Inheritance

by Balli Kaur

  ‘Then they ask about Father. Why haven’t they seen him lately? How long has it been? I tell them that Father has been feeling a bit unwell. They nod sympathetically and say, of course. I’ve been giving them this excuse for years now and they have been accepting it. You know what they do next, Gurdev? They ask me why I’m not married. They say, “why haven’t you settled down with a nice girl?” As if they don’t know what I am – they want me to say it. Do you know why they feel as if they can twist some sort of confession out of me?’

  ‘Narain—’

  Narain’s voice rose. ‘Because they haven’t asked about Amrit. They think they’ve done us a favour by not talking about her, as if she’s dead to us. They think this means they’re on my side.’

  Gurdev’s eyes roamed across the room. A pair of jeans and a shirt were strewn across the ironing board and a few open bills lay on the bedside table. These were all the things Narain owned. By the time Gurdev was his age, he had two daughters and a home filled with furniture. He had a wife who cooked his favourite meals and ironed his clothes.

  ‘We have a plan for Amrit,’ Gurdev said. ‘We want her to stay at our place for a while.’

  Narain looked at him with suspicion. ‘What kind of plan is that?’

  ‘Just leave it to us,’ Gurdev said. ‘You can have a bit more time to yourself then.’ A question burned in him and he wished he could just ask Narain – was he? Was he gay? But each time the word reached the tip of his tongue, Gurdev could not bring himself to say it, as if the word itself was as difficult to pronounce as its meaning was to understand. ‘Narain, have you been at the university campus lately?’ he asked quickly.

  Narain stared at him as if he didn’t understand the question. Gurdev felt a tickle of irritation. ‘Leaflets, anti-government things. I heard that you’ve been passing them out and talking about organising some sort of demonstration. Is this true?’

  ‘We live in a democracy,’ Narain finally said. There was only a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘That’s what you’ll say if they throw you behind bars?’ Gurdev shot back. ‘You’re being stupid. You’re jeopardising all of our lives.’

  ‘How am I doing that?’ Narain asked. ‘You think some mysterious officers, some henchmen, are going to slip into your flat in the middle of the night and haul your family off to a jail cell because I’ve handed out some fliers?’

  ‘That’s what they’ve been doing,’ Gurdev insisted. He noticed the sneer on Narain’s face, telling him how naive he was to believe in such things. ‘This isn’t a joke.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Narain asked. ‘How do you know those aren’t just rumours? Has it been in the papers? Have the ministers gone on television and threatened to do this?’

  ‘No, but, listen Narain you don’t want to challenge—’

  ‘It doesn’t happen, Gurdev. These are scare tactics. They’ve been spreading them for years to keep us in order. I’m not breaking any law by speaking up against the government. A democracy should allow for conversation.’

  ‘So that’s what you plan on telling them if they arrest you,’ Gurdev demanded. ‘You could lose everything if it turns out that you’re wrong.’

  ‘Everything,’ Narain repeated. ‘Tell them to come and take it then.’ He stormed out of the room, leaving Gurdev standing there, bewildered. Gurdev looked around, unsure of what to do. He picked up a few of Narain’s things, absent-mindedly clearing the mess, as if he could make sense of his brother if he just reduced this clutter. He picked up a pair of Narain’s jeans and noticed that the back pockets were padded with paper. He reached in and pulled out a folded square of yellow paper. A flier with bold-printed words shouted:

  Do you want to fight for your rights?

  Are you tired of being told that

  your opinions don’t matter?

  NO MORE NANNY STATE

  Below those headlines were details of the meeting of a collective. Join Us For An Open Discussion, encouraged the welcoming print. Gurdev scrunched the flier into a ball and tore through the room, looking for others. He found them in the pockets of pants, in a satchel, in drawers. He collected all of them and bolted from the flat without saying goodbye.

  Father

  Shame had a blinding effect on Harbeer. Leaving the flat one morning, he opened the main door to discover Amrit sleeping near the pot plants, a set of house keys dangling from her pocket. He stepped around her like a thief, and hurried away as she began to stir. Shame fuelled his walk to the coffee shop.

  The next day, the newspaper ran an article about a collision that had occurred on the corner of their street at 8.30 a.m., between a bread truck and a motorcycle. Witnesses to the scene were encouraged to call the listed number with any information. Harbeer recognised the location but he could not recall noticing an accident scene. Surely police officers and flashing lights would have captured his attention. He searched his mind, but he realised that his rage had transported him to some pitch-black road, where all of his worst thoughts nested.

  When empty, the temple was Harbeer’s daily refuge from the thoughts that crowded his brain. It was the only place he ventured to, besides the shops. Every day at the crack of dawn, the chill of morning bristling the hairs on his arms, he took the bus and then walked into the narrow lanes. How different the world was when the day was just beginning. School children slumped like sacks of rice on the low plastic bus stop seats. The sky displayed an ever-changing palette of pink, blue, orange, and sometimes fiercely red, streaks. He could not adjust his ears to this absence of noise. Taxis and buses sailed along the roads at intervals instead of as one gushing torrent. The typical chatter of children was replaced with a collective mournful sigh, the sound his granddaughters emitted when told they had to finish all their vegetables.

  The temple was vacant on weekday mornings, save for a few elderly retirees and the granthi, whose warbling voice filtered out of the gates and broke like dew among the morning murmurs. Harbeer always took time washing his hands after removing his shoes. It disgusted him to see people walking shamelessly into the temple without cleaning their hands first. After touching the dirt of the earth, how could they enter a place of worship and press their palms to the carpet as they bowed before their Holy Book? And how could they use those filthy fingers to offer their coins to the temple before rising and finding a spot on the carpet to sit? Witnessing such atrocities brought to mind a list of grievances. The strip of red carpet on which people walked when they entered and bowed – when was the last time it had been vacuumed or at least beaten with a straw sapu? It was so littered with lint and thread and hair that it had turned into a dusty red, the colour of crumbling brick walls. The constant chatter during services bothered him as well. It came mostly from the women’s side of the temple, where covered heads huddled together and exchanged the latest gossip. He did not like the poor ventilation or the slow-running fan that didn’t stir the air so much as weakly shift and toss the occasional string of dust onto the floor. There were issues with the cutlery in the dining hall. Several times he had picked up a spoon to see a faint half-circle of dried yoghurt mirroring his frown. There were problems with the splintering benches, the dented aluminium table tipping his cup of tea at a dangerous angle, the winding food queues that looped around so that there was no way of knowing where they began or ended.

  During prayers, Harbeer caught sight of Bhajanjit Singh, the President of the Sikh Association. Retired from the Armed Forces, Bhajanjit Singh was in the temple on most weekdays but he did not stay long in the prayer hall. He had his own office on the second level of the temple, where he ran committee meetings. Harbeer had long given up trying to join the committee; as Amrit’s father, he was not welcome in those circles. However, looking at his surroundings, Harbeer felt confident enough to catch up with Bhajanjit in the langar hall afterwards. He told Bhajanjit that the temple needed to change.

  ‘Yes,’ Bhajanjit said, ‘very good. Unfortunately, our committee is full.’

 
‘I’m not asking to be on any committee,’ Harbeer said. ‘I just want to know if these things are on the agenda.’

  ‘They’re not a priority,’ Bhajanjit replied. ‘I see your point, but as you know, the government is tearing down the property. It’s become too old. We will be moving into a building in the east. We hope to avoid all of those issues in the new place.’

  ‘Tearing it down?’ Harbeer asked, incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ Bhajanjit said. ‘It’s been in the newspapers.’ Harbeer didn’t tell him that he’d largely stopped reading the newspapers lately. The government’s new tactic to curb littering and rule-breaking was to publish photos beside full names and job titles of culprits, and he discovered that he could not face the shame of strangers any more than he could handle his own.

  Bhajanjit continued: ‘The new location is different. It won’t be a temple on its own. There are other religious organisations in this building, so there’s one large room for each. There’s a Buddhist prayer centre, a Taoist room, and classroom spaces for lessons. And then we have the gurudwara in one room and a langar hall in another. There’s a lift.…’

  As Bhajanjit continued, Harbeer looked out of the window and decided that from now, it would be better to follow his own instructions. If he had to pray to God in a soulless concrete room that was stacked with other religions, then he might as well worship from home. One of his former police colleagues who had moved to London, Surinder Singh, did this. He told Harbeer that his bones could not handle the chill of the walk to the temple, even though it was well within walking distance, so his children had arranged to convert his spare bedroom into a prayer room.

  Back at home, the portrait of Guru Nanak was already on the wall in the corner of the flat where Harbeer had his afternoon tea. Guru Nanak had the kindly eyes of a holy man who had been through his own troubles defending the truth. Harbeer brought out his Holy Books and stacked them carefully on the coffee table. On their threadbare covers, some of the gold printed letters had faded into oblivion, leaving gaps that reminded Harbeer of his granddaughters’ smiles in the days when their first few teeth had emerged. He cleared the unimportant items from the vicinity of the Guru’s portrait until all that was left was this tower of books, a cassette player for playing prayer tapes, and a pot plant. He sat on the floor, crossed his legs, and began to pray. He hadn’t missed the temple until today: New Year’s Eve.

  Harbeer had gone to the temple every year on 31 December, praying solemnly with the rest of the congregation, as white balloons spiralled and tumbled towards the dome ceiling at the stroke of midnight. He had been planning to go this year but while bringing out a shirt to iron for the evening, when he passed Amrit’s room he thought he saw her gazing into her mirror. He paused and blinked. The room was empty; Amrit had been gone since yesterday. His mind was simply playing tricks on him. This Amrit pressed a cotton-tipped brush into a vial of dark green powder and brushed it across her eyelids. Instantly, her face became fierce. Harbeer swallowed a few times but the dryness in his throat remained.

  Harbeer left the flat and headed to the nearby 7-Eleven. He picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and passed it to the cashier, who smiled. ‘Happy New Year, Uncle! You’re celebrating tonight, ah?’

  Harbeer responded with a tight smile. ‘Happy New Year,’ he murmured as he descended the single step and turned back towards the street. Back at the flat, his heart leapt when he saw the padlock dangling from the gate. She was back.

  In the living room, he made a show of pouring the drink over piles of ice in two of his fine crystal glasses. The tart smell stung the air. ‘Amrit,’ he called. He assumed that the shuffling footsteps and the faint shadow that fell over the table were hers, so he continued. ‘Amrit, I’ll make a deal with you.’ He picked up a glass and turned his head, only to see Narain looking at the glass.

  ‘Is your name Amrit?’ Harbeer snapped.

  Narain walked back into his room. Harbeer put the glass down on the table and sighed. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he called.

  There was a long pause before Narain finally poked his head out of his room and replied. ‘Going into town.’

  ‘Amrit?’ Harbeer called out again.

  Again, Narain appeared. ‘She’s not here,’ he said to his father.

  Harbeer looked in the direction of the front door. He noticed Narain watching him. ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked.

  Narain hesitated before taking a seat across from him. ‘I don’t like it with ice,’ he said. Harbeer ignored the comment and pushed the glass towards him. Narain took a quick sip and then put the glass down and looked away. Harbeer also turned his head towards the balcony, hoping that the view would present something neutral to discuss. The glow of city lights drowned the presence of stars. Later, Harbeer hoped, the sound of fireworks would crush this silence as well.

  Narain picked up the glass and took another sip. This one was more drawn out, and when he placed the glass back down on the table, Harbeer noticed that half the drink was gone. Narain grimaced, sucked in his lips and then appeared to relax.

  ‘Some more?’ Harbeer asked.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Narain asked.

  ‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ Harbeer said.

  ‘This glass was for Amrit, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We already knew she’d be drinking tonight. There was no way to stop this. I thought we could have an agreement. If she had a few drinks here, maybe we could convince her to stay at home for a change. She can be as stupid as she wants but still be under this roof.’ Harbeer searched for the right word. ‘Contained,’ he said, gulping down the remains of his drink and pouring another glass.

  Narain shook his head. ‘She would just drink here and then drink more once she got out. And then after this, she’d think the rules were relaxed. Don’t you know anything about Amrit?’ He looked disgusted as he rose from the table. ‘And then you know what happens?’ he continued. ‘I have to go pick her up or bail her out and bring her home. That’s what I have to look forward to in the new year – more worries with Amrit.’

  Harbeer set down his drink. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ he shouted. ‘Calling me stupid. You better watch your mouth. Remember whose house you’re living in, who paid so much money to send you to America, who gave you a future after you nearly ruined yours. One drunken daughter and one useless son I have.’

  Narain dismissed his tirade with a wave and walked away. Harbeer felt the heat in his face and his lips curling into a snarl as he continued to list all of Narain’s failures. ‘Couldn’t play a single sport, couldn’t spend one day in primary school without crying, couldn’t pack your own bloody bags to go to university.’

  The bedroom door slammed shut behind Narain. This was what he had become lately, sullen and angry all the time. ‘Does he think it’s easy for me?’ Harbeer asked aloud. They were trapped in this flat because of Amrit, reduced to catering to her whims.

  Harbeer felt a twist in his chest and took a long sip of whiskey to recover from it. He cleared both glasses from the table and put the bottle in his cabinet, which was now secured by a heavy padlock. He sat back on the couch and stared at the sky. He should have been seething. He should have been pacing the house, preparing a response for a follow-up confrontation. He would have been doing just that if not for the crippling sense of shame that flooded his body and drowned his surroundings in its large black tide. Narain was right. In his desperation to save face, he had thrown away his common sense. What was he thinking, buying whiskey for his daughter?

  He put his head in his hands for a long time and only looked up when he noticed that Dalveer had entered the flat. Even she seemed to tower over him now. He shot up angrily from his chair. ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered urgently. She had begun to appear unexpectedly, taking him by surprise. Narain was inside his room getting ready to go out; what if he emerged from his room and saw Harbeer talking to her? Harbeer waved her
away. ‘Come back later,’ he insisted. ‘Just go away now.’ As usual, she paid no attention to his demands. She disappeared into his room and returned, holding out his shirt towards him. He was not aware of the evening breeze until it rippled through the fabric. There was a distant rumbling outside.

  ‘I’ll celebrate quietly here,’ he told her dimly. ‘The temple is always too crowded on New Year’s Eve.’ He had to raise his voice slightly. Some early fireworks had begun. They shot up in single arrows above the buildings and then blossomed into brilliant flowers. As she turned towards the kitchen, he considered asking her to sit with him here and watch the display, even though he knew she would refuse. She never enjoyed a spectacle.

  Narain

  He rushed to get dressed, ignoring Father’s silence. In his own mind, his own raging thoughts were a whirlwind. What was Father thinking buying whiskey for Amrit? The mere idea of it made Narain want to storm back into the living room and give Father another piece of his mind. He glanced at his watch and realised he was already running late for his dinner plans. A pair of jeans lay slung over the ironing board. These and a button-down shirt would have to do.

  In the taxi on the way into the city, Narain created a few excuses for his lateness. He would need to tell Dennis that something had occurred that was out of his control – a traffic accident, a plumbing problem in the flat. ‘Acts of God,’ his friend Wei Yi used to say, having discovered the term in the fine print of an insurance booklet. Narain found himself constantly creating acts of God to explain his tardiness and absences. Months ago, they were enough to convince Dennis, but Narain failed to maintain their veracity, so that a few days later when he was asked about his fictitious burst pipe, one blank stare betrayed his dishonesty.

  The city lights glittered as the taxi inched across the highway. Narain tapped impatiently on every surface he could find – the seats, the door handle, the window – until the taxi driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror and politely told him to stop. The taxi’s interior smelled overwhelmingly of the pandan leaves used to ward off cockroaches. ‘Do you have plans for New Year’s?’ Narain asked the driver, hoping to be distracted by conversation.