by Meera Syal
‘Theklo, bhaiya,’ Prem beamed. ‘Now tell me, is this any different to Pusa Road market?’
Neelum had cleared her throat delicately, wrinkling her nose as a particularly strong gust of fried jalebi came her way, her jowls obscuring the heavy diamond and gold choker she’d considered suitable for a wander around a street market. ‘Pusa Road was never this dirty. And the clothes! What is it with you Brits and polyester?’
‘There are designer boutiques further along, actually,’ Sita had said brightly. ‘There’s one, Zameena, she has made clothes for Cherie Blair.’
‘Probably OK for angrezi who don’t know better, but really, bhabhi, aren’t you embarrassed by how low-class this all is? This is the kind of market our servants go to. I won’t step into any shopping place without air conditioning and a valet-parking man. But this is the problem you have. In this country, they let everyone and anyone in when you came, not like US or Australia, where they only let the educated classes enter. Here every Bihari bus driver and Mirpuri mud cleaner was allowed to come in, and then brought the whole extended family, also. This is why you are getting all the racialism, isn’t it? They are painting even decent people like you with the same colour.’
‘Brush,’ interrupted Tara, whom everyone had forgotten was there.
‘What, beti?’ Neelum smiled. ‘Brush what?’
‘You say you paint people with the same brush,’ Tara had continued evenly, her face deadpan, always a bad sign. Shyama could remember that expression so clearly, even now. She remembered thinking at the time, I probably ought to jump in like a good Indian mummy and clip her round the ear for daring to correct an elder. But she had been fascinated to see what would happen next.
‘And in any case,’ Tara had continued, ‘all the really kickin’ stuff in music and fashion and even comedy is coming from here, probably ’cos we’re really mixed up together, and, like, I don’t know whose mum or dad was a farmer or an “Untouchable” back in India and I don’t care either, ’cos we’re all seen as brown here anyway. Not like in India, where you treat the servants like crap and let people live in houses that don’t even belong to them and won’t give them back.’
Shyama repeated the speech word for word, mimicking Tara’s thirteen-year-old eye-rolling and sassy head-snapping, making Tara smile, so achingly sweet to see.
‘Oh … my … God! I’ll never forget Neelum’s face, it was like I’d crapped in her designer handbag and emptied it over her thieving head. And Nanima and Nana were sooo embarrassed, they kept saying, “She has a lot of exam stress right now.” I cannot believe you … how did you remember so much of it … all of it?’
‘Because I wished I had said it,’ Shyama said simply. ‘Because that’s when I knew you were already braver than I would ever be. And I should have said that then. So I’m saying it now. I am so proud of everything you have been, everything you are, and everything you are going to be.’
Tara shredded the end of a tissue into a tiny blizzard before looking back up. ‘Aaah. That may just be my next tattoo …’
‘Your next—?’
Tara smiled again, softer this time, retreating into herself again for a moment.
‘We can get him, you know, I can call lawyer Gina right now …’ Shyama said eventually. ‘When you get back we can go straight to the police. You have five years to bring a charge …’
‘Not yet, Mama. When I’m ready.’
‘I wish you’d told me. What kind of a mother am I?’
‘Mine. I’m so glad you’re mine.’
The whole city held its breath for the two weeks that Nirbhaya clung to life. For legal reasons her identity could not be released to the press, but people needed to name her so that they could claim her as their own and show their support and outrage. Nirbhaya, the fearless one, seemed to be the most popular name. Demonstrations sprang up spontaneously outside the hospital, around India Gate and the Lok Sabha, then spread to other cities – Bangalore, Kolkata, Mumbai, Paris, London – silent candlelit vigils with home-made placards, angry marches with megaphones; hundreds of thousands joined in on social media, where users replaced their profile pictures with a black dot to symbolize their solidarity and spread the message.
Shyama rarely attended any of these events. She preferred to be in the office, where an extra pair of hands was always welcome, to make tea and bring in food, to answer the constantly ringing phone, to make banners, painting slogans sometimes in Hindi, following the curves and lines of letters she could not read. She would send Tara and Dhruv off with bottles of water and roti rolls when it was their turn to take a shift on a vigil, reminding them every time to stay near each other and keep away from the police. The calm of the empty office after the frantic activity of each day was some sort of balm. Shyama would tidy and wash up, keeping an eye on the twenty-four-hour news channel on the computer screens. Occasionally she would forget for a moment about the three of them back in London, but they were always with her in some way. Well, there were so many children running around wherever you went – there were Tara and Dhruv, so obviously besotted with each other, each private look and coded smile a bittersweet reminder of the love she thought she had found second time around. And then there were the young men – so many of them at every demo and vigil, standing alongside the women, letting the world know: ‘Not in my Country’ and ‘This Is Not Me’. She hoped that one day the boy so far away would grow up to be like them.
By the time the Indian government made the decision to move the gravely ill Nirbhaya to a specialist hospital in Singapore, Christmas had been and gone, barely a blip in Shyama’s calendar. Tara and Dhruv had been caught up in a demonstration at India Gate on 21 December which had turned violent and been broken up by water cannon and tear gas, the crowds sick of the continuing apathy of officials in the face of their continual demands for change and action. Five men had been charged, one of them a juvenile of just seventeen, but everyone knew how long getting to trial could take. There were renewed calls for fast-track courts which went unheeded, and feelings were inflamed by comments from one of the accused’s defence lawyers, who declared he had never heard of a single incident of rape suffered by a respectable lady, and that furthermore, the victim’s male companion was wholly responsible for the attack because he had failed to protect her honour. A prominent holy man suggested the victim herself could have avoided any harm if she had simply chanted God’s name, thrown herself at the feet of her attackers and begged for mercy.
Shyama and Gauri had ordered both their children out of their soaked clothes, bathed their swollen eyes and given them ginger infusions for their inflamed throats. Still Tara and Dhruv sat in front of the television and their computer screens with their mugs in their hands, channel hopping and monitoring feeds to check the varying coverage of the incident, occasionally shouting at paraded politicians in hoarse overlapping voices. Shyama wondered if Tara had confided in Dhruv, shared with him the secret she’d kept for so long, which still rose every day at unexpected moments in Shyama’s head, a shark fin in a seemingly calm sea. Maybe that’s why he was so polite and respectful with her, careful even. Or maybe that’s how boys were here. Some boys.
‘Look at them both,’ Gauri sighed, proud and fearful. Shyama understood that. ‘Tara said you might be going back soon?’
‘My parents are anxious to return, they’ve been away some time.’
‘She will be fine with us,’ Gauri reassured her.
‘Oh I know, that’s not what I’m worried about.’ Shyama sighed. ‘Her college course … amongst other things.’
‘You know, we run a very similar course here at my college. It has an excellent reputation. In some cases, for someone with Tara’s grades, we could look into the possibility of a year’s exchange. She could apply for financial support via a scholarship scheme.’
‘Has Tara been talking to you, by any chance?’
Gauri laughed. ‘No, Dhruv has been talking to me. When I tried to raise the subject with Tara, she said she was
n’t going to discuss anything before talking to you … such old-fashioned respect. What’s your secret?’
‘Where do you want to start?’
Nirbhaya died on 29 December in Singapore and the streets in so many cities roared in mourning in response. Commentators were calling this India’s version of the Arab Spring. The taboo of sexual violence, India’s hidden shame, was not so hidden any more, and as people like Kavita continued to stress, not just India’s shame. The government hurriedly set up a judicial committee, asking for suggestions from the public as to how they could amend the law to provide quicker investigation and prosecution for such crimes. They received eighty thousand replies.
Shyama had managed to book tickets back to London for herself and her parents on 31 December; it seemed not many people wanted to fly on New Year’s Eve. Despite her unashamed pleading with Tara, no amount of bribery or half-hearted emotional blackmail could persuade her to join them. She told her mother it was less to do with Dhruv (did she think she was the kind of woman who would build her plans around a boyfriend?) and more to do with what was happening at Shakti; it felt too momentous to leave Delhi at the moment. Besides, here her shedding of her old skin could continue, along with her acquisition of new landscapes, new faces, new beginnings.
Shyama thought it was fitting to leave on that particular day. She had never been a fan of New Year’s Eve parties – too many anti-climactic renditions of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in overcrowded sitting rooms, getting kissed by drunk strangers, thinking about how to get a cab home as the last chime sounded. There was always a sense of melancholy mixed in with the mad partying: how quickly the time had gone since last year’s awful do at Dave and what’s her name’s place; all the resolutions made and broken – still smoking, still overweight, still single or married and still not happy about it. But still here, that was something.
The pilot told them they would have the privilege of seeing in the new year a few times as they flew over different time zones – or, the only way Shyama could imagine it, flying backwards against the clock, reversing the hands again and again to welcome in several new years. Prem and Sita were happily seated next to her with their travel pillows and blankets; she had set each of them up with their headphones and personal screens and they were already looking forward to the complimentary salted snacks. They had asked her about the baby some time ago. She had told them what she knew from Toby: he was six pounds exactly and healthy. They had known not to ask anything else. Not right now.
Only once they had taken off did Shyama allow herself to click on the picture attachment on her phone which had been there unopened since she had received it. She could see Mala’s arm cradling him against her chest. Toby must have taken the picture – nothing of him except in the child’s chin and his unblinking, wise expression. What was she worried about? It was just a baby, after all. Just another everyday miracle. She deleted the attachment and ordered herself a vodka and orange juice. Prem was busy fiddling with random buttons, Sita fussing over his seat belt. Shyama saw her hesitate just once, when Prem turned to look at her – at her hands on his lap adjusting his buckle, and then back at her face, trying to place where he might have seen her before. But before she could be sure, it was gone, as momentary as the fireworks that began to leap up from the ground far below in blazing arcs and fade away as quickly as falling stars.
ONE YEAR LATER
‘GOD, I HATE bloody satnavs!’ Shyama said for the fourth time as she pulled the car into a lay-by and prepared to do another three-point turn.
‘I offered to drive …’ Lydia murmured, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth out of the open window.
‘And can’t you put that out now? It’s freezing in here,’ Shyama moaned as she screeched off in the direction from which they had just come. ‘According to this stupid machine, they live in the middle of a field …’
‘I think you might be right there,’ Lydia said suddenly. ‘Slow down, there’s an opening just here. Turn left … left!’
‘You just said right!’
At the last moment, Shyama managed to manoeuvre the car on to the rutted track, where it hit a pothole and stalled. She put the handbrake on and took a deep breath. Beyond the sparse hedges, sleeping fields stretching for miles, a creased brown blanket sugared with frost.
‘You sure about this, Shyams?’ Lydia threw her stub out of the window and closed it, muffling the distant caw of crows. She took Shyama’s hand, which was cold and clammy, in hers and rubbed it vigorously.
Shyama nodded.
‘Thanks for coming with me,’ she finally said.
‘I told you, I’m on call. Any time.’
Shyama restarted the car and edged slowly up the lane. She didn’t know how she would have got through the past year without Lydia. It mattered less that she happened to be a therapist, more that they had a shared history which needed no explanation. The relief was that she didn’t have to talk it all out, she could rely on silent shorthand and get on with other things. In fact, when she had first returned, all Shyama had wanted to talk about was Tara. Had Lydia known? No, but she had guessed something like that might have happened. Shyama had waited for the recriminations, the I-told-you-sos that never came. She had remembered then why she loved Lydia so much. She asked if she would try and persuade Tara to return to the UK and press charges against Charlie, whose name she could hardly bear to say. Lydia repeated what Tara had said: when she’s ready, and when she’s strong enough to face the inevitably long and painful process, they would all be there for her, armed and dangerous.
Whilst Lydia had appointed herself unofficial nurse and all-round wise woman, Priya had been assigned the role of chief entertainments officer, showing up with tickets for the theatre or an invitation to an art-gallery opening, turning up unannounced with fish and chips and Trivial Pursuit. There had never been much talk about what exactly had gone wrong between Shyama and Toby; it was enough to know that it had, and badly. And because they were women of a certain age and they knew life’s curve balls oh-so-well, it was best just to dust her off and get her back to gorgeousness. Or at least functioning, which she had been doing, pretty well.
The phone rang and switched to speaker.
‘Mum? Are you there yet?’
‘Almost, and you’re on speakerphone, before you say something rude in front of your Auntie Lydia.’
‘She taught me every rude word I know, so don’t worry about that … just wanted to know if we should have supper ready for when you get back? Are you staying? Or …’
Three dots. An open-ended question. No answer yet.
‘I’ll let you know soon. How’s Dhruv?’
‘Right here, Auntie!’ She could hear Dhruv making fun of her even from this distance.
‘Yes, touch my feet when I get back … did you do the open-top London bus tour then?’
‘Actually it was so cold …’
‘… we went to the movies and ate two tubs of mixed popcorn. It was extremely cultural, you would be proud.’
They usually finished off each other’s sentences. Lydia thought it unbearably cute. Shyama thought it occasionally wandered into just about unbearable, but Lydia said that was because she was turning into a bitter old cow, and when she fell in love again, she would probably do it herself. How I love an optimist, Shyama had told her. What’s the alternative? Lydia had replied.
‘How’s Nana-ji today?’ Shyama asked, speeding up a little as the track suddenly widened and the landscape dipped around her; they were going to higher ground.
‘He’s OK. Had a bit of a slow start this morning, but the carer was great, she got him dressed and by lunchtime he was all there, recognized us all, chatting away. He even helped Nanima with a bit of gardening. We’re going to take them to Westfield later on for a walk in the warm …’
‘Are you mad? It will be rammed, three days before Christmas.’
‘Hey, we live in Delhi, we can handle a few pushy shoppers …’
‘Oh, got to go, swee
tie, call you on the way back!’
‘Bye!’ they both said together before hanging up.
Shyama parked up. She could see the house clearly now. It was really a cottage sitting in a small courtyard with one ramshackle outhouse and a large fenced garden at the back. It must have been cheaper to buy here than down in the village because of its inaccessibility, but the views were impressive and uninterrupted. There was a muddy estate car parked outside the front door, a National Trust sticker on the windscreen. A lit Christmas tree was just visible through the curtains in the front bay window. Shyama reached over to the back seat and grabbed the present, its shiny paper patterned with tiny Santas crackling in her hands. She had chosen one of those educational play centres in bright primary colours with various levers and buttons and scrunchy things to keep little hands and minds busy. She had asked the sales assistant for something suitable and this had appealed to her – she liked anything that multi-tasked.
‘I’ll walk from here, I think.’ Shyama opened the door. Lydia gave her one last searching look. Shyama nodded back her answer and set off for the house.
As the track wound round the curve of the hill, she saw he was in the back garden. Toby had his jumper sleeves rolled up and was tying something to the large tree at the far boundary in that methodical, unhurried way she remembered. He stepped back and straightened out the wooden swing, pulling down on the ropes, testing the weight. It looked like a cradle – a small seat with a back, and holes for legs. He called out something snatched away by the wind, and the boy toddled into view on fat unsteady legs, his arms outstretched in his quilted jacket. She couldn’t see much of his face due to the large bobble hat low down on his head and fastened under his chin. She saw strands of dark hair, pale olive skin. Toby lifted him up and kissed him roughly on his cheek, but the boy wriggled away from it, his hands grabbing air, his legs kicking in anticipation. Toby relented and settled him carefully into the swing and gave it a little push. More, higher, she thought she could hear him say, but of course he probably couldn’t say much yet. He expressed himself with the grip of his plump hands and bouncing knees.
