Inheritance

by Balli Kaur

  ‘And this is more realistic?’ Narain asked. ‘Let me guess. Does this guy have a secret twin who donates organs to him at the last minute to help him live?’

  Wei Yi burst into giggles. Narain placed his hands over her eyes. ‘No more rubbish TV for you,’ he said, laughing as well.

  ‘Stop,’ she squealed, twisting away from his hands.

  In the near distance, a crashing sound made them both freeze. Wei Yi whirled around, her eyes wide with fear. House lights flooded on and the music stopped abruptly. Panic washed over the room. Narain grabbed Wei Yi’s wrist and dove for the back door. ‘Don’t move!’ a police officer shouted, but he was too far away. Narain felt the cool night air whip his face as they left.

  Wei Yi’s hand grasped his tightly. She kicked off her high heels to keep up with him. ‘We can stop,’ she panted, but their momentum easily propelled them through the maze of side lanes. Eventually there was a dead end. They collapsed in a heap against the wall. Narain felt as if his lungs might explode. His mind could not catch up with what had just happened. Seconds ago, he had been watching a Chinese drama with his friend at an underground club; now here he was, having escaped a real police raid. ‘Oh my God,’ Wei Yi kept on saying. ‘Oh my God.’ She brought Narain’s attention to a gash in her foot. She must have stepped on a piece of broken glass.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Narain said. ‘We just need to hide here a bit longer.’ His heart slammed in his chest.

  Wei Yi began to cry. ‘Where are the others? Have they been caught?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ Narain said, feeling the panic rise in his chest. ‘Don’t worry.’

  A few minutes passed before Narain decided to step out of the lane to check on the others. He asked Wei Yi if she would come with him but she began to cry again, holding on to her foot. ‘You stay here then. I’ll get you something for your wound,’ he said. She nodded. Narain walked out, feeling the humid island breath on his skin again before he caught sight of the flashing blue and red lights. A line of men crouched on the ground, their heads hung low. Officers surrounded them, barking orders. Narain dodged back into the lane, pressing himself against the wall. Moments later, he slowly leaned out again to look at the men. In the dark it was impossible to distinguish any of his friends, but a growing sense of dread told Narain that most of the men from the club had been caught. The line stretched along the sidewalk.

  One of the officers jerked his head up suddenly, meeting Narain’s stare. He let out a shout and pointed. Narain raced back into the lane, feeling the men advance on him. The ground rushed up to meet his head. The officers grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and propped him against the wall. Narain winced as a jut of stone scraped against his back. The ringing in his ears was so loud that he didn’t hear what the officers were saying at first. ‘Pardon?’ he asked weakly, squinting at them. He remembered Father teaching him to take note of what police officers looked like when he was a young boy. ‘They always remember your face. If you ever offend one on the street, you make sure you never do it again to the same one.’ The officer who was addressing him was lanky; the other one looked Malay and had grey specks in his hair.

  ‘What are you running from?’ the Malay officer shouted. He leaned close to Narain as if he might attempt to press the truth out of him.

  ‘Nothing,’ Narain murmured. ‘I was just going out to celebrate New Year’s.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just Orchard Road,’ Narain replied. Wei Yi flashed into his mind. ‘I was with my girlfriend and she stepped on some glass, so I was looking for a convenience shop to buy her some plasters. I got lost.’

  They exchanged glances. The lanky one leaned in so close to Narain that their noses practically touched. He glared at Narain, then turned and whispered something to his colleague. ‘Please,’ Narain said. ‘She’s really hurt.’

  ‘Show us where she is,’ the Malay officer challenged. ‘Where’s your girlfriend?’

  Narain gestured weakly towards the lane. There was nothing within sight but a mossy darkness. He attempted to give the officers directions to where Wei Yi was waiting for him, but his voice wobbled.

  The officers had a brief discussion in low tones. They looked at Narain again, assessing him. He felt his skin prickle as their eyes bore into his, seeking out his lie. The Malay officer whispered to his colleague, who nodded. ‘My girlfriend,’ Narain attempted again weakly.

  ‘Quiet,’ the Malay officer commanded.

  They made Narain turn around to face the wall. ‘Spread your arms and legs.’ Narain pressed his palms to the wall and shut his eyes in terror, knowing what they would find and wishing he had not worn these jeans. They patted him on the insides of his thighs and arms. One officer received a call on his radio and turned away to respond to it. The other continued patting Narain down, and then he dug his hands deep into Narain’s pockets. This was the same pair of jeans he had worn to his last visit to the university; some of his fliers were folded into those pockets. Possible excuses flooded Narain’s mind. They don’t belong to me, he thought. Somebody handed them to me just now and I was going to throw them away.

  Then, as suddenly as that, they let him go, with just a warning. ‘Don’t run from the police again,’ they said. ‘You do that, you’ll look suspicious.’ He was free to go. After they left, he checked his pockets and found them empty. The fliers must have been removed somehow. He thought back to Gurdev’s visit, and remembered his questions. Had he looked through Narain’s clothes?

  He walked slowly, panting hard, as if he had been running for miles. When he finally got to the end of the lane, he expected that Wei Yi might be gone, but she was still sitting there, crying softly. ‘Did you find them?’ she asked, her face tear-streaked. Narain shook his head and sat next to her. Outside, an explosion of fireworks rocked the island, drowning out the sound of Wei Yi’s sobs.

  Daylight sparkled against the rows of apartment blocks. Narain peered outside in search of the dancing girl he’d seen through a window in the opposite block but the thick cables that held the painters’ lift cut off his view. The painters had already passed his flat and now they were working on the one directly above. Their lifts swayed and tipped to each movement, rattling him awake in the mornings.

  Yesterday, he had called work to say he was sick, and dragged himself to the polyclinic for a medical certificate. He had told the doctor he had a splitting headache and a sore throat; he coughed feebly to show it was true. The doctor nodded and wrote his certificate. Valid Until January 3, the certificate said. Two days off. He had gone straight back to the flat and stayed in bed for the entire day. He told himself he would return to work today despite having a medical certificate – it was better to stay busy after all. But it was past nine o’clock now and he had made no effort to get up.

  Father was at the door now. ‘Narain, you are not working again today?’

  ‘No,’ Narain called back. ‘Still sick.’ He stared at the ceiling.

  There was a prolonged silence and then Father asked, ‘What is wrong? Just the flu?’

  ‘Yes,’ Narain said. ‘I need some rest.’

  The smell of paint fumes, strong and plasticky, wafted into the flat. Narain looked outside and searched again for the window girl. He had first noticed her a few months ago, on a rostered day off, as he watched the painters. From her flat in the opposite building, she peeled off her clothes in slow, cat-like movements and danced in the window. The distance was too great for Narain to catch her facial features. He could only see the tan of her flesh, her round breasts, and the dark patch between her legs as she spread them and lowered herself to the floor. If he recognised her outside, he might tell her she was wasting her time trying to seduce him, but he enjoyed her show nonetheless. Her languid rhythm served one purpose: it defied every ordered brush stroke on this city’s landscape.

  Narain spent the remainder of the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep. He stretched out across the mattress as the afternoon sunlight poured into the flat,
soaking the room in its warmth. Dreams came to him in fragments, quick scenes, and voices strung together, incomprehensible. Whenever he woke, he was dazed and tired. He sank back into the mattress and slept again, only to be confronted with the puzzling dreams again.

  When he got out of bed it was four o’clock in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled but the cabinets and fridge shelves were empty. He headed back to his room to get his wallet. Passing Father’s shut door, Narain heard talking, Father’s voice rising. Narain squinted in an attempt to make out Father’s words, and he leaned closer to the door. As if sensing his presence, Father’s voice was reduced to whispers. Narain wondered for a moment if there was someone in the room with him. He shook the thought from his mind – Father was simply transcribing a letter to himself or reading the newspaper aloud.

  On his way to the shops was a traditional Chinese clinic with its strong herbal smell, and a daycare centre with bright blue gates. His old route to the shops did not use to take this long but it was blocked off now for construction so he had chosen a different way. Rows of decrepit shophouses and the site of a wet market had been razed to make way for a new shopping centre with gleaming fluorescent lights, airconditioning and escalators.

  Narain stopped at a provisions shop to buy a newspaper. Yesterday, he had done the same thing and found no mention of the raid. His stomach began to twist as he searched the pages and he felt a cool wash of relief when his search came up empty again. Perhaps the police had let them off. Perhaps it had just been a scare. He was about to pay for the paper when he spotted something on the front page of a Chinese tabloid. He asked the shopkeeper for a copy of that paper as well. ‘This one is in Chinese,’ the shopkeeper said.

  ‘I know,’ Narain said. He dumped the coins in the man’s hand and did not bother waiting for his change. Clutching the papers close to his chest, he walked briskly until he found a quiet corner. The Chinese characters made no sense but the picture was unmistakably of the raid. At the bottom of the page, there was an indicator that the story continued on page 8. He turned to that page and found individual mug shots of Dennis and Fadi. Numbness seeped through Narain’s stomach and legs. He sat down, staring at the pictures. There were numbers in the article: 10, 4. He made his way back to the shop and presented the article at the shopkeeper.

  ‘I told you already it’s in Chinese. No money back,’ the man protested before Narain could make his request.

  ‘I don’t want a refund,’ Narain said. ‘Just tell me what the article says. Here. And here.’ He pointed to the numbers.

  The shopkeeper squinted at him suspiciously. ‘For what?’

  ‘Please,’ Narain said. He was aware of the tears forming in his eyes.

  The shopkeeper’s face softened. He pointed to the headline and ran his finger along each word as he translated it. ‘Sixteen arrested in nightclub raid.’ He paused to read the article to himself. Redness crept to his cheeks. ‘For dancing with other men,’ he said simply.

  Narain tapped at the numbers. ‘What about this?’

  The shopkeeper looked up at him. ‘Why you want to know?’ he asked.

  Tears spilled down Narain’s cheeks. ‘Just tell me what it says,’ he said, with gritted teeth. ‘Please.’

  The shopkeeper looked very reluctant. He let out a sigh. ‘Up to ten years jail,’ he said. ‘Four strokes of the cane.’

  Narain went straight for Father’s room and knocked loudly on the door. ‘I need to talk to you.’ He knew he was shouting louder than necessary but he had to drown out the sound of his own doubts.

  Father appeared. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Narain looked over his shoulders and saw that the room was empty. It looked as if it had been cleaned to hide something. ‘Who was in here with you?’ he asked. ‘Before I left for the supermarket, I heard you talking to somebody.’

  Father looked startled. ‘There was nobody,’ he said. Narain saw the panic marching across his face and knew that he had guessed correctly. A woman was visiting Father. Having exposed Father’s secret, he felt emboldened to reveal his own. He handed the newspaper to Father.

  ‘It’s all in Chinese,’ Father said.

  Narain pointed impatiently at the grainy picture of men lined up along the street. ‘These are my friends,’ Narain said. ‘They are just like me.’ Father’s brow furrowed in confusion as his eyes wandered over the foreign lettering. ‘They were caught on New Year’s Eve at an underground club for being with men. They’re homosexuals, Father. They’re just like me.’

  This reality seemed to set like a dislodged bone clicking suddenly into place. Father recoiled at the word. ‘I didn’t know how else to tell you,’ Narain said.

  Father stared at the picture for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady. ‘I was going to go out to the coffee shop to eat dinner,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had roti prata in a long time.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Narain replied. ‘You go ahead.’ He watched Father pick up his wallet and check for cash. ‘That’s all you’re going to say about this?’

  ‘Narain,’ Father said, avoiding his gaze. ‘It is a new year. Everything can change.’

  ‘This is not something that will change. You have to accept this.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Father said. Exasperated, Narain followed him.

  At the coffee shop, Father pulled out a chair for himself and told Narain to order. ‘One teh tarik for me. Less sugar. They always make it too sweet.’ Before Narain could leave to make his order, Father pushed a five dollar note in his direction. ‘And two plain roti pratas, and you order whatever food you want. I know you didn’t eat lunch today.’

  A vendor came to them with a tray holding two steaming bowls of fish curry and two plates of crisp roti pratas. He hurried back to the stall and returned with cutlery. Father gave him a strange look and he placed the cutlery on the table before rushing off again.

  ‘Who eats roti prata with a spoon and fork? You picked this up from that gorah country,’ Father said, ripping the pieces. Grease made his fingers glisten.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to tell you in that way,’ Narain said. ‘I’m just tired of keeping quiet about it.’

  Father continued to eat. Say something, Narain begged. This silence reminded Narain of the days when he returned from the back lane. Each time, Narain had waited for an argument, even a cold slap on the face if that was what it would take for both of them to move on. But there was nothing. Since then, he had felt as if his sins were still accumulating.

  ‘You were always different,’ Father said. ‘I just thought it was because you were so close to your mother. She wanted a girl, you know. When she was expecting you she kept saying she could feel you were a girl. Is that what you want to be?’

  ‘No,’ Narain said. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I do not understand it, Narain,’ Father said. ‘I cannot even shout or scream because that won’t take it out of you. This is not the behaviour of a Sikh man.’ He looked dejected. Narain almost pitied him. He reached out and touched Father’s hand. Father looked miserably at his food and pulled away to continue eating.

  A group of foreign construction workers descended on the table next to theirs, laughing loudly. They had dark skin and greasy parted hair. Their eyes were filmy and slightly jaundiced. Other patrons of the coffee shop barely noticed their noise – only Narain and Father opted for silence over the racket. The workers were sharing a bottle of whiskey. They raised their glasses and cheered. One of them, a man who wore a long-sleeved blue shirt with missing buttons in the cuffs, grinned happily at Narain.

  ‘My friend wife. She come to Singapore tomorrow. We happy,’ he explained. The other workers turned to look at Narain and Father.

  ‘Good for you,’ Father said in Malay, raising his glass of tea. The men laughed and clapped.

  Taking Father’s response as an invitation, they rose and descended like birds around him and Narain. ‘Come, come. You happy also,’ the blue-shirted man said. Father did not pr
otest. The man called for two more glasses. His arms wobbled as he poured for Father and Narain.

  Another man spoke up. His Malay was more fluent than the others’. ‘We all come from Bangladesh,’ he told Narain. ‘I was in Malaysia for many years – so were these two.’ He gestured at a pair of men who were talking to each other. ‘The others only left Bangladesh a few months ago. They are new here.’ He lowered his voice even though it was clear the others could not understand. ‘The government didn’t let their wives into the country. All visa applications rejected. They are trying again. I say, why try so hard? There can be one wife in Bangladesh, one wife here. Everybody wins.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  ‘Which is better? Malaysia or Singapore?’ Father asked.

  ‘Singapore,’ one of the pair from Malaysia chimed in. ‘Better pay.’

  Father was proud. Narain saw his chest expand.

  ‘More expensive,’ the other man complained. ‘One glass of beer costs twice the price it costs in Malaysia.’

  ‘You fussy bastard. You’re getting paid twice as much here,’ another one argued. The other men looked baffled until those who spoke Malay translated. Then they nodded in agreement. Then one man said something in a language Narain did not understand and the rest broke out in laughter. They continued talking, their voices rising over the others in the coffee shop. Now people were turning to stare. They shot dirty looks at the workers.

  The worker who was fluent in Malay spoke. ‘Too many rules in Singapore. Can’t even make a bit of noise. There are signs everywhere – cannot do this and that. No smoking here, no stepping on this patch of grass. Piss on the street, get a $500 fine. So expensive just to take a piss!’ Raucous laughter broke out again, turning more heads. Narain sensed Father’s embarrassment at being seen with these men.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Narain asked him in English.

  ‘Yes,’ Father said.

  They were about to rise when one of the men said something to make them stop. ‘Pretty girl. Pretty Punjabi girl not so expensive.’