Home To India

by Jacquelin Singh

  Papa stood openmouthed, drop-jawed speechless. He was looking over my shoulder toward the front door that I heard swing open at that instant. I turned around. Mama had come back.

  “What’s wrong?” she wanted to know. She had the intense look that crises always brought on. Her antennae were up; she could sense trouble, ordinary trouble, across a room. This was something else. Her entry itself was like an accusation. She looked from one to the other of us. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

  “Ask her, Fran,” Papa said, jerking his head in my direction, but not looking at me.

  I could feel the blood hotting up my face; my heart pounding.

  “Well, what is it, Helena?” Mama said, trying to keep her voice from flying away.

  “I’m going to India to get married, and …”

  “You see, I was right!” she said, cutting in. She looked at Papa. “I told you, and you wouldn’t believe me, Mario. Months ago! Months ago! We could have done something. But no, you wouldn’t listen. Now it’s too late.”

  “It’s not as if I were going to war, or something like that,” I said. “I’m going to get married to the man I love, and who loves me.”

  “Be quiet, Helena. You don’t now what you’re saying. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you could not be happy—nobody in our family could be happy—living so far away. Living with strangers. Eating strange food. Nobody speaks English. Not even Italian. How would you spend your time? Who would look after you? How would you get along with all those foreigners?”

  “Mama, I’d be the foreigner there,” I said.

  “Don’t try to be smart,” she said. “You know what I mean. I’m your mother; I gave birth to you,” she accompanied her words with hands on her heart, tears in her eyes. “After nine long months. I loved you so!” She looked out of the corner of her eye at Papa.

  “It’s true, Helena,” he put in. “We know what’s best for you.”

  “Then why did you go to all the trouble and expense to educate me?” I asked. “What is an education for if not to help a person manage their own life, be responsible, be an adult?”

  “That’s a fine question to ask,” Papa declared. “After all the sacrifices your Mama has made—the cheap meals she’s had to serve the family, the cheap cuts of meat, the cheap wines, the day-old bread. The clothes she denied herself! My God, honey, she had nothing decent to wear to your cousin Mary’s wedding. I couldn’t even afford to buy her a new dress. Your room and board had to be paid, every month. Your tuition, every semester. All those books …”

  “And your Papa driving that Safeway’s truck day in, day out,” Mama said. “Sometimes sixteen hours at a stretch. And now you ask why we did it!”

  “Yes. That’s what I want to know. Why did you educate me? Why didn’t you keep me in the kitchen, rolling out ravioli dough? I wouldn’t have known the difference. You could have married me off to a railroader or short-order cook, straight off the boat from the Old Country.”

  “Shut up about railroaders and cooks. They’re honest, hard-working men; union men, like your Papa. Not a bunch of Reds, anyway,” Mama shouted.

  I hadn’t wanted to say that about the railroaders. I wanted to die for having said it.

  “We wanted the best for you, kid,” Papa said simply, almost apologetically. “We still do.”

  His words got to me. I hugged him and stifled a sob. “Forgive me, Papa,” I said into his lapel. He put his arm around me as he used to when I was a child.

  “We didn’t expect you to turn on us,” Mama said.

  “I’m not turning on you,” I said, facing her again. “It’s that my experience of life up to now has been different from yours. It’s made it hard for us to understand each other. I keep saying things that hurt you when I don’t want to. I’ve had doors in my mind opened up; I’ve got to go through them. It’s my own life.” I was picking words out of a bag of ideas gleaned from books and movie dialogues. And not the less sincere for that.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have let you go away up North to college,” Mama said, taking up a favorite theme. “With all those Reds there at Berkeley. Foreigners. God knows what all. But your Papa said you must go. It’s all your fault, Mario. You’ve always spoiled her. Something like this was bound to happen.” Then turning to me, “Helena, the Sunday you left for college, when I came back in the house fighting the tears away, here sat Julia and Gloria, in this very living room, crying their eyes out. Even poor little Nicoletta. You don’t know what you’re doing to your family! What have we done to deserve it?” Words got washed away in tears, and Papa was saying, “Now, now, Fran. You gotta pull yourself together, honey,” as he took her in his arms.

  Not to be consoled, Mama crossed herself; called on the saints and the Virgin Mary; alternately cajoled and cursed; made an end to rational talk, if there had been any to begin with; said things, provoked others to say things, that could not be unsaid; made impossible any reconciliation; made sure there would be sleepless nights ahead for all of us; ensured that the weeks that remained would drag on painfully.

  The worst of it was knowing that Mama and Papa were right. In their own way. They had crowned me with encouragement and hope; laid sacrifices at my feet. And I had set them up with something they hadn’t bargained for, something they weren’t prepared to cope with, a surprise of the worst kind: I had asked them to let me go, 10,000 miles away, into the arms of a stranger. What would that day be like, I wondered, when they would have to do just that?

  Spring

  17

  Events took a new turn in the Majra household with the beginning of spring. At first I was too busy being pregnant to notice the changes taking place around me, too preoccupied with my expanding middle and broadening waistline and the barely perceptible stirrings of life. I sat delighting in the one-with-nature feeling, finding fresh pleasure in basking in the sun. I walked barefoot through the new-mown grass as though I’d never made contact with the earth before. I took note of the woodpeckers on the lawn showing off their black-and-white topknots, seeing them for the first time. There were the bravely blooming roses of late January to admire, whose stalks Mali Chella Ram, the gardener, under Rano’s instructions, had carefully nurtured through the hot summer. There were the sweet peas and nasturtiums to watch as they nodded giddily in the winter winds. Dahlias, amaryllis, and phlox ran riot, and scarlet canna lilies stood back-lit and on fire in the rising sun.

  They all had a spurious air about them. What were these temperate dainties doing here? They sprang up out of the ground surprised to have found themselves in this rich, tropical soil and oblivious to the fight for their lives they had coming to them from termites, brightly-colored beetles, and ants that would make lace of their leaves in a day; from locusts that would reduce them to stubble in one afternoon’s nibbling.

  However, I was to discover the changes weren’t all in the world of nature. There was a shift in family alliances going on, and the nature and intensity of the quarrels and reconciliations were changing. The fights amongst the women over protocol and little privileges went on, but with more aggressiveness. There were daily altercations between Rano and Goodi about clothes, jewelry, who got to go where, and when. When guests were present, the women had even more to get rankled about. There were lots of comparisons made, between girl-cousins, boy-cousins, sisters of a family, daughters-in-law. Someone always came out second best; sides were always taken.

  The men, for their part, carped over farm work. Tej grumbled that Hari was irresponsible; Hari complained that he got little reward for all the work he did and was forever pressing for a larger share of the profits whenever a crop was sold. Pitaji made it plain that he regarded Tej’s preoccupation with music a waste of time and his frequent forays to places as far away as Jullundur in pursuit of it, sheer self-indulgence.

  A ride on a bullock cart was a good time to sort things out, come to grips, find out what was happening. I caught up on what had been going on within the family all those months I w
as napping. It was during a shopping trip to Ladopur.

  Mataji, Rano, Goodi, Nikku, and I were on our way home. We sat at an angle on the slanting wooden cart that was hitched up to the bullock so that the front was higher than the back. The only sensible thing was to ride facing backwards while hanging onto the wooden poles at the sides to keep from slipping down. There was a dhurrie underneath us to make things less splintery, but it didn’t do anything to make the road less choppy or the bumps easier to take. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn the wheels were square instead of round. Yet the beauty of it was that we went along so slowly that everything by the side of the road was accessible and touchable, even, as we drove by. I got out and walked from time to time over the three miles to stretch my legs, and rest my aching bones.

  The sun still went down early in late winter, and we were riding toward it. It filtered through the diaphanous dupatta that Goodi was wearing. Dust from the bullock’s hooves was thrown up all around and created an enchanting haze through which the dying sun glimmered. As we plunged along on the dirt track, rutted and ground to a powder, I remembered the village shopkeeper’s wife who only the week before had given birth to a baby on a bullock cart on the way to the Mission Hospital. Mataji perhaps recalled the same incident as we went over a particularly bad bump, for she put her arms around me to brace me against the shock and said, “Are you all right, beti?”

  “Yes,” I answered, glad for the support and at the same time wondering how it would feel to go into labor on a bullock cart.

  Mataji shouted at Gian to slow down. He’d been called away from his work around the house to drive the cart that day. “Hauli chalo. Hauli,” she said in a voice louder than usual.

  Rano, who was sitting solidly on the other side of me, prevented further jostlings. “I hope you’re not finding it too bumpy a ride, Bhabi,” she said.

  Goodi had been pouting the entire way home, and sat to one side, not saying a word. Nikku had asked her a load of questions which she hadn’t chosen to answer.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mataji said to her. “The child’s asking you something. Why are you ignoring the poor little fellow?”

  “I don’t feel like talking,” Goodi said.

  “Don’t feel like talking!” Mataji repeated. “What about the child? What do you think he feels?”

  “I don’t know why you brought me along,” Goodi said, flaring up. “I don’t know why I was not left at home with Bhabiji. She was alone and had so much work to do. I could have helped. As it is, all I did was tag along after all of you, while you shopped and shopped and shopped. You bought Rano Didi cloth for a new salwar-kameez and Bhabi some new shoes, and Hari.…”

  “Be quiet!” Mataji said in a tone that would have discouraged a lesser person than Goodi.

  “Well, it’s true,” she went on. “You didn’t buy me a single thing.”

  “Why do you have to keep accounts like that?” Rano said. “So what if you missed out today? Next time it will be your turn. You already have three more outfits than I do, and all made of more expensive material, just because you fussed with Mataji about it.”

  “You also be quiet, Rano!” Mataji said. “This is stupid talk. I don’t want to hear any more.” She called up a Punjabi saying to the effect that everyone gets a fair share in due time. It just takes patience.

  Thereafter, we rode along in silence. Mataji’s arm still steadied me. The friction in the air subsided as fast as it had started, and before long Rano and Goodi were planning their next joint embroidery project, some floral design on a kameez of Goodi’s, while Nikku turned to Mataji for the answers to his unending questions.

  I got out once more to walk along beside the cart and think my own thoughts. The baby on the way certainly made a difference, I concluded. If Mataji had looked upon me earlier as a temporary and unreliable inhabitant of her world, the fact that I was now carrying on the family line had caused a change in her behavior toward me. Perhaps she believed I would stay. Perhaps the piece of paper from the District Commissioner’s office in Ambala saying Tej and I were married was seen to be valid, after all. Whatever the case, Mataji was making sure that I ate for two. There were extras now: dried dates and preparations fortified with powdered ginger; large dollops of butter in the dal, and omelettes with breakfast parathas. Lots of buttermilk. Almonds. Coconut.

  More than once I caught Dilraj Kaur’s bitter scrutiny of my tray of food, loaded with these delicacies, when she thought no one was looking. If Mataji was around, she would drop an especially generous blob of butter on top of my bowl of dal. She had a way of making even this routine gesture disdainful, allowing the butter to fall from a height so that her hand would not come into contact with my eating utensils. More than once I caught her staring at me, willing me indigestion, or worse still, the drying up of the fetus inside.

  That day she had stayed at home. Someone had to ensure that dinner was prepared properly, and of late, it had been Dilraj Kaur who was left behind to see to things; I was the one included on outings. It was no accident that Goodi had made a point of it. Even now I could hear the conversation in the bullock cart. It had to do with how Dilraj Kaur had begun fasting once a week.

  “On Tuesdays Bhabiji doesn’t eat a thing but fruit,” Goodi declared, as if it were news to everyone. In fact, no one could have been unaware of the great ceremony that attended this weekly observance.

  “And some milk with it,” Rano put in. “Fasting’s a good way to avoid getting fat, and also a good way to get out of work one day a week.”

  “That’s enough!” Mataji said sternly.

  “It’s a pious thing to do,” Goodi said. “She spends the time she would be working saying her prayers. She’s doing it for Bhaji Tej’s long life, she told me.”

  “She tells everybody that,” Rano said.

  Mataji gave Rano a hard look. “What does that remark mean?” she demanded.

  “She also goes to see Veera Bai in the evenings sometimes,” Goodi went on, unwilling to let go of the subject of Dilraj Kaur.

  “She what?” Mataji exclaimed, turning to Goodi.

  Goodi, sensing she had said something wrong, tried to back track “I mean … she went once to Veera Bai’s, that’s all.”

  “Why would she want to go to that sorceress?” Rano asked.

  “How should I know?” Goodi replied, wanting desperately to retreat from the conversation she had carried on too long.

  “When did she go?” Mataji asked.

  “I don’t know,” Goodi said.

  “Then how do you know she went?” Rano asked.

  “She took me with her,” Goodi said, blurting out the secret. “I mean, I asked if I could go with her, and she said yes.”

  “No place for a child to go,” Mataji said.

  “I’m not a child,” Goodi declared.

  “What business would you have there?” Mataji asked. “A place where love-potions are dispensed like medicines, magic chants are whispered, chants powerful enough to destroy enemies; charms to win favors from those who can give them. What would you want with those things?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Foolish of you to go, then,” Mataji declared.

  Nikku asked what a sorceress was. Nobody paid any attention to him. Mataji looked angrily at Rano and Goodi. The girls had resumed their bickering over Dilraj Kaur’s fasts and visits to Veera Bai.

  “Be quiet, both of you,” she said finally. “If you can’t say anything sensible, don’t talk.”

  “Tell us about Uncle,” Rano said, changing to a subject more likely to appeal to Mataji’s interest.

  “What about him?” Mataji wanted to know. “You know as much as I do. Your Pitaji received a letter from him two days ago.”

  “What news did he have?” Goodi asked.

  “Everything is fine,” Mataji said without committing herself to anything further.

  “What about that … girl. That young widow? The concubine?” Goodi asked.

 
“You don’t expect him to write anything about her, do you?” Mataji said.

  “What’s a concubine?” Nikku wanted to know.

  “I say, be quiet, all of you!” Mataji said, sharply this time. “You make my head eat circles with your arguing and crazy questions.”

  And so we reached home. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the men were back from overseeing the sugarcane harvest. I walked into our room. Tej was already there, having a wash before dinner, tidying his beard, adjusting his turban, changing his kurta, all with the deft, precise movements that set him off from everyone else. I must have looked glad to see him.

  “How are you two?” he asked, taking me in his arms as though I had been away for a month instead of an afternoon.

  “We’re fine,” I said. “Great.”

  “I’ve got some news for you,” he said. “We’re going to Delhi.”

  “You’ve got that job!” I exclaimed. “The one at the Bhakra Directorate!”

  18

  I was wrong. We were, indeed, going to Delhi; but Tej hadn’t got the Bhakra job. Instead he was going for an interview for another one.

  A lectureship at a Delhi engineering college had been advertised, and Tej had applied for it. They’d called him to appear the following morning at eleven o’clock for an interview. He wanted me to go along so that he could show me Delhi. But the letter had taken so long to reach Majra (I thought of the boy on the bicycle pedaling at a leisurely pace and multiplied him by several more boys on bicycles between train stations and post offices here and in Delhi) that it gave Tej and me only a couple of hours to pack. We’d have to catch the train that stopped, for only five minutes, at Abdullapur station at 2. A.M. in order to reach Delhi on time. Some heady, anticipatory thoughts that surfaced as I stuffed my Rollei and some doubtful, aged rolls of film into my bag included a break from meals served to me by Dilraj Kaur. Would she, at the behest of the sorceress, include a toad wrapped up in the breakfast paratha one morning? The fights and wranglings and makings-up; the sudden, inexplicable alliances and eventual estrangements—there would be a couple of days to breathe free of these too. And a vision of myself opened up, as mistress of my own house, server of food I had cooked myself, nurturer of my own family, in a place I would not feel like moving away from. Ever. What had seemed like an eccentricity in the Ranikaran Babaji—his never leaving sight of the pool there once he had discovered it—was beginning to make sense. I thought of him that night as we set out for the station. His wild beard, his beatific smile, his wonder at the constancy of things that he tried, but failed to communicate to the Aggarwals and others. His pleasure in giving us all some hot tea, a simple meal, clean beds, a warm pool to bathe in.