by Preethi Nair
‘It’s a shop that finds you. She’ll like this one,’ I said, handing him some lightly-coated fried banana chips. ‘And take some pickles for her as well, these are good,’ I added, giving him a case of six, hoping Suri would take some for himself.
He told me that he was almost a doctor; he had passed his exams and was training. Then, before leaving, Suri took a piece of paper, wrote his number and gave it to me. ‘If you ever need anything, Auntie, all you have to do is call,’ he said as he kissed me goodbye.
Just as he was going out of the door, he started to say something. ‘Tell her, tell her …’ He didn’t finish.
You tell her, I wanted to say as I ran to hug him again, but all I managed was, ‘Suri, I’m proud of you. Very, very proud of you.’
He kissed me again and left.
I wanted to call up Maya that evening and tell her that I had seen him but she was on holiday and when I eventually spoke to her and she told us she was marrying Marcos in Spain and not in England, it seemed better not to even mention it. Maya was happy, she had moved on. Again, she promised she would visit soon and then a week later, when Jack died, she said she was coming home but, once more, it didn’t happen.
Jack had suffered his second heart attack. The first one had left him paralysed on his left side and with a speech impediment. Maggie was engrossed, taking care of his needs, absolving herself from everything she needed to tell him but didn’t. When he died, she fell apart, lying in bed for days on end, not eating. I would take Ammu to see her but there was nothing we could do or say, she didn’t care if we were there or not. Her house was filled with clutter and boxes of his clothes and possessions she had packed but could not bring herself to give away. Weeks went by and most evenings, I sat with her, telling her stories about the customers, hoping she would come out of it but she didn’t speak. The doctor said it was delayed shock but I knew something else was going on.
Guilt and regret, instead of clinging to the walls, clung to the cells of her right breast and rapidly began spreading. She had probably known that it had been there for some time but let it fester, almost as if there was nothing worth fighting for, as if it was some kind of punishment that she was ready to accept. Tom had left, Maya had gone and now Jack. By the time she saw the doctor again, it was inoperable. It had spread too far. Refusing treatment, she stayed in bed.
‘Fight, Maggie, fight! There’s Maya, Tom. We can find him, you can get well,’ I begged. ‘Maya will come right now if you let me tell her,’ I pleaded.
‘No, I don’t want to see her. I don’t want her to ever remember me like this. I’m not going to tell you again, Nalini, I don’t want Maya to see me.’
I took Maggie bowls of fiery peppered rasam, infused with red chillies and mustard seeds, which she didn’t finish. I don’t know why it didn’t work; maybe because for some of us, it is only in death that we are ready to let go, to forgive ourselves. Whatever it was, the rasam had absolutely no effect and, if anything, she seemed to get worse.
‘I’ve done some awful things, Nalini,’ she cried.
‘What is important is that you are a good person. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I left the little one behind; Mary was only six and she needed me, she couldn’t sleep unless I tucked her in. But I had to leave, Nalini, I just had to. I knew Noreen would take care of them all and I thought coming to England would be better; I’d be able to give Tom a better life. You never saw me as a whore, you almost made me believe I wasn’t, and then Jack came and none of that seemed to matter. I thought I did it all for Tom but I don’t think I did. If only he understood, Nalini, but he hates me. Maybe I have grandchildren and they don’t even know I exist. ‘A grandma slut’ pretending to be someone else. Jack deserved better, didn’t he? And little Maya, you should have seen the look of disgust on Maya’s face when I told her – absolute shock and disgust. I wish I hadn’t said anything then maybe she would’ve stayed and not been so distant. I don’t want her to come back because she is sorry for me. I want her to remember how much I loved her, how she was like my little Mary, and remind her how it used to be between the two of us. Promise me you won’t tell her how I am now, you’ll only tell her how much I loved her after I’m gone?’
‘I promise, Maggie,’ I said, calming her.
We watched her deteriorate. The bouncing red curls in her hair were the first to give up, falling limp and lifeless onto her pillow. Even my attempts to tie it up in a red chiffon scarf could not hide what was happening to her. I fed her liquid with a little teaspoon because she could not eat and it dribbled from the side of her mouth. Pain, as she breathed in, and sadness consumed her eyes. The emotional anguish seemed worse than the physical suffering and there was nothing we could do to make it better, she didn’t want us to make it better. The doctor had given her a few weeks at most. She drifted in and out of consciousness and one day in her sleep, she called out for Maya.
‘I love you, Tom, I love you Maya, darling,’ she murmured, and the nurse told us that was all she ever said in her waking moments. Ravi called Maya home.
We hadn’t touched Maya’s room since the day she left. The lilac wallpaper that she chose after insisting that she could not sleep with polka dots was still there, with a matching duvet that looked so worn, but I could not bear to throw it away. Everything was as she left it; the stuffed toys that sat messily on her bed; her books, stacked high on her desk; pictures on the wall she had painted; bright fabrics sprawled across the furniture and photos were everywhere. There was one of Satchin, Maya and me squeezed together in a photo booth, taken the day I stopped work at the factory. We went out to Wimpy to celebrate and on the way back, Maya insisted on going into the booth. There was a school photo of Satchin and Maya and many pictures of Maya holding Ammu as a baby. I wished that she was coming home because she wanted to, not because she had to. Not to see her Maggie die. They would be arriving soon. Ammu hadn’t slept all night because she couldn’t wait to see her. My hands began to shake as I saw the blue car pull into the drive and I ran down the stairs as fast as I could. I opened the door but she wasn’t there.
‘She’s gone to Maggie’s house,’ Ammu informed me.
My heart would have burst if I had had to wait any longer, so I asked Ravi to take me.
MAYA
The door opened and she stood there. Hair, now long again, with streaks of white, chappels showing feet painted with dusty pink nail varnish. I could not see her eyes clearly as they were brimming with tears. I got up, walked towards her, and her face just sunk into the side of my neck. Soft, moist tears ran down my back. I clung to my mother as I have never clung to her before. For all the times I have wanted to hold her: day one at the factory when she came back with swollen hands; the morning she married Ravi; the day Satchin died and she sat alone in the rain; when I was sick on the sidewalk in Chicago after seeing Raul’s son. We stood there holding each other as if we were the only two people left in the world.
Lightly scented jasmine, that is what my mother’s hair smelt of, not a trace of spices from cooking.
‘You’re home now, Mol,’ she said, taking a deep breath.
Dressed in a chiffon green sari, with her hair unbraided, she looked beautiful.
‘There are so many things I want to tell you, Ma.’
‘We have time,’ she whispered.
Maggie opened her eyes and just momentarily, I thought she would muster enough fire and emit her Maggie laugh but she said nothing. And closed her eyes again. Both my mother and I looked at each other. In dying there is unity, forgiveness and understanding. We sat on either side of the bed.
‘It has been too long. I’m so sorry, Ma.’
‘Mol, I understand, I wasn’t a good mother to you, was I, not being there for you when Satchin died?’
‘It wasn’t that, Ma,’ I managed.
There was a movement in Maggie’s hand and I wanted to believe it was to tell me that she could hear, that she was asking me to continue and resolve all that needed t
o be resolved.
‘I saw him a few days after the funeral, smartly dressed, he touched my face, wiped my tears, told me he was my father and that he wanted to be there for me.’
Amma shuddered and looked horrified and was about to say something when I continued, ‘He told me how you had left him and he spent years looking for us and then when he finally found us, you had married and he could not bring himself to disrupt our lives.’
‘No, Mol, it wasn’t like that. He was …’
‘Wait, Ma, I need to tell you how it was. I thought you had left him for Tom and that you had abandoned Tom and married Ravi for his money. I felt disgusted but, because of Satchin, I couldn’t talk to you about it and promised myself that I would never come back. You didn’t need me.’
‘No, no, no,’ she cried.
‘When I was in Spain, I was trying to forget you. It didn’t seem to hurt as much there and then I went to India and nothing seemed right. I met Raul’s family and they treated me like dirt and then I found where Ammamma lived. It was horrible, Ma.’
Amma looked intensely at me, with tears streaming down her face.
‘She died happy, with all of us beside her in black and white pictures. And after India, something came alive in me, it was a sense of belonging, the smells and colours of that country were all running inside of me, so potent that I felt unable to handle it. I went back to Spain, almost like I didn’t want to believe it, any of it. I wanted to feel that Raul loved me, that Marcos loved me, because it was easier, but I also wanted to know the truth. I went looking for him. He has a son, you know, and a daughter. Three years younger than I am. How could he do that, Ma? How could he have more children after doing what he did to us?
‘I’m so sorry, sorry for being so wrong about everything, for not having faith in you,’ I cried.
She came over and held me.
‘Mol, the day I had to tell you and Satchin that your father died was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. He didn’t deserve you two, you know, that is why I did it, because I knew your lives would be better without him. He left no note, nothing, only debts, and I cannot even start to think what would have happened without Tom or Maggie. Two children and a lady who spoke very little English. I worked for you both to give you everything you deserved. Almost allowing myself to forget, I married a man who loved you both as if you were his own. I would have done anything to keep Raul away, but I never thought he would come back. What for? So the day he returned, Maggie and I sold everything to pay him to keep away from you. Then I became fearful that he would try to come back at any moment and when Satchin died, I thought it was my punishment for trying to keep what is not yours. Then you left and I knew it was.
‘But I have learnt that life does not punish, it teaches you to let go, let go of all you fear or that fear becomes you.’
We sat rocking each other for some time.
Maggie died in the middle of the night; I think it was when Amma and I had dozed off for a few moments. They say that, sometimes, the dying hold on for you and the moment you turn your back, they feel it is the most appropriate time to let go.
It was the afternoon of 7th February and, unusually, the sun came pouring in. Ammu came to wake me. For a second I forgot where I was and that Maggie had died and when I remembered, I felt strangely peaceful. ‘Maya, are you ready to eat?’ ‘Yes, Shorty. Come sit with me for a moment.’ She came over and sat by the bed and I pulled her in and gave her a big hug and kissed her.
‘You know I’ve missed you, don’t you, Shorty?’ She looked embarrassed and then after a little while that parrot chatter that I remembered came back. She talked non-stop, playing with my hair and telling me about her friends at school and all of them who wanted to meet me. How could I have spent so much time away from her?
We both got up. I had a shower and changed and went downstairs to eat. The table was beautifully laid and Amma and Ravi were waiting for us. ‘Sit here, Mol,’ said Amma.
‘Ravi, I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Maya, it’s finished.’ He stretched his hand across the table.
‘No, let me finish. I’m sorry that I was a nuisance as a child, that I never gave you a chance, and I want you to know you’re the best dad anyone could have had; Amma couldn’t have chosen better.’
Amma smiled and lifted the lids off the dishes; deep-filled masala dosas with hot potato stew. I was home.
Amma organised the funeral and the food afterwards. Fish baked in a tamarind sauce, coated with fried mustard seeds and red chillies. After all the guests had left and everyone else had gone to bed, I sat in the kitchen with her and talked, then I remembered the letter that the astrologer had given me for her. ‘Wait, Amma, I have something for you,’ I said as I went in search of my bag. ‘It’s from Ammamma to you,’ I said as I handed her the note. She took it eagerly, unfolding it. ‘What does it say?’ I asked enthusiastically.
Nalini Mol,
Not a day has gone by that I haven’t missed you and I know that when my time here comes to an end, I will be able to return to you. Sacrifice is like that, Mol, I know that spirit lives on.
Don’t ever think that I wanted to leave you and the children; if I had stopped you from going you would not have turned into the woman I knew you could be.
If you can pass on one thing to our Maya, teach her the most important thing that I have taught you.
I love you always,
Amma
‘What does she mean, Ma?’
‘Forgiveness. I need to show you what the spices can do. Come to the shop with me and learn.’
‘I have to go to Spain to speak to Enrique and Marcos.’
‘Does Marcos deserve a visit, Mol? You can call him. And Enrique, ask him for some more time off, he will understand. Just stay for a week, I can teach you the very basics.’
At around midnight, I called Marcos.
‘Maya, where are you? You didn’t call, what am I supposed to think, it’s been days now? My mother is becoming hysterical with the preparations, she needs you here, I need you here. When are you coming home?’
‘Maggie died four days ago, Marcos, there were other things to do,’ I replied.
There was no sorry, nothing, only, ‘but it doesn’t take a week to pick up the phone, does it?’
‘It does if you are not really thinking of coming back.’
There was silence and then laughter. ‘Don’t be silly, Maya, the wedding is five months away, I have been to see some houses for us.’
‘I said I’m not coming back.’
‘You have to, I love you. What about the preparations? My mother, the guests?’
‘I’m sure Carmen can step in,’ I said, thinking of the peroxide blonde.
There was silence. ‘Maya, listen, there is nothing going on with Carmen, there never has been, we work together. I don’t know where you got such an idea. Just come home and we’ll talk about it,’ he pleaded.
He sounded pathetic.
‘There’s nothing more to say, Marcos, I’m not coming back, I am at home.’
‘But, Maya …’
I hung up.
No sadness, nothing, I just felt alive again. I went to bed. On my ceiling there were some luminous stars that Satchin had bought me for my twelfth birthday. Maggie was with him now; both of them were watching us. I fell asleep.
The next morning, I went to the shop with Amma. She had given Ana and Anita the week off and had the closed sign up so the two of us could spend time in the kitchen. ‘It’s forgiveness, Mol. I know there is no more resentment inside of you but forgiveness also includes oneself.’
We chopped the onions as she told me how she knew she was carrying a baby girl when she was pregnant with me. I kicked a lot less than my brother and it felt so different from the first time. We chopped our way through so many bags of onions that it made us cry. Sizzling in a cauldron of oil, everything that was bitter and raw turned sweet. The astrologer said it would be a girl and he was never wrong. An almon
d-skinned child with a soft centre who would grow into big things if she allowed life to teach her. We made a marinade of bitter cumin seeds, rough ginger and garlic, peeling them with the patience with which they had grown and smashing them up so they shrunk significantly in quantity, almost making the hours of peeling redundant.
Things that appear small often have a huge effect; smiles, gestures and words that appear insignificant to the eye. ‘Give thanks,’ Amma said, ‘for the root of the ginger appears ugly, the cumin seed bitter and the smell of garlic can repulse, but in these things too there is beauty and beauty comes in unexpected small quantities, these are things that are constant.’ Mustard seeds seem so tiny and insignificant that their healing qualities go unnoticed; if a grain rolled to the floor you would not notice, not like its slender red counterpart, the chilli. Together, they make an explosive combination, permeating the body through the breath and the pores of the skin like no other scent is able to do, cleansing, purifying and taking away self-doubt.
Fried in a cauldron of smoke with the magic of dreams and possibilities floating in the air just as fragrant as fresh lilies to those who understand, eliminating regret and sorrow into absolute nothingness. Mangoes signify fertility, tender and succulent orange flesh slithers gently off the knife. Then, in the centre, there is an unexpected stone, solid and furry as if to remind us that all that is sweet comes initially from something hard. Deceptive, yellow lemons whose sourness betrays them, like the sunny disposition of a bitter person. Steamed together, hot vapour and warm rain like the monsoon that brings up all that is ugly from the ground.
Cinnamon sticks, coarsely sweetened, float to the top like driftwood, escaping rough seas to perfume with experience that which surrounds it. ‘That is how I drifted when I first married,’ whispers my mother, as she stirs with her heavy metal ladle. ‘No anchor and then Satchin was born and I was so scared of the responsibility. Could I manage? Could I protect him? Would I be a good mother? When you came, I really understood what it was to be a mother; things fell into place and made sense. Everything I had ever asked for was given to me in two wrinkled bundles and I promised you many things.’