A Moment Comes

by Jennifer Bradbury

  This is my first time in Himachal Pradesh too. The mountains start here, and all over there are the hill stations the British favored to escape the heat of the cities. The very best of the boarding schools in India are here too. When I was a boy and my daadaa took me to the oratory competition in Delhi where I was the candidate from our sector of Punjab, it was a pupil from one of the fine boarding schools here in Himachal who won. His English was perfect as he recited Keats’s Endymion as if he’d learned it at the poet’s side. He is probably at Oxford by now, that boy.

  And me? The judges called my recitation of Coleridge’s sonnet, “To the River Otter,” “deeply felt,” but I didn’t win anything. Still, on the train home my daadaa told me how proud he was of me, and how I had honored our family, how I would bring even more honor to them when I went to England for school.

  I wonder if I’d gone to school up here if maybe I’d be farther along. Himachal does seem to exist apart from India. I wonder if the people in the tiny villages we can see tucked in the bends of the rivers below even know what’s happening in cities around Punjab. After independence and partition, everyone expects the Himachal kingdoms to unite and throw in with either Pakistan or India. Darnsley has been sent to make sure that the crown’s maps are current and that they are prepared to revise them properly when the princely states confirm their intentions.

  “And they say carve it up fairly,” Mr. Darnsley laments, looking away, shaking his head as he returns to the table bearing the maps. “Absurd. Radcliffe won’t even come out of his compound in Delhi. And while he’s supposed to be listening to our recommendations, I doubt he’d like to hear what I have to say about this.”

  I wait half a minute before I finally ask, “And what is that, sir?”

  He fiddles with the dial on the scope. “There’s a story in the Bible . . . ,” he begins, before turning to me. “King Solomon. Do you know who Solomon is, Tariq?”

  I do. We had a teacher at school who was obsessed with the parallels between Mohammed’s holy writings and those of the Jews and Christians. “He appears in the Qur’an. Or someone like him. There he is called Suleyman. A wise and gracious king.”

  Darnsley narrows his eyes. “King Solomon is in your scriptures?”

  I dip my head. “The imam would say Suleyman is in your scriptures.”

  He laughs again, and I believe I am beginning to understand this man, to perhaps understand the means by which I might appeal to his sensibility, to make him see the right in helping me. Good thing. Sticking with him has fewer complications than whatever I’m trying to do with Margaret.

  “Fair enough. Do you know the story of the two women who brought to him a child, both claiming to be the mother?”

  I shake my head.

  He seems pleased to have an opportunity to enlighten me. “These women appeared before wise King Solomon pleading and screaming, both swearing that the baby they held between them belonged to her. Neither could produce witnesses or evidence to verify their claims.”

  The wind kicks up, dislodging one of the smaller stones anchoring the chart to the table. I scramble to replace it.

  “Solomon,” Darnsley continues, “thinks on this for a moment, then he orders that the child be cut in half, one half given to each woman.”

  I smile now, remembering the story, or something like it.

  “One of the women immediately mounts a claim to the upper half of the child’s body. But the other is horrified, renounces her claim, and begins to weep anew.”

  I fill in the rest, the way I used to when I knew an answer in school and wanted to say it aloud, just to impress the schoolmaster. “And Solomon recognized the true mother as the one who would not see harm come to the baby.”

  He nods, jaw set, eyes troubled.

  “It’s meant to be a story about how wise Solomon is,” he continues. “But I’ve always thought the mother was the real hero in that tale. The one willing to sacrifice her own heart so that her child might remain whole.”

  “Certainly,” I agree.

  He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “They say the people want partition. That it will bring peace. That it will be better in the end. But I keep wondering, waiting for someone to realize that cutting this body in half may do more harm than anyone realizes.”

  He is right. But I don’t know if he wants to hear me tell him so, or if he wishes I would contradict him, reassure him somehow. Luckily, I don’t have to decide. A gust of wind tears the map from the table altogether, sending me chasing after it.

  The driver spits his words through the gaps in his front teeth, trading on a few Punjabi and English phrases he must know to survive when he speaks to me or Mr. Darnsley. I cringe every time he slips into Dogri to curse the car or call out to another person on the road. Part of me feels like apologizing to Mr. Darnsley for him, and part of me wonders why I’m embarrassed by him in the first place.

  I realize it’s because I don’t want Darnsley thinking I’m like the driver.

  But I have to sit in front beside him. Mr. Darnsley sleeps in back.

  It won’t always be like this, I remind myself. Promise myself. Someday I will have men to drive me, the back of a head to stare at when my eyes tire of reading a newspaper.

  As backward as he is, I still admire the driver’s skill as he pilots the car down the road. He’s confident as he threads the car through the narrow gaps in the rock cuts, unfazed as the frame jolts on the ruts or as he dodges a small flock of sheep that appears in the road when we round a bend.

  Darnsley sighs and wakes behind me. “Where are we?”

  I twist in my seat. “Just coming out of the foothills, sir. I believe the driver will stop for petrol soon, and then a few hours more to Srinigar.”

  He rubs his eyes, cranks down the window halfway, gulps the dusty air. “Good,” he says. “We overnight there and then change drivers in the morning for the trip back to Jalandhar, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darnsley.”

  He drinks from the canteen. “You did a fine job planning all this, Tariq,” he says. “Crackerjack efficiency.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say. Things have gone off perfectly. I’m relieved.

  “You have a day off coming when we return, do you not, Tariq?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “What will you do with your holiday? Have you a girl to visit?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir,” I say, even as Anupreet dances right into my brain. “No girl.”

  What would he say if I told him that there were two right under his roof? He must have noticed Anu himself. Who wouldn’t? He’d probably even understand if I told him.

  Or should I tell him of his daughter, the way she looks at me? His daughter, who I’d left cigarettes for, and now that book of poems. The thought of what I’d done . . . the risk of it . . . makes me sweat. I roll down the window an inch.

  “Quite so,” he says. “I expect you and your family are making preparations to relocate?”

  I nod. “My father is packing the shop. Some of my uncles have already taken their families. But—” I stop, wonder if the time is right. If I was right about how he was speaking to me on the ridge a few hours ago. There may not be a better moment.

  “Yes?”

  “I do not wish to go to Pakistan,” I say in a rush, glad that the driver doesn’t react, grateful that he cannot understand.

  Darnsley is quiet a moment, then says, “You would stay in Jalandhar?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then what?”

  I hesitate, look away, watch the trees flying past the windows for a moment before looking back at him. “I wish to study.”

  He stares at me for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Pakistan will have a university. It seems evident that Lahore will go to the west, and I understand that the school there is very good.”

  “Of course, but—” I falter. “I wish to go to the best university in the world.”

  He pauses before he speaks again, as if he’s aware of somethin
g happening. “What do you mean?”

  “I would go to Oxford.” There. I’ve said it now. No turning back.

  “Oxford?” he asks, unable to hide his surprise.

  I nod, wait. He looks down at his hands, picks at the nail on his ring finger.

  “I was at Oxford,” he offers at last.

  “I know.” It was one of the first things I worked out about him when I started.

  “But it’s so far?” He says it more like a question.

  “I have been an excellent student. You only need to ask my teachers from the school. Mr. Ahmed, the one who recommended me for the post with you, he has encouraged me—”

  “But Oxford, Tariq?” he says. “What does your family say?”

  I swallow hard. My family says little. When I was younger and Daadaa was alive, my parents humored his plan to send me to university abroad. And then after his death Abbu tried to give it up, saying that with the money Daadaa left, I could have enough for any school in India and a bit left over. But I did not want any school in India, and when Abbu realized this, he quit bringing it up. And when I understood that he doubted my ability or the possibility of reaching Oxford, I quit talking about it. I think Abbu figured that meant I’d given it up, but I hadn’t. He’d see. I’m so close now.

  But Darnsley doesn’t need to know any of this. “They understand that my education is important.”

  “Won’t they need you as they resettle?” he asks. “Christ, won’t Pakistan need smart young men like you to guide it?”

  I wish I could climb over the seat to face him properly. “I believe I could help Pakistan more by getting the best education I can,” I say. “The three most important men in the country right now were educated abroad. Nehru at Cambridge, Jinnah and Gandhi both in London.” I have imagined giving this speech dozens of times.

  “You could do anything in the new country,” he says. “A little more schooling and you could teach or practice law. . . . ”

  This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s supposed to offer to give me a reference, to help me. Instead he’s trying to get me to change my mind? “But the men who lead, the men who decide the fate of the continent—”

  “Have emerged out of a British patriarchy,” Darnsley points out. “But the country is changing. What the British value won’t matter as much anymore.” He says this as if he is not one of them.

  “But—”

  “No, Tariq,” he says. “You don’t need Oxford. But your countrymen will need you.”

  I stop, turn back around, and stare at the road beginning to straighten out in front of us. My stomach suddenly feels empty and heavy. The air in the car is close and sour.

  What’s happening? Heat rises up the back of my neck and burns my ears, my face. How can he do this to me? How can he refuse to help without even thinking about it? Maybe his wife is right about him. Maybe he is without ambition. How else could he dismiss mine so easily?

  “Oxford would ruin you,” he says. “You’re too good for it.”

  Ruin me? Ruin me? I want to put my fist through the windscreen of the car. Maybe then he wouldn’t think me too good for it. Or maybe I should tell him about the man I probably killed. Or maybe I should tell him how I think about his daughter, how easy she would be . . . I’d heard enough of her fights with her mother about someone called Alec to know it wouldn’t be that hard. Not doing something about how I felt for Anu is lohe ke chane chabana. Like chewing iron pellets. Doing something with Margaret would be easy.

  Would that make him think me better suited for Oxford?

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I taste a bit of blood.

  “You belong in India,” he says with finality, landing a blow more decisive than any punch I could throw.

  “Pakistan,” I correct him, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

  He falls silent behind me. Maybe he’s embarrassed at his mistake. Allah, I hope so. At least let me have that.

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  ANUPREET

  “Mother!” Margaret is shouting again. “Mother!”

  I leave the tandoor and the chicken roasting inside and sidle to the back door. When Margaret shouts, I’ll be expected soon.

  She’s been funny lately. Moody. I sort of wondered if I’d done something to make her upset. I couldn’t think of anything and figured I was just being silly.

  I’m sure it has to do with missing her father, with the house being so quiet with him gone. But she makes it even quieter, playing her harmonium less than before, and the songs she picks aren’t much for dancing.

  Instead she spends almost as much time reading as she used to devote to playing.

  And every time I see her, it’s the same book. The little yellow one Tariq left in her room before they drove off last week.

  Margaret had been downstairs with her mother, saying good-bye to her father. The car, loaded with Mr. Darnsley’s equipment, rumbled in the driveway, waiting. I had gone upstairs to shut the curtains in Mr. Darnsley’s office, and as I passed by Margaret’s room, I saw Tariq standing there, holding something in his hand.

  Keeping to the shadow, I’d watched him a moment. His back was to me, shoulders rounded, tense. He’d jumped when Mr. Darnsley called up from the driveway, telling him it was time to go. Then he had sighed, whispered something to himself, and bent down quickly, placing the skinny book carefully on top of Margaret’s harmonium. I’d ducked into the back room as he turned and bolted down the stairs.

  I’d waited until the sound of his steps had faded, until I could hear the car pulling away. Then I went into Margaret’s room to look at the book. The title was in English, so I couldn’t read it. A few minutes later, when Margaret came back upstairs and found it, she’d asked where it came from.

  “Tariq,” I’d told her.

  “Tariq?” she’d said. “You’re sure?”

  “Haan. I saw.”

  Her smile was so small it was like a secret. But she liked the gift. And I supposed it meant she liked the one who gave it to her.

  I hadn’t thought much about Tariq like that. But I could see then that maybe Margaret had. It made me nervous, but I wasn’t sure why. And it also reminded me that we weren’t friends the way friends really are. We leave too many things unsaid. I didn’t tell her about my brother, about his injuries or how long he was taking to heal, or how I worry what will happen when he does. She didn’t confide in me about Tariq.

  “Mother!” Margaret shouts once more.

  “Why must you carry on like a common thing!” Mrs. Darnsley snaps from the opposite end of the house. “Half the neighborhood can hear you!”

  “Most of them don’t even understand me!” Margaret snaps back, but they’ve drawn closer, one standing at the top of the stair, the other at the foot. They don’t shout any longer. “It’s my hair again.”

  I creep to the doorway leading from the kitchen to the hallway. Old Shibani—the Bengali woman who is the housekeeper—told me when I started work here that my job was to be never seen but always at the ready. I’ve made a game of it. Trying to be where I know I’ll be asked for, trying to surprise my employers with my sudden appearances.

  “Your hair?” Her mother sighs. “Honestly, Margaret!”

  “You’ll be the one complaining if I can’t mend it!” she says, and I silently agree with her.

  Rather than argue, Mrs. Darnsley does what I knew she’d do the moment Margaret began shouting. “Where is the girl?”

  “I’m sure she’s busy in the kitchen . . . ,” Margaret begins.

  “I haven’t time to help you again.” Her mother begins to edge toward the dining room and the table where she’s set up her own desk. “I’ve letters to post and some telephone calls to make. And I still have to plan tonight’s dinner with Shibani—”

  “But, Mother . . . ,” Margaret begins, her voice gone high and wavy.

  “Don’t be silly. Let the girl do her work,” Mrs. Darnsley says, walking away. “Anupreet!”
<
br />   I wait a moment, telling myself that just because Margaret wants her mother to help her doesn’t mean she doesn’t want me.

  Does it?

  I find her in her room—a room that is as big as all the bedrooms in my house—at a table with its own glass, a dozen vials and combs and pots piled amid hairpins scattered like so many grains of rice. I can see myself in the little mirror hanging on the wall above the table as I come in and stand behind her.

  I’m so plain next to her. So dark. So small.

  “It’s the heat, Anu,” she complains, clawing at a knot at the end of her hair with the brush. “And the infernal dust. Bloody mess is all knots and tangles I can’t work out. It was difficult enough at home, but this place is altogether awful.”

  She doesn’t meet my eye, but once again I’m struck by the color of the mass that she curses. And the curls are so fine—like each strand has its own direction.

  I feel the heavy black braid at the back of my neck, know that if I unwound it, my hair would hang straight and dull, black as old coals.

  “My salheri has such curl,” I say. “We must oil.”

  She looks at me curiously, wrinkling up her nose. “Oil?”

  I laugh. “Wait here.”

  I hurry down to the kitchen. On the shelf above the basin, I reach for the pot of coconut oil. I take the stairs two at a time back up to her room. Margaret sits where I left her.

  “Only a little,” I say, opening the jar, dipping two fingers into the paste. The oil is soft, like set ghee, a bit runny at the edges. I scoop a portion no bigger than a quarter-anna coin.

  I don’t wait for her permission as I massage the oil between my palms, then begin to rake it gently through her curls.

  She is silent as I work, half watching the window that overlooks the front courtyard, half watching me. In a few minutes I’ve worked out the knots and tangles. In a few more, I’ve used her combs and pins to settle the curl into place. The curls are perfect, easy waves, like the swirl of cream that stands on top of dal makhani before serving. My belly rumbles. I must be hungry.