Indian Magic

by Balraj Khanna

  ‘Yes, I can. I don’t want to play.’

  ‘Robert, let your big sister bat first. Be a gentleman.’

  ‘No. I’m batting first. Ann second. Raavi third and you are last man in, Jane.’ The captain had spoken.

  Miss Muir relented and we all had a bat. Robert scored eighteen runs, Ann eight, I six and Miss Muir was out first ball - clean bowled by me. She went, ‘Oops!’ and laughed so much that it made me think that she had had to go to the cobbler’s the other day, after all. Her laugh was that of somebody who did go to the cobbler’s if they said they were going there. It was also like the bubbly water of a sprightly Simla stream.

  ‘Have another go, Jane,’ the generous captain said.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘There has to be a second innings. Always is,’ I said. This time, Miss Muir hit three cracking fours in a row. More of that Simla bubbly accompanied them, giving the glory of the afternoon a touch of magic. Then, as suddenly as it had started, our game came to an end. What to do? To go or not to go?

  ‘Let’s have another test match,’ Robert said.

  ‘No, we can’t. I have to go.’ I felt I had to say that.

  ‘Oh no! Where do you have to go?’

  ‘Robert!’ The big sister chided her little brother.

  ‘Well, walk with us to the park gate then. Can he come with us, Jane?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Had Miss Muir hesitated while saying that? I wondered. I also wondered if I should not decline the offer and point to the other park entrance on the opposite side and say I had to go to the tailor’s or barber’s or carpenter’s or cabinet-maker’s. I didn’t and we walked away from the zoo, the children a few yards in front of us. I searched my brain for something bright to say. All sorts of things proposed themselves - the unbelievable weather and the exquisite horticulture surrounding us and the much talked-about Beatles’ haircut, among them. Yet none of them struck me as being clever enough to make my co-walker do that which I desperately wanted her to do - find me interesting. I also wanted to know her.

  ‘Are you studying somewhere?’ I said eventually.

  ‘Yes, I’m a student nurse. I’m at college in Greenwich.’

  ‘Fascinating name. I love the names of English towns - Woolwich, Greenwich, Dulwich. Does wich mean anything?’

  ‘I don’t know. I live there but come home regularly.’

  ‘You must miss home. Your mum, your dad.’

  ‘Our dad hardly lives at home,’ she said. ‘Now he’s there, now he’s not there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You see my parents are sort of separated.’ Had she looked sad, saying that? Or was I just imagining it? Maybe I expected her to look sad. Back home, this sort of thing was only a step away from divorce, and divorce was disgrace and tragedy, at least for the woman and the children.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I really didn’t. ‘I mean, they are such lovely children and so young. And so are you. What does he do?’

  ‘He is a second-hand car dealer in Kilburn. Robert, don’t push Ann.’ Had Miss Muir had said that to change the subject?

  ‘She pushed me first.’

  ‘I never.’

  We were walking past a little pond. It was a picture-postcard pond complete with a dainty little bridge and ducks and drakes and a smiling garden by its side. Well-dressed NW11’s criss-crossed the bridge to and from the garden. A very English scene it was. Calm and well-ordered.

  ‘He must miss you very much. Such wonderful children. You must miss him too?’

  A cold look came over Miss Muir. She thought for a moment and my heart stopped. I was being obnoxious, asking personal questions. She was going to tell me what I had asked for - jump into the pond. But I was saved - by the children.

  ‘Jane, can we go on the bridge?’

  ‘All right,’ Miss Muir said to the kids but didn’t say anything to me. Once across the bridge, the children wanted to go to the garden. Their sister let them go. We followed. It was an astonishing sight, the garden, restful and graceful, a song in sweet smells and colour. Every blossom was in full bloom and every bush trimmed to perfection.

  ‘Nature methodised,’ I said dreamily.

  ‘Nature what?’

  ‘Pope.’

  ‘Pope who? Which Pope?’

  ‘Very English, this,’ I said, moving to familiar grounds.

  ‘It would be. It is England.’

  ‘Yes, I would die missing them.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Such wonderful children.’ Stupid me. Why the hell was I going on about it? I simply didn’t know.

  Miss Muir looked away. As she did so, she kicked a largish twig not entirely in her path. That was her answer.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that?’

  Deservedly reprimanded - serve me right - I shut up. As we came out of the garden, Robert came running up and took his big sister’s hand. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’ Ann came and took her other hand.

  ‘No, I don’t want to,’ Jane told them.

  ‘Come on, I’ll race you both,’ I said and almost instantly, the race began. The three of us ran downhill. We tumbled and fell and rolled on each other, and the children laughed and I felt exceedingly happy and grateful.

  ‘Who won?’ A smile played on Miss Muir’s face. I was grateful for that too.

  ‘I did,’ the three Olympic sprinters said.

  There was a cafe ́ on our left, crowded and noisy. Chairs and tables with striped parasols filled its yard. A little boy shot past us, carrying a double-topped ice-cream cone and a can of Coke. I turned to my companion.

  ‘Let’s buy them a Coke.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s necessary.’

  ‘I think it is. With all that cricket and racing, I am exhausted. Knackered and bockered. Coca Cola, children?’ They looked at their big sister, who remained unmoved. They didn’t persist.

  ‘How well brought up they are!’ I said. It occurred to me that they must miss their father, perhaps even more than I had imagined. As we passed by the cafe ́, I said, ‘Excuse me. Back in a sec. And don’t go away.’ I ran in and bought ice-cream for the children. Again they looked at their sister as I held out the cones to them.

  ‘You shouldn’t have, er,’ She had forgotten my name. It hurt.

  ‘Raavi Mehra. M.E.H.R.A.’

  ‘You do have difficult names, you know.’

  ‘I know. We should all be called Johnny or Jimmy.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have bought those. You spoil them.’

  ‘Children should be spoiled – it’s their birthright. I was - Ruined, in fact. Weren’t you? Can’t believe you weren’t.’

  ‘What do you do here, Raavi? Is that right - Raavi?’

  ‘Yes, just right. What do I do here? What do we all do here? Does anyone know? Well, I am waiting to start teaching. I will go to university next year.’

  ‘What are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘I work as a manager designate of an Indian restaurant.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be manager of a restaurant?’

  ‘Tell me, do you like Indian food - curry as it is called?’

  ‘I have never eaten it.’

  ‘Oh, you simply must try it. Come to our restaurant tomorrow evening and be my guest.’ I saw Mr Gokul Swami glare at me as I said that - me entertaining the thought of entertaining a white English girl in his restaurant. But I knew I needn’t worry. For I knew what she was going to say.

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Come on Tuesday. Tuesdays are better. Everything first-class, garden fresh and super-duper.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘Come on Wednesday then. Come any day. Come every day.’

  Miss Muir did not answer. She looked straight ahead, thinking. I wished I knew of what. She transferred the children’s sweaters from one arm
to the other and looked sideways at me. The way she did so left no doubt in my mind what she was saying: I like you. I think. But. The children walked only a few yards in front as if they were attached to us with an elasticated invisible lead like two puppies. For no reason at all they looked over their shoulders and giggled.

  ‘They are very fond of you.’

  ‘I am very fond of them. In fact, I adore them. How very sad that…’ I checked myself in time.’

  ‘How very sad about what?’

  ‘About your parents, I mean. About them and you and your Mother. What happened?’

  ‘Dad is very difficult to get on with. He gets very violent at times.’ It was a very matter-of-fact statement, but it gave me a jolt. A warning flashed across my mind. None of your business arsehole. Yet I wanted to know. It was she who changed the subject, as if she had read my mind.

  ‘Thank you for playing with them.’

  ‘I should thank them for the test match. Dexter and Worrell should be envious of me.’ The West Indians had just thrashed England at Old Trafford and the names had appeared on my tongue quite naturally. Besides, I was feeling just what Worrell must have been feeling.

  ‘What?’ She laughed and I felt even better than Worrell - I had made her laugh. I had forgotten the world and was unaware that we had reached the point of parting - we were outside the park entrance, at the bus stop, facing a bus. Here I committed the single gravest act of folly of my life hitherto.

  ‘Miss Muir, What did you mean when you said your father gets very violent? Did he ever?’ Now why did I do that? I didn’t even know what I was going to say: did he ever get violent towards her, her mother, the children? Miss Muir looked me straight in the eye. A blaze of fury swept her face. The soft hazel became steel-hard and piecing. ‘Look here, er, whatever your name is. Why don’t you mind your own business. Goodbye.’ She cut me dead and strode hurriedly to the bus with Robert and Ann. They got on and the bus drove off. I was stunned, not by what she had said, but by my own behaviour. I had spoken to her only twice before. I was not even on first-name speaking terms with her.

  I walked home, a broken man. I walked as if I walked behind the hearse of a beloved one. What seemed like years later, when I arrived home, I went to the fourpenny phone in the hall. Without really wanting to, I dialled Bish’s number and was not disappointed when there was no answer. Then I went upstairs and knocked on Melaram’s door. I was glad he wasn’t in. The Subcontinental suddenly became a pit of thorns. I had to get out of it. I retraced my steps to the scene of the crime, for that was how I felt about what I had done. Maybe it would help. It did not help. I roamed around the streets of NW11 like a stray dog. Finally, exhausted, I came back to the Subcontinental and flung myself on my bed, face buried in the pillow. Inexplicably but mercifully, I fell asleep and slept through the afternoon. Whatever happened later could only have been a dream.

  ‘English mem on the phone.’ Tariq woke me up.

  ‘If it’s a joke I’ll razor your B’s off, I swear I will.’ I waded through the mist of the dream and ran to the phone.

  ‘Look, I am sorry I was rotten to you this afternoon’ said her voice. I bit my hand.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me. I am sorry.’ The hand hurt. I had bitten hard. I wanted to see blood.

  ‘It is me who must apologise.’ I said. ‘I was so grotesquely thoughtless. Please forgive me.’

  ‘You must think I am awful.’

  ‘I think you are the direct opposite.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s what I wanted to say. Okay?’

  ‘Please don’t hang up.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must. Goodbye.’

  ‘Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Goodbye.’

  A rude knock on my door woke me up early one morning. Tariq. I told him to bugger off - I needed my beauty sleep. But my door was open. So the bugger just walked in and he was not alone. Walia and others came with him, a whole bloody delegation.

  ‘Look, look - R.K. Mehra Esquire.’ Tariq held aloft a slim official brown paper envelope.

  ‘LCC. I say. A bottle of Johnnie Walker and it is yours.’ The envelope contained a letter from the Education Officer of the London County Council. He was pleased to inform me that subject to a satisfactory medical, etc. There was a phone number.

  ‘We take it that you are medically fit,’ Walia said.

  ‘My son only has TB, epilepsy and - oh yes, Syphi-Liss. Minor things they won’t mind. So, a bottle of Johnnie Walker.’ Wait till they heard about it at the Magic. I knew what Ranji would do – he’d die laughing. And J. and P. would have a fit. But Gokul Swami?

  I arrived early at work. One look at me and he knew I had something up my sleeve. Mr Swami didn’t return my ‘good-morning’ but looked at me suspiciously. I handed him the brown envelope.

  ‘From the Education Officer of LCC!’ He frowned like Veena, his nostrils beginning to flare, then decided to read the letter.

  ‘Becoming teacher, eh? What’s becoming of Number Two?’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’ I hadn’t thought about it at all.

  ‘You don’t understand?’ Mr Swami wasn’t angry, only broken.

  ‘I thought you’d be glad for me, sir.’

  ‘What about me? The Number Two I build for you?’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Who else? How many times I told you, how many? I can’t believe you doing this. You can’t to me.’

  ‘I am not doing anything to you, sir.’

  ‘Wait till Mrs Isswami hear. Wait.’ Mr Swami picked up the phone and dialled his house. ‘Hey, Issweetness, he’s going - him you personally choose and me. Becoming teacher, believe it or not. That’s right!’

  ‘Mr Swami, sir.’ Mr Swami phoned his friend with the same message, adding, ‘Haul your backside here quick, quick with Issweetness.’ That done, he fixed me with his eyes again. ‘She coming. You explain to her yourself when she come.’

  ‘Sir, there is nothing to explain. I am getting a far better job. That’s all.’ But my boss was not listening. He was really and truly upset. I couldn’t understand any of it. It was bizarre, comical even – he couldn’t want me to continue here as a bloody waiter, a menial worker, when I could be a respectable teacher with more than thrice my waiter’s pay? And why on earth was he angry? I didn’t have to turn up here to give in my notice in person. I could have done so on the phone when the time came.

  Within minutes, Rameshwar and Mrs Swami arrived. Rameshwar looked bemused, but Sweetness was clearly worried.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Swami. Good morning, Lord Rameshwar.’

  ‘I don’t believe it what Mr Swami say on the phone,’ Mrs Swami said, pulling out a chair and sitting right in front of me.

  ‘Issweetness, ask him yourself.’

  ‘Is true you want to do this to him and me and us?’

  ‘Do what, Mrs Swami?’

  ‘Is true you want to go?’

  ‘Mrs Swami, surely you wouldn’t want me to remain a servant when I could be a teacher at three times the salary.’

  ‘Who call you servant?’

  ‘Or a waiter. Same thing.’

  ‘Boy has point, Sweetness. Boy has,’ Lord Rameshwar said, surprising me, for he had never taken my side before.

  ‘I agree. Raavi has point. So Raavi, you are not waiter any more from the day Number Two start.’

  ‘What are you saying, Mrs Swami?’

  ‘I am saying you are Manager of Number Two when it start. On full teacher salary.’

  ‘That’ll be months, Mrs Swami.’

  ‘Then you become Manager from the day construction start on Number Two. You supervise work. That right, ji, Mr Swami, no? When will work start, ji?’ Mr Swami shook his left leg and cleared his throat.

  ‘In three four months,’ Mr Swami said.

  ‘That okay, Raavi?’

  ‘Go do your teaching-weeching till then, Raavi,’ Lord Rameshwar said. ‘Then come back and be our top manager. How do y
ou like that? I like it a lot.’

  ‘But I still want to go to university after.’

  ‘After is after. Go change now,’ Mr Swami said.

  ‘You like to make a storm in tea-cup, ji, Mr Swami. Ravi is so very nice and well-brought up. All you need to do is talk nice, nice. And story finish.’

  After the medical, the Divisional Office sent me to a convent in Archway as a supply teacher. I was excited. I was scared. My first day at a school as a teacher. It didn’t seem all that far back in time when I was there as a pupil.

  I had to stand in for one Mrs Grange, an English teacher. As I had a degree in English, I was told to take over her timetable. The morning was spent sipping tea in a sombre looking staff room with a high ceiling and pictures of Christ and crucifixes. Nuns with shiny faces in black habits nipped in and out busily. They looked alike, carbon copies. They all smiled at me benignly, the only brown face there, the only one doing nothing and reading and re-reading the Guardian. Every thirty-five minutes the Tannoy hiccuped six bleeps in quick succession. These bleeps were called pips. They sent teachers hurrying and scurrying. I had to wait till after lunch when I would do the same. My destination - 5C. Rachel, a sixteen-year-old girl, was appointed my guide. She was an ample young thing in a green blazer and skirt and matching green eyes. Her hair was flaming gold, like Ingi’s. As I talked to her, I became convinced that she had never set Eyes on a man before. It was ‘crush at first sight’. And she addressed me as ‘Sere’, which did me no end of good.

  With a beatific smile, Sister So and So told Rachel to take me to the English Department’s stock room so that I could acquaint myself with books on her year’s syllabus. It was at the end of the top corridor on the third floor.

  ‘Rachel, I have a confession to make?’ I said on the way.

  ‘What?’ Confession in a convent by a teacher!

  ‘I am a bit nervous. It’s my first day as a teacher.

  ‘Really? You don’t look like a teacher at all, Sere.’

  ‘Then what do I look like?’ I wasn’t a teacher and I didn’t feel like one either. In fact, I felt closer to her than I had done to anybody in the staff room.

  ‘Are you married, Sere?’

  ‘Four wives.’ Rachel put a hand on her mouth and her eyes doubled in size.