by Z. P. Dala
In their sporadic nightly conversations—which were actually monologues, stories upon stories told by the doctor—Halaima invited the confidence by nodding and murmuring approval. She quietly gave the tortured, old woman the gift of a willing ear, because Halaima knew that it was a gift that no one had given before. Many people had come and gone in the doctor’s difficult life. Many had spoken to her, spoken at her, spoken about her. No one had stopped to hear her speak.
The doctor’s voice rang out with stern commands; it barked medical orders. She had held court over important things, for country and for individuals, but no one had allowed her to speak of the murderous pain that she housed within her heart.
Afroze.
She, this daughter that had been sent away, saw only a corner of the entire painting. She stood there, with her nose pressed so firmly against it all that stepping back and actually looking at it in its entirety was foreign to her. She had come to this home, angry and filled with the burning need to hurt her mother. She saw only a woman who was gruff and angry, and she recalled only the skewed version of how she had been abandoned.
Halaima knew the reality. And being the custodian of this knowledge gave her a grave responsibility. Was it her place? Should she now unravel the truths, end this once and for all? She felt too small and insignificant for a task as colossal as this. Again, she avoided saying a word, hoping that now, today, magic would begin to open knots.
But there is no such thing as magic. Magic requires a magician. Afroze’s all-consuming stare frightened her. She worried that if the truths were revealed, debris would be left in their wake. And where would that leave her?
Afroze sensed the anxiety in the always-composed Halaima. She persisted in her intense regard, and stuck her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown, squaring her body for a confrontation.
Magic.
Magic cast by a magician in the sky. We all knew the name of this magician.
Afroze pulled her hand out of her pocket, and in it she grasped a browned, torn page. Magic made her stop looking at Halaima and magic made her cast her eyes at the piece of paper in her hand, the piece of dirty page that she had stuffed into her pocket when she had gone into the khaya to fetch her mother’s medicine bag.
Prisoner Number 1434/80: Sylverani Pillay, Medical Doctor
Arrested: October 26, 1977
Solitary Confinement: 55 days
Depressed, delusional, suicidal.
Charge: Treason, Terrorism, Harboring of Dangerous Criminals
Under the maintenance of law and order to be detained for a 60-day period wihout trial on the authority of a senior police officer.
By Order: Special Branch of the South African Police Services
Look.
Look now how the hands of a daughter who hated with such poisonous rage begin to shiver and shake. Look now, how she reels forward into the arms of a foreign refugee. She is looking here, and she is looking there, and her eyes are wild as they dart about, opening to truths that have been hidden from her for so many years. See her. She cannot stand. She cannot sit. She cannot bear. She cannot cry.
What is this? What?
She grabs the hands of her mother’s caregiver, her only confidante in the world, and she digs her fingers into the smooth, dark arm, imploring and begging, unable to speak. Tell me. Please tell me everything. I fear that I have known nothing at all. I fear that this castle I have built from the time I came into this world is one that was built on misunderstanding and hatred. Take me down from my tower. And show me the truth. Why now? Why, when it is too damn late, must I find this truth? Why?
Magic. That’s why.
Halaima made Afroze drink a glass of iced water. She watched the slow calming of her breaths, and waited until Afroze’s eyes stopped darting about in mania. Finally, when Afroze settled her gaze on Halaima, it was a steady gaze. The exhaustion of holding anger and hatred inside for so many years broke her glare into a soft regard. Now, the right time had come to tell.
“Why did she hide it from me, Halaima? Why did they all hide this from me?” Afroze murmured, gripping a mug of steaming tea that was set before her.
“Rosie, your mother was very ashamed. She looked at you, and all she could see was guilt.”
“But it was not her fault.”
“To her, everything was her fault, Rosie. She could never be a mother to you, although she told me how she would stand and stare at you as you slept. She was in too deep. She had pledged her life to fighting for a better country, yet she tortured herself that she could never be a better mother.”
“She rejected me. She never wanted me near her. Now. Back then. She could never bear me.”
“Rosie, she could never bear herself. Whenever your mother looked at you, she saw only the pain and suffering that her choices had brought you. Even now, you are not a child any longer. You are a woman, older than the doctor was when she had to send you away for your safety. Even now, she hides her guilt by hiding her heart. She loved you deeply. I know that to be true.”
“How? How do you know that, yet I don’t know it?”
“Ah, Rosie. I have a child, a daughter. I know that to my daughter, I am almost larger than I can ever be. To my daughter, I am a star in the sky. She looks at me like I can change the entire world, like I am this heroine who can fight her battles, cast away all the monsters and all the pains in this horrible world. But, Rosie . . . I know the truth. I am just a frightened woman, not a goddess. I am as scared of the darkness as she is. I sometimes push her away, so that she can see that I am just a fragile woman, afraid and ignorant about how to be a mother. I am afraid that if she saw me for what I really am, she would stop feeling anything at all for me. I can bear my daughter’s anger, and I can bear my daughter’s hatred. But, Rosie, I cannot bear my daughter’s nothingness.”
“She preferred my hatred? She preferred me to be angry and rile against her? All so that I would not forget her?” Afroze said, and Halaima placed her warm hand on top of the tremoring one of Afroze, nodding her head.
Afroze took Halaima’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I have been so horrible to her, Halaima.”
“And she has been so horrible to you, Rosie.”
“I wanted to hurt her. I . . . Sathie . . . I wanted to take away what was dearest to her.”
“Sathie was never dear to the doctor. You are what is dearest to her. Both of you made many mistakes.”
Afroze pulled her hands away from the warmth of Halaima’s grasp and pressed the palms to her face. Her eyes burned from tears that she just could not shed. Even with all this new knowledge, she could not cry. She doubted that she ever would find tears again, because she knew that tears finally shed might heal her. “Yes, we made many mistakes. Is it too late?”
“No, Rosie. Your mother is still here. She is still living and breathing, and for that, it is never too late.”
“I must go to her.” Afroze stood up abruptly, the stool she had been perched on fell in a clatter to the floor.
“No. Not now, Rosie. The doctor is very tired. She is sleeping. There is time enough for it. Now you know her truth, and that is all that matters.”
“But, she doesn’t know that I know now, Halaima.”
“Rosie. The doctor knows. She knows.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was not too late. Nor was it the right time. But it was the only time that they had. The awkwardness caused by decades of estrangement between the mother and her daughter was not easily dissolved away. Too much had happened, and too many things had to be said. And when there is a formidable ocean that needs to be crossed, it is never the ones who dive in and flail madly who make it to the other side. The ones who glide with an insufferable tide, the ones who stop fighting the deep, are the ones that cross safely over.
Some things are said in subtlety. Some things are best left unsaid. Explanations and apologies can come in the elusive form of glances, light touches of two hands, and in the restraint of not saying anything at all.
It is sometimes best to sit quietly next to each other, asking no questions and troubling no scars.
Sylvie and Rosie.
Sylverani and Afroze.
Mother and daughter began a slow dance of reconciliation that silenced the massive roar of every single thing that could have been said and said and said.
Afroze noticed that in the morning, her mother arrived to the breakfast table unmade up with garish pastes. She was proud in her baldness and finally allowed the beautiful morning sun to fall on her scalp, dappling it and playing with skin that had been tormented by acrylic wigs. Over the next couple of days, she stopped wearing her red satin gowns with their uncomfortable ruffled collars, and just sat there in the lightest and most pleasant white kaftans. She still wore lipstick, the redder the better. She still demanded her breakfasts, those greasy plates of eggs and sausages, even though she could barely eat them.
“Why do you insist on having Halaima give you those breakfast plates, Mother?” Afroze asked her one day. She playfully pulled the plate away.
Not good for you. This food will kill you, you know.
Sylvie made a mock-angry face and lightly pulled the plate back toward her. She picked up a fork and played with the food, arranging it in a pattern. Criss-cross crisps of bacon, and a round yellow egg. Noughts and crosses.
There was an ease about Sylvie now, once the burden had been released, once the secrecy and guilt were quelled. She spoke openly now, her tone lighter, almost humorous, as she slowly cast off the darkness that being in prison had cloaked her in. Little anecdotes now slipped into conversations, and as she told snippets of her story, everyone grew braver and asked her more questions. All her years of silence fell away. Her stories healed her as she told them, and healed Afroze as she listened in rapt attention.
“When I was in prison,” Sylvie began, “the prison matron was a cruel woman we called Beetle. Everyone called her that, even our warders, because when she breathed, she sounded like a 1972 Beetle starting up on a cold winter’s day.” The memory of Beetle and her hawking morning breaths made Sylvie giggle and turn bright red with the effort.
Bibi, seated nearby, also began to laugh. “And then? And then what, Madam Sylvie?” Bibi asked, unaware of the gravity of the story’s context.
“Oh, this Beetle. She would come to our cells. We had been starving for days, given nothing. Not even water. And she would walk through the passage outside our cells, carrying a plate of her hot breakfast in her hand.
Ey, ladies, you can smell it, I know you want to have it. Crispy crispy bacon, two fried eggs with runny yolk, sausages, hot toast, and butter . . . Hmmmm, ladies. Anybody want some?
Aaah, we were starving. The hunger made us mad, angry, sad. Our stomachs were like huge stones inside our bodies. Bibi, you know how hungry you get if your mama doesn’t make your food on time and you start to cry. Oh, we used to cry when Beetle walked around with her breakfast. And I remember I told myself that if I ever got out of this hole alive, I would eat that breakfast every day of my life. And I have, haven’t I, my little Bibi girl?”
“Yes you have, Madam Sylvie. But you mustn’t eat that pork thing, you know. God doesn’t like that.”
Sylvie laughed loudly, throwing her head back and grabbing Bibi into a cuddle. “Yes, my child. Maybe you’re right. God doesn’t like many things. But that fat Beetle . . . she certainly loved it.”
“Fat Beetle, bacon eater. Married Peter Pumpkin eater . . .” Bibi started singing in her childlike nursery rhyme voice and stood up, walking around puffing her stomach out and parodying the image of Fat Beetle she had conjured up in her vivid imagination. And this innocent child in her most uncomplicated trusting happiness allowed the adults to veer away from their pain and suffering.
Sylvie fell into a fit of happy mirth, and soon, despite herself, Afroze joined in the laughter. As she held her belly and almost teared with silly laughter, she felt a funny ripple spread like bubbles through her stomach, which now was beginning to swell despite her trying to hide it.
She stopped laughing abruptly, her eyes widened in shock. Again, the flutter pushed against her hand.
“So, Rosie. When were you planning on telling us?” Sylvie asked, regarding her daughter with more delight than criticism.
Afroze looked at her mother from underneath thick lashes, she bit her bottom lip, looking so much like a naughty little child who was caught stealing sugar from the pantry.
“Oh, come on, Rosie. I knew from the day you almost fainted here at this table when you smelled the sausages. So, when is it . . . ?” Sylvie trailed off. Both Halaima and Afroze knew that she had been reminded of the incessant race against time, the race where every day was a win.
“Oh, Mother,” Afroze said, and grabbed Sylvie’s hand. “Here, feel this. I think she is kicking me.”
Sylvie placed her hand on her daughter’s belly, rounder now than when she had arrived, and although the shy little thing hiding inside refused to move at all, it was enough for Sylvie that her hand was there.
“Well, you need a darn kick,” Sylvie joked, but refused to remove her hand.
“Four months, Mother. I’m four months along.”
Secretly, both women counted the months to go. And both women prayed for time to be forgiving.
That night, Sylvie insisted on sitting on the back veranda, even though she was exhausted and clearly needed to lie down. Afroze sat next to her, every now and then lightly touching her belly, willing the baby to do something, anything, so that she could place her mother’s hand there again.
“Rosie. I don’t need a medal or a plaque with my name on it,” Sylvie began.
Afroze burned with guilt for the time when she had argued with her mother for wanting such things. It was a different time then. Now she understood why her mother desired her name to be remembered.
“But Mother. I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was so angry . . .” Afroze trailed off, feeling horrible.
“No no, Rosie. I’m not saying this because of what you said that day. I mean it. I had this idea that I had sacrificed so much for the anti-apartheid fight, the most of all being you. I had given away years and years of my life, my sanity, my career, and my child. I looked at all the people who were given street names, buildings, and halls, even schools and parks with their names emblazoned all over them. And I thought then that one day when I am gone, you would never know all that I had done. You would never know why I had sent you away. And more than anything, Rosie, I wanted you to be able to look at a piece of metal or concrete and remember me.”
“Mother, I have always preferred to look at things. Metal, concrete, brick, plaster. Those things made more sense to me than people ever did. I became an architect so that I could sanctify things that had no life, because those things could never hurt me. They were there. They would always be there. And if I created them, then they would always be with me. But, now . . . things are different.”
Sylvie looked at Afroze, and her eyes were soft and sleepy. She understood exactly what her child was saying.
“Oh, that Sathie. He did a good thing after all, didn’t he? Asking you to remain here to help build something that I could put my name on.” Sylvie laughed.
With the mention of Sathie’s name, Afroze blushed red, and a hot wave rose from her chest into her face. Sylvie missed nothing, and seeing this, she began to laugh softly. “You silly girl. No point in blushing now, I know all about the allure of that smooth operator.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say to you . . . I was silly . . .”
“Oh, nonsense, Rosie. You are a woman, and you are beautiful. Sathie couldn’t help himself. You little flirt, you had the poor man in rapture from the second he set eyes on you. Don’t worry, had I been in your place, I would have done the same myself.”
Afroze looked with twinkling eyes at her mother, and both stifled a little merry laugh.
The night was a warm one. The buzz of insects seemed amplified in the swollen heat, and in the dist
ance bullfrogs sang an orchestra. In unsion, both women looked toward the dark shape of the khaya. An unsaid thread between them buzzed in amplified significance as well.
“So, no school, no crèche, no clinic with a plaque . . . What do we do with the khaya? Any ideas?” Afroze mused out loud, casting a side glance at Sylvie.
“Hmmm . . . Well, I have the best idea of all.” Sylvie said.
The same night, Halaima walked out of the garden shed carrying a large can of petrol, pumped from one of the two service stations in town, which was to be used to power the generator during the incessant power outages that plagued Brighton. She walked around the perimeter of the khaya, sloshing the sweet-smelling liquid here and there, ensuring that it coated the crumbling walls. She muttered aloud about safety and craziness, but she did it anyway. There was something about it that made her feel good.
She bravely went inside the awful little building with no assistance of light, and poured what remained of the petrol over the piles and piles of papers. They were the doctor’s personal journals and medical records of all the people that had come to this place, struggle heroes, many now long dead. But many still lived, and they were the ones who remembered nothing. They forgot so quickly, and there was nothing noble in that.
There in that room, Sylvie had stitched up bullet holes, shrapnel and stab wounds, signs of terrible torture. She had nursed them and fed them and then bundled them off into the night to fight for yet another day. A better day. Now the room was filled with their ghosts. No one remembered who they were, and even if they were the most lauded men and women in the new rainbow land, no one cared much for the nights of their suffering because they stopped caring a long time ago. Now, in the new free land of South Africa, only a sparse selection of fighters were given the gift of feeding on the gravy that the painful struggle had finally acquired. Many old stalwarts, who had lost limbs and love to emancipate the country from the fetters of white domination received nothing in return for their losses. The coffers of the country were raided by men and women of lesser stature and activist history. They grew corrupt, fattened on the meat of the true heroes. Suddenly, the deep words of social unity and equality became whispers inside the halls of capitalism.
