by M G Vassanji
“I guess you need a ride,” a voice said as I stepped out and faced the chilly air anew.
I turned to my right, from where the voice had come, and eyed the man suspiciously as he stepped forward.
“I vouched for you,” he said. He was taller than I by a couple of inches, in a black duffle coat and holding a woollen cap in one hand as if to show more of himself — balding up front, sunken-eyed, long angular face, and a fluffy pointed beard. A vaguely familiar face, I thought. We stared at each other for a few moments.
“How did you vouch for me?”
He smiled enigmatically.
“I’m going to Boston,” I said.
“So am I.”
“Oh. We must have passed each other — Park Street Station, wherever …” I grinned.
“Ten years ago, and a month maybe — to be more exact. Washington, D.C.”
“You were there?”
“Who wasn’t? But I saw you there.”
His name was Stan Allen, he’d been to Northeastern, and he was two years older than I. We spoke at length and excitedly about those times and how important it was to keep their revolutionary spirit alive. It was time to entrench, we agreed, hang on to the victories won, resist the backlash and the lazy thinking, educate the public, break new ground. By the time we arrived in the gloomy shadows of the Berkshires he had offered me a partnership in a small company dedicated to the distribution of publications put out by alternative and radical presses, those crucibles for new and far-out ideas and truths the mainstream dared not touch.
In the spring I moved to a suburb of Chicago, where our company was based. It was time to move away from the city that had been my cradle in this new land, so to speak, and from a region which carried so many reminders for me of an era now ended, of people disappeared, of a tormenting romance recently ended. I sought a new life in a new place. I began to frequent Toronto, where I met many of my old classmates and acquaintances. But while I could not completely feel part of the community after my long absence from it, I could not help returning to it to try to re-experience what I had lost. One day, I met a vivacious, pretty Dar girl who seemed the perfect complement to me; we were strongly attracted to each other, and after a courtship that lasted a few months, we married. At last, I thought, I was coming home. If only Grandma had been alive to bless my future!
Today it was cool and clear. I went to sit at the Rose Café, a place a few blocks away. Darcy arrived, driven by my intrepid young patrons Hanif, Leila, and Lata (the first two are his grandchildren). The teenagers were treated to sandwiches, after which they hurried off to the beach, which, it being Sunday, promised much (a session of tea-leaf reading, for one), and Darcy and I walked back here, to my place. A brief, unimposing visit, spent mostly in quiet chit-chat. When I see us together now, and juxtapose that image with my memory of when and how I first saw him, I cannot but be struck by a poignant awareness of time. “Don’t think of time that way,” he says, “You’re still young.” His support touches me, for even though I pretend to a certain cold detachment at this juncture of my life, I do need my hand held occasionally. I am utterly alone. I have not recovered from my loss, and I harbour a fanatical hope. I see her around corners or across the street on a bicycle; I hear her humming a taarab and laughing at a joke. Any moment Rumina will come and pause briefly at the doorway with a smile, and walk in.
II
A GRAND REUNION
1993, a week in midsummer
“What revels are in hand?”
— SHAKESPEARE
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
1
Well, folks, here we come, Ramji mused to himself as he entered the Schuylkill expressway, sat back, and began heading across Philadelphia towards Glenmore. The Ramji contingent arrives in full force, in modest midsize conveyance, no doubt, but ready to play the reunion game. And who knows what lies in store …
He had had forebodings about this visit. On one hand, he had wanted to go, to be with old friends and stay up to party, and reminisce, and banter. But reunions were always a two-edged sword, weren’t they … you came back from the close encounters revitalized but also somehow wounded.
“We’re here,” he said with a smile to Zuli, who had sat up, having nodded off the last half hour or so.
She smiled briefly back, began to get out her makeup kit from her handbag.
He threw a look behind him towards the back seat, at their sleeping ten-year-old twins, and called out gaily, “Hey kids! We’re here, the city of brotherly love and —”
“Where — where is it?” Sara said as they both jumped up, looked out their windows.
“We’re only passing through — but do you see the rowers on the river … nice, huh?”
The late afternoon sun shone bright still, the riverside was busy with joggers, vendors, dogs, the usual summer weekend crowd.
“I hope we’re not too early?” Zuli said. She had turned a bit tense at the prospect of meeting company, which was a normal reaction from her, though Ramji thought she always made a favourable impression wherever she arrived, raised eyebrows by her tall, pretty looks, by her forthright opinions.
“Oh no, we’re on time,” he told her, looking forward to the prospect of winding down after the long drive from Chicago, which had not been entirely free of disagreement and tension.
Four weeks ago the invitation card had arrived, saying
You are invited
to the “mustardseed” midsummer’s party
at the home of
Jamila and Nabil Henawi
July 4, 2:00 p.m.
Quite simple, illustrated with an airy cherubic figure floating above the text, and a champagne bottle and bowl of fruit below, just the motifs for the occasion. And a little Stars and Stripes under the date to give the Fourth its due. How’s that for design, Jamila said to him when she’d called to discuss the get-together, I did it myself on the computer. The bowl of fruit has been ruined though, what a pity. Never mind, Ramji had reassured her, it looks just great.
Ramji felt happy for Jamila. That card was a notice to her friends: I’m coming back! And a rallying cry also. After a long immersion in motherhood — this she’d said to Zuli over the phone — we’ve got to take back our lives!
During her years in New York in the seventies, during which she and Ramji had known each other quite well, the “mustardseed midsummer’s” at Jamila’s had been an annual event much celebrated among all those who knew her — a motley crowd of young professionals recently arrived in America from all corners of the globe. No one who was invited missed it for anything, and if she happened to be away that part of the summer, early July, she had to come up with a substitute, usually a bash on the day of the U.S. Open tennis finals in early September. It was at one of these annual parties that she had met her husband Nabil.
Oh, I hope this works, she’d told Ramji, it does seem like such a good idea.
Of course it’s a good idea, he’d said. Especially, as he now reminded himself, after the tragedy of her nephew Abbas’s murder in a West Philadelphia street. Not that Abbas was close to her, but, still, he was family, and she had felt guilty for neglecting him. There had been family complications too — concerning the burial, for one thing, and Abbas’s wife for another — to worry about. Ramji always felt a bit vulnerable when Jamila called and assumed her confiding manner with him — a leftover from their past relationship, over for more than a decade now.
Jamila had organized her midsummer party to be the finale to a week’s grand reunion (her words) starting today in Glenmore among her closest friends. There would be (he began mentally ticking off the names) Salma and Aziz, also from Glenmore; and Iqbal and Susan from D.C.; Sona would also arrive from D.C. (though he lived in Boston, had done so ever since their Tech days), and word was that he would bring along a student; with Jamila and Nabil, and Ramji and Zuli, that would add up to ten people altogether; and then the kids, a bunch of them, all now beginning to grow up. This would be the first reun
ion in four years. The last one had been in Toronto, and before that there had been one in Boston, both of them small ones; nothing so extensive as now, with everybody present.
And nothing in such lush surroundings either, he said to himself, taking the Glenmore exit. Zuli drew a deep breath beside him, murmured, “This certainly is the right side of the tracks,” and he grunted his agreement, saying to himself, Nothing but the best for Jamila, she always made sure of that. A suburban shopping plaza met the kids’ approval by its displays of all the fashionable designer names, a park and tennis courts they passed were met with similar approbation, before they wound through a shady and narrow road with majestic homes looming from the high ground to their left. They turned finally into a cul-de-sac with slightly more modest and modern offerings. The driveway they entered was long and already had several cars parked in it.
As soon as they had stopped, Zuli took the lead, getting out and walking up ahead with a tired “Hullo! Hodi? We’re finally here!” towards the back door that opened into the driveway.
Jamila materialized at the threshold, exclaiming, “Oh welcome, you’re finally here — you must be exhausted … so nice to see you, Zuli … you look wonderful as usual …,” at the same time throwing a concerned eye towards Ramji. He grinned at her and waved, and the two women kissed, Zuli saying, “And you’re the same as ever, Jamila, time doesn’t wear you out!” Jamila looked a bit taken aback but smiled graciously and went on to welcome the twins.
“Is everybody else here?” Ramji asked as they all went in, and Jamila said, “No, only Salma for now …,” then called out, “Salma, they are here, the Ramjis. Come meet them.” Jamila paused, apparently realizing that she may have caused offence by referring to Zuli as a Ramji, then went on, placing a reassuring hand on Zuli’s arm, “Salma is inspecting the food — by the way, the theme today is South Indian crossed with East African — let’s hope she gives me the Good Housekeeping seal of approval!”
Salma stepped down from the kitchen and there were more greetings all around. Salma was petite and darker than the other two women. A fellow Glenmorean, she was Jamila’s critic-over-the-shoulder. The two could not have been more different in their ways. They did not like each other very much, yet here they were, from the same background in East Africa, thrown together in this small town. In her distinctively husky voice Salma pronounced, “It’s all perfect, Jamila — but if you want my honest opinion, really … the potato-chops would have been better fried, not baked.”
Jamila shrugged, said rather good-sportedly, “We can’t all be perfect.” But then as Salma and Zuli huddled together, discussing their kids, Jamila turned to Ramji and made a face to mimic her local nemesis, muttering savagely, “Miss Constant Comment, always the last word …”
She almost got caught with a contorted face, both Zuli and Salma turning towards her at the same time, but Jamila saved herself in time with, “You know Sona’s bringing a girl with him?”
“A girl!” exclaimed Zuli.
“Yes, a girl,” said Salma solemnly with a nod.
And Ramji thought, My, my, how interesting, this must be a new development. He never let on about it the last time we spoke.
By the time Sona and his companion arrived, the others were gathered in the living room, a happy backslapping bunch exchanging news and greetings, some of them with drinks in their hands. There was a sudden silence at the sight of the couple as they entered: beside Sona stood an apparition, alien and forbidding — a woman wearing a blue scarf over her head and shoulders, in the traditional Iranian way; she wore a long wide cotton dress, she had clasped her fingers together in front of her as she took a few measured steps forward, and she was staring back at the gaping crowd. Sona introduced her. Her name was Rumina, and from up close she seemed quite young, in her twenties. There were a few awkward moments (during which people looked at each other as if wondering how to greet her and whether to hide their wineglasses) before it became apparent that she was quite normal, and the mood lightened once more. Susan and Rumina began a lively conversation about something of common interest, the city they both lived in.
“So who’s she?” Ramji teased, when he and Sona had drifted towards each other and found a chance to talk.
“Tell you about her later,” Sona said.
“I hope you’ve warned her about Aziz’s offensives.”
“I can handle him.”
Aziz Pirani waved at them from a distance, eyes gleaming mischief through his dark-framed glasses, but he didn’t come over. Probably charging his batteries, Ramji thought. Aziz was the loose canon at these events, a master of verbal indiscretions, but he could be a lot of fun … we certainly are a tolerant bunch, aren’t we …
Over the years these reunions had become more an occasion for the men, for the “old boys” of Dar — Ramji, Sona, Iqbal, and Aziz. They all spoke the same lingo, they had all gone to “Boy-school” in Dar es Salaam at around the same time, they had known each other forever, it seemed. Among each other it was as if they shed the veneer they had acquired in adulthood and as family men, and they became the schoolboys they had once been; they would get silly and nostalgic, they would bait and tease each other without mercy. The wives, it appeared, had once again indulged their husbands. Out of kindness, perhaps, or for bargains already struck — or prices to be extracted in due course. They themselves were not given to such long-lasting and close relationships or losing themselves in youthful hijinks and runaway nostalgia.
Tea was announced and they all trooped out to the dining room, where a gargantuan display awaited them. There were dhosas, idlies and sambol, samosas, potato-chops, chicken tikka, kebabs and salads, gulab jamun, and cakes and a flan from (as Salma proudly announced her contribution) Dessert Storm no less. But before they began, the children — all between the ages of seven and twelve — were brought in and all regaled with a boisterous rendition of “Happy Birthday to You” and given presents for their birthdays, whenever they occurred during the year; and they were compared and admired and, not for the first time, became the objects of flagrant and wishful matchmaking on the parts of their parents. A lament went up for the shortage of boys (the score was three to five), and the kids — amused, flattered, embarrassed, and annoyed all at once — disappeared.
And the adults were left to their devices.
Ceremoniously, the main dishes were passed around, half a dozen condiments hard on their heels, and conversation ranged from recipes and restaurants to how the community was doing in the various cities of North America, from the global economy to the novels by Indian authors that were on their summer reading lists. Salma proceeded to dish out desserts and Jamila and Zuli brought tea and coffee. The stranger in their midst, Rumina with the headscarf, joined in the conversation when she could, though she looked hopelessly out of place. Ramji felt sorry for her. At a sudden lull in the conversation, Sona said, “Now …” and all looked at him rubbing his hands gleefully.
“I mean — what have we been up to recently? …” Sona asked.
“We’re not going to start one of those, are we,” Susan said, sitting back with a groan.
“Why not?” Aziz said, then unctuously, and obviously having fun, went on, “It’s quite all right, you know, we don’t take these things seriously …”
And so followed what Ramji, whenever he thought of these events, could only describe as a ritual bloodletting, a hurting and wounding of each other, using words like knives and goads, teasing and taunting to the accompaniment of collective mirth and laughter.
Aziz began to leer predatorially at head-covered Rumina, who murmured uncomfortably, “Someone please change the music, please.”
“Why, it’s Kurt Weill,” Jamila explained. “I put him on for Salma, she’s into opera, aren’t you Salu?” Salma had only recently discovered opera — Jamila’s forte — and must not have graduated far beyond the more gentle sounds of the popular repertoire; she reddened, and Jamila, having had her dig, eased off with, “Oh, okay, I’ll change it,
it’s playing a second time anyway — what shall I put on, do you think?”
“Just turn it off,” Iqbal suggested.
Which was when Aziz, waiting for his chance, lunged into attack mode. “Yes, Sona, talking of who’s been up to what — you’re a fast worker, aren’t you? A little bit of faculty involvement, is it?” He threw a sly glance towards Rumina, who was sitting diagonally across from him. “Some fatherly concern? …” he said coaxingly. “Surely not a little … of that … er, harassment business everyone is talking about these days? … oops!” He grinned happily, drew back.
“Conflict of interest, at least,” said Salma quite pointlessly. “What would Amy say?” she asked, referring to Sona’s ex-wife, which seemed even more pointless.
Sona turned red. He looked at Rumina, they all looked at Rumina, hurt and embarrassment clear across her face. She got up and left the room. Susan followed.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Sona said, rebounding. “I’ve nothing to defend myself against, as you’ll find out soon enough to your eternal disgrace.”
“Hey …,” said Aziz, backing off. “I didn’t mean to —”
