Raju looks down at his right hand, at the small scar on the skin between the thumb and forefinger. The day he mounted it, the corner of the brass plate caught the delicate skin and ripped it. He refused to see the doctor. The bleeding eventually stopped, but the scar remains. Raju feels a swell of pride rise through him each time he sees the sign, each time he sees how he has honoured his father, his sons. He feels it now as he looks up at the words. But there is a hole in him somewhere, a small hole, where the swell is slowly losing its strength.
It is 1966. Raju is sixty-five and his sons Baku and Jaafar are running the day-to-day operations of the family business. He visits the garage each day, advising his sons, talking to customers. And he looks after the books, his careful Gujarati script lining pages and pages, accounting for each cent spent and each cent earned. Baku is the official bookkeeper. But Raju and Jaafar do not trust him. He makes too many mistakes. He is content to let inaccuracies and inconsistencies remain on the books.
A mzee now, the respectful Swahili term meaning “old man,” Raju is the proud, ubiquitous figure who walks around town every day, his hands clasped behind him, his grey hat perched on his greying head, nodding at those he passes, stopping to chat with shopkeepers, a welcome, familiar sight. One of Mbarara’s beloved sons, now one of its proud fathers.
Raju turns away from the garage and begins walking towards the centre of town. He will take a walk before circling back and heading home for lunch. He looks at his watch. It is almost eleven. He must time his walk to ensure that he is home by twelve, when he has decreed lunch must be served daily. From the garage to his house, it is a twenty-minute walk, left on McAllister and then right on Constantino Lobo Road. He can wander through town for forty minutes. Jaafar and Baku will drive, as they do every day, and they will meet him at home, as they do every day.
Baku eats lunch at his father’s house, where Jaafar still lives, next door to his own. Numbers 34 and 36 on Constantino Lobo Road. Raju acquired the plots one year after he acquired the extra plots for the garage. Like the garage, Raju built these houses with his hands. And like the garage, he built the houses to last. He constructed the roofs using reinforced concrete. He made the walls with bricks and coated them with concrete. The floors are concrete. Even the counters in the kitchen are concrete. Water is pumped in through galvanized pipes. Raju did not do the work alone. He hired subcontractors and workers, but he planned and measured and lifted and poured until his bones ached, until calluses formed on his fingers.
Sometimes, before entering his house, Raju stops and places the palm of his hand on the white wall next to the front door. Then he presses with all his strength. He does not know what compels him to do this; he knows the wall can withstand his strength. And yet he pushes it. He tests it.
One afternoon, after he had been living on Constantino Lobo Road for close to a decade, Raju was with Rehmat in their bedroom. He had just woken from his nap and she was folding clothes. They were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, back to back.
“Sherbanubai ordered tiles for her kitchen walls,” Rehmat said quickly. “She made a mistake and there are too many. She offered to give the extra tiles to us.”
Raju shook his head. What use are tiles in a kitchen? he thought, turning to look at his wife, preparing to scold her, to mock her and her friend. Her head was bowed. He saw the hair on the back of her neck, grey and black and henna-dyed orange, pulled almost cruelly into one thick, tight braid. She turned her head to add another singlet to the neatly folded pile beside her. He watched her profile. She was blinking quickly, as though in terror. The belittling words he had prepared for her evaporated.
“We don’t need them. They aren’t necessary,” she said. “I will tell her to return them to the shop.”
“They won’t be able to get back as much money as they paid for them,” Raju said. “I will pay Husseinbhai for them. We can afford it.”
She turned to look at him. He watched her breathing. It was the first time in their life together that he noticed how she took her breath in, how she let it go. He longed for something, his whole body thirsting, starving. He wanted to ask her what he needed. For a moment he was certain she knew what it was. The moment passed.
He stood up and walked towards the door. Before stepping into the hallway, he stopped. “They have rugs in their house. We should have rugs. Go shopping with Sherbanubai. Select some,” he said, turning to look at her. “Any ones you like.”
She looked as though she were about to speak. He waited. But she turned her eyes back to the clothes without saying a word and resumed folding. He walked out of the bedroom.
Over the next few years, Raju watched Rehmat slowly, silently bring new things into their house. Unnecessary things. Things she liked. Things she wanted.
Raju’s family now sits down to meals at a mahogany table where freshly cut dahlias or jasmine or roses sit in a wooden vase. They eat from china plates and drink from clear glasses, the enamel and stainless-steel dishes given away, years ago, to young families newly arrived from Malia, from Morvi, from Tithwa.
When Raju arrives home, at the same time as his sons, shortly after noon, three tall sweaty glasses of chaas, steaming rice, curried okra and a plate of beef kebabs are waiting on the table. Raju and Baku wash their hands and, without saying a word to the women, sit down and begin sipping their drinks. Jaafar walks into the kitchen. Raju hears him greet his mother and his sister-in-law Khatoun. And then he hears Khatoun giggle like a schoolgirl. After washing his hands at the dining room sink, Jaafar sits down next to his father, across from his brother.
Khatoun enters the room, places a plate of chapatis on the table and returns to the kitchen. Raju sees her head appear at the small opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room a few moments later, her eyes on the chapatis.
The men eat quickly and quietly. When the plate begins to empty, Khatoun rushes in and replenishes it with freshly cooked chapatis, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.
After a few minutes, they eat more slowly and Baku speaks. “Obote suspends the constitution. He assumes full power.” He is looking at the bowl in front of him as he speaks. “Karias—Blacks—have no clue how to run a country. We are back in the jungle.” He rips off a piece of chapati and scoops up some of the curried okra. “It was better under the British.”
“Stupid people come in all colours,” Jaafar says. Raju looks at him. He is leaning back in his chair and staring at Baku.
Baku chews quickly.
Watching them, Raju thinks, as he often thinks, that they were born in the wrong order. Baku, the elder son, is sweet, agreeable, conciliatory, stupid. He was born to follow. Jaafar should have come before him. Jaafar should have come first.
“The president of Uganda can’t put the needs of his own tribe above everyone else,” Jaafar says. “The kabaka has no business holding the title of president. Obote was right to take it from him.”
Baku reaches across the table to pick up a spoon. He does not look at Jaafar. “The president has no real power. It’s a ceremonial post. Obote was already the one in charge.”
“But the president, even if he has no real power, can’t be seen rigging elections in Bunyoro to benefit his own people. Obote is trying to make people believe that being a Ugandan is more important than being a Muganda or a Munyankole or a Mutoro. This behaviour undermines that.”
“Maybe it isn’t more important.” Baku still does not look at Jaafar. “For some people, tribe will always come first.”
“If the kabaka didn’t believe in the idea of Uganda, he shouldn’t have accepted the post of president.” Jaafar places his glass firmly on the table.
Baku spoons pickled mango onto his plate.
Raju takes two more large bites of curried okra, chews them slowly and deliberately and then swallows. He sips the last of his chaas, leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, nodding. He opens his eyes and looks at Jaafar. “You are right. This young kabaka is unwilling to accept that his B
aganda are no longer the most important tribe.”
Jaafar is pleased. Raju sees a smile forming on his lips. He chooses this moment to strike.
“On Sunday, you will meet a girl with your mother and me. Her father has not done well. They are not wealthy. But a Malia family. A girl from our village. Apra gham ni chokri. In Toro.”
Raju watches the skin of Jaafar’s face go slack.
Jaafar is repeatedly biting his lip and then releasing it. He is driving and Raju is watching him from the passenger seat. Normally, when Jaafar drives his car, his beloved Citroën, he is relaxed, smiling, sometimes smoking, always speeding. Today, his body is stiff, both hands on the steering wheel, as though he is being forced to drive, as though a gun is being held at his back.
They have been driving silently for close to an hour. Rehmat is sitting alone in the back seat.
“This girl’s father, Popat, has had no luck,” Raju says.
Jaafar turns to look at him and then at the road.
“But it isn’t luck, is it? Luck alone cannot save a man. He has no head for business. Years ago, in the early 1930s, he ran a shop in Kabale. People were very poor there at the time. The Africans would carry ninety pounds on their backs for you and charge only one cent a mile. This is how poor they were. And they had no clothes, no fabrics; they wore animal skins. How can you make a profit among such poor people? But Popat would not give up. He let people buy on credit. Finally he lost everything. He was in debt for years.” Raju shakes his head. “But his daughter Malek is a good girl. She will make a good wife. Though they had some trouble with her recently.” He looks out his window. “For months she was carrying on with a Hindu boy.”
It is a clear day. The Rwenzori mountain range is clearly visible.
“The Mountains of the Moon,” Raju says, turning to Rehmat. “We are nearing Fort Portal.” When he turns back to the front, Jaafar is looking at him; then he looks at the road again and lets out a long breath, his cheeks puffing out.
“Now Popat has another shop in Toro, a small fancy-goods shop. He isn’t making much money.”
Jaaafar clears his throat. “What about the Hindu boy?”
“That is finished. When Popat learned about Malek’s affair, he didn’t let on to her that he knew. He told her only that they have found a proposal. At first, Malek refused to meet us. Popat told me she cried for days and refused to eat. And then, one day”—Raju snaps his finger—”just like that, she changed her mind. She is excited for this meeting. She is ready for marriage.” Raju turns to the back seat. “She even let her mother pick out the saree she will wear today.” Rehmat smiles. Raju laughs. “A good girl who has found her good senses. She will be an excellent choice for Jaafar.” Raju smiles. He is satisfied.
When they arrive at the Popat home, Raju sees a group of seven or eight men standing outside the front door, speaking with lowered heads. Jaafar switches off the engine. Loud wails come from the house. Raju looks at Jaafar and then turns to look at Rehmat. Her fingers are pressed over her mouth.
Popat emerges from the group of men and walks towards Raju. He quickly steps out of the car and holds his palms heavenward. “What has happened?” he asks.
Popat stops in front of Raju. His eyes swollen, his voice trembling, he looks down at Raju’s feet. For a moment, Raju fears he will fall prostrate before him. But he remains on his feet, inhales deeply and then in one breath blurts the words out: “I am ashamed to tell you that my daughter has run off with that Patel boy.” He puts one hand on Raju’s shoulder, one hand over his mouth and sobs, his chest moving up and down.
Raju pats his arm while staring off towards the house. “Come, now. Have strength,” he says in a monotone. “Tears will not help.” Raju feels sympathy for him. He cannot imagine Gulshi humiliating him in this way, but this display of emotion disgusts him. Even a woman would handle herself better, he thinks. No wonder he couldn’t keep his daughter in line.
Raju, Rehmat and Jaafar are inside Popat’s house. Rehmat is sitting next to Malek’s mother on the sofa, patting the woman’s hands, which are on her lap, and watching silently as she cries. Raju is standing by the window, while Popat speaks to him and another man. He is speaking softly, in a low voice. The words are incomprehensible to Raju. They are like the hum of a car engine. Background noise. He turns to see Jaafar sitting on a chair across from his mother, bouncing his knee, looking around frantically, as though he is a prisoner desperate to escape. He stands up suddenly, fumbles through his pockets, drops a package of cigarettes on the floor. Raju looks down at it. State Express 555. Jaafar scoops it up, looks sheepishly at his father and walks briskly out the open front door.
Raju stares at the empty doorway Jaafar has left behind. Another failed marriage proposal. Is this boy fated never to marry? But he is not a boy. He is almost twenty-seven. In business, even as a child, he showed an unusual maturity. He took responsibility. He made decisions. He showed initiative. But in his personal life, he wants only to play, with his friends, with girls, Asian girls, African girls. This childish behaviour has become embarrassing. Jaafar has turned down three marriage proposals. And now this.
The voices of women flow into the room, coming from the direction of the kitchen. Raju had five sons once. He expected the voices of women would always fill his house. But he knows only one daughter-in-law. He turns towards the voices and sees a white wall with a wooden mask hanging on it. The mask looks to be made from ebony. The eyes appear alarmed; the mouth is open. It is not unlike the masks that decorate his house. But at home, the masks are mounted side by side, in pairs or in groups of three. This mask is alone on a large wall. It repulses Raju; its emotions are too palpable, too exposed.
A girl appears in front of the mask. More than a girl, a young woman. She is looking at Raju, her eyes on his, as though she knows him, as though she has been looking for him, a daughter recognizing her father’s face in a crowd. Her expression unsettles him even more than the mask. He turns back to Popat, trying to pay attention to his words, to the stream of unintelligible heartbreak pouring from the man’s mouth. A few moments later, he turns to look at the woman again. But only the mask remains.
Later, Raju is staring out the window. Popat is gone. Raju is alone, his mind empty of thought. He sees her again. She is walking through the group of men gathered in front of the house, her arms held protectively around her. She is wearing a pink, Western-style dress that fits her tightly and reaches below her knees. She is slight. Small. But she dominates her surroundings. In her presence, the men in their dull khakis and greys look like dead branches. She is a flower, a flower in the moment before it will bloom. She walks across the small road to an open patch of grass that slopes sharply down to a river. Jaafar is standing on the grass. They begin talking. She is looking up at Jaafar. She laughs. She throws her head back. Raju looks beyond them, first towards the river, then towards the clock tower of the jamat khana in the distance.
On the drive home, Jaafar is driving quickly, too quickly. “We went to Fort Portal to meet my bride,” he says.
Raju looks at the road in front of him. He was almost asleep when Jaafar’s sudden words roused him. He sees that they have just passed Kasese. He yawns. They are still far from home.
“I met her,” Jaafar says. “My bride.”
Raju turns to look at him.
“Her name is Mumtaz.”
9
MUMTAZ’S FIRST MEMORY IS OF SITTING ON the floor with her mother and her baby sister. Nargis was big enough to sit up but not big enough to crawl. Mumtaz was almost four. Nargis was lying on a blanket her grandmother had crocheted. Her mother was sitting beside her, leaning over her, making high-pitched sounds, her long black hair spilling onto the baby, tickling its face.
Mumtaz was sitting cross-legged on a mkeka mat, watching them. She crawled forward, until she was inches from Nargis, and began to make cooing sounds.
“What are you doing?” her mother asked.
“Playing with my baby sister.”
Mumtaz didn’t move.
“At least try to give the baby room to breathe then,” her mother said, lifting Nargis onto her lap.
Mumtaz began to untie one of her braids, preparing to make Nargis giggle.
Before she could finish, her mother slapped her across the cheek. “Do you live in the jungle? How many times will I tie your hair?”
As Mumtaz sat frozen, Nargis began to cry.
“Now look what you’ve done.” Her mother stood up, the baby at her hip and stared down at Mumtaz. “Don’t follow us,” she said, and walked out of the room.
Mumtaz sat on the floor, trying to fix her braid. She finally gave up and went outside. Her grandmother was in the courtyard washing clothes.
“What happened to your hair?” her grandmother asked, laughing.
“Dadiji,” Mumtaz said, “Ma is angry with me again.” Her grandmother lifted her hands out of a tub of soapy water and dried them with her dupatta. She walked towards Mumtaz, kneeled down and hugged her so tightly that the child had to wriggle her body and pull herself away so that she could breathe.
One day two months later, Mumtaz returned home after seeing a film with her grandmother. She ran into the rooms she shared with her parents and her sister. But the rooms were empty. The beds and wardrobe remained, but the clothes, all the clothes except Mumtaz’s, were gone. She turned and stared at her grandmother.
Where the Air is Sweet Page 6
