Life Isn't All Ha Ha Hee Hee

by Meera Syal

  An hour later, Chila found herself sitting in her mother’s Best Room (the one at the front of the house which was cleaned and locked like a museum until Company came), surrounded by chattering women and clinking tea cups and plates. Some of them Chila recognized from her childhood, her mother’s unchanging circle of close cohorts who had recreated their own little village in the surrounding streets. These women had a shared history, albeit recent and woman-made, encompassing their arrival here, bewailing concrete and ever-pissing rain, setting up home, the long well-trodden road from one-room boarding houses to comfortable semi-detached houses with concreted over front gardens, and babies, which they still considered their paunchy married children to be. Now came the next stage, the best stage, the arrival of the longed-for grandchildren, all the glory and very little responsibility and, most importantly, the most convenient reason they all quoted for not retiring back to India, when in actuality, the India they all knew had vanished around the time of black and white films and enforced sterilization.

  Some of them had brought their daughters, all of whom Chila had endured through many long evenings when the children were shut up in bedrooms with a TV, plates of Instant Whip and tinned fruit salad, and strict orders to ‘play nicely’, while noisy parties continued downstairs. The married ones regarded Chila with barely disguised amazement and not an inconsiderable amount of envy, their worst fears confirmed, that beauty and youth did not mean you would bag the richest, handsomest husband available. The unmarried ones sat open-mouthed and attentive, hanging on Chila’s every word, gritting their teeth against their mothers’ sharp nudges whenever Chila mentioned Deepak, which was often, thanks to her own mama.

  If Chila’s mother had owned a tiara, she would have been wearing it now. The crown of success felt good, having spent years in the balaclava of shame that she donned every time she was asked about her youngest daughter’s prospects. Although she knew from her daily Gita readings that pride was not an attribute that would fast track her to Nirvana, she preferred to call it something much more simple and understandable: revenge. So every time Chila visited, she would make sure her friends knew about it, stock up on samosas, and wait for the crowds to arrive.

  She ladled some home-made mint chutney onto a few side plates and cleared her throat. ‘Did my beti tell you all about the new extension? It is like another house, it even has its own latrine!’

  Chila chewed on her lip waiting for the ooohs of wonder to subside and her married contemporaries to stop choking on their vegetable pakore.

  ‘Is that right, Chila beti?’ enquired one of the large-portion ladies who seemed half-swallowed by the marshmallow-soft cushions of the sofa.

  ‘Well—’ Chila began the sentence which her mother thoughtfully finished.

  ‘Oh, yes. And it has one of those vibrator fans. You know, the buzzing thing that comes on as soon as you sit, to keep the air fresh.’

  If Chila had been able to reach her knees, she would have buried her head somewhere between them. ‘Extractor, Ma,’ she said faintly.

  ‘My son-in-law has just built a swimming pool in my Manju’s back garden,’ Overbite Auntie said, smiling prominently. ‘I said to him, Beta, why waste money? But you know’ – she allowed herself a superior titter – ‘he can afford, so why not?’

  Chila’s mother nodded, in that manner that Chila admired despite herself, which said both I agree and Shut your face, my turn next. ‘Oh, a pool. Yes, my Deepak-beta is building one next year, but he is waiting until council agree to the jacuzzi and sauna extension also. Like you said, Devi-ji, if you can afford, why not?’

  Overbite Auntie’s cup trembled slightly as she replaced it on its saucer. The younger girls were enthralled. They had high hopes for a food fight before the end of the afternoon. Chila was momentarily confused. Deepak hadn’t mentioned anything about a jacuzzi to her. Either her mother was lying or Deepak was and, depressingly, both were credible options.

  ‘Acha bad,’ Overbite Auntie whinnied back, ‘some people like such things, but why bother when you can go on holiday five times a year? In a brand new Ranger Rover?’ A double whammy, beautifully placed. One over-excited teenager almost applauded, before she remembered she was not supposed to be listening.

  Chila’s mother had never played poker; trump and bluff were, as far as she was concerned, faintly rude lavatorial terms. But gambling she could do. When you had three daughters, you learned very quickly. She cleared her throat gently.

  ‘I prefer the Rolls-Royce car myself,’ she said confidently.

  ‘Ma,’ Chila began, mortified.

  ‘Your son-in-law has a Rolls-Royce?’ Settee Auntie asked, as Overbite Auntie had accidentally bitten her tongue and could not speak.

  Chila’s mother merely smiled and raised an enigmatic eyebrow, hoping she could think of an answer before she lowered it again.

  Chila burst in suddenly, ‘Actually, sometimes I think the house is a little too big.’

  ‘Too . . . big?’ Settee Auntie asked, bewildered. The other older women’s faces reflected her concern; surely, when it came to security, one could never have too much.

  ‘You know . . . I mean, rattling around in that huge place . . .’ Chila trailed off.

  Overbite Auntie made a late comeback. ‘Does he leave you on your own a lot then, beti?’ she enquired smoothly, all ears pricked now, radar on, wanting to find the first hairline cracks in the palace walls.

  Chila’s mother shot her a warning glance and after a moment, during which she looked like she might fling a pile of sweetmeats around the room, she grabbed the hem of Chila’s suit and declared, ‘Oh, yes, Deepak is a very busy man. Just look at this suit he had specially made for her.’

  The room relaxed now. Chila sat very still as a few plump fingers stroked her sleeves, marvelling at the softness and quality of the silk. This particular Punjabi suit, in deep purple with delicate silver trim, was one of a job lot Deepak had ordered to accommodate her growing stomach. This one had room for Chila and her whole family, but she knew that was the point, to wear something that would swamp any hint of a bulge. She remembered being slapped on the hand for pointing at a woman beached on her mum’s settee and asking what Bimla Auntie had eaten to make her so huge. When her mother had stuttered that Bimla didi was having a baby, Chila was slapped again for asking how it had managed to crawl in there when she couldn’t see a zip.

  Pregnancy was irrefutable proof that someone had Done It and therefore, over the years, Chila had noticed a number of imaginative methods employed to divert attention from this swelling of shame. Dupattas would be draped and folded and pinned over the offending region; aunties would turn up in marquee-size kaftans or simply leave their coats on all evening. On one occasion, a very large and shy acquaintance had insisted on using her very small husband as a shield, making him walk in front of her whenever she shifted location, shoving him in the right direction with her sari-swaddled bulge. Lately, Chila had noted that several young female pop stars, who had decided to celebrate their womanly independence by reproducing like rabbits, were positively parading their pregnancies at every available opportunity. They would appear on stage, in interviews, at parties, with the skimpiest outfits seemingly designed to flaunt their bumps at the world. ‘Motherhood is sexy!’ they chanted, thrusting their distended navels at the lenses, celebrating their newly acquired cleavages with low-cut spangly bras.

  Chila did think, when she ventured a look down, that there was something wonderful and frightening about a taut pregnant belly. During the last seven and a half months, so many snatches of conversations she had had with Sunita came back to her, only now she understood the jokes and the groans and the terror and the joy. The classes at the local hospital filled in all the facts, but Chila wanted the gossip and the knicker-wetting anecdotes, not the embarrassed polite enquiries and sidelong glances she received from her mother and her friends.

  ‘Chul!’ Settee Auntie said with a sigh, ‘She is looking . . . healthy.’ Her eyes slid slyly
to Chila’s stomach and then quickly away. Some of the women coughed discreetly, averting their eyes and searching for non-existent crumbs down their blouses. ‘God has smiled on her.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Overbite Auntie murmured, ‘she has been veeerrry lucky.’

  ‘Nahin Devi,’ someone else butted in, ‘we should all be happy, when one of us gets what we deserve, hena?’

  There were murmurs of agreement, kisses, smiles, many of them genuine, a few muttered silent prayers as mothers reached for their daughters’ hands and wished fervently and genuinely for the health and wealth of their sons-in-law, actual or yet to come. By worshipping their daughters’ husbands, they were ensuring their daughters’ happiness, for wasn’t everything dependent on that? Knowing that a kind, decent man would be caring for their beloved girls when they were no longer here to check up on everything? Hadn’t they seen what damage a goonda husband could do, trapping a woman like a fly in a web, free to play with her cruelly, as he knew his wife would stay, believing the misery of a bad marriage was preferable to the stigma and loneliness of separation? Didn’t some of the women in that room know that themselves?

  Chila looked around the room, love and hate arm wrestling each other across the best china cups. She knew they meant well. She felt suffocated by adoration and welcome. Although she knew her life had improved and expanded in so many ways, she could not shake off the feeling that somewhere, somehow, a part of her was, contrary to appearances, getting smaller. She shifted uncomfortably, and then gasped as a tiny body rolled over with her, inside her.

  Her mother clucked with concern and handed Chila a glass of water. ‘OK, beti?’ she whispered.

  Chila looked down transfixed as her stomach undulated like a choppy sea. The folds of the suit billowed into breakers and Chila gasped again as, clearly visible, slowly emerging from the purple silk, was the unmistakable imprint of a foot.

  Her mother yelped inadvertently and dropped the glass, which shattered as it hit the centre of the coffee table, spraying half the guests with missiles of chutney-covered shards. A few of the women jumped up alarmed, optimistically clutching tiny napkins like shields against their expensive suits, knocking over chairs, which fell in domino effect until the last one hit Settee Auntie on the head, who had chosen that moment to try and stand up. She fell back, murmuring ‘Hai RamRam!’ as the cushions swallowed her up, leaving her trapped, legs and arms flailing like a podgy upturned beetle.

  An eerie calm followed, broken only by a muffled popping sound as Settee Auntie was shoehorned into an upright position. All eyes were fixed on the one area where it was forbidden to look. Chila’s stomach rolled and mutated irreverently, enjoying its defiant moment of glory.

  ‘Blimey!’ said one of the younger girls finally. ‘It’s like that film, The Alien, innit?’

  Chila groaned, clenching her buttocks futilely, ‘Make it stop, Ma!’

  ‘Buche,’ her mother breathed. ‘Nothing on God’s earth can stop that.’

  ‘So much movement,’ wondered Overbite Auntie, ‘just like my Manju. And she had a boy.’ It was her way of apologizing, a gift-wrapped prediction.

  ‘Huh!’ muttered Chila’s mother. ‘My first three kicked like elephants and we still got girls until Raju arrived. All we can do is pray now.’

  Chila blinked rapidly. Her forehead began to burn. She pushed her mother’s hand away, heaved herself to her feet and walked out.

  ‘Beti?’ Her mother was blocking her way to the door. ‘You’re not going yet? I’ve made biriani, your favourite, with extra ghee for you-know-who.’

  ‘Who? The little prince in here?’ Chila shouted, prodding her belly. ‘Or the waste-of-space little girl?’

  ‘Please, beti,’ her mother whispered, her eyes darting to the door leading to the front room. ‘They are all listening.’

  ‘Is that all that bothers you?’ Chila whispered back, angry at the wobble in her throat.

  Too many things were making sense to her now. She, the last of three girls, the baby born before her younger and only brother, Raju. Her eldest sister, Rita, was welcomed as the firstborn, and had confirmed her high status by going to college and bagging a rich computer analyst who had whisked her off to California, where she spent her days doing consultancy work from home and watching the Mexican houseboys clean the pool. Next came Suman, whose startling beauty must have made up for her parents’ initial disappointment, together with the fact she married a Scottish Punjabi laird, part of some strange aristocratic Indian clan who would divide their time between international business travel and shooting anything with hooves in the mountains. So by the time her parents girded up their loins for their third child, they must have reckoned, what with the law of averages and her mother’s special guru-approved herbal diet, that their household would soon be graced by a tousle-haired little tyke who would carry on the family name proudly into the next century. Instead, they got Chila. And what was worse, Raju was born a mere year later. Raju, whose galloping asthma and eczema guaranteed him total attention. No wonder she was left alone, with her catalogues, her Hindi films and her fantasies.

  ‘You thought there was something wrong with me, didn’t you? Is that why you didn’t want me?’ Chila asked.

  ‘Of course we wanted you,’ her mother said softly, ‘but you worry more for girls. With boys it’s . . . just easier.’

  ‘Who says, Ma?’

  Someone coughed inside, very near the door, precipitating a flurry of obvious clearing up activity.

  ‘Come inside, beti, please?’

  Chila thought back to those endless sessions where she was prodded and poked by those seeking to ‘cure her’. All the energy her parents expended worrying about her future, while the present became a mere waiting area, with hard plastic chairs. She would go into that front room right now and tell all these young girls to go away and pack a bag and travel and read and climb mountains and see the view from somewhere very high and bright and maybe send her a postcard so she could remind herself of a different view.

  She wanted to sit somewhere with Tania and Sunita, where there were no silver-plated knick-knack dishes with different compartments for peanuts and crisps, no nests of tables and plastic covering on the chairs – not so far away, not so different, but at this moment, it seemed to Chila, a few universes’ journey from where she now stood. She wanted to tell her mother that she was right. There was something wrong with her. She should have been happy, and she wasn’t.

  ‘Beti. Chila . . . what is it? Please . . .’

  This was Chila’s cue. She would tell her now. She looked full on into her mother’s eyes and paused, wrong-footed, because she saw there something baffling and unexpected. Her mama was afraid. Afraid that Chila might utter words that would shatter the fragile throne upon which she sat, afraid that her daughter’s confession would force her to confront her own demons of disappointment, afraid that her daughter’s as yet unspoken misery would now keep her awake for the rest of her nights because she, as her mother, should have known, and if Chila spoke, the rest of the world would know too.

  ‘I . . .’ began Chila, feeling her dupatta heavy on her shoulders, yoke of ages, transparent as air, heavier than iron, a woman’s modesty symbolized by a scrap of silk, izzat a mere textbook term up until now, a family’s honour is carried by its daughters. Maybe because the strongest of the men would break their backs under its weight. Chila perspired with her own power. A sentence, a few syllables, a single tear – she could end this now and walk away from the rubble.

  ‘Beti?’

  One last time her mother asked her and Chila felt the shutters closing as she said, ‘I feel fine, Mama. Don’t you worry. Let’s go and eat.’

  Akash eventually located the Hoover under a pile of unironed clothes and began clearing a path through the house. He had sworn efficiently and without guilt when he had given up ringing the bell and let himself in to be confronted by the festering heap. It looked like the aftermath of a giant’s tantrum, with breakfast plates mixed
in with clothes, newspapers and toys. True, the house never looked actually tidy, but they lived in what he congenially imagined to be comfortable disarray. Only now did he realize that this was probably the state of their living space every morning, and that what he saw when he came home from work was the cleaner version of the dump in which he now stood.

  His eye was caught by little scraps of bright yellow paper scattered apparently randomly around the rooms. On closer inspection, he saw that they were Post-it notes, which had been carefully stuck on various piles of debris. ‘YOUR MESS’, each said, except for a solitary note on a pile of books which declared, ‘MY MESS – PLEASE LEAVE’. Akash exhaled slowly and flung his duster down. He made a cup of tea in a quickly rinsed mug and sat for a full hour before he realized Sunita was not coming back in a hurry. He put the Jam on high on the CD player and picked up his Mr Clean Bleach N Spray, vowing to tell his therapist all about his domestic emasculation at his next session.

  Akash did not look up when he finally heard Sunita enter clumsily, negotiating the buggy through the narrow hallway.

  ‘Hiya!’ she called, a little too cheerily he thought, as he snapped his newspaper up to his face and pretended to read a report on inner city school violence.

  ‘God, town was completely mad today,’ she continued, her voice muffled as she bent down to release the children from their perambulatory restraints, ‘but the buche were really good. They loved the tube as well. Course I had to bribe them with several packets of chocolate buttons so they need a wipe down . . .’