked. Finally he looked away.
‘Well – all right then. I’ll tell you the basics, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Well – he killed one of your uncles. Sort of in a fight. It was a huge drama at the time. My mother used to be a maid in your house and – well, it doesn’t matter now. But yes, he was in prison, for manslaughter. And then someone else killed him, in prison, some fight they had. So they call me jailbird. Even though I was just a baby when it happened.’
Rika took his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But you know what my Granny says – don’t let’s dwell in the past. We have to move on. I’m glad you told me that story. It makes me feel – closer to you. It must be awful – but, Rajan, it’s past and you’ve made a good life for yourself. Never mind what happened back then. And people are so stupid to call you names because of what your dad did. Just idiots.’
Rajan laughed. ‘You’re right, Miss Socrates! Enough!’ he said, and stood up, clapped his hands to rid them of earth, gave her a hand and pulled her to her feet. They walked over to the Bottom House, washed their hands at the tap, and sat down on their bench. They sat together in comfortable silence; Rajan picked up a book – chemistry, Rika saw it was – and she just gazed into space, musing. It was all very well to offer clichéd snippets of wisdom to Rajan. She now felt embarrassed by the homilies she had offered him – after all, Rajan seemed to have coped pretty well without her up to now, just as he seemed to cope with everything, in his own silent way. Her own present day problems still remained, and she couldn’t shove them into the past as she had advised Rajan. Nor could he solve them for her.
She watched a kiskadee hopping about on the genip tree in the backyard; a lizard, scuttling up the tree-trunk. At her feet, a group of ants were hard at work, carrying a dead spider to wherever it was they stored such treasures. The spider was so much bigger, and heavier, than all of them put together. It was, Rika thought, as if five or six humans were to carry an elephant, lifting it above their heads and marching along with it to the kitchen. It seemed so effortless, so easy. In fact, everything animals did seemed so effortless, so easy. So – natural.
Why couldn’t it be that way with humans too? With her, at least? For Jen and Jag it all seemed so effortless. They were popular and elegant, and popularity and elegance came naturally to them. Whereas she – she had all this internal turmoil, all these thoughts, all these feelings, that made the art of living so terribly hard, so infinitely impossible.
Just thinking about it brought back all the embarrassment, all the shame of today’s incident, the sense of wanting to sink into the earth and disappear, the self-loathing that followed. Why? Why did she have such problems, and others didn’t? Why was she so bloody different? Why couldn’t she be like Jen and Jag and all the others? It seemed to her that they were being true to themselves, and she wasn’t. She was just different; weird, and it wasn’t right to be true to weirdness.
But Rajan was weird too.
He admitted it. He wasn’t like other boys: even Rika could tell that; but Rajan didn’t seem to mind, and that was the difference between her and Rajan. To thine own self be true, Rajan had once told her, and she believed it. But who was that self? Should she be true to that shy, cringing being that curled up in agony at each little slight? That couldn’t be right, could it? She would have to talk to Rajan more about it. He seemed to have all the answers.
CHAPTER TEN
INKY: THE NOUGHTIES
Having done her duty in laying the groundwork for the years of drudgery that lay ahead of us, Marion flew off to Canada, abandoning us to Gran. Early on Sunday morning, Mum drove her to the airport. By the time Mum got back from the airport Gran was on the verge of setting fire to her hair, and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
The moment Mum walked in the door, Gran pounced on her.
‘No time, no time, quick march back to de car, we gon’ be late!’
‘Late for what?’
‘Church, man, what you think! It’s Sunday!’
‘Since when you go to church? And I’m not going anywhere. I haven’t had breakfast yet, I’m hungry!’ Mum looked at me, puzzled, and shrugged.
‘She used to be a militant atheist!’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’
I could only shrug back at her and spread my hands in helplessness. We’d been at it all morning. Gran had woken me up at 6:30 a.m. She had somehow manoeuvred herself up the stairs all by herself – a first – and into my bedroom.
‘Inky! Inky, wake up! We gotta go to church!’
