by Meera Syal
Tara took the mug gratefully. He hadn’t added milk, but she wanted it black and bitter. She waited for him to say there there, something patronizing that would smooth the atmosphere and allow her to walk away with some dignity. Instead he said nothing, just sipped his coffee loudly and kept looking at her with that annoying frank curiosity that she usually associated with the many onlookers who would gather every time she got her camera out on the street.
After a couple of minutes she finally said, ‘Well, good talking to you, Dhruv,’ and made to leave.
‘What are you doing today?’
Tara shrugged. ‘Whatever seems interesting that is happening round here. I think Meenakshi said there was some meeting later on with a human-rights lawyer who—’
‘I’m off to interview some college students who have set up a name-and-shame campaign on their campus. Want to come?’
As Tara scrambled into Dhruv’s grubby dented Toyota, the hot fabric shocking her back as he started the car, less than two miles away Sita and Prem stood in a dusty alleyway, pressed to a chalky wall that afforded a small strip of shade. They had been waiting for almost two hours, unable to get within sight of the occupied apartment in case they were spotted. Ravi Luthra stood in the mid-morning heat, talking loudly on his mobile phone, a rim of perspiration already circling his shirt collar. Sita thought it touching that, even today, he had put on a smart suit and a tie featuring a repeat pattern of Gandhi-ji’s cotton spinning wheel. Good to be patriotic, no doubt, but she fervently hoped their lawyer was not going to fight fire with yet more form-filling, not today. A small pack of mangy wild dogs limped listlessly from lamp post to spindly tree, half-heartedly piddling over each other’s territory markings.
Ravi ended his call and cocked his head at Sita. ‘Everyone is in place, Auntie. You are ready for this?’
Sita’s heart suddenly began hammering against her ribcage. She turned to Prem, who stood motionless, eyes closed, head bowed as if in contemplation.
‘Prem?’
He lifted his head as if the weight of the world lay upon it. ‘I am ready.’
Ravi offered each of them an arm as they set off along the main road through the complex. He must have looked like a devoted son taking his elders for their morning constitutional. It was that quiet time of the day when the sun was set to a gentle simmer as the sky closed like a lid; children had long since left for school, parents for work, only the servants occupied the roads and balconies.
Each four-storey building they passed contained sixty or so apartments, all with large balconies overlooking the central gated park where vegetable sellers, knife sharpeners, laundry collectors paused in their various duties to swap gossip, their handcarts and laden bicycles abandoned for a moment, resting their old metal bones. The sellers called out to their friends: maids shaking out clothes and dusters; ayahs singing babies to sleep in gruffly tender monotones; disgruntled boys walking pampered pooches, which panted noisily as they strained against their leashes; handymen tending lushly packed hanging baskets, wiping the dust from the leaves of forests of potted plants. Every balcony flaunted its own eco-system, its own individuality: a child’s pink scooter, a painted wooden screen adorned with fairy lights, Hindu deities hanging like wind chimes from a small olive tree.
Sita didn’t remember this area being so green, so quiet, so prosperous. When they had first bought here, the park had been nothing more than a patch of orange-earthed wasteground, the road untarmacked and rutted. Now it felt like an oasis of calm in this ever-changing city. Oh yes, they could have been happy here.
As they reached the end of the park, Sita saw them: a group of ten or so wiry men in bush shirts and loose-fitting trousers casually grouped around their building entrance. Two large pick-up trucks were parked up nearby. One of the men – the only one who appeared to be in uniform, a neat, compact sort of fellow with a knife-sharp parting in his Brylcreemed hair – smoothed down the creases in his khaki jacket as he walked towards them, clutching a small clipboard. The others stood to attention behind him, stubbing out bidis and hitching up their trousers.
‘Must be the bailiff, no?’ Sita whispered to Prem, who raised a finger to his lips as Ravi exchanged a few brief words with the man, who quickly examined some paperwork. Then Ravi indicated that they should follow him and they entered the side stairwell of the block, enjoying a brief moment in the damp coolness of the overhang before pressing on upwards to the second floor, where they faced a quartet of front doors. Sita pointed at the only one that had no personal touches adorning it, no welcome mat or fabric garlands hanging from the lintel – just a thick wooden door with a small eyehole in its centre.
‘You wait there, Auntie … Uncle,’ Ravi whispered, indicating that they should tuck in behind him at the top of the stairs. ‘You know what to do once we are inside?’
Sita nodded dumbly. She and Prem had been rehearsing this moment for days, weeks. She held her breath as the bailiff knocked loudly, cleared his throat gently and waited. They all waited. He knocked again. Maybe no one was in. They were too late. Ravi had said, be here at eight in the morning. They had done so, but none of the hired men had turned up – bloody Indian timing, as usual – and now all this, for nothing. They would have to start all over again. And Sita knew that if this did not happen today, it would never happen at all.
All of this she said to Prem wordlessly as they clutched each other’s arms, so when the door suddenly swung open, Sita almost groaned aloud in relief. A skinny youth answered the door; he looked around eighteen, with unkempt bushy hair and a single eyebrow stretched across his forehead that gave him an angry, suspicious air, as if he would not think twice about stabbing them with the small vegetable knife he held in one hand.
The bailiff barked at him in rapid Hindi, holding up an official document in front of the boy’s face. The boy shifted the knife to his other hand and looked behind him nervously: this was the moment when either Sunil or Sheetal would come screaming at them, tearing the paper in two and slamming the door in their faces. But instead, he shrugged his shoulders, wiped his nose on the scrap of cloth draped over his shoulder and stepped aside.
And suddenly, they were inside. For a moment, Sita found herself in the middle of a bad action movie: all the men seemed to appear out of thin air, rushing up the stairs and into the apartment, all shouting together, with the bailiff and Ravi screaming at her and Prem to get into any room that wasn’t locked and stay there. Sita flung herself at the nearest door and found herself in a bedroom, and Prem hurried across the hallway to a door opposite and slammed it behind him. Trembling, Sita realized she was sitting on an unmade bed strewn with rumpled clothing. Without caring whose smells and germs she might now be inhaling, she leaned back on to a bank of pillows and closed her eyes.
Sita awoke with a jerk and swallowed hard, feeling disoriented and thirsty. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her initial panic subsided and she sat up carefully, trying to ease herself gently into focus. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, how many hours had passed, but it was long enough to feel seriously dehydrated. She wondered how Prem was. Clearly something was happening. The door which she had closed behind her was now open, giving her a view of the hallway and some rooms beyond. The flat was filled with the shouts of the workmen, the crash and clump of furniture being moved, then groans and heaves as they hauled the heavy items away and down the two flights of stairs.
Sita coughed gently, trying to clear her throat, and began to take in her surroundings. She hadn’t been inside this apartment for so many years, it was difficult to remember what it had been like before. But Sheetal and Sunil had spent money on it, that was for sure. There was a new kitchen, which she could just glimpse through the half-open door. She was sure hers had been grey and plain; now the units were gleaming white with gold trim. There were air-conditioning units in each room – those definitely hadn’t been here way back then. She thought she had caught sight of a breakfast bar of some kind, but in the sitting room, with a
large drinks cabinet behind it. None of their original furniture seemed to have remained. Had they just thrown it away? Sold it, more like. This bedroom now had an en-suite bathroom. They must have thought they were staying for ever – that’s how insignificant all of Prem and Sita’s requests and eventual demands had been to them. The thought made her feel nauseous.
Sita realized she must be sitting in one of the son’s bedrooms, maybe the teenage one – the other must be twenty or so by now. Clothes were strewn everywhere, discarded shirts, socks, a pile of expensive trainers. There was a shiny laptop, a large sound system and a widescreen TV – oh yes, they had money – along with school textbooks, two cricket bats, posters of some pouty Bollywood heroine and a Manchester United wall calendar. A boy’s life. He had left home this morning as usual, and when he returned, all of this would be in a box on the street. It wasn’t his fault that his parents had become upmarket squatters – he probably had no idea when they put in his bathroom or boasted to friends about their new kitchen that they were living rent-free in someone else’s longed-for home.
But any sympathy Sita might have been harbouring vanished when Sheetal finally arrived. She heard the shrieks first, hysterical shouting, and such language – the woman swore like a streetwalker, your sister’s this, your mother’s that … She could hear the bailiff’s steady bass replies; he sounded as solid as a mountain, let her try and move him. More shouting followed, and then suddenly Sheetal was in front of Sita, her phone in her hand, her hair in disarray. Sita could barely recognize the young slim woman she remembered. Sheetal had always been a beauty, with her olive skin and hazel eyes. Now it was as if someone much older and fatter had swallowed that girl, who was peeking out from inside her, squeezed into a silk designer suit, gold adorning her ears, neck, wrists. The first thing Sita thought was, she has turned into her mother. The second was, if that is what she wears to go on her morning errands, what does she wear for a wedding?
‘Get off my son’s bed,’ Sheetal spat at her.
Sita looked away. You are invisible, she told herself like a prayer, though she had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from heaving her old bones up from the bed and pulling those earrings straight through Sheetal’s thieving pendulous lobes. Sheetal muttered something obscene under her breath and swept out.
That had been hours ago. And still they waited. Sita wondered if the water in the bathroom was safe to drink. She was so thirsty she understood those dogs that ended up drinking from toilet bowls. She and Prem were old-school about pets – so unnecessary, what was the point? Let animals roam free and leave their germs outside. But Neelum, Sheetal’s mother, had acquired a yappy Pomeranian some years back, when people used to talk to their pets. It had been the fashion then in Delhi society, so naturally Neelum had had to keep up. She would sit with this appalling animal on the bed with her, stuffing sweets into her mouth and occasionally feeding the dog from her own fingers, her baubles clinking and the bedsprings creaking under her bulk as she laughed at her own jokes. And some of them were very funny. There had been good times, Sita couldn’t deny that. And Prem had always had a soft spot for Yogi, his favourite brother. He had missed him, she knew that, over all these years of estrangement. And today he must be suffering. She had to see him.
Sita was about to desert her post when she heard more yelling, this time a male voice, high and indignant. She stood in the doorway, careful to wedge a towel in the hinges so she could not be dragged outside and the door locked behind her, and saw Sunil trying to wrestle a dining chair from one of the labourer’s hands. Unlike Sheetal, the years had been kind to him. Other than a few more grey hairs, he was unchanged: he still had the anonymous features of some middle-management clerk, brushed side parting, pencil moustache. Wealth and comfort had no doubt given him the regulation pot belly, but she’d seen bigger.
The bailiff stepped in, had a few stern words with Sunil and waved the stamped document in front of him. Behind them, Sita saw Prem, also standing in a doorway watching the scene. She gestured to him, but his gaze was fixed on Sunil, who was now crying in what Sita thought was a very melodramatic way – no tears, but lots of noise, tugging at the bailiff’s arm, pleading with him to give them just one more month, or even a week, to have some pity on his wife and children. The bailiff produced other sheets of paper, pointing out that several letters had been sent asking for a response, that he could even have lodged another appeal, but all had been ignored, although it was hard to hear him over the wailing.
Then suddenly it stopped, as if a needle had suddenly been yanked off a record. Sunil had seen Prem. He threw himself at his feet, holding them, attempting to kiss them. It was more than he had ever done in all the years they had known them.
‘Thaya-ji, I beg you … as my father-in-law’s elder respected brother! Think of Sheetal, your blood niece! Your two nephews, our boys! We will pay you back every rupee we owe! With interest! On my life!’
Sita leaned on the doorframe, weak and dizzy. She could see that Prem was crumbling. He gaped at this man clutching his feet, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides. He wanted to touch him – of course he would, she knew that. Usually he would never allow anyone to get as far as the actual feet – just the gesture of bending to touch them was always enough for Prem.
‘Jaan,’ she tried to call, her pet name, the Urdu word for life itself. This man was her life and his big heart would betray them. But the word died in her throat, swollen by heat and thirst.
And then, just as Prem seemed about to offer his hands to Sunil, to bring him up with his blessing and forgiveness, Sunil got up abruptly and turned to the bailiff, producing a wallet from his pocket. ‘How much?’ he asked in a calm, cold voice.
The bailiff began muttering something about bribing a government official and obstructing the course of justice, but Sunil merely peeled a few more notes off the rolled bundle in his hand.
‘Hah, hah …’ he mimicked him dismissively. ‘Name your price. Look at them …’ He gestured to Prem and Sita. ‘They don’t even live here, you know that? They just want to make a quick sale and take the money back to their English mansion. And anyway, how long are they going to live, heh?’
He pushed the notes into the breast pocket of the bailiff’s shirt. Where was Ravi, Sita thought wildly. He should be seeing this, he should be taking pictures on his phone or something. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out the sponge bag. She stood in the doorway and waved bundles of cash at the bailiff, shouting at Sunil, even though every word tore at her throat.
‘You want us to play this game? Here! How much? Have everything! Doesn’t matter what is fair, I have more money than you so I must be right, hena?’
Sita threw a roll of notes at the bailiff, who caught it expertly in one hand. A small noise came from somewhere: Prem, looking at her as if she was a stranger. He shook his head slowly, just once, and backed towards the bed, where he sat down heavily, his face in his hands. The bailiff seemed to consider the weight of the cash for a moment, then removed the notes from his breast pocket and returned them to Sunil. At that moment, Sheetal entered, puffing with exertion and fanning herself with her dupatta.
‘Well?’ was all she said to Sunil. She could see the answer in his twisted face.
Sheetal threw him a look of blazing contempt and briefly checked her phone before saying casually, ‘Mummy’s got rid of her tenants in the South Ex flat. We can be in there by Friday. No thanks to you …’
As they turned to go, the bailiff cleared his throat. ‘Your auntie and uncle require some water. We need permission to help ourselves in the kitchen.’
Sheetal didn’t even bother to look at Prem and Sita as she walked out.
‘You don’t touch anything. I don’t know these people. Buy your own water.’
And they were gone.
Sita wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. More than anything, she wanted a drink. She pushed past the bailiff and sat down next to Prem, taking his shaking hand. ‘It is finished, jaan. Finishe
d.’
Then the bailiff was standing next to her. She hadn’t noticed before, but he had a grave sweet face and touchingly sticky-out ears. He could have been any age between twenty and forty, a man-child of indeterminate age, and he was holding out her money in his open palm.
‘Take it, Auntie. It would be kind to buy the men some lunch. I will get you water.’
Tara spent the rest of the day feeling constantly wrong-footed, expectations and assumptions peeled from her layer by layer as she talked and walked and listened. The students who greeted her and Dhruv were so different from those she had left behind on her course – not just the obvious external stuff like their clothes (cleaner jeans and T-shirts, not a whiff of grunge or shabby chic), but because of their infectious zeal to reform and challenge, which made her feel quite heady. Oh, they were angry, with the usual spitfire fizz of youth and possibility: they attacked their country’s insidious corruption on every level, the growing gap between the poor and the newly minted millionaires, the cancer of the caste system, the sexual war being waged in their cities and villages, the growing number of unemployed, disaffected men who found themselves jobless, without women, due to the growing imbalance caused by female infanticide. One lone voice stood up and raged against the commercialization of cricket and the over-reliance on foreign imported players. But for every complaint, they offered solutions, suggestions: marches, campaigns, social-media action. They talked about spirituality in the same breath as politics. It was as if everything was up for grabs, no sacred cow going unchallenged. It was the surge of hope, the lack of cynicism that made all the old arguments seem real and urgent to Tara. And how comfortable they all seemed in their skin; all of them dated someone – some of them kept it quiet from their families, others didn’t. The subject of arranged marriage never came up, nor the scourge of the slums or Bollywood. This was a generation just pushing through the pangs of birth, emerging newborn, baring their teeth and eager to run. There was so much to do, but that’s where the thrill lay, with what could be.
