by Meera Syal
The dramas and tensions that some of her friends played out in their sitting rooms sounded like suburban fairy tales: dominating fathers, fearful mothers, curfews and threats, dramatic and exciting second-hand, but only at a distance. Now her pride was mingled with unease. How had she managed to get things so wrong? She didn’t even have the excuse of unhelpful role models. They had weathered all Sunita’s sea-changes with cliff-face stoicism: her decision to marry Akash, failing her exams, ending up at the CAB. They had not even referred to her bright red mini-dress. Their acceptance humbled her, but Sunita feared it was conditional. How would they react if they knew about the toy-boy doctor in the neon-lit waiting room?
‘You haven’t mentioned my dress, you two,’ Sunita said lightly.
‘We don’t need to.’ Her father smiled, and her mother finished. ‘Everyone else has done that for us!’ They sniggered companionably.
‘Let them gossip!’
‘It keeps them busy, eh?’ How she loved them for that.
‘But you are looking tired, beti . . .’
‘Are you getting enough sleep?’
They were either side of her now, smoothing her short hair, rubbing the small of her back.
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘We’ll have the kids at the weekend—’
‘Hah, we can cancel that kitty party—’
‘So boring, the same faces every Saturday—’
‘Or take the kids with us—’
‘Hah, they love dancing to the harmonium—’
‘So talented they are.’
Sunita broke away slightly. ‘Really it’s fine! I’m fine! Stop fussing, will you?’
Her parents fell silent. They cocked their heads, bird-like, to one side – the same side, for God’s sake, Sunita noted bitterly – and folded their hands patiently.
‘What? What are you waiting for?’ Sunita said unnecessarily loudly.
‘Hello, Akash beta,’ her mother said quietly. Akash was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Sunita, a look of disillusionment on his face.
‘I’ll lay the table,’ Sunita muttered, pushing past them, pulling her dress over her thighs as she brushed past Akash.
He looked down at the plate of food he had selected for his wife, and began eating it, tasting nothing.
‘That was delicious.’ Deepak smiled and pushed his wiped-clean plate away with a satisfied smile.
Chila stood at the helm of a flotilla of serving dishes.
‘Is that all you want? There’s more . . . of everything.’
The mountain of food in each dish was barely dented. Maybe she had gone a little over the top: three different meat dishes, four of vegetables, plus the rice, naan, salad. The five courses of starters had been a mistake. Luckily the downstairs freezer was almost empty. She began doing Tupperware calculations in her head.
‘Here, let me,’ Deepak offered, and began loading plates into the dishwasher.
Chila felt giddy with pleasure. This was it; this was what happy couples did. They performed the simple everyday tasks together, like a team. It was so easy. Just a small gesture of goodwill, like cooking a special meal, and look how much you got back. Give and take.
‘Any dessert?’ Deepak called from the depths of the dishwasher.
On a whim, Chila waddled to a cupboard and grabbed a jar of chocolate and hazelnut spread. She held it uncertainly towards him.
‘Chocolate spread?’ he said, puzzled.
Chila laughed breathily. ‘Why not? We don’t have to eat it . . .’ She pushed away a slight niggle about the nuts. They would have to watch the sharp bits, and maybe lay a towel on the bed.
‘Shall we just admire the jar, then?’ Deepak said, standing now, hands on hips, amused.
‘No, I thought we could . . .’ She caught sight of her reflection in the glass-fronted oven. All she could see was stomach, stick limbs extending from the sides, a tiny head somewhere above it. What was she thinking? She ought to be knitting bootees, really. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve got ice cream.’
‘Great!’ enthused Deepak, and returned to stacking dishes.
Chila finished her second bowl of Cornish vanilla and lay back on the sofa with a sigh. Deepak carefully placed a couple of cushions behind her back, flicked on the TV and handed her the remote control.
‘You choose tonight, jaan,’ Chila said warmly.
Deepak scratched the side of his nose. ‘Actually, jaan . . . I have to pop out for a while.’
Chila gripped the remote like a weapon. A strange tight cramp pincered her abdomen.
‘What did you say?’
Her voice sounded deeper than usual, Deepak noted, his fingers bunching in his pockets. ‘It’s some problem with the warehouse . . . I can’t get out of it.’
Chila sprang to her feet. Deepak had not seen her move so fast for months. The cold snap in her voice chilled him instantly.
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
Deepak’s confusion almost made him laugh. ‘Sorry?’
‘You will be. You’re staying with me tonight.’
Deepak began walking blindly towards the door. Rage and guilt grappled with his limbs, every step was an effort. He would not look at her. He could hear her heavy footsteps behind him.
‘I know where you’re going!’ she shouted. Where had she learned to bellow like that? ‘She was mine! Not yours! You’re supposed to want me!’
He felt something fasten on his back. He swung round, arms flailing, knocking into something solid yet yielding to his fists, drum-tight yet spongy to his blows. When he opened his eyes, Chila was on the floor, on all fours, animal-like, teeth bared, panting. He thought she might spring at him. His hands flew instinctively to his neck.
She hissed at him, spittle dotting her lips. ‘She doesn’t love you.’
Deepak choked on something hard and spiky. He knew if he opened his mouth, his wails would topple walls, he would vomit up the sickness that had brought him here, leaving a gutless, empty skin. He wrenched open the door and almost ran down the tree-lined sweeping drive.
‘Leave it,’ rasped Deepak thickly, as he buried himself in Tania’s hair.
‘It might be work,’ she breathed, feeling her way through the darkness of the bed, over skin and sheets until she found the receiver, gasping as Deepak began a slow descent over her belly.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Sunita. Is Deepak there?’
Deepak felt her stiffen beneath him, not an arch of passion. Suddenly there were steel fibres beneath the muscle. She atrophied beneath his hands, each pore snapping shut, tight.
‘Sunita? Sunny? I don’t believe—’
‘Is he there?’ Sunita cut in, expressionless.
Tania held herself very still. ‘Why should Deepak be—’
‘Tell him his wife’s in labour. Now.’
‘She’s what? . . . She’s . . . I didn’t know.’
The dialling tone.
Tania sat up, she fell out of the bed, something sharp entered her thigh, she fumbled for the light switch, scrabbling across the wall with freezing fingers.
Deepak recoiled in the sudden wash of light.
‘What . . . what’s going on?’
Tania stood naked before him. She clung to the wall behind her for support. There was a small cut on her leg. Against the white wall, she was as darkly stark as the desert, so many shades of gold and brown. She looked at him, profound with loss. A hot wind began blowing him away, grain by grain. Her voice, when it came, was parched, parchment dry. ‘Get out.’
Chila
OHMIGODOHGODOHMUMSHANTIOHMIGOD . . .
It’s OK, it’s going . . . I can breathe between the waves
I’m thirsty . . . I want water . . . Sunita?
You should have warned me, you sod . . .
I know I wouldn’t have believed you . . .
Yes, I know the story about you crapping yourself, don’t remind me . . .
My legs hurt . . . Can you? .
. . Harder . . . What socks?
What delivery bag? I didn’t have time . . .
I haven’t even brought a toothbrush . . .
Yes, I packed it two months ago, then I forgot where I’d put it . . .
Don’t make me laugh! . . . Don’t, really . . .
Ooooooww
No, it’s not a contraction, I’m laughing and your bangle’s got caught in my drip . . .
Don’t pull it! . . . Nurse! . . . That’s done it . . .
Don’t pull, I said! . . . Oh . . . oh . . .
Ohgodohgodohshitcontractionthistimeohh . . .
I want drugs, whatever you got . . .
Yes . . . and that . . . an injection? Will it hurt?
What’s so funny? . . . Sunny?. . .
Now you’ve got hiccups? . . . Have some of my water . . .
Don’t look down there . . . it must look awful . . .
A flower? Fuck off
I don’t want them to cut me
Tell them, Sunny . . .
Won’t this hurt the baby? The pushing . . .
Yes, what we’re made for . . . I suppose . . .
Hot now . . . take off my socks . . . horrible colour
West Ham? Really? . . . fancy . . .
Nice dress . . . you tart . . .
Joking . . . you got the legs . . . red suits you . . .
I want to get up . . . Why?
What monitor? . . . On baby’s head? Take it off!
Cutting her before she even comes out . . . or him . . .
Distress? . . . No bleeding wonder . . . wouldn’t you be?
Did you tell him, Sunny?
What did he say? . . . Is he coming?
Did he say Of course?
You’re lying, I can always tell . . .
Who did you speak to, Sunny?
Was he there? With . . . Look at me . . . look . . . 1. . .
OhMamaMamaMamahelpmeiwantmymumshit . . .
Are you holding my hand? Am I hurting you?
Why are you wrinkling up your face like . . .?
I’m meant to be crying, not you, silly moo
It’s OK . . . you don’t have to tell me
I know where he was . . . where you found him . . .
I know . . . always known . . . known forever amen
Thought it was a phase, a germ, be better soon
Every time he screwed her I got a present . . .
She must have been good for me to get a conservatory
And I thought Nutella would get him back . . .
No, he’s not been with any Spanish woman
It’s chocolate spread . . . don’t ask . . .
Oh god, there’s something coming . . .
Coming down . . .
Stop this now . . . I want to get off . . .
You can’t? . . . Why not? You’re the fucking doctor . . .
Nononononononopleasenomorestopitstopstop . . .
Feel what? . . . Where? . . . There? . . . This? . . . Here? . . .
Whose head? . . . Isn’t that my hair? . . . No? . . .
Put my hand there, Sunny . . . oh
oh
Yes, I can . . . wet . . . lots of hair like . . .
He’s not coming, is he?
She’s stuck . . . He’s stuck there . . .
No, not in traffic . . . not him . . . The baby’s stuck . . .
I can push now? What do you think I’ve been . . .
I can’t do this, Sunny
I’ll be ripped apart . . .
Again . . . hah!
This is nothing . . .
This is something he can’t do
I can do this, Sunny . . .
Go with it, I know . . .
Yes, I feel it coming and go with it . . .
Like surfing . . . No, never been . . . want to . . .
You and me, we’ll go somewhere . . . somewh . . .
OhohohohohicandothiswantMamaTaniaohohoh
Have I split?
Am I bleeding?
Nearly yes . . . yes just few more seconds . . .
Said what?
Who?
Her? Her name?
Did I?
Fancy . . .
This is it now . . .
I want to push when I’m ready don’t tell me
Who’s at the door?
Why is he shouting?
Yes . . . I know him . . .
I know him he’s my husb . . .
OhohTELLHIMTOPISSOFFNOWGETHIMOUTOFHEREohoh
Who’s crying?
Sunny? No, it’s You . . .
You’re here at last . . . give me my baby . . .
There You are
No, don’t cry, Mama’s here . . .
Where have You been?
You’ve come far, I can tell
You’re so slippy . . .
Oh Your mouthtoesfingersohmyheart
Mine
I dont know, haven’t looked
boy or girl
who cares?
Mine
7
SUNITA SAW HIM as soon as she left the ward. He was sitting in the visitors’ area near the lifts, elbows on his knees. She was going to walk straight past him but his head jerked up at the sound of her boots on the floor.
‘Is she OK?’
Sunita took a long hard look at him. She could now. No more peeking through a veil. Pop idol gone to seed, she thought, all those charming features sagging with night grime and shame, all those white hairs shining in his beard. She did not even feel angry now.
‘She doesn’t want to see you,’ she said, turning on her heels.
‘I’m the father!’ Deepak shouted, immediately regretting it. Even to him, it sounded hollow. He had bitten every one of his nails off. His stomach alternately rumbled and crunched into painful knots. He had vertigo every time he stood up. No-one close to Deepak had ever died. His acquaintance with bereavement was minimal, formal. So he did not recognize anything that was happening to him. Only his fear motored him on and if he stopped, he knew something terrible would happen again.
Sunita turned round slowly. The night’s events were catching up with her. She was anaesthetized with fatigue, but strangely calm, viewing it all from a quiet heightened plane. How peaceful it was, out in the open at last, no filters or blinkers, no hiding in corners. The birth had thrown into relief all the banalities, the secrets. She could lie down right now and sleep for a week.
‘I saw you, that night, on the balcony.’
Deepak had to rummage for this memory in a messy cupboard. He had covered his trails so often, it was hard to distinguish the real from the fictionally convenient.
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
‘Is that how long it’s been going on?’ It. A euphemism for an event she would need a dictionary to describe fully.
‘Yes,’ he said again.
‘Wouldn’t it have been better for all of us if you’d just married Tania in the first place and left us what we had?’ She had said her name, there, for the first time since . . . It. No sour taste, no urgent need to spit. Babies bestowed such benevolence. Every world leader should be made to watch a birth, Sunita thought.
Deepak was thinking about marrying Tania and wondering why there were no fireworks dancing across his vision. ‘I wanted to marry Chila,’ he said softly. ‘I want to see my baby.’
Sunita shook her head. ‘They won’t let you in there. She’s left specific instructions.’
He called out after her. ‘At least tell me, a boy or girl? Please?’
‘Chila has a son,’ Sunita said, without looking back.
Tania spent most of the day cleaning. She stripped every last shred of bedding and put it on pre-wash extra in the machine. She threw away all the half-burnt candles, removed each flake of wax from tables and floors, collected every newspaper and magazine, every wrapper and carton, even books she knew she would never read, or reread, and put them in next door’s recycling bin. She moved every piece of furniture and hoovered every square inch
of floor, she dusted until reflections sprang from every plane, she defrosted the fridge and disinfected the pedal bin. She disconnected the phones and double locked the front door. Then she got into a shower and stood beneath scalding water until her skin turned red and prunish. She put on a plain white T-shirt and sat in the middle of her perfect flat, waiting for nightfall.
She only became aware of the knocking after a picture actually fell from the wall near the door. The sound of splintering glass reached her through a claggy fog. Somewhere inside the fog someone seemed to be calling. It sounded like her name. She tried to move and found her legs had decided to go for a short holiday and leave some useless pieces of wood in their place.
‘Tania! For God’s sake! I know you’re in there!’
Her lips cracked slightly as she tried to form a word. She registered the soft tearing with curiosity. She picked up a leg and moved it efficiently. Then the other. Now they were in an approximate position, all she had to do was heave herself up. She thought she felt sand beneath her feet as she reached the door. The banging was so fierce, it seemed as if the wood was breathing up to meet her in shallow violent breaths. She looked through the security eyehole. A shouting man. She did not recognize him, which was a very good thing.
‘Tania? Please open the door!’
Tania’s brother would have slapped her when the door finally opened if it had not been for the blood beneath her feet.
‘What have you . . .? I’ve been knocking for nearly half an hour. What’s going on?’
Prem pushed his way inside, dragging her with him, and made her sit down on the sofa. He took in her vacant eyes, the criss-cross cuts on the soles of her feet.
‘Are you on drugs?’
Tania shook her head. She hadn’t seen anyone from her family in months. She saw no reason to break her silence for this almost-stranger.
‘Your phone’s been off . . . Shit, this is too weird, I can’t believe . . .’
He ran to the sink, wet some kitchen paper and carefully wiped Tania’s feet, picking out shiny slivers of glass.