by Preethi Nair
‘Satchin, I’m seeing Suri.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
Karla was annoying. Granted, she was very attractive but much less so when she opened her mouth. This hideous laugh escaped like a trapped seal, wailing its way out. It made everyone stop, turn around and stare; all that was missing was the clap and maybe a ball. I couldn’t bear it when the four of us went out but something odd had come over Satchin and he insisted on tagging along with us. It wasn’t all the time, thank God, because I had nothing to say to the Seal. She was the same age as both Satchin and Suri but it wasn’t just the laugh, there was something about her, a plastic type of a feeling, like she was unreal. I don’t know how they met, he probably picked her up at an animal sanctuary. After her A levels she was going to study sports therapy or something like that but was waiting for Satchin to make up his mind where he wanted to go so she could follow him.
He had applied to do law at Cardiff but I don’t think he told her this because whenever the subject came up, he changed it rapidly, saying he was still undecided. Suri wanted to stay in London and study medicine at King’s. I didn’t ask him to do this for me but was so relieved when he told me. I couldn’t really imagine life without him, despite the fact that we had only been seeing each other for a year, but even so, we had already begun making plans.
It probably all sounds so childish and slushy, imagining our house and deciding on names for our children. Amma would say that it was unlucky to do this; you had to wait until you had things in your hand or else they would find a way of escaping. But I had this deep sense of knowing with him. I’m trying to explain this sense of knowing and it’s difficult because I have never felt it since. It’s not like walking into a room and thinking ‘Wow!’ it’s more about being comfortable with each other, not having to impress. Everything felt right, there was no uncertainty or uneasiness, even when we argued, and I wasn’t trying to convince myself that things would work out. It was effortless. This is how it was with Suri.
He passed his exams and was accepted at King’s. Most of that summer, Suri spent working at Ravi’s office. Satchin failed his A levels monumentally. Ravi tried to do a postmortem on what was bothering him but couldn’t find anything. He needed to look no further than the Seal but that was typical; Ravi couldn’t see what was in front of him, even if you placed it there with a big red sign saying ‘LOOK HERE’. Satchin had gone to dump the Seal a month before the exams so he could concentrate on them. A week or two before them, she said she was pregnant. Whether she had a phantom pregnancy, I don’t know, but she threw him into complete turmoil.
Amma didn’t really say very much about him not passing except that once in a while it was normal to fail at things. Failing was all part of being human. Where she picked that philosophical line from, I don’t know, because ever since we went to our new schools that Ravi paid for, her whole vocabulary consisted of education, education, education. ‘You’ve got to do your best, makkale, and make the very most of all your opportunities.’
The whole escapade with Karla distressed Satchin, the phantom baby disappeared and my brother seemed deflated and started to search for other things. He suddenly noticed my little sister, who would potter around in his room. She absolutely loved him and sat there for hours with the saucepan lid she carried around and the wooden spoon which she hit against it. This used to drive him crazy but the two of them could sit there and amuse each other. He took her giant panda and made its voice so it would appear like the panda was talking to her. She loved this and Ammu went through a phase where Satchin was all she ever needed and when he went out, she would be in his room, lying on his bed, waiting for him. Amma would carry her and put her in her own bed and the first thing she did in the morning was to look for him.
Suri had been saving up for his first car and for his nineteenth birthday, Mr and Mrs Rama had surprised him with a blue Datsun. It was awful. You could hear it coming up the street, coughing like a bad smoker, and when he pulled up into the drive, the car would suffer a cardiac arrest from which it had to be revived with Ravi’s jump leads. We were supposed to be going to a party one evening and Suri and I got into a huge argument because I had had enough of driving around in that thing. I suggested part-exchanging the heap and putting the money he had saved towards getting something better. Tactful as I was, I came out with it directly and inadvertently insulted his parents in the process. Satchin rolled his eyes at my comments and as Suri stormed out of the house, Satchin followed him. The two of them drove off together.
It was because I was embarrassed to be seen driving around in that thing, the safety factor never crossed my mind, not even once. The shiny steel tiffin carrier that my mother packed for Suri knocked against Satchin’s feet on the passenger side. Suri was turning back to come and get me, to apologise. The tiffin carrier rolled as they did a U-turn and then it burst open as an oncoming car hit them. The car rolled on its side, food went everywhere, it splattered the windows and the seats and the various tins were sent crashing. Suri managed to crawl out but fell unconscious at the foot of the car door. The emergency services had to cut Satchin free but he never made it to the hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival.
Putting back a book on the top shelf in my room, I caught a glimpse of the blue flashing siren whose wailing stopped abruptly as the police car parked in our drive. The rain was beating down, lashing against the doors and windows. Had I not seen them walking up the drive, nobody would have known that they were there. The sound of the bell was drowned out in all the noise. I hesitated for a moment, if I didn’t go down, maybe they would go away.
‘Are your mother and father in?’ they enquired. I knew. My heart raced and I began to sweat. No, I wanted to say, go back, it’s the wrong house. I took a deep breath so that tears would not rush to my eyes. I tried to call out to the back where my parents were sitting. Nothing came out. The police officers followed me as I tried to make my way into the kitchen. I looked up and saw my Amma’s face.
‘There’s been an accident, Mr and Mrs Thakker.’ There was a pause. ‘There is no easy way of saying this and I am so sorry to tell you that your son Satchin was killed.’
There were a few seconds of incomprehension. Amma got up and went to hit the policeman, choking. Ravi pulled her off. Ammu suddenly walked in and began screaming. I picked up my little sister and ran out with her up the stairs, putting her into her room. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry, Bobo, I’m here.’ I tried to be strong for her and not cry. I rocked her in my arms whilst she went off to sleep and then I went back to my room and looked out of the window. Amma was crying, sitting outside in the rain, soaking wet, pulling at her hair, and there was absolutely nothing Ravi could do to console her, she wouldn’t come in. I sat watching her, and the rain.
I remember the rain now, how it fell on the day that we left Ammamma and how it fell when I was told that my father died, a few drops but it was there, and then a few days later, it fell harder and the aching inside would not go away. I tried to make it, I tried to be strong, playing with my brother and my doll but it wouldn’t, it was like the rain was falling inside, trying to build a sea with which to drown me. I tried not to cry so Achan would come back to me but it was too much. Now the rain lashed relentlessly to tell me that my brother had gone.
Maggie came around, coaxing my mother back in. And Suri, was he dead too? I should have asked but I didn’t think. The doctor came and gave Amma a sedative. Ravi and Maggie walked into my room. ‘I’m so sorry, Maya, darling,’ she cried. Ravi was in tears and put his arms around me, but I felt nothing. I felt nothing as Maggie held me and crawled into bed with me, not even controlled emotion. Just a lump in my throat that would not move. ‘Maggie, did Suri live?’
‘Yes, darling,’ she replied.
Every day, I called the hospital to see how he was doing but I couldn’t go and see him. One day I got as far as the ward but I headed back home. It felt like I was being stabbed. Everything felt so out of control; fear, anger, resentment, gu
ilt, sadness, all rolled into a big throbbing pain. I had to be strong for Amma. God, I was relieved Suri was all right, that he had survived, but then I felt angry for feeling like this. Angry with myself, guilty, it should have been me in that passenger seat, me. Maybe if I hadn’t argued, I would have gone with him and none of this would have happened or if it had happened it would have been me. Why did he turn back? There was no one else to take this out on but Suri. He was alive.
Amma spent days in bed, crying. This woman who I felt was so in control was suddenly like a baby that desperately needed us. Sometimes, as I lay with her, grief went beyond verbal description and it was too much. So I made sure my Ammu was taken care of, knowing that this would somehow console Amma. My little sister would go from room to room, looking for Satchin, even though we had said that he had gone away and would not come back. To see her lying in his empty bed, waiting for him, was heartbreaking. The only thing about him that was still there was the smell on his pillow, which she clung to. Other times, she spoke to her panda, waiting for a response, but it never talked back to her.
Suri sent me letters from hospital but I never read any of them. He made calls to me but I never returned them, he called Maggie but she said I couldn’t talk to him just yet. I needed some time.
The train pulled into Atocha, Madrid’s central station. Everyone clambered to get out and Casanova was there to assist the ladies. An older woman had knocked her foot against the door and was yelling and causing chaos as everyone rallied around her. I pulled down my case and picked Bogey 2 up. I had half a mind to leave it there as it was awkward to carry and there was no way I was putting it on. Then, I thought of María Carmen’s face, her beloved coat left on the train, and the prospect of carrying it suddenly seemed a lot better.
She was nice enough, but very overbearing, like a prima donna who loved the sound of her own voice. The first time I went to their house was about a few weeks after Marcos had asked me to marry him. María Carmen just went on and on, coming up for air only occasionally. Her husband interjected when he thought it was appropriate. He was a stern man and despite the fact that he said very little, his presence was very much felt. He had been the judge in the town where they lived and had only recently retired. You could tell that he was finding it difficult in his new role, the constant chattering of his wife aggravated him and he shot her glances which said that if it was at all possible, he would condemn her to at least ten years of solitary confinement.
María Carmen doted on Marcos and he transformed when he was in her presence, acting as if he could not even wipe his own nose. She had two daughters who were much younger than him, about my age, and were both away, studying at university. They never came up in conversation, not as much as Marcos did anyway. She was desperate to be a grandmother and every other word had ‘niño’ as the noun or adjective. Then she got out his baby album and before I opened it, I could imagine how she had him dressed. ‘That was when I entered him in the baby competition, not expecting anything and, you know, Maya, he won,’ she said, pointing at his crocheted frilly hat.
‘When are you planning to get married?’ asked his father.
‘We haven’t decided yet,’ I said.
His mother looked over at him.
‘Summer is a good time, isn’t it, Maya?’ Marcos added.
I said nothing.
We had to visit them twice a month, leaving on a Friday night and coming back on Sunday evening. His father made us all go to Mass and I hated this as he never asked, just ordered us into church with no consideration of how I felt. I went without arguing, not for him, but because I could sense María Carmen’s apprehension.
‘Marcos, you know I don’t want our children to be brought up Catholic and I don’t want to get married in church, even if your mother says she can arrange it all with the priest. Just a simple register office with our friends and family,’ I insisted.
‘You’ve told me already, cariño,” he replied. His mother almost fainted when she heard the words register office. She developed a life-threatening illness and gave us her dying wishes, the illness was miraculously cured when we conceded, and he told her that I had changed my mind and we would marry in church if we could.
I managed to bypass the commotion on the train by walking in the opposite direction of all the activity. A doctor, priest, nun and workman had congregated to attend to the señora’s foot which anyone would have thought was in the process of being amputated. Bundling the fur coat into a carrier bag which had been left on one of the seats, I went out in search of a taxi. One pulled up almost immediately.
“El aeropuerto, por favor.’
‘¿Dónde va? ¿A La India?’ the taxi driver asked.
I told him I was going to England to see my family and he asked me how often I went. I felt almost ashamed to say that it had been almost four years. I had left my little sister learning her two times tables and she was now probably on Pythagoras’s theorem. So many times, I had intended to go back for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, but I could never get as far as the airport car park without turning back. My family had wanted to come and visit but I always managed to find excuses; the house was being decorated, I had visitors, we were going away, I was busy with work, I had to travel.
I told him I went back often. He smiled.
Barajas was crowded. I called up Ravi before boarding to say what time the plane would be landing and then I tried Marcos. In those years, I had called them and sent postcards as often as I could to Ammu but I allowed time to slip away, it was easier.
‘Marcos, it’s me.’
‘Maya, where are you?’
‘I am going to London. Maggie is sick.’
There was a pause and then I realised he wouldn’t have known who Maggie was. All of that time, those events, I had erased when I started my life in Spain. I was Maya, Maya with no past, because it was easier, painless.
‘Maggie is my … my aunt. I have to go but I’ll call you tonight.’
‘But, Maya–…’ he continued.
‘I’ll call you later to explain.’
The two seats next to me were empty; I put Bogey 2 and the case in the overhead locker and closed my eyes. So many people came to Satchin’s funeral. Suri was still in hospital but his parents were there. We thought Amma wouldn’t get through it, but she just clung onto Maggie and I, the way that she clung to Satchin and I when we were children, thinking that we might run off and leave her stranded. I had every intention of seeing Suri after I got through that week, I needed to get through the funeral and then I could talk to him. We were all taking it one day at a time but two days after I went back to school, a tall man, with greying hair and deep-set eyes, stopped me as I was turning into our road and sent me on a different course. He said he was my father, my father, Raul.
Nothing made any sense to me, I looked at him. ‘My father is dead,’ I said to this man. What was he thinking of?
I looked again. Satchin had the same nose and mouth. ‘Mol, Mol, it’s me, remember, who’s my favourite Maya Mol?’ That was right, that was what he said to me, in that voice, that voice in English. My father always spoke to us in English and Amma in Malayalam and then, after he died, we used to sit for hours teaching her words and phrases. Our language became a mishmash of two cultures; the reverence of English, interspersed with playful high intonations and colourful eastern adjectives. Then Ravi came and that went too as he didn’t understand Malayalam. When I wanted to annoy him, I spoke in the language that bonded the three of us and both Amma and Satchin would revert to English. But back then, my father was dead.
‘Mol, it’s Achan.’
I stared blankly at him. I could see where my eyes came from, they were the only things that were different from my Amma’s.
‘Mol, is there anywhere we can go and talk?’
I stared at him, nodded and pointed towards the park.
‘He’s dead,’ I heard Amma saying years before, dressed in her green sweater. Why? Why would she do that? Put us
through that? ‘He’s dead, he died a hero, you know.’ I dropped my bag in the middle of the street and I held him. Grabbing him in case he would go again. Unable to catch my breath, the lump that I carried around in my throat escaped; I began to sob, falling pathetically to the pavement and clutching at his legs. He picked me up off the ground and held me tightly, rocking me. I had to tell Satchin, Satchin, Satchin, look he’s here, he’s come back. Why now? When Satchin couldn’t see. She lied. Why? Why did she lie? I didn’t want to let him go so he took my hand and we walked towards the park.
‘I’m so sorry, Mol, I came because I heard about Satchin. A friend of mine told me and then I had to see you,’ he began.
Which friend? Had he always known where we were? Why hadn’t he come sooner?
‘A friend? Why didn’t you come for us?’ I wailed.
‘I tried, Mol, believe me I did, but in those early days I didn’t know where you had all gone and then when I saw your mother a few years ago, she made me promise.’
Amma had seen him? She knew where he was? What was going on?
‘Amma has seen you? She knew where you were? It doesn’t make sense. Why?’ I choked out.
‘I came back to the house after a business trip and it was empty, I thought she had taken you both and gone back to India. I went back to India immediately and I tried to find you there in Mumbai and the village but it was useless.’
None of it made sense. Why did we leave with Tom if we were going to India? Did she mean for us to go there? I couldn’t remember them fighting. Why just up and leave? Why go to a bedsit? Did Tom have something to do with it? Was it because of him, because of Tom?
‘It doesn’t make sense. There was no reason.’