by Meera Syal
She had noticed all the Indians at the airport – so many of them, behind the desks, serving in the shops, sweeping the floors. They looked the same in many ways as the ones she’d left behind, but there was a difference Mala couldn’t quite define. Same clothes, same straight partings and carefully placed bindis, same trimmed beards, turbans, hijabs. Maybe the women seemed sharper-elbowed and more straight-staring, occupying their space with no mousey glances from side to side. But then, back home, the only women who did that were the lower castes, the poor ones who would stand aside with eyes lowered when any of the madams needed to walk in their space. Maybe that was it: here, Mala could not tell, just from looking, who did what job, what low-class bazaar or high-class mall their clothes came from, how rich their husbands were from looking at the gold they wore around their wrists and necks, how much of the day they spent on foot by checking the dirt on their shoes; even the shade of their skin gave no clue as to how many hours they’d had to labour outside. The man who had checked her passport was darker than Mala; the woman cleaning the toilet had a glowing milky sheen that would not have disgraced a filmi heroine. A person could get lost here, Mala realized. Me, I could walk along these too-clean streets and be anonymous and free. She could put up with a few drops of rain for that.
As the taxi finally pulled into Shyama’s street, she squeezed Toby’s hand, which lay limp as a fish in hers. He gave a slight shiver in response.
‘Nervous?’ she said softly.
‘Cold,’ Toby replied, and pulled his hand from hers so he could leap out of the car and run round to the other side to open the door for Mala.
Sita had had little to do in preparing the spare room. Tara’s recent feverish bout of spring-cleaning had taken care of the elbow-grease jobs. Shyama’s instructions, conveyed via Skype, were to transform what had been her study back into the bedroom it used to be. Prem took the laptop to Shyama’s bedroom, the sofa was opened out into a sofa-bed and bas, it was pretty much ready. Sita had asked Tara a few times to put out fresh towels and a few basic toiletries – shampoo, soap, toothpaste – and ensure there were hangers in the small oak wardrobe which had been doubling as a makeshift stationery and DVD store – but somehow Tara kept forgetting. Too much time in her room probably, on that stupid computer, thought Sita, though thank God those loud locust friends had stopped visiting so much. Actually they had not been round at all recently. So Sita arranged the toiletries in what she hoped was a welcoming pattern on the chest of drawers, the top now clear of old photographs and the drawers empty of spare linen, and as a final and, she thought, generous gesture, added a bunch of tulips in a vase she had found tucked away under the kitchen sink. One more strange gesture in these strangest of times. She was putting out flowers for a woman carrying her daughter’s baby. The idea of a newborn in this house was disconcerting enough, the fact that her daughter had chosen this path too much to digest right now. Sita only hoped she would not be roped in for babysitting, she was way too old and tired for that – something she wished Shyama had paused to consider for herself. The tulips bowed their crimson crowns to her, a pop of colour in the stark room. This will seem like luxury to that village girl, Sita thought not unkindly.
She had no objection to the girl giving birth over here – it made sense, given the behaviour of her low-life husband that evening. But she had her own personal and bitter experience of what happens when generosity is mistaken for stupidity, sacrifice for spinelessness. True, they had an eviction date now, but she knew only too well that it could still come to nothing, thanks to lost papers, incorrect data, courtesy of Sunil making the rounds of the clerks’ offices with his oily moustache and greasy palms. The money she had paid out in bribes meant nothing to her – how much of their income had been sent back to Prem’s relatives over the years without her approval? But there had been a bigger price to pay: for the first time in her fifty-year marriage, she had lied to her husband. It sat like a furball in her throat, choking her every time Prem remarked on how strangely fortuitous it had been to get this date, and so quickly after the judge’s refusal! Didn’t it prove his point all along, that good would eventually prevail, that Gandhi-ji’s theory was right, and passive honourable resistance would erode all obstacles like trickling water on rock? And Sita would swallow and avoid his eyes and nod her miserable yes. All this, because some people had got too comfortable with the good fortune which had landed in their laps. Of course, Sunil and Sheetal were never going to quit voluntarily, it was always going to end this way. And the woman carrying Sita’s next grandchild – once the baby was out and her job was over, with no husband or village to return to – well, what then?
Tara heard the doorbell from up in her room, the hearty greetings as her grandparents welcomed everyone in, the heaving and grunting as cases were set down, the clink of crockery as tea and snacks were put out, a constant hum of chatter pierced by Shyama’s shout up the stairs, ‘Tara? We’re back! You coming down?’
Tara checked her reflection in her dressing-table mirror; it had been a bog-standard pine dressing-table with a swivel mirror set on top until she had dropped a bottle of nail-varnish remover on it a couple of weeks back. The resulting stain had looked a little like undivided India, which she had always thought resembled a diagram of a womb, with Pakistan and Bangladesh the ovaries on either side. So she had stuck a picture of an Amul butter baby she’d downloaded from a vintage-Indian-ads site in the middle of the V. The perfect desi infant, fair, fat, ladling cholesterol into his smiling mouth. Soon she was adding more images, until the whole surface was covered with beehived Air India hostesses, Brylcreemed men in flares lounging over motorbikes, beatific housewives smiling adoringly at their families as they proffered plates of steaming rice, men in vests pointing at objects in the far distance, carrying briefcases and clipboards to show they were studious professionals and not just lazy layabouts hanging out in their underwear, pigtailed schoolchildren with white uniforms and smiles, touching their grandparents’ feet, and everywhere brides and bridegrooms, newlyweds still in their traditional outfits extolling toothpaste, starch, hair oil, everything except the one product they might actually need in bulk: condoms. Marriage and Family, they could make you buy anything. Tara wasn’t sure why she found all these retro images so comforting, but they made her smile and feel nostalgic for something she had never had or known. She had been so pleased with the result that she had broken her unspoken vow never to return to social media and had logged on again, just to post a picture of her pimped-up dressing-table. There was a frenzy of responses, ranging from the predictable ‘Are you still alive then??’ to a huge number of likes and comments, including a gushing reply from Tamsin: ‘WOW!! So freaking cool! Cd sell that down Camden for a bomb!! Make me one girlfriend??’
Tara had been on the point of replying when she had spotted the post from Charlie: ‘Nice to know u got an alternative career lined up …’ plus a sinister-looking winky face.
She logged off again and stayed there. Even seeing his name in type brought back the evening she was trying so hard to forget: it came to her unbidden in sharp, flashing images – a dripping pizza box, a candle flame flickering in rhythm to Charlie’s laboured breathing, the corner of a kitchen unit pressing into her back, her view of the kitchen door obscured now and then by his head, wishing it would open, dreading that it would. At least now she looked different enough to pretend that person wasn’t her any more: her hair had grown back a bit since the drastic chop but it was still short enough to reveal her newly sculpted cheekbones. Ten pounds had dropped off her in a month – some of the girls wanted to know her secret, those who were still making an effort at conversation. Tara had muttered something about healthy eating and Pilates, which fooled nobody. The only reason anyone ever lost weight was either prolonged drug use, an eating disorder or lots of sex with a new partner, everyone knew that. And as Tara seemed still resolutely single, rumours began to circulate about her eating habits and her newly acquired drug habit, which also conveniently
explained why she was so freaking boring all the time.
Tara changed out of her floppy jumper into a skinny-ribbed top, relishing the novelty of having a waist, of feeling her hip bones press against her jeans. She then double-lined her large eyes with kohl and gelled the front of her hair.
At that moment, Toby knocked on the door. ‘Tara? Did you hear your mum calling?’
‘Coming,’ Tara called, starting as Toby pushed open the door.
‘Oh sorry, I thought you said come in …’ Toby trailed off. He hardly recognized this huge-eyed, spider-legged creature in front of him, all spiky limbs and malevolent stare.
‘No,’ replied Tara, enjoying the shock on Toby’s face, ‘I said I am coming. See you down there.’ She turned away pointedly.
Toby remained where he was, his goosebumps gradually replaced by a growing flush of irritation. ‘So, no hello? How was it? See any holy cows?’ He attempted to smoothe the edge in his voice.
‘I thought we were about to do that over cuppatea,’ Tara said over her shoulder, attending to a panda ring of black under one eye. ‘Is she here then?’
‘By she you mean Mala?’
No reply.
‘Yes, she is. I’m sure she’d like to meet you.’
Tara laughed. It was a hard, ugly sound, not one Toby had heard before. ‘Why would she want to meet me, Toby?’ She turned to face him, her eyes glittering. ‘Does Mum want me to buddy up to my … well, what is she exactly?’
‘She’s just arrived, she’s confused and probably a bit scared. I can’t make you give a shit, but as far as your mum’s concerned, and for the health of our baby …’ and Toby saw the flinch of Tara’s shoulders as he said it. ‘How about pretending, for now?’
Shyama heard the slam of Tara’s door from the kitchen and one set of heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned to see Mala sitting before her untouched mug of tea, her side plate empty of snacks.
Sita proffered up a plate of freshly made bhajis. ‘And you must try the chutney. Made from mint from the garden!’
Mala shook her head, her eyes lowered.
Sita pulled Shyama to the sink, covering her whispers by rinsing out some mugs. ‘She won’t speak, she won’t eat …’
‘She’s settling in, Ma. Give her time,’ Shyama muttered, turning to raise her eyebrows at Toby, who shook his head slightly and sat down next to Mala.
‘Bhajis! My favourite!’ he said jovially. ‘And you have to try the chutney, Mala. It’s made from mint.’
‘I don’t think she’s hungry, Toby. Maybe I can make you a fresh roti, Mala? What do you enjoy eating at home?’
Sita repeated the sentence in Hindi, but it made little difference. Mala smiled faintly and shook her head again. Shyama and Toby eyeballed each other over her bent head, their eyes darting towards the door as Tara’s usual pony trot sounded down the stairs.
Toby cleared his throat. ‘Shyams, when you see Tara, well, she’s …’
‘What?’
Shyama hadn’t meant to emit an actual yelp of horror when she saw her daughter enter the kitchen. But she couldn’t take it all in – the hair, the clothes, the make-up, and where had her boobs gone? Was this what happened with kids, even at her age, if you turned your back for a mere few weeks? How could you ever really let go?
‘Hi, Ma.’ Tara kissed her perfunctorily and then swivelled to face Mala. She put her hands together in an exaggerated namaste, bowed low and intoned, ‘Namaste, Mala-ji. Thum teek hai? Mera naam Tara hain, aur mein Shyama hum kevalee bacchee.’
Sita clapped her hands and Prem threw out a congratulatory vavah!
Mala looked up from her lap and stared Tara in the eye, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
‘You see how good her Hindi is becoming, Shyama?’ Sita teased. ‘She could teach you a few things now, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure there’s a lot Tara knows that I don’t,’ Shyama muttered, aware that Mala and Tara were still fixated on each other. ‘So, Tara, enlighten your poor old mother, what did you just say?’
‘She told me her name is Tara. She asks me how am I,’ Mala replied in a clear, steady voice. ‘And she says she is your one child.’
‘Only child,’ Tara interrupted. ‘Some things do get lost in translation, don’t they? Oh great, Nani’s bhajis. Only made on very special occasions. I expect everyone’s told you about the chutney already.’
Tara barely paused for breath as she loaded a plate with food, poured an exaggerated amount of chutney on top and waltzed out with a cheery wave.
Shyama sat down, suddenly feeling exhausted. If she had been alone, she would have put her head in the crook of her arm and cried. Instead, looking around at the expectant faces trained on her, the enormity of her decision punched her in the gut. She was the still eye of this vortex of responsibility; everyone around this table and the renegade upstairs wanted something from her, depended on her for something: food, shelter, care, entertainment, sex, boundaries, money. And she knew she encouraged it: from insisting that her parents move next door, to encouraging her daughter to stay at home, to inviting Toby to move in, to starting her own business and refusing any financial settlement from Shiv. And now the woman with the jewel in her nose and the enigmatic smile was in her home, finally helping herself to chutney. She always seemed to choose the long hard way, always wanting to prove that the world was only as heavy as the strongest woman’s back. And then she watched other women like Priya, who despite her slinky femininity was actually a bare-knuckled street-fighter, who somehow managed to get people to do things for her with a twitch of a manicured finger.
‘The curse of the strong woman,’ Lydia had once told her. ‘The whole sod-you-I-don’t-need-anyone’s-help attitude becomes the very thing that stops anyone ever asking. Why offer and get your head bitten off when you can ask the giggly woman with the grateful eyes who will make you feel needed?’
‘I don’t do giggly or grateful,’ Shyama had deadpanned back.
‘Which is why Priya will always have someone to carry her bags, and why you will always be expected to carry your own and everyone else’s.’
‘So you’re saying I should bat my eyelashes and play dumb just to get a bit of help now and again?’
‘No,’ sighed Lydia. ‘I’m saying it doesn’t make you weak to ask for help. It makes you human, Shyama.’
‘We are going now, beti.’ Prem was standing over her, concern in his eyes. ‘You will be OK? Maybe you all need to rest now.’
‘Yes, fine, Papa. Talk later.’
Toby, as always, elected to walk them through the back garden to their gate. Shyama rose heavily, automatically reaching for the dirty crockery destined for the sink.
A hand clasped her wrist, surprisingly strong. ‘Shyama Madam? Leave it, nah?’ Mala rose smoothly and began gathering up the mugs and plates.
‘Mala, you shouldn’t be doing that,’ Shyama protested.
‘Why? I do at home every day.’ Mala placed the crockery in the sink, pausing a moment whilst she studied the swivel tap. The same as in the hotel, no problem. She mixed the water to the right temperature and picked up a dishcloth.
‘No,’ Shyama said, rising and joining her. ‘That’s for cleaning the surfaces. We use this one. But please, I would rather you rest.’
‘Shyama Madam,’ Mala turned to face her, ‘I don’t want to sit. Do nothing. You are so kind to bring me. I must help you. You do too much, yes?’
In the end, they cleared the kitchen together in silence, working to the familiar domestic rhythms of washing, rinsing, wiping, Mala asking with a raise of an eyebrow where this plate went, that spoon, until she had opened each cupboard and drawer and apparently memorized their contents. On finding a mouldering potato sitting in the concealed vegetable rack in one cupboard, she wrinkled her nose and extracted it with a nimble hand.
Shyama felt hotly embarrassed. ‘Our cleaner left just before we came away … her visa ran out, so … anyway Tara’s been tidy
ing up … she must have missed that one,’ she said lamely.
Mala deposited the fuzzy mess in the bin and began wiping down the table as Shyama fussed around moving placemats and scooping up crumbs.
‘Your beti. Tara. Very pretty. But too thin.’
‘Yes … she wasn’t when we left.’
‘She missing you too much, maybe.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Sorry? Don’t understand.’
‘Tara …’ Shyama paused. She wasn’t sure how much she should tell this woman, a stranger bound to her by biology, who was cleaning her kitchen. ‘She is not … she is still getting used to this whole … baby thing. I’m sorry, I’m not putting this very well …’
‘She does not like me. I know this.’
‘No, no, no,’ protested Shyama weakly. ‘It’s not you, it’s …’ She instinctively gestured towards Mala’s stomach. ‘It is still strange for her. She will love the baby when he or she is here, I’m sure of that.’
But not me, thought Mala silently, squeezing out the small sponge which magically inflated back into shape. I know that look your beti gave me, the same one as those witches on the riverbank, the same one Master-ji gave me when I answered too many questions at school, the same one my husband punished me with time and time again – you say too much, Mala, you take up too much space. But what she found confusing was that this girl Tara and her mother were the same kind of women as her. The ones who could not just say hahn-ji and nahin-ji and look at their feet. This woman standing next to her with crumbs in her palm and the red fire in her hair had produced a child simmering with the same embers, so why was she so scared by her? For the first time, Mala wondered about the child she was carrying. Half of Toby sahib, and half of who else? What would Mala see in that newborn face? Nothing of herself. If the child wanted an easy life, maybe that was a good thing. If it was a boy, with Toby sahib’s kind ways and gentle strength, that would be best. Another burning girl in this house of dry wood would be a dangerous thing.
