by Meera Syal
‘Meena?’ mama called from downstairs. ‘Door please!’ I hurriedly opened the compact case and stuck my finger into its belly. The powder was surprisingly soft and crumbly, and I wiped a few smears around my nose and forehead, like I had seen mama do. I blew myself a kiss as I left, did I look gorgeous.
Auntie Shaila gave a shriek of alarm when I opened the door. ‘Hai Ram! What is this? Looking like a rumpty tumpty dancing girl already …’ She tottered inside, dragging Uncle Amman behind her, his smooth, polished billiard ball head glistening with raindrops. ‘Daljit! Eh! Look at your daughter!’ Auntie Shaila continued, peeling off her overcoat, two woollen shawls and finally a thick pair of old bedsocks, revealing a glorious emerald green sari. ‘Damn English weather…having to hide all the time under these smelly blankets…Daljit!’
Mama came bustling in from the kitchen, adjusting her sari pulla, and stopped short when she saw me pouting back. ‘Meena! What have you done to your face?’ she asked.
Auntie Shaila kissed mama and handed her a box of Ambala sweetmeats, sticky yellow laddoos pressing against the clear cellophane of the lid. ‘Happy Diwali, sister. You see what happens to our girls here? Wanting to grow up so quickly and get boyfriends-shoyfriends…Isn’t childhood short enough, eh?’
‘She was just experimenting,’ papa smiled, giving a jolly namaste to our visitors. ‘Meena, go upstairs and wipe it off, good girl …’
‘No!’ I said, shocked by the sound of my voice. ‘Where’s Pinky? Where’s Baby?’
Auntie Shaila’s two daughters were the only other girls roughly around my age in our circle, and therefore I treated them as best friends in front of the adults, although I secretly thought they were boring and rather thick. I had planned a whole evening of ghost stories and plays in which we would take turns at playing a screaming blonde heroine being pursued by nameless wailing monsters. Auntie Shaila spoke carefully, as if addressing an idiot. ‘Pinky and Baby are home with their dadima. Tonight is for grown-ups. And please no naughtiness tonight. Your mama is in a delicate way, you should be pressing her feet and asking for forgiveness. Now upstairs, and come back down wearing your own pretty face.’
After scrubbing my cheeks and lips clean with tissues, I opened my bedroom window and saw, as I had expected to, the lights of the fairground twinkling through the trees surrounding the Big House. I caught glimpses of the Octopus whirling round and round, its tentacles hung with chairs containing screaming, laughing passengers, their voices mingling with the thumping soundtrack of a pop song, One Two Three, Oh It’s So Easy, Ba-by! as my papa began tuning up his harmonium in the room below. I could see couples drawn by the music and lights, picking their way through the rows of cars which clogged the road up to the pithead.
I could make out another crowd of people pushing their way through the fairground punters, struggling against the flow and press of bodies. This crocodile of renegades moved slowly. I saw the flash of a jewelled sandal picking its way through the mud, a glittering nose ring caught by the flare of a neon bulb, a streak of vermilion silk exposed by a winter coat whipped up by the night air, and knew the rest of our guests had arrived.
By the time I had realised no one had noticed I was sulking and went downstairs, the front room was full of my uncles and aunties, all sitting cross-legged on the white floor sheet. Mama was handing round starters of kebabs and chutney whilst papa leafed through his tattered notebook containing ghazal lyrics, deep in conversation with Uncle Tendon, who cradled his tabla like a child. ‘Ah Meena beti!’ they called out as one, and I did the round of namastes and kisses, smiling through the lipstick assaults and the over-hard cheek pinching as my suit was praised and tweaked, my stomach tickled and jabbed, my educational achievements listed and admired, until I felt I was drowning in a sea of rustling saris, clinking gold jewellery and warm, brown, overpowering flesh.
The men, as usual, had divided up into two distinct groups. There were the ones like Uncle Tendon and my papa, the dapper, snapping, witty men in crisp suits who smoked and joked and retired to women-free corners where their whispered conversation, no doubt risque, was punctuated by huge bear-hugs and back-slapping routines. Then there was the quieter type, like Auntie Shaila’s husband, Uncle Amman, self-effacing, gentle shadows who followed their wives around playing the role of benevolent protector, but well aware that they were merely satellites caught in the matronly orbit of their noisy, loving wives.
Most of my Aunties were in the Shaila mode, plump, bosomy women with overactive gap-toothed mouths, fond of bright tight outfits accentuating every cherished roll and curve of flesh, bursting with optimism and unsolicited advice for everyone’s children, upon whose futures they pinned all their unfulfilled desires. Mama was in the minority group of Auntie types, the slender, delicate soft-voiced women with the sloe-eyed grace captured by the Mughal miniature paintings hanging on our front room wall. Their serenity masked backbones of iron and a flair for passive resistance of which Gandhiji himself would have been proud.
As I watched my mother trying to force another kebab onto Auntie Shaila (mama looked like one of those tiny birds who hop in and out of hippos’ mouths, negotiating molars nervously) I realised what part of my problem was – I had been born to the wrong type of Indian woman. If I had been given a mother like Auntie Shaila, the fat loud type who didn’t mind the patches of sweat forming under their sari blouses after a good dance, I would not have to feel so angry at my body, the way it betrayed me by making me stand with my legs akimbo, hands on hips, the way it tripped me up into the dirt, skinning my knees – it was never meant to behave like the body of a lady. But next to mama, I would always feel lumbering and clumsy. Even in late pregnancy, she moved like a galleon in full sail, stately and calm, her belly leading the way. There was another baby inside there, as much as I had tried to ignore it, and I suddenly understood that mama would not be exclusively mine for very much longer.
A ripple of recognition passed through the room as papa began singing, his rich vibrato climbed slowly up my spine. I knew this song, a romantic song, naturally, of a lover singing to his beloved, telling her he was so sick with desire that he would follow her wherever she wandered like a shadow…‘Mera Saaya Sath Hoga, Tu Jahan Jahan Chalega …’Uncle Tendon joined in with a soft heartbeat accompaniment and a collective sigh of longing swelled the air. Papa’s voice swooped and soared like a swallow above our heads, notes catching in his throat, flowers caught momentarily in brambles before being tossed into the air, every face turned inwards, remembering the first time they heard this song.
I suddenly saw Auntie Shaila sauntering along Connaught Place, pencil-thin in her chic chiffon suit, stepping between the sprawled limbs of the young men lounging at the sidewalk cafes over their cold coffees and cheese pakore, humming the song to herself, pretending not to notice, but knowing for certain, that every eye was upon her. I saw mama singing the song to the wind as she cycled back from her all girls college, her long oiled plaits bumping against her back, swerving around the cows and trucks on the Karol Bagh Road, duty and desire already at war for her future. I saw papa, just like in the old photographs, hair slicked back, movie star fashion, Cary Grant baggy suit and lit cigarette hanging from his fingers, standing on the street corner opposite mama’s flat, whistling that tune, blowing it through the peeling paint shutters where mama sat bent over textbooks she could not read because of the thumping of her heart, because that song told her that he was waiting for her outside, and would wait until she came. These were my versions of their stories and I set them free during papa’s songs.
Papa’s singing always unleashed these emotions which were unfamiliar and instinctive at the same time, in a language I could not recognise but felt I could speak in my sleep, in my dreams, evocative of a country I had never visited but which sounded like the only home I had ever known. The songs made me realise that there was a corner of me that would be forever not England.
I glanced around at my elders who looked so shiny and joyous in their
best Diwali clothes. I had seen all of them at some point in their workday clothes of English separates and over-co-ordinated suits. But on occasions like Diwali, they expanded to fit their Indian clothes and at this moment, seemed too big and beautiful for our small suburban sitting room.
Papa finished singing, the last notes faded away to be replaced by rapturous applause and shouts of ‘Wah! Kumar saab!’ He radiated joy, achievement. I’d never seen him come home from work looking like this. He turned to me and my stomach sank; I knew what he was going to ask me. ‘Meena beti, why don’t you sing a song for your Aunties and Uncles?’
They all began clapping and shouting, ‘Hah! Let’s hear your lovely voice! Come and show us how it is done.’
‘No,’ I mumbled uselessly. ‘Don’t want to…no …’
I knew I was already defeated, that false modesty was an expected response to any social request, that ‘No’ always meant ‘Yes, I want to really but you will have to ask me at least five times before I can give in graciously and not look like a big fat show-off. It applied to food, drink, money and especially public performance of any kind; I had seen mama literally force-feeding Auntie Shaila, who insisted she was not at all hungry and then proceeded to polish off a truckful of kebabs without chewing, ostensibly to please mama, but grateful she had been given permission to stuff her face without guilt. Of course, we all understood these complex rules of hospitality; our neighbours however did not.
Mama had been caught out quite badly when she once offered a lift down to the shops to the Mad Mitchells who lived next door, on the other side of the entry. Mr and Mrs Mitchell were a middle-aged brother and sister who lived with Cara, a moon-faced dopey woman who, it was rumoured, was their incestuous daughter. Whilst the couple were loud, argumentative, and swore as naturally as they breathed, Cara never said a word. We would often spot her wandering down the middle of the road humming to herself, dragging a squeaky shopping trolley as alarmed motorists swerved to avoid her.
Mama had been helping me into the car when all three Mitchells appeared at her side, wearing buttoned-up overcoats and their usual warm idiot grins.
‘New car, Mrs K?’
‘Oh yes,’ mama smiled. ‘So useful for getting to work.’
‘Ay, bloody bosting car that, ain’t it ma?’ Mr Mitchell sighed.
‘Bloody bosting,’ agreed Mrs Mitchell, who was holding Cara’s hand tightly.
‘So am yow gooin down the shops then?’ they said in unison.
‘Why, yes,’ mama said, still smiling. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
Now if she’d asked that question to an Indian, they would have replied, ‘Oh no, we will walk, it is such a lovely day, please don’t bother yourself, we enjoy strolling in the sleet, so good for the circulation …’ etc, giving mama time to consider the request and the other room to withdraw gracefully, because if mama had not physically shoved them into the car, that obviously meant she was in a hurry and would rather not give them a lift at all.
Instead, the Mitchells said, ‘Oh ta!’ and piled into the back seat, leaving mama open-mouthed on the pavement. After we had dropped them off, we discovered a small patch of urine where Cara had been sitting. Mama had to scrub down the upholstery later that night, not wanting to do it in daylight where the Mitchells might see, and feel embarrassed.
‘Hurry up Meena! No more pretending now, we have asked you enough times!’ called Auntie Shaila, making everyone laugh.
I shuffled over to papa who shifted over, indicating a space beside him. I seethed with embarrassment and fury; what was wrong with these people? Why couldn’t a No mean a bloody sodding No? Why was talking to them like trying to do semaphore in a gale?
‘Which song, beti?’ asked papa, running his hands over the keys, flexing his fingers in preparation.
‘Any,’ I said ungraciously.
Papa began an introduction to an old Hindi film song he had taught me. He paused where the verse began and nodded encouragingly. I took a breath and began, ‘Yeh Raat Yeh Chandari Phir Kahan, Sun Ja Dil Ki Daastan …’
I knew the song was about a sultry moonlit night in which a lover is thinking about his absent object of desire. I knew it was a romantic song, but as I sang, all I could think of was the Poet sniffing at Anita’s hemline like a yard mutt. I became aware that some of the Aunties were giggling, whispering to each other behind their hands and then fixing me with long, fond stares. I could hear Auntie Shaila clearly, whispering not being one of her strong points. ‘Va! She sings Punjabi with a Birmingham accent! Damn cute, really!’
I stopped dead, the harmonium carried on for a few bars after me and then breathed out and fell silent.
‘I don’t want to do this song,’ I said to papa.
‘But it sounds so lovely, really. You should sing your own songs, Meena.’
‘Okay,’ I said, took a deep breath and launched into a rendition of ‘We Wear Short Shorts’, complete with the gyrating dance routine I had seen Pan’s People do to it on Top Of the Pops. I flicked my hair and kicked my legs as papa and Uncle Tendon gamely tried to match a key and rhythm to my show stopper, although their complex minor key riffs and passionate drum solos did not altogether complement the song. I finished by shouting ‘Yeah man!’, and doing the splits, accompanied by a loud ripping noise and after a moment’s pause, a round of enthusiastic applause. Mama pulled me up and examined the large tear along the crotch of my trousers. ‘Did you have to do that?’ she hissed.
Papa laughed, ‘Leave her! It was very groovy, Meena! That was what you call a good jam-in, hey Tendon saab?’
They slapped each other’s backs and hooted uproariously.
The Aunties and Uncles just loved me; they crowded round patting me like a pet, over-enthusing about my talent and charisma whilst papa shot knowing winks to mama, who was slowly melting in the face of this public approval. ‘Hai, such a performer!’ shouted Auntie Shaila above the din. ‘So sweetly done, so er modern! Where did you learn this song, Meena beti?’
‘Off the radio,’ I preened. ‘It’s my all time favourite song at the moment,’ and then added, ‘It’s so brilliant I could shag the arse off it.’
There was a sudden terrible intake of breath and then complete silence, broken only by the harmonium emitting a death rattle as papa’s fingers fell off the keys. In a split second, my beaming admirers had become parodies of Hindi film villains, with flared nostrils, bulging eyes and quivering, outraged eyebrows. They only needed twirling moustaches and pot bellies straining at a bullet laden belt to complete the sense of overwhelming menace that now surrounded me. In my dizzy state, I fancied I saw Anita Rutter perched on a dodgem car with a fag hanging out of her mouth, and laughing in reverberated echo as the heavens slowly crumbled and fell in blue jagged lumps around her.
‘What did you say, Meena?’
It was papa, in a tone of voice I had not heard before, which shot right off the Outraged Parent clapometer.
‘N…nothing papaji,’ I stuttered, noticing that the Aunties and Uncles were now drifting away. This was a very bad sign. They were not even attempting group discipline on this particular crime. I was on my own. Papa stood up slowly and strode towards me. Papa has never hit me, never hit me, I told myself over and over again and yet I flinched when mama suddenly appeared at my side, putting a protective arm around me and shoving me towards the stairs. ‘You better go upstairs, Meena,’ she said quietly. I did not need to be asked twice and I fled.
I did not bother putting my bedroom light on as I changed into some trousers and a jumper. I did not remove mama’s diamond on a chain, I left it on, hidden spitefully beneath the jumper. The curtains were not drawn and the fairground lights provided just enough illumination and flashes of neon which danced mockingly across the walls and ceiling, reminding me of what I was missing. I sat by the window for a long time before I had enough courage to venture back downstairs. No one looked at me as I crept through the sitting room, where all the men were now engaged in loud banter whilst some of them b
alanced over-full plates of steaming food on their laps. I did not know if I was being ignored or if this was just the usual absorption of the elders when they were eating.
The kitchen was bustling with activity, so I stood in the doorway, trying to make myself appear smaller and sorry. My Aunties had formed an assembly line with mama at the head, who warmed up a chapatti on the griddle before passing it down the line on a plate onto which each Auntie plonked a serving of meat, rice, vegetables and yoghurt, straight into the waiting hands of the men. My usual job was water monitor; I would be sent round the circle of Uncles balancing a tray of paper cups which would be drained and placed back in front of me in a second. It irritated me that the men would hardly look up whilst I stood there waiting for them to finish. It was not that I felt they were excluding me, it was the easy confidence they had, that they could extend a hand and their water would appear as if by magic.
I decided it would be a good move tonight to volunteer for water duty, but before I could offer, I was stopped by the mention of my name. Mama was talking to Auntie Shaila as she held a chapatti over a naked gas ring. Her fingers actually lingered in the bluey-yellow flames but she never seemed to notice. In fact, all the Aunties had this talent for being utterly fire resistant when it came to cooking. I had seen all of them at some point lift up dishes straight from the stove, pat and shape dough onto smoking griddles and of course, wave cupped hands over and over again through the sacred flame of the divas on their shrines. Whenever I helped mama cook chapatti, I always ended up with red stinging weals on my fingertips. I decided this talent to not burn, or at least to not feel pain, only came to Indian women after they were married.
