by Balli Kaur
‘What is she doing at Kavita’s house?’ Gurdev asked. Nothing made sense. Kavita was one of Kiran’s friends from secondary school. She had no connection to Rani.
‘I met Rani at the train station near her school and I took her to Kavita’s house,’ Kiran said slowly. ‘Then I went back to campus for my afternoon lecture. Simran called every hour from school to make sure Rani was all right.’
‘Why did you take her there?’ Gurdev asked. ‘Kiran, don’t play games now. Tell me everything, or I will—’ He stopped there. Kiran did not speak. Simran crossed her arms over her chest.
‘You will do what?’ Simran asked, softly. She did not have Kiran’s cool confidence but she tried hard to replicate her demeanor: hard eyes; lips tight and upturned to indicate that he could not pry the words from her.
Gurdev started over. ‘Tell me – tell us – what’s going on.’ He sensed a detailed plan here. The girls nodded as if awaiting this cue, and then they led him and Banu to the living room.
‘We have a lot of things to talk to you about,’ Simran said. ‘And we’ve tried to discuss our issues with you but everything turns into a fight. Rani’s got a lot of problems as well but she’s too scared to tell you two what she’s going through. She tries but then she ends up crying or causing a fuss. So we decided that she should do something else to get your attention.’
‘She decided,’ Kiran quickly corrected. ‘We didn’t force her to do anything she wasn’t already planning to do. She was planning on running away by the way, Daddy.’
‘Not Rani,’ Banu said, shaking her head. ‘Rani would never come up with such a stupid idea. Where would she go?’
‘I noticed she woke up early this morning,’ Simran said, ‘and I pretended to stay asleep while she packed her things. When she went off to the toilet, I looked inside her bag and found clothes. I don’t know where she was planning on going – she didn’t really seem to know. She just wanted to get out of school and not return. She begged me to promise not to tell anybody that she wanted to run away. I played along on the condition that she let me tell Kiran and then Kiran arranged to let her stay with Kavita.’
‘Why didn’t you just inform me?’ Gurdev asked.
‘If we told you, you’d get angry and just give her another lecture about studying. If we showed her we were against her running away, she’d just panic and shut down completely and we’d never know what she was planning on doing,’ Kiran said.
‘And we also saw it as an opportunity,’ Simran said.
‘That’s right,’ Kiran agreed. ‘Simran and I discussed it and we decided this would be a big wake-up call. For all of us,’ she added.
Gurdev pressed the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. ‘Let me get this straight. You two have kidnapped your own sister and you’re holding her as some sort of hostage?’
Kiran tilted her head, considering this. ‘Yes. And our only request is that you listen to what we have to say.’ She exchanged a gleeful look with Simran.
Banu shook her head and glared at the girls. ‘You think this a joke? You think it’s funny to scare us like this? You have no idea how worried we were. Your Father had to come home from work.’ She rubbed her face with her palms.
‘We’re very sorry for that, Mum,’ Kiran said.
‘Sorry? You think sorry is going to restore everything? What did we ever do to deserve this?’ A fresh wave of tears poured down Banu’s cheeks. She stepped towards Kiran, smacking her first and then Simran. The girls graciously accepted the single smacks, which landed on their arms. Banu marched off into the bedroom.
‘You deserved that,’ Gurdev said to them.
‘We’re really sorry,’ Kiran repeated. Simran rubbed the new redness on her arm.
‘Okay. Okay.’ Gurdev tried to wave away the chaos. ‘What was so important that you had to give me and your mother a heart attack?’ he asked.
‘I’ll start with Rani,’ Kiran said. ‘She’s really stressed out, Dad. You put too much pressure on her.’
‘She’s weak in school,’ Gurdev protested.
‘Her marks are the only thing you know about her,’ Simran shot back.
Kiran reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper that had been ripped to pieces and then crudely taped together. ‘There’s a girl in Rani’s class who calls her dumbo all the time. Did you know that? And she made the other girls on the school bus sign a petition banning Rani from sitting with them during recess because Rani let down the whole class. The teacher promised to buy ice-cream for the entire class if everyone got full marks and Rani was the only one who got six out of ten. Rani studied very hard for that test but somehow she couldn’t remember the correct spellings on the day. She was hysterical when she came home. She had ripped up the petition but I put it together again and read it.’
Gurdev felt a hot flash of rage at this bully but from the look Kiran was giving him, he knew that more was to come. ‘The girls have been teasing her for some time now. She mentioned it to you once. You told her that if she didn’t want to be singled out for not doing well in school, then she should buck up and start working harder.’ Kiran could not hide the disgust in her voice. She passed the petition to Gurdev. Names were scribbled below a proclamation that Rani was to remain without friends as a punishment for being ‘the biggest idiot in the world’.
‘And then there’s me,’ Simran piped up. ‘I want to work as a waitress during my school holidays.’
‘Out of the question,’ Gurdev said, looking up from the petition.
‘Why?’
‘Waitresses wear those skimpy skirts and they hang around with men,’ Banu called from the hallway. She came marching back. ‘What kind of job is that for a Punjabi girl? Have some shame.’
‘Waitresses in hawker centres and coffee shops do that sort of thing,’ Simran corrected. ‘I told you both that I wanted to work at one of the hotel restaurants in town. It’s more like being catering staff.’
‘They wear pressed shirts and pants,’ Kiran offered.
Gurdev and Banu exchanged looks. Gurdev had to admit he did not know anything about the hotel restaurants. ‘Why do you want to do this?’ he asked.
‘For some independence,’ Simran said. ‘See – look at your faces whenever we say that word. Independence. You treat it with so much suspicion. Just because I want to make my own money doesn’t mean I want to spend it on cigarettes and beer. I just want to know what it’s like to work, make my own cash.’
‘Same here,’ Kiran said. ‘Just because I want to go to university abroad doesn’t mean that I want to run wild in another country away from your supervision.’
‘It happens,’ Banu said. ‘Auntie Harminder’s daughter went to Australia to study and she picked up smoking.’
‘Okay, another thing,’ Kiran said, irritably. ‘You have to stop thinking that we might do all the horrible things that other people’s children did.’
‘If you’re going to compare us to your friends’ children, then you should hold up the ones who did good things as examples, too. Like Auntie Punam’s son, who recently won some major grant for young entrepreneurs of Singapore. That could be me one day,’ Simran said.
‘Or Rani,’ Kiran said. She looked Gurdev squarely in the eye.
Gurdev avoided the comment and focused on folding the petition. ‘I’ll call Rani’s teacher tomorrow and ask to meet with her. What is this girl’s name?’
‘Jessica something,’ Kiran said. ‘I forget. Her sister went to our secondary school. It’s one whole family of bitches.’ Simran giggled. Gurdev opened his mouth to reprimand Kiran for her language but the girls had both started laughing now. He cleared his throat instead and looked on helplessly, waiting for them to stop.
Banu gave the girls another scolding just before Gurdev and Kiran left to pick up Rani. ‘You could have given me a heart attack, scaring us like that. What were you thinking? When you all get home your father and I will discuss a punishment. No telephone, no television, housework ev
ery weekend until your backs are sore. Disgraceful you both are.’
Kiran called her friend’s house to make sure Rani was all right. She asked Gurdev if he wanted to speak to her. ‘I’ll talk to her when she’s back,’ he said, fearing that if Rani detected the tension in his voice, she might not want to come home.
He heard Kiran saying, ‘Don’t worry about anything. No, no, he’s not angry. We’re coming over now, okay? Wait on the side facing the bus stop.’
They didn’t speak until they were in the car, halfway across the freeway that stretched over the city. The sky was a fierce shade of gold as the sun descended behind the city buildings.
‘So can I at least look into universities abroad now?’ Kiran asked quietly. ‘You didn’t say anything about it just now. The transfer applications for courses in England close soon.’
Gurdev sighed. ‘I still don’t understand it. What’s so bad about Singapore?’
‘There’s nothing bad about it,’ Kiran replied.
‘You don’t know how fortunate you are. When I was young, this island was nothing.’
‘People in your generation always compare Singapore to the past. They don’t compare Singapore to what the rest of the world can offer.’
‘What does the rest of the world offer, Kiran? You tell me. In Indonesia today, there was an earthquake which flattened villages. In London, New York and Sydney there are many places where you won’t be able to walk around alone at night. People in my generation are grateful because we knew instability. We look at this country now and we feel proud of these clean and safe streets.’
‘It’s a showroom,’ Kiran argued. ‘It’s not real. It’s so competitive.’
‘But you’ve done well in this environment,’ Gurdev protested.
‘I’ve scored highly in all of my exams but I haven’t learned very much. I just know how to take the government’s tests. I memorised my textbooks. I look at Rani and I know how miserable she is. I hate the way they put students in academic streams based on their test results. They cast aside the ones who don’t score well while grooming the high scorers in all the top streams. I saw the way my teachers treated our class and how they would compare us to the kids in the lower classes. They’d gush and tell us we were the hope for the nation, the ones bound to go to university and have successful careers; then they’d cluck their tongues and say there was less hope for the other children. What did they know? Based on one test, they behaved as if they had the authority to write every child’s future.’
‘Kiran, this is a small country. We don’t have a choice but to be competitive.’
‘You don’t think it’s just a bit inhumane?’
‘No,’ Gurdev said.
‘Bullshit.’
‘Kiran!’
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out the window. ‘Last weekend when we went out to that new Indian diner near the community centre you ordered a banana leaf dish and they brought it to you on a plate shaped like a banana leaf. Remember? You told the waiter you wanted an actual banana leaf and he said, “We don’t have those.” You tried explaining to him that the banana leaf adds a certain flavour to the rice and he just shrugged and said they were too messy. We were all laughing but I saw the look on your face. Like somebody took something away from you.’
‘Kiran, of course I miss the authenticity of certain things. But we have to sacrifice—’
‘Just think about it,’ Kiran interrupted. ‘I don’t need to hear a speech about the greater good. I’ve heard it all my life from my teachers.’
Gurdev sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll consider it, Kiran. Don’t ask me about it for a few days. There are a lot of things your mother and I have to discuss.’
‘But you’ll think about it,’ Kiran repeated.
‘Yes.’ He felt her gaze warming the side of his face. ‘Don’t get me wrong though, Kiran. I’m proud that you’ve done so well in school. A lot of parents have a hard time getting their children into the National University. We never had that problem with you.’
‘Or Simmy,’ Kiran said. ‘She’ll do well in her exams.’
‘You think Simran will want to study abroad also?’ Gurdev asked. A fresh wave of concern washed over him.
Kiran laughed and shook her head. ‘What, Simran? Simran can’t even go away for a weekend without missing her friends and her hawker centres and her shopping malls. She’s too comfortable here.’
‘Good,’ Gurdev said, trying to conceal some of his relief. ‘It would cost a lot of money to send the two of you overseas at the same time. And I’d have to save all over again for Rani in a few years. She might have to go abroad whether she wants to or not.’
‘She’s not stupid, you know,’ Kiran said defensively.
‘Of course she’s not. I never said she was stupid. She just needs to work harder.’
‘She works very hard already. I’ve watched her doing her homework. She really tries.’
‘What are you saying?’ Gurdev asked.
‘There might be something… some reason she’s struggling so much to grasp simple concepts. Like a learning disability or something. I saw a documentary about this boy who couldn’t concentrate on his work and switched around letters and numbers in his head. He wasn’t doing any of it on purpose, it was just the way his mind worked. Maybe Rani has that problem. You could have her evaluated.’
Gurdev tightened his grip on the steering wheel. That word – evaluated. It immediately brought to mind images of Rani being surrounded and scrutinised by white-coated figures searching for a defect. Hadn’t they done this to Amrit? He was not sure how the process of diagnosing her had taken place because Narain stopped updating him after that last conversation.
Gurdev remembered the week Amrit got diagnosed. It had been Gurdev’s turn to take the girls to the library. While the girls picked their books for the fortnight, he wandered into the non-fiction section and found the row titled Psychology. Gurdev picked the first relevant title he saw – Mood Disorders: Symptoms and Treatments. He poked his head out to check on the girls. Returning to the book, he thumbed through the pages, surprised by the density of the text. Glancing at the shelf, he noticed several more books about mood disorders. He picked up a few more: Quieting the Bipolar Mind – A Memoir and A Guide for Manic Depressive Patients.
Gurdev only looked up from the books when the librarian brought the girls to him. ‘I thought they were lost,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’re closing in five minutes.’ Hastily, he placed the books back on the shelves. Waiting in line with the girls, Gurdev could not stop thinking about the abundance of information about Amrit’s condition. Like a dirt path paved into a clear city road, the baffling mystery of Amrit’s behaviour had a name, a history, a presence in other people’s lives. Was he meant to be comforted by this? He certainly didn’t feel that way. Amrit’s diagnosis felt less like a resolution than a new threat. After that visit to the library, Gurdev did not return to continue his research; he did not want to be burdened with more knowledge.
Now they were coming off the highway and merging into a series of lanes. Wide leaves and tree branches hunched over the road, splashing a pattern of shadows that shaded them from the sun. Kiran’s suggestion about Rani echoed in Gurdev’s mind. He was aware that Kiran was staring at him, waiting for a response.
‘In my time there was no need to go searching for the roots to every problem,’ Gurdev said as they entered a multi-storey car park. ‘If you didn’t do well in school, you were lazy or just not very bright. If you misbehaved and broke the rules, you were rebellious and foolish. Nowadays everybody wants to blame some underlying issue.’
He pulled the car into a vacant lot and unbuckled his seatbelt. Kiran made no move to do the same. She was still peering at him and when he turned his head, their eyes locked. Very gently, she spoke. ‘It’s not your time anymore.’
Gurdev looked out onto the housing development. Painters on a metal platform inched their way up the sides of a building, applying coats of white ont
o the facade. It had not even started yellowing yet. A high-pitched wind whistled through the trees. It grew louder, and brought with it the screech of rubbing metal. He squinted and saw a train snaking through the buildings, its windows bright like eyes. It’s not your time anymore, Kiran had said, like a consolation, like the chapter of a sermon. No, it certainly wasn’t.
Narain
To the Director of the Social Development Unit,
My name is Narain Singh Sandhu and I am writing in response to a letter recently sent to me from your organisation. To answer your questions in very simple terms: yes, I can confirm that I am unmarried and yes, I would like to find my life partner in the near future. However, my reason for never having used your services isn’t due to a lack of awareness, so you can take me off your mailing list for flyers and events updates. I never signed up for this information that clutters my letterbox. I am sure you are sending these notices to all single Singaporeans within a certain age bracket so I shouldn’t take it personally, but my reasons for not joining are valid. Before I explain them, I’d like to reiterate my request that you stop sending me information.
The first question on your recent correspondence was: ‘What do you really know about the SDU?’ Like most Singaporeans, I know what I have read in the newspapers. The Social Development Unit was established by the government a few years ago to ‘promote interaction’ between the sexes. It is essentially a government-run dating agency for single Singaporean men and women. You must be aware that most Singaporeans have adapted the acronym to fit the term Single, Desperate and Ugly. It is probably for this reason that your newer flyers contain photos of very attractive and vivacious-looking men and women mingling at barbecues and strolling along Sentosa Island.
When I first heard of the SDU’s existence, I was not surprised. It seems very Singaporean for the government to sponsor and promote love. Then it occurred to me: twenty years ago, few people could label any behaviour as ‘very Singaporean’. This country did not have much of an identity – we were still trying to find ourselves. Nowadays, everywhere I turn there are reminders of what a Singaporean is – or, rather, what we should strive to be.