by A. X. Ahmad
“Oh, so much?” Preetam protests. “I can’t eat all this, beti. I’ll get fat.”
“You eat what you can. I’ll finish the rest.” Ranjit knows that once the food is on her plate, Preetam will eat it all. “And you’re not fat. You have a perfect figure. Everybody thinks so, especially Jerry. Every time we go to his restaurant, he can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Oh gross, Ma.” Shanti pretend-shudders, and Ranjit smiles.
Jerry, the dapper seventy-year-old owner of Jerry’s Pizza, always makes a huge fuss over Preetam, making her a special pie with hot peppers.
“What? Why shouldn’t Jerry have a crush on me?” Preetam tosses her long hair back. “Before I met your father, I had many boyfriends in Chandigarh. Hanh, men were lined up to marry me.”
Preetam nibbles at her food and tells Shanti, for the hundredth time, the stories of all her suitors: the Sikh businessman from London who flew to India to propose to her; the industrialist from Ludhiana who bought her a diamond “as big as a quail’s egg”; the chief minister’s playboy son, who saw Preetam in the street and swore chastity if he couldn’t marry her.
“So why did you choose Papaji?” Shanti asks, playing along.
“I chose your father because of how handsome he was. When he walked up to me at that tea party, I saw how tall he was, and I liked his hands—he had such long fingers. I thought, I’m going to marry this man. You remember our wedding day, Ranjit?”
He nods, glancing down at his bandaged thumb, which she hasn’t noticed. She loves to talk about their wedding, but it seems as though she’s talking about a ghost from the past.
“Your father arrived on a white horse, in front of five hundred guests. I was wearing a red ghagra-choli with real gold embroidery and a gold necklace, and people said to me, Preetam-ji, with all respect, you should act in films, you are so beautiful and…”
Shanti listens, eating absentmindedly. In three or four years, she will be taller than her mother, maybe as tall as him. It is as though he and she—tall, calm, methodical—are from one tribe, and Preetam is from a completely different one.
Preetam finally finishes eating the portion on her plate, and Shanti notices and quietly puts some more food on her mother’s plate.
Who is the child here, he wonders, and who is the parent?
* * *
After they finish eating, he washes up alone, the music from Preetam’s movie filtering in through the rush of water. It’s a scene where Nargis, wearing a white sari, simpers coyly in a moonlit garden while Raj Kapoor, dapper in his pencil mustache, serenades her. Preetam must have seen this film thirty or forty times.
Before he leaves the kitchen, he sniffs the air: mixed in with the rich aroma of khitchri is that smoky smell. Shanti hadn’t noticed anything, and she’s very sensitive to smells; maybe he’s just imagining it.
Passing by the battered couch, he pauses and kisses the top of Preetam’s head. “It’s late. Why don’t you come to bed?”
She keeps staring at the television. “In a few minutes.”
He knows that she’ll fall asleep on the couch and spend the night there. They haven’t slept in the same bed for months, but he doesn’t want to say anything tonight.
Entering the dark bedroom at the rear of the house, he sees that Shanti is fast asleep on the narrow cot at the end of the room, her curly hair spread out across her pillow.
The cotton bandage around his thumb is wet and he unwraps it, seeing the deep gash. He unwinds his turban, undresses, and climbs into the double bed, careful not to bang his thumb and reopen the wound.
The ache in his thumb leads him back through the events of the day. He thinks of the two men in the parking lot, and how the Sergeant had appeared with his staring eyes and hollow cheeks. It was in my head, he tells himself, I imagined the whole thing.
He fears that he is going to enter the dream, the one he dreads. He tosses and turns in the cold sheets and tries to get the Sergeant’s face out of his mind, but it is still there when he falls asleep.
Darkness washes over him, claiming him.
Chapter Four
Cold. Very cold. The men on the Siachen Glacier have been walking for five hours before they reach the first rock face.
They slip packets of chemical warmer into their gloves. They check and recheck their Heckler & Koch MP-5K assault rifles, which can fire nine hundred rounds a minute, but jam easily in the subzero cold.
“Private Dewan, you climb lead,” the Captain says. “Don’t take any chances. Anchor yourself when you reach solid rock, so we can belay you.”
The boy can climb like a monkey, with a twisting, unconscious grace, but now he just hums under his breath and looks blank.
“Do you hear me, Private?”
Sergeant Khandelkar steps in. “Sir, the boy is not right. I can lead.”
“You?” Khandelkar is the best sergeant in the regiment, but he climbs like a cow. “No, I’ll go up. You keep an eye on him.”
The Captain flexes his fingers and walks over to the sheer rock face, looking for the first hold.
Soon he finds the old rhythm and time fades away. It is just him and the cold, slippery rock, the stretch and twist of muscles, the search for the next toehold. When he is halfway, he looks up and sees their final destination, three ridges away: in the late-afternoon sunlight the slopes of the Sia Kangri look like sheets of hammered gold. He tears his eyes away and continues to climb.
When he reaches the top of the rock face he is exhausted, every muscle aching, but for one blissful hour he has not worried about his men. Hammering pitons into the rock, he carefully lets down a rope, and the men clamber up one by one. Dewan is last, and Sergeant Khandelkar whispers down encouragement to the boy.
It will soon be dark, and they have to reach the safety of a higher ridge. There is no longer the luxury of a secure, anchored climb. The men rope together and the Captain climbs lead, all joy gone as he feels the rope tugging around his waist: the lives of five men are in his hands.
They are almost at the top when he hears a faint pop pop pop, like bottles of soda being opened.
Below him, Private Dewan sighs and leans backward. The rope suddenly goes taut, cutting deeply into the Captain’s waist, and he slams his ice ax into the rock face. He looks back, thinks that Dewan has fainted, then sees the red bloom in the chest of the boy’s white snowsuit.
Dewan is dead weight now.
A machine gun opens up, the bullets moving in an arc toward them.
If they don’t move, they will be dead in seconds, but the weight of Dewan is pinning them down.
“Cut him loose, Sergeant! Do it now!”
Khandelkar looks up imploringly, his face pale.
The Captain’s voice is a scream. “Do it, damn you, do it!”
He sees the flash of a knife, turns away, feels the rope go slack.
Freed, the Captain and his men swarm up the ridge. They reach the top and crawl behind a ledge of rock. They fire back till the barrels of their guns are white-hot and then there is silence.
Chapter Five
For the next week, the nightmare haunts his sleep.
Early the next Sunday morning he awakes with a jerk, his hands scrabbling at his pillow as he calculates angles of fire, shouts unsaid orders to his men.
The red numbers on the digital alarm clock show just five thirty, but he dare not risk entering the dream again. Staggering out of bed, he cracks the window a few inches and lets the late-December air play over his face. When the dream began, the trees outside still had a few red and orange leaves, but a fierce storm has stripped them clean.
He pulls on his beige canvas jacket and walks into the living room.
Preetam has slept all night on the couch again, the television remote clutched in her hand. Gently taking it away, he bends to kiss her pale cheek. Maybe his mustache tickles her, because she mutters and turns her face away. Careful not to wake her, he tiptoes into the kitchen and shuts the door.
The damn furn
ace has stopped again and a smoky smell hangs in the air. He clicks the reset button, then lights the stove and makes chai in a saucepan, army style, boiling tea leaves with milk and sugar. The cut on his thumb has healed, but the heat of the saucepan makes it ache and he rubs the white scar.
Sitting at the kitchen table he drinks chai and studies his accounts ledger, filled with additions and subtractions. Thanks to the Senator’s contacts, he has taken on four additional caretaking jobs in the last week, and is happy to have the work, but the storm that hit midweek was brutal. He was forced to hire three of Jõao’s cousins to help him deal with downed trees and clogged gutters, and paying their wages has set him back badly. He has sent out invoices for the work, but he knows that the checks will take weeks to arrive.
Over the summer he’s learned that money seems to be an abstraction for rich people, something with many zeroes, rolling onward and gathering interest. Small sums bore them; they don’t make a connection between the checks they write and the food that goes into his family’s stomachs. If he’s going to survive this month, he desperately needs one or two of them to pay up …
“Papaji, it’s freezing in here. Can I have some chai?”
Shanti stands in the doorway, barefoot, her hair falling about her face in a tangle.
“Aare, up so early?”
“You were shouting in your sleep, Papaji. I’m awake now.”
“It was just a dream. Go put on a sweatshirt and socks and I’ll give you chai.”
When she returns, she sits across from him and drinks chai, her face half hidden by a large red mug, imitating his every move: when he slurps his tea, she slurps hers; when he says Aaah, she echoes him.
He can’t help smiling. “Come here, you,” he says. She climbs into his lap and he inhales the sleepy, warm smell of his daughter.
She shivers. “It’s freezing in here, Papaji. What happened to the heat?”
He looks, annoyed, at the silent furnace in the corner.
“And what’s that smell? It really stinks.” She wrinkles up her nose.
“I’ll fix it, beti, just a minute.”
She climbs off his lap, and he goes to press the reset button again. It clicks, but there is no whoosh of air, and he groans with exasperation, then remembers the tank in the basement—could they possibly be out of heating oil? Grabbing a flashlight from the counter, he opens the door to the basement and walks down the rickety wooden stairs, the beam of light playing over broken beds, beach chairs with no seats, and an old-fashioned rolling lawnmower.
The oil tank is in the corner, and as he walks toward it, he feels his feet slip and slide. Turning the flashlight downward, he illuminates a puddle too viscous and shiny to be water. Bending down, he smells the high-octane stink of heating oil.
There is a leak in the tank. All this while oil has been puddling onto the floor, and the furnace has finally cut off. There is a lake of oil down here, and one electrical spark will set it on fire.
Turning off the flashlight, he stands in the darkness and desperately tries to think. A leak like this will cost hundreds—perhaps a few thousand—to fix, and the landlord has made it clear that he doesn’t want to sink another dime into this house.
Could Jõao help him clean up the oil and patch up the tank? He turns on his flashlight again and sees the thick yellow puddle spreading across the basement floor, all the way to the far corners. This isn’t like cleaning up a flooded basement, this is highly flammable oil; he’s fooling himself if he thinks he can fix this.
Maybe he could find another place to stay, but where? The summer people won’t rent out their houses in the off-season, all the cheap motels have shut, and, unlike the Cape, there are no trailer parks on the Vineyard. At this time of the year, finding another place is going to be impossible.
His shoulders sag in defeat. There is only one thing to do: pack what they can, get onto the ferry, and drive to Boston. His attempt at freedom is over: he’ll have to ask Lallu, Preetam’s fat uncle, to give him his old job back.
He suddenly becomes aware of the heavy bunch of keys in his jacket pocket. Keys that unlock the five houses under his care, houses with good heating systems and comfortable beds. He thinks of one house in particular, perched on a cliff in Aquinnah, far from prying eyes. Maybe they can live there for a few days, perhaps a week, while he figures out what to do.
He is still thinking it over as he walks back up to the kitchen.
Shanti sees him and screws up her nose. “Did you fix it? You really smell. What happened to your pants?”
Looking down he realizes that the hems of his jeans are soaked in heating oil.
Preetam stirs in the living room. “What’s that noise? What time is it?”
He walks into the living room and crouches next to the couch. “Listen. The oil tank is leaking, and the furnace has stopped working. The basement is flooded with oil.”
“Oh my God. Ranjit.” She sits up, her long hair loose and disarrayed. “I’ve been telling you all this time, this house is useless. We should go back to Boston.”
He thinks about returning to his job at the Indian store. Back to hauling up sacks of lentils from the basement and cleaning out the weevils. Back to frying samosas in the stifling kitchen, the hot oil spattering his arms. Back to Lallu saying, Well, Captain, here you are not commanding a regiment. It is my shop, and you will do what I tell you.
He takes a deep breath, slows the thudding of his heart, and reaches a decision. “Just listen a moment,” he says, his voice calm and reasonable as he lies to her. “It’s not that bad. We can get it fixed in a few days. And I just called a friend.” He reaches into his pocket and shows her his cell phone. “This friend says we can stay at his house, no problem.”
“Friend? What friend? I’m not staying with that Jõao and his sister in their filthy place.”
“We’re not staying with the Brazilians, jaan. This is my high-up client. His house has got three bedrooms and a swimming pool. I mean the swimming pool is empty, but it’s like a five-star hotel.”
Preetam looks at him suspiciously.
“It’s beautiful. Huge beds. Better than a hotel. You wait and see.”
“You’re sure they will let us stay?”
He senses that his description appeals to her. “Yes, of course. Just pack quickly, take some clothes. I can come back for the rest of the stuff later.”
She shrugs off the blanket and stands. “Maybe we should just go back to Boston—”
He holds her shoulders. “For once, just trust me, okay?” He turns to Shanti, who is hovering in the doorway. “I need your help. Code Red.”
Her eyes widen. “Code Red? Really?”
He nods. It is a game they have played since she was little, rehearsing an emergency drill in case of danger. “Find the duffel bag in the closet. Take your clothes and don’t forget your school things. Fast.”
She runs into the bedroom, and he hears the thump of drawers being opened and closed.
Walking past the couch, he joins Shanti in the bedroom and pulls out an old suitcase from under the bed, the Air India tags still on it. He throws in a red pouch containing their passports, along with clean clothes and turbans. Shanti is busy packing, and she doesn’t notice as he slips his hand under his mattress, pulling out a long sheath made out of layers of duct tape. Inside it is a knife he has constructed, taking the blade from a kitchen knife and replacing its plastic handle with a piece of wood, wrapped in coarse rope for a better grip. It’s not much of a weapon, but is razor sharp and slips easily into his boot.
Shanti finishes packing and runs outside. By the time he carries out the duffel bag and suitcase, she is already sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. As he taught her, she has turned on the engine, and is swinging the steering wheel back and forth and pretending to drive.
“I warmed up the car. What happened? Where are we going?”
“Scoot over.” Ignoring her questions, he throws the luggage into the flatbed and climbs into the truck
. Preetam gets into the back, her hair unbraided, falling loose around her shoulders.
He is about to release the brake when she turns to him. “Did you bring the wedding album?”
“Why do we need that now? I mean—”
Her mouth becomes a thin line. “I’m not leaving it behind.”
He returns to the darkened house and finds the leather-bound album lying next to the couch. After all these years, it still smells of incense.
When he returns to the truck, Preetam puts the album into her lap and looks straight ahead. Shanti is bouncing around in the front seat.
It is a foggy morning, and the mist blankets the trees, turning the road into a dark smear. Flipping on the headlights, he backs the truck onto the road and heads in the direction of Aquinnah.
* * *
They are halfway down Vineyard Avenue when Jõao’s huge truck appears through the fog, towing a shattered car behind it. Ranjit pulls over parallel to it and Celia’s tanned face peers down at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. As always, the burly Jõao smiles shyly, showing gold teeth, and lets his sister do the talking.
“Hello, Preetam. Where are you off to so early, Ranjit?” Celia must be on her way to church, but her lacy, low-cut white blouse is more suitable for a nightclub.
“We’re having problems with the heating. Going up-island for a few days, to stay at a friend’s place.”
“Heating is broken? Maybe Jõao can help you with it. Where are you going?”
“Thanks, but it’ll be fixed in a few days.” Changing the topic, he gestures to the old Buick hanging behind the tow truck. “Bad wreck.”
“Ooh, Ranjit, terrible, no? Some teenager again. Always drinking and driving.” She aims a thumb down her throat, making a glugging sound. “And then—” She smacks a fist into her open palm and smiles again.
He is conscious of Celia staring at him, and Preetam looking curiously at both of them.
“So, you’re off to church?”
“Yes, and afterward we take this wreck to the junk dealer on the mainland, in Mashpee. And I will have my hair done there.” She pats her streaked, shoulder-length blond hair. “Nobody on this island knows how to do Brazilian hair. Maybe one day I open a beauty parlor here. You will let me do your hair, no, Preetam?”
