Vimla sniffled. Faizal took a step backward. He thought about turning around and heading home. She was not his responsibility. Not this time. Faizal was almost certain Vimla’s unsightly display of grief had something to do with that Krishna Govind. He folded his arms over his chest, staring down at her with as much pity as he’d shown Puncheon when Puncheon had capsized into the drain on Christmas. What mischief had Vimla got herself into this time? He looked over his shoulder then scanned the open field. And where the hell was Minty?
The crying was subsiding. Good. Faizal felt relief creep through him. The thought of comforting Vimla made him edgy. He took another retreating step, as stealthy as Flambeaux, willing Vimla to peel herself off his property and go home. Faizal thought of the cup of cocoa tea he planned to make, of Bonanza, which would begin in just minutes. He licked his lips and wiggled his toes in anticipation.
She uncurled from the knot she’d balled herself into, stretching her arms first, then her legs from beneath her skirt. That’s when Faizal saw the scrapes on Vimla’s arms and the bloody mess that was her ankle. “Mangoes!” he yelled, leaping back yet another foot.
His outburst startled Vimla. She scrambled to sit up, and when her eyes found his face, Faizal saw hope dissolve into disappointment.
She groaned. “What you doing here, Faizal?”
“What I doing here? This is my land! What you doing here?” He pointed a long, accusing finger at Vimla, annoyed by her cheek. “And what the hell happened to your foot?”
Vimla peered down at her ankle, wincing as she tried to move it. “A snake” was all she could manage.
Faizal ran his hands through his hair and left them there, holding his head. He glanced at the Narine residence, only a hundred metres away, and felt his heart drop into his belly: they weren’t home. He knew they weren’t home because he had been spying out the window at them when they bustled onto Kiskadee Trace an hour and a half ago. Om had lumbered off to Bulldog’s house with a jar of pepper sauce under his arm and Chandani had gone in the direction of the mandir—probably to pray for Vimla’s soul. Faizal cursed them both beneath his breath.
“Get up, get up!” He crouched low and draped her arm around his shoulder. “We going to the hospital.”
Vimla moaned. “No hospital.” Her breath was ragged. She looked like she’d torn through a war zone.
Faizal lifted her into his arms. “No hospital? You mad or what?” He headed toward his home. “If I ain’t take you to the hospital, that crazy mother of yours go cuss me upside down. No, sir! We going San Fernando General now for now!”
Vimla let her head loll against Faizal’s shoulder. “It was only a macajuel,” she muttered.
“Only a macajuel?”
“Not poisonous.” She grimaced with the jostling. “Careful.”
“How you know it was a macajuel, Vimla?” Faizal couldn’t believe that even after a snake had sunk its fangs into her ankle, Vimla had the strength to argue.
“I see it.” She shuddered. “Them ain’t poisonous, just mean and ugly. A macajuel bite my father once. It was hiding in a pile of cane trash that he tried to pick up.” She closed her eyes.
Faizal hurried on with Vimla in his arms. He couldn’t take her to the hospital on his own. A vulnerable young girl under the care of a dashing bachelor like himself? It wouldn’t look good. Besides, someone had to keep Vimla conscious while he drove. Sangita would have to ride along. He just hoped that big bison Rajesh was visiting Bulldog with Om.
Faizal was just nearing the Gopalsinghs’ backyard when Minty came flying out of the house and intercepted him.
“What happen to she?” Minty rubbed Vimla’s arm. “Vimi! Wake up.” Her gaze darted back and forth from Vimla to the cane field.
“A macajuel bite she,” he snapped.
Minty gasped.
Faizal manoeuvred around her.
“Where you going?”
He heard the panic in Minty’s voice as she scurried after him.
“Go get your mother. We going San Fernando General,” Faizal said.
Minty’s eyes grew wide. “No, no. We can take care of the snake bite home. Macajuels ain’t poisonous.” She glanced over his shoulder into the distance.
Faizal frowned. How did they know so much about snakes? They were such a suspicious pair. Of course they were hiding something. Minty had demanded his watch earlier that day and Vimla had obviously been alone in her father’s cane field when she was bitten by the snake. But why? The mystery gnawed at Faizal. He longed to know and yet to know would be to conspire alongside them.
Vimla whimpered.
“Get your mother!” he yelled at Minty. He would not indulge them this time. He was eager to be rid of Vimla. He wanted her to be someone else’s problem. And when she was, when he had detached himself from their confusion again, he would find out just what their confusion was all about.
Minty’s face hardened and Faizal thought she might object. Her gaze slid to Vimla, lying limp in his arms. She hesitated; he could tell she didn’t like having to make this decision without Vimla.
“Okay, Faizal.” She wrung her braid, not unlike her mother. “Okay, but remember …” And then Minty did the unspeakable. She dropped her hair and burrowed into her pocket. When she uncurled her fingers, Faizal saw his initial pendant glistening in the palm of her chubby hand. “The snake bite Vimla when she was seeing about the bull and the cow. You notice she in the savannah grass outside she house.”
Faizal wanted to cuff her. “Where the hell is my blasted chain and watch?”
Minty shrugged.
Faizal stormed past her into the Gopalsinghs’ backyard and yelled for Sangita.
Faizal Mohammed climbed into bed with his cup of cocoa tea and his parrot. “Don’t vex with me, Sam,” he cooed. Sam stepped off Faizal’s finger, turned his back and toddled across the coverlet to Faizal’s feet. Sam was in a sour mood after having spent the evening alone in the dark.
Faizal crossed one ankle over the other and looked out the window. “Is Minty and Vimla’s fault. They trap me in their web again.” Sam nipped Faizal’s little toe, but Faizal was distracted by Sangita’s silhouette shimmying out of her nightie behind drawn curtains next door. He told himself her bedroom curtains were sheer for a reason and took a sip of his cocoa tea to enhance the sweetness of the moment.
Sam climbed onto Faizal’s leg and screeched like someone was plucking his feathers out one by one.
Sangita disappeared and Faizal scratched the parrot’s head. “I miss Bonanza today, too, Sam. Not you alone.” Sam closed his eyes and hummed his satisfaction.
“Ah, Sam. You should have see how Sangita romance me today, boy! The whole time I was driving home from San Fernando General, she was making eyes at me from the back seat in the rear-view mirror. Is a miracle I ain’t run off the road!”
Sam cocked his head.
Rajesh’s bulky silhouette filled the window frame and Faizal slouched against his pillows, spilling cocoa tea on Sam’s wing.
“A hero. That’s what she call me, Sam. A hero!” A dreamy smile played on Faizal’s lips. “And the best part was that Vimla was asleep in Sangita’s lap and Minty was sitting beside me like she mother sew up she mouth. Not a sound! Not a peep from the witches! Can you believe that, Sam?” He took a big gulp then and smacked his lips.
Sam spread his wings as he made his way up Faizal’s chest and settled on his shoulder.
“But you know what was real peculiar? After we carry Vimla home, I drop Minty and Sangita by them gates and guess who was waiting for them? Rajesh. He look vexed to see me, Sam. He give me one piece of nasty cut-eye and ain’t even bother to invite me in for a cup of water self. Not that I want to drink anything with him, but can you believe that, Sam? Is like the man forget he manners.”
“Jackass,” Sam said.
“Yes. You right. Rajesh is a real jackass.” Faizal put his cup down on the bedside table and stretched. “He usher Sangita and Minty into the house like two littl
e goats. I wonder what could have happen to make he vexed so?”
“Motherfu—”
“If you ask me, Sam, the people in Chance behaving stranger and stranger these days.” Faizal wriggled under the coverlet and laid his head on his pillow. Sam’s wings brushed against his face. “Back in your cage, Sam.” He yawned and pulled the covers to his chin.
In the darkness, Faizal said, “You know, Sam, I think I love Sangita Gopalsingh.”
Sam lifted his tail feathers and shit in Faizal’s hair.
Chalisa’s Bangles
Saturday August 24, 1974
ST. JOSEPH, TRINIDAD
Avinash arranged the emerald sari over his head and glided around the bedroom.
“What a pretty ghost you are, Avi,” Chalisa said. She was lying on her belly on what used to be her parents’ bed, her chin propped in her palm. The sari Avinash was playing ghost in was one of twenty-two draped over the chairs and the bed-head and lying in opulent piles on the floor. Nanny was trying to bury her in wedding clothes.
Avinash lifted the gold edge off his toes and peeked out at her. “I like this one, Chalisa.” Chalisa shook her head. “Nanny said you have to choose one,” Avinash reminded her, shrouding himself in the sari again.
The door suddenly swung open. “And when Nanny done talk—” Nanny sang, barrelling into the room. Delores trailed behind her, looking upset as always.
“She done talk!” Avinash finished.
Nanny’s skeleton fingers found her hips as she looked around the room. “What happened? None of these saris pretty enough for Miss Mastana Bahar?” She swept a burgundy sari encrusted with silver jewels off the floor and tossed it at Delores. “I could have take you shopping, but your mouth so long these days.” She wet her chapped lips. “Is embarrassing. People go feel I forcing you to marry.” She pushed a mountain of red, yellow and pink saris to the side and propped herself on the edge of the bed. The white dress she wore made the veins snaking up her arm all the bluer.
“You are forcing me to marry.”
Nanny pretended not to hear. It was her favourite elder trick, that and faking heart attacks.
“Chalisa, when you become a pundit’s wife, you go can’t dress up like this again. You go have to learn to be humble.” Nanny gave her granddaughter a skeptical once-over. “Just make believe you playing the part of a pundit’s wife in a flim.” An ironic smile creased her face further. “Only, the flim goes on forever.” Nanny tossed the pink sari at Delores, who had just finished folding the burgundy one and setting it on the dresser.
Chalisa closed her eyes, shutting Nanny out. She thought of her mother instead. Her easy laughter. Her perfect smile. Rosewater in her hair and cloves on her breath. Her mother would never allow this loveless marriage to happen. Chalisa wondered for the millionth time if her mother had thought of her and Avinash as she’d tumbled off the cliff to her death. A tremor of loss rippled through her. She dug her fingernail into her palm and twisted.
Nanny tapped Chalisa’s forehead. “Eh, Miss Mastana Bahar! Wake up!”
Chalisa didn’t want to wake up. She realized that her chance at freedom hinged on Vimla and Krishna running away together. A far-fetched fantasy at best. Vimla wasn’t as courageous as she would have Chalisa think. All that haughty bravado at the beach had been a performance to intimidate Chalisa, to veil her terror of losing Krishna. Minty had thought they could all be friends, that Chalisa could persuade Vimla to pursue Krishna despite the pandemonium their tryst had unleashed in her world. Minty had been wrong on both counts. Now they would all lose.
Chalisa wondered vaguely how this story might play out on the silver screen. She saw herself dangling from an orange tree, her noose a rainbow of knotted wedding saris.
“Chalisa, I ain’t have time for this.” Nanny was gesturing at the mess. “You lucky I ain’t make Delores sew two sequins on a tarpaulin and wrap you up in that for the wedding.”
Avinash giggled beneath the sari.
“Now, here.” Nanny pulled out the drawer from the bedside table and extracted a velvet case from the very back. When she opened the case, two gold bangles etched with intricate design gleamed in the sunshine pouring in through the window. They clinked when she picked them up. “This was mine. I give them to your mother when she married my son. Now they yours.”
Delores watched the exchange out the corner of one eye, pulling the sari off Avinash’s head and then folding the six-foot-long fabric with mechanical movements.
Chalisa slipped the bangles onto her wrist one at a time. They were too big. She could have slid them past her elbow and worn them as an armband if she’d wanted to. A silence tumbled into the room as she turned them round and round, searching for the right words to say. But there were no right words. These bangles should have been gifted to her by her mother. They should have come with blessings for a sweet marriage. Instead they were noisy reminders of all that she had lost and all that she was about to lose.
Nanny cleared the phlegm from her throat. “If you and Mr. Holy and Religious ever have a daughter, you go pass these on to she. If not, pass them on to your daughter-in-law. Keep it in the family. Is good gold.”
Chalisa wanted to stuff the bangles back into the box and shut the lid. This is not what her parents would have wanted for her.
Nanny folded her arms and looked crossly at Chalisa.
Avinash climbed onto the mound of saris between the two. “Say thank you!” he whispered to Chalisa through cupped hands, his knees crushing the silky fabric.
Nanny barked a laugh. “Thank you? Avninash—” She took her grandson’s pointy chin in her hand. “Nanny does only get swell-up mouth and twist-up mouth and long-mouth from this one.” She nodded her chin at Chalisa, who looked as if someone had handed her a box with a scorpion inside. “I hope when you grow up you is more grateful and thankful than she.”
Avinash’s eye grew round. He nodded with all the seriousness of an old man. “I hope so, too, Nanny,” he said.
Nanny’s bony fingers fell away from his face. “Delores!” she screeched.
Delores jumped.
“Where is that girl?”
Avinash pointed behind Nanny. Delores dropped the sari she was caressing her cheek with. “Yes, Nanny?”
Nanny narrowed her gaze at the woman. “My throat feeling dry.” She stroked the loose flesh at her neck. “Bring a shot of Puncheon. And you—” Nanny turned to Avinash. “Bring that picture.” She pointed to a row of picture frames lining the giant teak armoire in the corner of the room. “Not the picture of you, Avinash, the one next to it, with me and that ugly man.”
“Grandpa?”
“That’s the one. Bring it come.”
Nanny held the gilt frame in her hands, studying the black-and-white couple trapped inside. “Come here, Chalisa. Let me show you something.”
Chalisa inched closer. Nanny was a bouquet of Limacol, Bengay and coconut oil.
“See your grandfather here?” She poked the man in the face. “I married he when I was thirteen years old.”
Grandpa looked twenty, maybe twenty-five. He was wearing a suit and a sulk, one foot forward like he was preparing to walk away, one hand raised like he was trying to stop the picture. From afar it might have seemed he was waving, but there was something in his eyes, upon closer examination, that said posing for the camera had disrupted his day in a big way. A young girl in a dress with too many frills stood at his shoulder. Nanny. Her eyes were big and serious, like Avinash’s. They stared into the camera. Nanny neither smiled nor frowned. Her expression was neutral, ready for her new husband to paint her emotions. The odd pair stood on either side of an orange tree that was even younger than Nanny.
Chalisa thought the girl in the photograph should be afraid, but she was unconvinced Nanny could register fear, even as a child.
“Your grandfather—Mr. Deo Shankar—was one miserable man. His face always appear vexy-vexy so.” She tapped her nail on his nose now.
Chalisa tried to rem
ember Grandpa. He barely spoke to anyone, just rode his bike hunched over the handles until one day he died and stopped riding.
“I used to cook roti three times a day for him, and massage he feet when he come home from the orange estate. In those days, your grandfather used to pick orange with he men.” Nanny had a far-off look in her eyes as she handed Chalisa the photograph. “He used to drink, too, and lash hard when he drink.”
Avinash climbed onto the bed and cozied up next to Chalisa.
“And he mother!” Nanny snorted. “That woman was one nasty thing. She used to make me wash back she clothes three times before she wear them. Three times.” Nanny looked at Chalisa. “I was thirteen then. By the time I make your father, I was fifteen.”
Chalisa wondered what Nanny was like before she married Grandpa, if Nanny remembered what she was like.
“Count your blessings you ain’t marrying a man like Grandpa.” There was no sarcasm and Chalisa found the absence of it oddly unsettling. Nanny was right: Krishna wasn’t like Grandpa. He was a fool and a bore, yes, but he was no tyrant. Chalisa felt pity for the young bride who was Nanny, but that didn’t make her any more eager to marry Krishna Govind.
“I was a innocent little girl in that picture. And through my marriage, Grandpa and he kiss-me-ass mother nearly drive me mad.” Nanny’s face was wistful and Chalisa almost reached out and squeezed her bony hand. “But I learn to cook and wash. I learn to avoid Grandpa’s tirades. I learn to mind a child. I learn to take care of the orange estate and grow the business. Eventually them two fools couldn’t do a damn thing without me.” Nanny grinned. “And look at me now!”
Delores reappeared with a glass wrapped in a napkin.
“Is about time, Delores. You get loss or what?”
Delores handed Nanny the glass. “I had to go by the shop and pick up a next bottle.”
Nanny tipped the seventy-five-proof fire down her throat and winked a cataract eye at Chalisa. “And I learn to drink, too.”
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