by Meera Syal
‘No, I don’t! I think …’ Shyama took a deep breath. Tara was here, talking to her, being happy. Don’t spoil it again. ‘I’m just relieved for you, baby girl. That’s all.’
‘Baby girl …’ Tara repeated with a gentle laugh. Her face softened, something flitted across it that made another crack in Shyama’s wall, and then it was gone again. ‘Talking of babies … not long until my little brother arrives then?’
‘You … how did you … did she tell you?’
‘Mala?’ Tara blew on her tea, took a small sip. ‘I made her. It was obvious she knew … she made me swear not to tell you that she’d told me. You can see why that was getting complicated, so here we are, sharing in the kitchen. Just like on Jeremy Kyle, except no one has to take a DNA test this time, I hope … I guess you did all that back at the clinic in India, right?’ Tara looked up when Shyama made no reply. ‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’
‘No, no … It’s just … We were going to wait until—’
‘Until what? I assumed I’d be one of the first people you would want to tell. I’m fine about it now, anyway.’
‘Are you? Really?’
Tara put her mug down again, warming her hands on it. She had written something on the back of her left hand. The ink had faded slightly, but Shyama could make out a few random letters and the word Shakti, or maybe Shanti?
‘Mala’s … something else. I was a bit of a shit to her before, I know that was just that old thing we do, taking it out on a sister when we can’t see the bigger picture of … patriarchy and exploitation … and then there’s the whole legacy of colonialism and the infrastructure of the caste system. I mean, it’s complicated …’
The words sounded a little rehearsed to Shyama, but she didn’t dare interrupt.
‘Anyway, it’s been … it’s been amazing … and humbling, and really hard, hearing about her life back in India … everything she’s been through. God, we have it so easy here, don’t we?’
Shyama could have said that ‘easy’ was a relative term – her life didn’t feel especially easy at the moment – but she recognized that feeling a bit lost and weepy wasn’t a fair comparison with being hungry and dispossessed, so she wisely held her tongue again.
‘I’m still not sure it’s right, what you’re doing … but I can see it’s going to change Mala’s life so much and she says anything is better than what she had before …’
‘Well, I …’ Shyama felt safe to talk now, but Tara held up a hand.
‘No, this is the important bit. What you’ve done for her now – bringing her over, helping her do her beauty stuff, the money you’re going to give her – that makes it better. You’ve done the decent thing, Mum. That’s how everyone should live, isn’t it?’
Sita had been observing the developments in the new family unit with some misgivings, but she had her own urgent preoccupations to deal with – namely that the eviction date for their illegally occupied flat had been brought forward to 1 November, and suddenly they were going through the familiar routine of booking the cheapest air tickets they could find and dragging out the suitcases from under their bed. But this time it was different, this time they would be going with fire in their bellies and an end in sight to this whole tamasha – no, that was too easy a word, it was not just a fuss or complication. She could not think of a word in Punjabi or English that could possibly sum up what the last twelve years had been like for them, had done to them. It had been a slow-acting toxin, poisoning every good memory they had cherished of place and family. The final chapter of a long story, with no happy ending for anyone. Relations would be broken off for ever with that branch of the family – throwing their own flesh and blood out on to the street, how could they? She could foresee the wailing from Yogesh and Neelum, how they would claim they would have got their children to move if there had been somewhere suitable for them to go (never mind the two other properties they owned), and now this – the rich relatives who had so much, acting like the Empire itself, marching in and evicting the Indians from their own soil! See if I care, Sita muttered fiercely to herself as she carefully listed and packed all the medications they had to take along with them for every trip. In the old days, Prem’s status as second-eldest brother who had bankrolled all his siblings’ weddings from abroad would have counted for something. Now what were they? The idiot NRIs who had handed over their keys, never suspecting that the door would be shut in their face.
Prem rode this unexpected turn of events with his usual good-natured stoicism. ‘The sooner the better, nahin, Sita? We could move in and have our first Diwali in the flat.’
Sita made vague noises of agreement. Diwali was just two weeks away. Who knew what would happen, whether they would set fire to the place out of spite before leaving – she had heard of such things. When it came to kin fighting kin, all common sense and decency got trampled underfoot; all those weasly namastes and tearful touching of the elders’ feet were all for show. When it came down to defending and claiming land and home, everyone became an unknown savage. Sita hoped this would be their last legal battle, the last time they had to pack their bulging files of paperwork amongst their underwear and towels. Prem was slowing down, she could see it. So was she, probably, but you never noticed it happening to yourself. As in everything else, they were each other’s changing reflection. The halting walk, the thinning hair, the shaky hands, the dimming eyes – she noticed it all in her husband, so he must be seeing it in her. Now she understood why they called it the sands of time: their youth together had been a long unspoilt beach stretching before them; they had grabbed handfuls of it and thrown it to the wind. Now she felt she could count every golden speck left to them as it slipped grain by grain through their entwined hands.
‘But Mama, you will be back in time, won’t you?’ Shyama had fretted. She had called her Mama. She must be worried.
‘In time for …’ Sita trailed off. How could she have forgotten? ‘Of course, we will be back before the baby comes. We have an eviction date; we just have to appear in court to confirm we agree, bas. Also we can’t afford to stay much longer than a month, not this time …’
Prem had thought it wise to forgo staying with his elder brother on this visit. They didn’t want any of the extended family to have any hint of why they were back again. Even though Sheetal and Sunil would have been served an eviction notice (which of course they would ignore), they would have no idea whether or when it would be enforced. Ravi Luthra, their lawyer, had advised them that surprise was the key, literally.
‘You see, Sita-ji, if the miscreants suspect their removal is imminent, they could change the locks, barricade the doors and we are stuck. The bailiffs are not allowed to break and enter the property, understand? They have to be allowed inside. But once they get in, then we are hitting a six right out of the park, slam dunk, or back of the net as you say in England, isn’t it?’
Sita couldn’t remember ever saying such a stupid thing, but nevertheless, Prem had booked them a room in a modest hotel equidistant from Ravi’s office and the flat. Yet more money they should not have to be spending, fumed Sita, but after this, they could finally close their wallets. Of course, she did not mention to Prem the large wad of sterling that she had secreted between her two best saris for the bribes she knew would have to be handed over on the actual day, but she intended to give that job to Ravi himself. They had come too far to go all shy and English now.
Shyama had once seen a sad-faced stuffed monkey tied to the front of a refuse truck as it roared its way down her narrow street. That’s how she felt now: lashed to a juggernaut that was hurtling its way towards Mala’s due date of 14 December, and towards the Christmas build-up when she knew business at the salon would reach manic levels. And on top of that, she had begun to panic about having nothing ready for this unnamed, unborn boy. She had forgotten everything she must have known when she gave birth to Tara nearly twenty years ago. She could just about remember how to change a nappy, but how often did you actually feed
a baby when you weren’t breastfeeding on demand, as she had done before? Would Mala insist on feeding him? Or would they get her to express milk so she and Toby could have that shared experience? Would Mala mind being milked like a prize cow? Should she even care that Mala might mind, because if they’d been in India, she would have had no say in the matter.
A quick dash around the local department store’s baby section left her breathless and baffled; there were so many gadgets now. Luckily, a smiling sales assistant seemed to be following her around. Eventually Shyama turned to face her.
‘Anything I can help you with today?’
‘Er, I’m just … I need a start-up package really,’ said Shyama.
‘How long before baby’s due?’ the assistant enquired.
‘Um, about seven weeks, I think …’
‘Oh you’ve got time. Pretty much everything here is in stock and the longest wait on ordered items is three weeks. So is it a grandchild you’re waiting for?’
‘Pardon?’ stammered Shyama.
The woman’s expression barely rippled. ‘Or maybe a niece or nephew? We have a lovely range of Gifts from Grandma, Auntie or Godmother, all very personal … if you’d like to follow me?’
Shyama would have liked to buy the Peppa Pig baby thermometer and stuff it into one of the assistant’s orifices, but instead told her she had been very helpful and that she would come back later with Grandpa. On the way home, she put Priya on speakerphone and regaled her with the whole story and they both laughed so much that she almost missed her turning home.
‘Cheeky mare! Although, fair dues, you could have been a child bride, because “They do that in your culture, don’t they?”’ Priya snorted.
‘And I thought Mala’s face masks were actually doing some good! Maybe she’s given me the reject batch, the ones that age you instead.’
‘Does this all feel incredibly weird now?’ Priya asked, sounding like she was at the end of a wind tunnel.
‘Oh, I think we’ve redefined weird, don’t you?’ Shyama replied. She noticed that a couple of the pound shops already had tinsel edging their windows. One window display featured a gaggle of ugly dancing reindeer. December the fourteenth. D-Day. Due date. By the time every one of those Rudolphs had been unwrapped and broken, she would be holding her son.
‘Thanks for listening to me bleat on. I needed to laugh. And now I need to wee.’
‘Welcome to the golden years,’ Priya deadpanned. ‘I’m booking you in for the first weekend in December. We will go to John Lewis and kit you out with anything we can’t borrow or beg from mates and contacts. Don’t worry about being ready. Who’s ever ready for a baby? And at least you won’t be worrying about cracked nipples and stitches when yours arrives. You will be looking rested and lovely, and yes, very very young. There’s got to be some advantages to doing it this way, right?’
She was only a few streets from home when she got a call from Tara.
‘Mum, are you free? Can you come and meet me?’
‘What, now?’
‘It’s … sort of urgent.’
Shyama didn’t need to be asked again. It was a rare enough call, and for Tara to reach out to her with something urgent …
She had been through every possible scenario by the time she reached the Bluebird Café, tucked away in an alleyway between two trendily reclaimed warehouses not far from Tara’s college: an STD, nervous breakdown, drugs, being thrown off her course, a broken heart. As far as she knew, Tara had never had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend, for that matter. She couldn’t have guessed what was coming in a million years.
‘Sorry, say that again?’
Shyama’s elderflower fizz remained halfway to her lips. She was surrounded by students tapping constantly on their laptops and tablets; leaflets for yoga classes and upcycling requests were stuck on the noticeboard behind Tara’s head.
‘I’m not dropping out, it’s an assignment. For my second-year dissertation. Did you know I’m on a steady first in all my modules?’
Shyama swallowed. She could still feel bubbles bursting at the back of her nose and throat.
‘I’ll only be gone three months maximum. It was all they’d allow me and even then I had to plead for a special dispensation. You’ve always wanted me to spend some time in India, Mum, and with Nanima and Nana being there, it seemed the perfect time to go.’
Except they both knew it meant Tara would not be at home for the birth.
‘So what exactly will you be doing there? Where will you stay? How will you pay for this—’
‘Assignment,’ Tara finished her sentence. She was beginning to sound impatient. It didn’t seem there was any room for negotiation here. She wasn’t asking her mother, she was informing her.
‘OK. I’m going to be shadowing an organization called Shakti, a women’s activist group based in South Delhi, and filming their work, which I will present as a finished documentary for my dissertation. Secondly, I’m going to be staying at Nanima’s hotel to start off with, and then hopefully I’ll find somewhere through the women I’m going to be working with …’
‘Sweetheart,’ Shyama interrupted, ‘it’s not like London. Most women your age still live at home—’
‘I still live at home, Mum.’
‘You know what I mean. A woman living alone out there … it’s a different mindset. You need family, not colleagues.’
‘I’ve got family there if I need them. Thaya-ji’s not far. I won’t be alone. I’ll find a flat-share or a hostel if I have to. I could even live in Nana’s flat once it’s empty …’
‘And Nanima and Nana suggested that, did they?’
‘They said they’d pay for wherever I end up. As long as it’s safe.’
Shyama blinked. They had arranged this whole thing without even consulting her. And then another thought wormed its way to the surface.
‘Did you talk to Mala about this? Was it her idea?’
Tara shifted in her seat. Of course she had discussed this with Mala. It was partly all her stories about her village, her husband, the fate of so many other women she knew that had inspired Tara to go out there, to do something practical instead of sitting in her room raging at her computer. But she knew her mother wouldn’t understand any of this; all she would feel was betrayal, when for Tara, this trip was some kind of absolution. She needed to purify herself and the only way to do that was to give something pure back, balance the abusive act she had endured by fighting abuse elsewhere. If her mother had been younger, if she could remember how it felt to be almost twenty, a half-formed woman finding her way in the world, she would have given her blessing. But she was looking older nowadays. The pale autumnal sunlight filtering through the steamed-up windows picked out fine lines around her eyes and on her forehead, a slight tugging at the corners of her mouth giving her face a melancholy air that hadn’t been there before all this surrogacy malarkey. It came to Tara then, a dull realization that this was the price they both had to pay: her mother had chosen to start all over again with a new baby, nappies and nurseries and playdates and homework and music lessons and sports days and exams and only being able to book holidays in the most expensive season, her whole life shifting on its axis to revolve around the sun, the son. All Tara’s other friends had mothers who were planning travels with their grown-up daughters, spa breaks and walking holidays and theatre trips. Hers would be far too busy. It wasn’t Mala who had pushed her out of the nest, it was her own mother. And, Tara suspected, maybe this was the only way that she would truly learn how to fly.
‘This has nothing to do with Mala, Mum. It’s what I need to do. Anyway, you’ll be too busy with … With everything else going on, you won’t even notice I’m gone.’
Tara had been given strict instructions to leave her luggage in the hallway the night before they were to fly to Delhi. It was an early start. Toby knew everything would take twice as long with Tara’s parents in tow so he’d asked them to do the same.
Tara set her single canvas holdall down
next to her grandparents’ battered suitcases. She wondered if they were the same ones they’d arrived with fifty years back, with their dodgy brass locks and the bright scrap of scarf that Nanima always insisted on tying to the handles, ‘So they don’t get mixed up with anyone else’s.’ No one else would risk transporting their belongings in these creaky old bags, but Prem and Sita held on to everything – clothes, kettles, ironing boards – until they literally died of old age, fusing the house or splintering beneath their touch.
Shyama had been shocked at how little Tara was taking, but she’d explained that she wanted to be able to move around unencumbered by too much stuff.
‘Shakti have a lot of rural outreach work going on, I may end up on the road quite a bit …’
That ensured Shyama packed a couple of extra packets of diarrhoea tablets for her; if travelling with the contents of a pharmacy made her mother feel a bit better, Tara would do it. She could afford to be magnanimous, she was leaving.
She didn’t want to switch on any lights. All was quiet and dark downstairs, and there was no sound from her mother’s room. The street lamps outside were bright enough. As she turned to go back up to her room, she heard the faint creak of a floorboard behind her.
‘Tara?’
Mala stood beside her, her finger already on her lips, gesturing towards the open door of her bedroom. Only when they were inside and the door was firmly shut did she flick on the bedside lamp. Tara hadn’t been in this room since Mala had moved in. It didn’t look as if anyone actually stayed here, it was so neat and clean, with the feel of a recently serviced hotel room. There was a new cork board hanging on the wall near the bed. Toby must have put that up. Pinned to it were treatments lists from the salon, articles cut out from magazines on various beauty products, and the faces of assorted female celebrities marked with Mala’s spidery writing, with arrows pointing to their eyebrows, lips, mouths. And, more surprisingly, estate agent details for a number of properties – some local flats, others grand detached houses way out of any normal person’s price range, and most definitely Mala’s. What struck Tara was that amongst all the information, there was not one article even vaguely related to pregnancy or babies.
