by M G Vassanji
Those words ran like a dagger through him. What had happened to him? Had he changed so much? Lost all feeling for the people he had loved? It was a quietly simmering guilt he lived with, spiked with the constant regret that in all the years since he left Nairobi as a boy, he had returned only once, more than thirty years ago, when his mother died. He had a brother in California, an engineer, whom he had not seen since he left home; they had spoken a few times over the phone. There was his younger sister in Nairobi. In Toronto meanwhile he became a writer, recreating that life of a family and community that was now shattered, whose remnants he had rejected. When there was nothing more he could say, he stopped.
Aileen had nothing much to do with her own family either. She had a brother who ran a pub on Toronto’s Eastern Avenue, an old working-class neighbourhood. But Munir had discovered after her death that over the years she had sent Christmas presents to her nieces and nephews; and later, money to a niece who had made it to university. So Aileen had cheated on the status quo, their acknowledged aloofness from their pasts.
Perhaps he had taken the easy way out into a marriage—out of loneliness and a need for sex, and to adapt and be accepted into a new life. But they had made a successful life together, they grew into middle age with each other, they brought up a daughter, were members of a club, and travelled. She was proud of his successes and kept a scrapbook of his reviews. More recently, however, she had grown impatient with his inertia, kept exhorting him to snap out of his writer’s block. It wasn’t a block, he’d protest, just a dead-end.
After Razia had gone away to university, the thought would come fleeting into Munir’s mind: Had he and Aileen been married too long? Had he given up—abandoned—too much? And she, too, did she entertain similar thoughts on her part? Surely she must have wished to appeal to her Scottish roots sometimes, be a European, just as he wistfully recalled his father at a qawwali recital in Nairobi, shaking his head and clapping his hands in ecstasy, repeating a phrase with an explosive “Wah!”, and the radio blaring Hindustani music on weekends.
Their marriage did not crash. But she crashed her car, and he was left to wonder, had he, in some corner of his mind, actually wished her dead?
The police had examined the car following the crash. They returned it two weeks later, and he learned that they had made careful inquiries at his garage. They had asked to see her insurance policy, and got access to her will from their lawyer. They would have loved to pin the classic murder on him—a husband fiddling with the brakes. It was funny, then again, not. Munir knew the brakes worked, he had used the car the previous evening; she had undoubtedly skidded on an ice patch.
One afternoon, some months after the accident, Munir drove downtown and turned onto Eastern Avenue; he ran through a neglected neighbourhood of old brick houses built more than a century ago for immigrant labourers. Seeing a corner bar, the only place of business on the street, he stopped and parked. The bar was dark and dingy inside, a few customers sat on high stools at the counter. On one wall a television mutely showed a soccer match. Munir went and sat at a table on the raised level next to the entrance and ordered a pint of lager from the barman who came over. “Anything to eat?” the man asked, and recommended fish and chips, which Munir ordered. The man, tall and gaunt-faced, the forehead large and broad, first brought the beer and some ten minutes later the food. He hesitated, and then sat down across from Munir.
“You’re her brother—Aileen’s?” Munir asked. “I saw you at the funeral.”
The man twitched his mouth in assent. After a moment he seemed to relax and said, “Her younger brother. She called me Mac.”
The funeral service was the only time he had seen Mac, in a black suit, sitting in one of the front rows with a number of young women. In her will, Aileen had left nothing for Mac, but decent bequests for his five children.
“We should have come to see you more often,” Munir said.
“Ah well, it’s a busy life and to each his own, eh?”
“I suppose so.”
There followed an uncomfortable silence, Munir aware of a searching gaze upon him, and then they started to talk. Munir, responding, told Mac what he did, named a few books. No, he agreed, writing was not an easy profession, but he had been lucky and Aileen had been supportive. Mac said he’d lived in this area all his life, it was where he and Aileen had grown up. The neighbourhood was undergoing change, Mac went on, the old industries had mostly gone and the houses were being renovated; there was a theatre nearby and an art gallery. Had Munir seen the Starbucks a block away? A young woman had appeared behind the counter, and Mac called her over, introduced her as Amanda, his second daughter. Emily, the third one, was in university, he said proudly. Studied accounting. Mac refused to accept payment, and Munir stood up to go. They shook hands and promised to stay in touch. Munir said he would bring Razia along when she was next in Toronto. Mac replied, “That would be terrific,” adding, “Thank you for dropping by, Munir. It’s been good to sit down finally and have a chat with my sister’s mysterious Hindoo husband. The world’s changed, eh? And better late than never.”
* * *
—
Boys in long shirts and caps were playing cricket in the driveway, three teenage girls wearing different-coloured hijabs were heading out towards the entrance of the two-building condominium complex, and a family of three were arriving, pushing a shopping cart, as Munir drove in and parked in the only spot available in the visitors’ lot. As soon as he emerged, a boy walked up to him, saying “Munir Mamu?” Apparently he had been holding the spot.
Munir had called Khadija during the week to say he would come to see her on Saturday; this boy, presumably her grandson, was his designated escort. The lobby they entered was crowded but not noisy. The boy, who said his name was Salman, pushed through into the elevator as soon as the door rattled open and motioned him to enter, which Munir to his embarrassment did, bearing the stares of the others.
The apartment was on the seventh floor. Salman had casually pressed the buzzer downstairs, and when Munir entered, Khadija was standing at the door waiting for him. Big sister, little brother. She grabbed him with one arm and pressed him to her, almost strangling him, he thought, and gave a sob. “Bhaiya. It’s been a long time. A very long time, my brother.”
This was Khadija’s eldest son Imran’s place, where she was staying; Imran had taken time off from work, as had his wife Shairoz. She stepped forward somewhat shyly, and Munir lightly embraced her, not sure of greeting formalities anymore. Imran had on a bemused, indulgent look the whole time. Imran’s sisters Amina and Fatima were the two other adults present, cheerful and chatty and thrilled to meet their writer-uncle. A number of kids were on the living room carpet watching TV. They were quickly shooed off, told to go away downstairs and play, but to remember to return for lunch. The adults sat down. Aileen’s funeral had been private, controlled by her instructions, therefore Munir’s family had not been present. He had delegated Razia to inform them of her mother’s death. Now the small grieving session began, Khadija saying, “She was a good woman, if different,” which was the cue, and she put her handkerchief to her eyes and started crying, upon which the other three women joined in, until Munir said, “It’s all right, please,” and Imran recited the formula, “From Him we come, and to Him we return,” and the crying stopped.
“Let’s have lunch,” Shairoz said and got up.
A feast had been prepared for the prodigal, the like of which he had not had in a very long time, reminding him of Eid days in Nairobi—sweet vermicelli, samosas, and papad to start, followed by lamb biryani, daal, and eggplant bhurta, with naan and pickles, and finally halwa. He was fed by his sister as if he were still a boy. When they were finished, the kids, who had returned back to the television, made a dash for the table and the adults returned to the living room.
It was nostalgia, sweet as the halwa. It felt immensely gratifying to finally reconnect, to
heal the sore wound. Aileen would have come around, he was certain, it was only his own weakness that had kept him away from his family. Khadija had five children. Three of them, two sons and a daughter, were in Toronto, a son was in New York, and a daughter, who was the eldest, was in Nairobi. Two of her children had been to university. He took down their particulars, promising to give them to Razia. He was shown the family album and a host of photos on smartphones, and he in turn showed them a photo of Razia with Mark. The wedding had been private and civil, and he could see the disappointment on their faces. Today’s kids…, they all agreed. Finally he left, with a package of food to take with him.
That night he called Razia; she was not in so he left a message for her, briefly describing his visit to her phupi. He felt so pleased with himself that he also sent a text to Mohini. I feel so happy, I visited my sister.
Mohini
MOHINI COULD NOT FORGET her mother’s admonition to her to come to her senses. Have you become possessed? She couldn’t forget her dream, either, his rejection of her when she went to Toronto. She recalled that in the dream, following that handshake greeting, as he drove her to her hotel, his radio was playing some piano music. When she asked him what it was, he said, “Chopin, of course.” She commented on how elegant and clean his car was, and then, seeing him negotiate the traffic with ease, at home among streets so different from hers, she said to herself, He’s not Indian at all. He’s a Westerner. How could I have been so stupid?
Plagued by her insecurity and doubts, she had turned inward. In such moods Ravi dared not provoke her. She did not respond to his exclamations over the paper or the TV discussions, was not keen to go to the Club. Days would pass before she replied to Munir’s texts. His were cheerful and full of concern, so him, as she had come to know him. One day he wrote that he had finally gone to see his sister, as Mohini had encouraged him to do. I’m so happy. She responded instantly, I’m so happy too. She recovered. How could she have doubted him?
Before Mohini left her parents’ house on that last visit, Ma had put around her neck a Hanuman Chalisa pendant. “But Ma, this is what they sell on TV, those fraudsters!” “I bought it outside the temple. It will help you.”
She was wearing it now. Ma had always worn some prayer or charm.
* * *
—
When she was five, they had gone on a holiday to Amritsar. It was the weekend of the Muslim festival of Eid. On the Friday, she had returned from school at lunchtime to find her parents dressed and ready to leave. Ma had packed for all of them. Bau-ji was dressed in a white cotton jacket and dark trousers, like in the old photo with his brother; Ma was in a plain sari.
There was a quiet purposefulness in her parents; not much was spoken as they waited for the auto. Bau-ji had a distant look on his face, an edginess in his demeanour that would remain throughout the trip. He had taken an umbrella and was drumming the ground with it. Ma had a smile on her face, but Mohini sensed apprehension, observed the occasional deep-drawn breath. She wondered if a death had occurred in the family, opened her mouth to ask, then shut it. That’s what she was liked for, being the quiet one. The sensible one. Aarti in contrast would have been all over the place, which was why she had been dropped off at relatives’.
“Are you sure you want to take her?” Bau-ji asked at the last moment. “She’ll just come in the way.”
“She’s responsible. I want her to come, and she’s already been told,” Ma replied. “She has to know.”
The railway station was bustling, crowds of people with luggage emerging from it in a daze into the bright sunshine, pursued by taxi touts, or going inside warily, coolies in red jackets running to greet them. “Find out where to go,” Ma said to Bau-ji as they stepped out of the auto. As she said this, a red-jacket ran up, and Ma inquired, “Eh, Bhaiya, which platform for Amritsar?” Without a word he snatched the two bags from Bau-ji and ran off, saying, “Don’t worry, Platform Four! I’ll show where to stand!” Bau-ji shouted after him, “I’ll carry my bags myself! Who told you—” And Ma told him, “Go after him, he shouldn’t run away with the bags.”
It was Mohini who ran after the coolie, into the station, up a flight of stairs, more running, down a flight of stairs, more running. It was exciting! She was laughing, and the coolie, looking back now and then, was laughing with her, knowing perhaps too well her parents’ anxiety. They arrived, angry, and haggled with the coolie and paid him.
The red-jacket had a twinkle in his eye as he ran off, saying, “Look after the little girl, don’t let her run off. This is Delhi!”
“Bewakoof,” Bau-ji muttered, “teaching us…” But he turned to Mohini and said, “Stay close to your mother. Don’t run off!”
Did she remember all that? She had been little but she could recall much from that trip, and they had reminisced many times, she, Ma, and Bau-ji. What struck her now was that even after fifteen years since the Partition her parents had still kept hope of finding Mohan some day.
Although they had reserved berths, their compartment was packed when they arrived and Bau-ji had to shoo the interlopers away, saying, “Please go, we want to sleep.” But Mohini couldn’t sleep in her upper bunk, her eyes drawn to the window as they passed slums and villages, the yellow signs proclaiming station names in Hindi, English, and Urdu. Food came, tea came. She didn’t know when she finally fell asleep, and when she woke up there was more tea and she didn’t want to come out when they reached Amritsar.
“Will we go back by train?”
“Yes, come on.”
It was one of her happiest memories; no other journey would be like that, not even in the company of her friends in college, and yet it had a tragic colouring.
They took a tonga, the driver showing them several guest houses before they picked one to stay at, a modest one, where hot water had to be brought in for bathing.
Early the next morning they first visited the Golden Temple. They sat down in the hushed front hall for a while as the kirtans were sung; it was luxuriant and bright, like the inside of a maharaja’s palace. After that they got up and went for the blessing, and Ma took some time praying before the statue of the guru. Bau-ji did the required, joining hands without lingering, his face as solemn as ever. From here they went to Jallianwallah Bagh, which was not far, and Bau-ji got some animation back, describing the event that was commemorated there. How General Dyer had ordered his troops to shoot at the unarmed protesters who had gathered here in this enclosed space. Mohini put her finger inside every bullet hole, looked deep into the well where women had jumped in to escape the bullets, and had to be held back. “This is how they ruled us, and then they broke up our country and left,” Bau-ji said bitterly.
They had lunch near the guest house, then hired another tonga. On the way Ma asked the driver to stop at a temple, into which they entered. Bau-ji again was quick with his worship, but Ma gave Mohini a coin and the two of them took longer with the priest. All the prayers in the world, as Mohini stood beside her mother, her hands joined too, and received the mark on her forehead to say she had been.
Outside the temple, as they came out, Ma purchased a Hanuman pendant.
“For good luck, Ma?”
“Lord Hanuman will help us as he helped Ram-ji.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“We are going to a hospital.”
“Is someone sick?”
“We are going to see if your Mohan Chachu has been found and brought there. The one who was lost in the Partition.”
That familiar reminder of the Partition took away some of the joy of the trip. Everything was still interesting and new and exciting, but now framed by the black of that loss.
The Lady Mary Hospital was a huge building, people going in and out, well, sick, and disabled. A clanging ambulance stopped, people rushed to it, a stretcher came out. For some reason a police car was behind it. Mohini and her parents got off the tonga
and entered. It took Bau-ji a lot of pushing and shouting at reception before someone paid attention. A soldier came to escort them down a long corridor, up the stairs, and then down another long corridor. At the end was a hall. The soldier pushed open the door and waited for them to go inside, and when they did so he gave them a salute.
There was a table inside the entrance, where a nurse sat and an attendant stood by. Another soldier stood in a corner. Towards the back of the hall were three cots and three men in pyjamas; one man was lying down, two were sitting on chairs next to their cots. One of the sitting men had a magazine in his hands. He hardly looked sick, and when he heard them he turned a benign look towards them. He had a full beard; the two others merely looked unshaven. All three had close-cropped hair.
Bau-ji gave his name to the nurse and said he was from Delhi; he had received a phone call from the refugee resettlement office directing him to come and verify if one of the men they had cleared in Amritsar was his missing brother Mohan. He told the nurse the story of Mohan’s disappearance in the train from what was now Pakistan. It was a long time ago, but like other families, they still had hope.