by Preethi Nair
As I grew bigger, so did my insecurities. I felt that somehow, by marrying him, I had exchanged much more than a ring and a garland. Moving into a big house, having servants, leading a life of shopping and gossip, made me feel completely useless. The sickness and nausea took away the pleasure I usually felt when cooking and I detested seeing the kitchen, so I stayed away and the cook did whatever she wanted.
Raul came home later and later, something urgent always came up at the last minute. There were days he promised he would come home early and I would sit waiting for him, waiting to go out, and then I would fall asleep. Now I was always second best to a card game or a drunken evening with his friends.
I wanted to ask him, Raul, why? Why have you changed? Is it because the passion that comes from wanting someone so desperately has to wane into a nothingness once you have them? And is this what happens when you finally possess them and take what you need? Have you always been this way and is it I who have refused to see? But his answer to everything was that pregnancy had changed me and I had become far too emotional.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I had time to question things, but I felt so alone and despite being seven months pregnant, I was desperately empty inside. I longed for my mother, for our life together, for peace. I knew she could make everything better but I couldn’t send for her. I had caused her enough grief by leaving her like that, I couldn’t now ask for her help. So I carried on and did not complain.
Our little son arrived earlier than expected. Raul was away, setting up an office in the Gulf, and he sent a telegram saying that he would be home soon. Although I had servants to help look after Satchin, I couldn’t cope. He screamed all night and I couldn’t make things better for him, nothing I did was good enough. I kept seeing pictures of my mother’s baby boy, blood all over the kitchen floor, no screaming child, but a silent, lifeless one. It played on my mind over and over again. Defeated and exhausted, I stayed in bed for weeks. Sometimes I looked at my little bundle and the enormity of my responsibility and reflected on how life had changed from being so carefree in the village with my mother to this. Satchin continued to cry, it seemed like it was endless and, almost at breaking point, I wrote a letter to my mother, begging her to come and visit. Enclosed was the train ticket. She came two days later armed with her condiments.
My mother arrived in her best mundu and had put in a set of false teeth for the journey. They were too big for her mouth so she pursed her lips together to stop them from falling out. The driver had collected her from the station and as he opened the boot, endless hand-tied bundles of food jumped out. He complained that she had stained his car with coriander; it had come open as they hit one of the many potholes along the journey.
‘Coriander is harmless,’ she mumbled from the gap in the corner of her mouth, ‘especially on the back seat of a car.’
‘Raul Sahib will not be happy,’ he retorted.
Ma could not hold her lips together as she came to greet me, so she took out her teeth and handed them to the driver who looked disgusted. She held me tight. There was so much I wanted to tell her. How could I say that she was right, that I now understood what she meant when she talked about love, about the importance of the sense of self? But a mistake is only a mistake when you admit it to yourself deep inside. With tears streaming down my face, I told her how happy I was, that Raul was a good man, that he took care of me and gave me the stability that I had longed for and that he was kind, very kind.
My mother said nothing, never once did she reproach me or make a comment on how I had left the village, the scandal that it had caused and the effect that it had had on her. She got on with practical things and helped me take charge of the household. The first thing that needed to be done was to fire the cook. The cook had a bad feeling emanating from her; everything she did was peppered with anger and frustration. She also stole from us and I let her. I didn’t have the energy to deal with it and all the other servants said nothing as they were terrified of her. My mother was firm but kind and said that though she had done an excellent job looking after me perhaps she’d like to move on to do other things.
The cook came storming through the house to find me. I was feeding my son. ‘Is this right, Mem Sahib, you don’t want me here any more?’
‘It’s not that, Barathi, it’s just that my mother is here and she is a—’
‘She is an interfering woman! We’ll see what Sahib has to say about this when he gets back.’
‘I’m sorry, Barathi, you will get three months’ salary.’
‘Money, money,’ she raged. ‘You think everything is about money? One day you will learn and you will find out. I could have helped you, but now, now, Mem Sahib, you deserve everything you get.’
She took her wages and slammed the door shut.
My mother’s second task was to cover the red leather sofa, for it made her stomach turn knowing that there was a sacred cow or two lying there in the front room for us all to sit on. She sat up all night making a cover with cotton fabric and then she set to work in the heart of our home. Unpacking Annapurna, everything became infused with a goodness that only she could bring. The sound of dancing oil popping in the heated cheenchatti whilst chillies were frying was like music to me, and the smell of warm cinnamon and clove made its way to all the rooms in the house. Piles of ginger and turmeric were laid out to dry on the veranda; beside them, a mountain of golden cumin seeds roasted in the hot sun and full grains of rice were placed on white sheets so they could feel the heat. People that didn’t know us began visiting, drawn by the activity and the enticing smells coming from the household. My mother stopped work to make time for all of them, offering them tea and savouries made carefully from fried green bananas. They returned, bringing their children and elderly relatives. My baby slept peacefully and I felt in control again.
Amin was singing away that morning as he was collecting firewood. They were words of half a chorus from a Hindi movie he hadn’t seen but had picked up from the gardener who hadn’t seen it either. Aya’s anklets were jangling as she swayed to his tune whilst collecting water from the well, and a constant beat was provided by the washerwoman who hit the wet cloths against the wall. A car horn and then the roar of an engine pulling into the drive suddenly drowned out their sounds. The car knocked the mountain of cumin seeds over. Everyone began scurrying around, making their way to the back of the house, as the footsteps approached the veranda. He called out my name.
‘Nalini, Nalini,’ it echoed through the house. He had come home, finally. Satchin was three months old. Raul made his way up the stairs into our bedroom. My mother was bathing the baby, I was getting his clothes ready. He stopped and looked over at the two of them and came to kiss me. ‘I tried to come sooner, Nalini, but I couldn’t, it was impossible.’ He paused as he looked again at our son. ‘I’m so proud of you and look, our little son,’ he said, as he went to pick him up. Satchin shivered and screamed as he was held in strange arms. I wrapped him up in a blanket and handed him back to his father.
‘Achan will look after you now, Monu,’ he said, glancing at my mother.
Perhaps I was fooling myself, but things between Raul and I did improve. For a while he was completely engrossed with our son, showing him off to all the visitors that came and, once again, he showed me the tender side of him, the one I fell completely in love with. There was also much more of a balance in my life and I was kept occupied with Satchin, my mother, my home and cooking.
Whilst Raul was at work or away, my mother and I ventured further out of the enclave. We dressed in our worst clothes and would get the driver and Amin to take us into town where the street sellers bustled about for business. Wednesday was market day. Beggars, flies, cats, dogs, anything that moved, crowded around the food. All hoped that a lemon, a mango, a banana, anything, would fall from the sellers’ baskets. If by chance it did, they would scramble, fighting over it, even before he had an opportunity to pick it up. Some people sat squatting, waiting for the seller to get rid of
the shrivelled vegetables that he had not managed to sell. Often, they waited in vain.
My mother and I learnt to barter and choose the best produce by discarding the miserable-looking vegetables, which were placed on top, and by not falling for the many tragic stories that were told to us. For if they were all to be believed, many of the sellers had ten children each, no wives, and disabled parents to look after. Young children would then run after us, begging to help us carry the goods. As we made our way to the car, we passed gamblers sitting playing cards on street corners, gypsies who were dancing and singing, men who sat on crates watching them with beadies hanging from their mouths. The driver brought us back to the safety of our home.
We cooked the whole day on Thursday and packed up the food in cotton bundles or newspapers tied with string and got Amin, Nila and the driver to deliver them to the homeless children sleeping on the beach. At first, the driver protested, saying that it was not his job and that Raul Sahib would not like his vehicle to be used in this way for such transportation, but my mother had a few words with him and he soon changed his mind.
Two years later, my daughter Maya was born. I never thought it was possible to feel such love for my baby. You think that your heart won’t expand to love another so, that there is no more room, but it does and it does so effortlessly.
With her pink feet and tiny hands, Maya brought innocence and a strong temperament, knowing her own mind even at an early age. She was never really in my arms, always being picked up by one of the members of the household who were inevitably drawn to her. If Maya was not with my mother, she searched for her father. She understood from being tiny that not seeing someone makes you long for them even more. When her father approached, her face would beam. I am trying to think what it was about Maya that drew him to her and made him play with her. I didn’t know how long this would last, probably as long as she didn’t make any demands on him. But she gave him complete adoration and asked for nothing in return; Raul needed this.
Whatever he had to give, he gave to Maya. ‘Mol, Achan will give you a ride, come, jump on Achan’s back.’ ‘Mol, Achan has a surprise for you. Look, Mol, a puppy.’ Satchin longed for his father’s affection, to be touched or kissed, but this sense of neediness drove Raul away. My mother and I tried to make up for this but Satchin didn’t like to show that he wanted us and so he surrounded himself with people, holding their attention by laughing and joking. At such a young age, he became very independent, and if he wasn’t playing in the house with his sister, he would be off riding with the postman on his bicycle or out with Amin on one of his errands.
Raul’s business trips became more frequent and much longer in their duration but I did not miss him. I grew accustomed to it and built a life with my family and my husband’s returns would give us all something more to look forward to, exciting stories and exotic gifts for the children from strange countries. My mother was never happy to see him and would fall silent whenever his name was mentioned or avoid him when he was home. When news came that Raul was chosen to run the Indian Oil Export Company in Great Britain, she was very happy. We all thought he would be in London for a year, two years maximum, but a year into his contract, he called to say we were to join him.
My heart sank when I heard this. We had a routine, the children were settled. I did not want to leave our home, my mother, our kitchen. I should have said no, this is what my heart was telling me, shouting at me but I thought about new opportunities for the children and they needed their father. I said we would join him for the remaining year and I made him promise that we would come back. ‘To a bigger and better life,’ he reassured. When I said that that was not what we needed, he replied by saying that he desperately missed us and all he wanted was to spend more time with us. He asked me to sell the house because it was pointless keeping it open for thieves. In my naivety, I consented.
My mother said nothing. Not one word. I pleaded with her to come with us but she refused. I should have fought harder with her. Why did she let us go like that? Why? She could have said something but instead she helped me sell the house and its contents and then she found each and every one of my servants new work. My mother said it was time that she went back to her home and so, after helping us pack, she left, saying that she would see us all again very soon. I never saw her again, though, and the letters I subsequently sent to her went unanswered.
England was damp, despite it being the middle of summer, and there were hardly any people on the streets. I didn’t understand a word the driver Raul had sent to collect us was saying to me and felt frightened. I held my children tightly as we went to meet my husband. Raul looked like a stranger when I saw him again. Arrogance had filled his head and tilted his jaw so that he no longer looked at you but above you. He took us to a large, impressive house complete with wall-to-wall thick carpet and chandeliers. It was a cold house, with no space around it, filed in a row with others like it. But my children were happy; they were with their father and about to begin a new adventure. Children adapt, it is adults who find change hard. I longed to go home and be with my mother and when the children went to school and when my husband was away or at work, this solitude ate into me and made me ache, a nagging pain in my chest that would not go away.
I tried to go out, but hated the constant reminders that I was in a foreign place. Being in the house was difficult as it was without being introduced to further strangeness. The constant drone of traffic also annoyed me, it was so monotonous compared to the chaos of street-life back home: there was not the jumbled-up sound of people trying to make their way across the road, attempting to dodge the rickshaws and the cows, no pungent smells coming from street corners nor the busy noise of bartering, no street sellers vainly shielding their wares from being polluted by the big, heavy buses passing through town, no vibrant dancing colours. There were washing lines – imagine washing hanging in an orderly manner on lines with no dhobi scurrying about finding patches of grass to put the clothes on! Even the rain fell without conviction. It was so organised; from the traffic, the food in the stores to the houses. Gas, electricity, water, all of it flowed in an organised manner whenever you needed it.
People even contained their emotions; they didn’t talk to each other but looked warily, neighbours’ curtains would twitch but windows and doors were kept firmly shut. No sellers came to the door offering bangles, fresh fish, material or vegetables and gossip; maybe the catalogue man came and left a catalogue at the door or rang the bell and left. One day, the postman had delivered a neighbour’s letter to our door by mistake, so I knocked on the door to give it to her. A middle-aged woman came to answer it. She kept her foot firmly against the door and peered through the gap; she did not invite me in or offer tea or savouries but said a polite thank you and closed the door again. England was a lonely, lonely place.
Raul went to work early and came home late. Occasionally he spent time with the children. Sometimes he went out with his friends but seldom was I invited. Even if I was, I did not fit into the social circle and the blunders I made were all too evident.
‘Nalini, don’t do it like that, use a napkin,’ Raul would complain or he would laugh at me in front of everyone at my lack of knowledge. I sat around tables feeling ignorant as people conversed in a foreign language and all I could do was smile, although I couldn’t even do this right because inside I didn’t feel happy.
Happiness; happiness was a state of mind, happiness was a state of mind; if I said it enough times perhaps it would seep into my consciousness. I had to do something, anything, so I got Raul to have groceries and spices delivered to the house. At least I could cook to keep my sanity.
I cooked huge meals and placed them on the dining-room table. From morning to night, I would concoct dishes, remembering recipes and stories from my mother, cook and forget the place I was in. I would polish the cutlery and decorate the table. Nobody ate what I made. Raul had either eaten at the office or with clients or friends, and the children preferred their new-found me
als of burgers and fishfingers. I would secretly garnish these with spices so that they would never forget where they were from. Every day I got instructions from them to make new English foods. ‘Ma, can you make us omelette and toast?’
‘What is omelette and toast, makkale?’
‘Like mutta dosa with no chillies and hot bread,’ Satchin replied.
I beat the eggs with coriander leaves, added half a chilli, crushed peppercorns and onions, and toasted the bread on the cheenchatti with ghee. They complained about the ‘green bits’; it felt like I was losing the battle. The children were consumed by the adventure and the only thing that consoled me was the thought that it was temporary and that we would be going home soon.
Tom, the young man who delivered spices, came religiously every week and I filled containers of food for him to take back. It would have been wasted otherwise. This made me look forward to his visits, even though he had fingernails like the tree climber. Every time he came, he taught me a new English word or sentence: ‘This, Mrs K, is called a pumpkin and this is a marrow …’ Containers were exchanged in this way and a year later, I could understand him and give him whole sentences back as well. He would always encourage me and as he left he would say, ‘You’re a fast learner, Mrs K, it’s coming along really well.’
Raul had gone on a trip that autumn to America and normally when he went away, he would call every week. Two weeks went by and there had been no news. He telephoned the following Wednesday and instead of asking how we were, or telling us when he would be back, he gave me strict instructions to give Tom one of his suits to dry-clean. It seemed such an odd request, so I asked him was it because he would be returning within the next day or so. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘soon’. I waited for him to ask about Satchin and Maya but he didn’t, so I ended the conversation by saying that the children were fine and that we all missed him. He made no response other than to say that he was really very busy and had to go.