“I’m so sorry about that.” The woman from across approaches us. She lifts the little girl into her arms.
“Don’t be sorry. She’s adorable.”
“Laura is over-friendly. I have to watch her all the time. She shouldn’t be bothering strangers.”
The encounter leaves me uneasy. I cannot shake the feeling that Lee-Lan and I have connected in some way. I breathe deeply, lean back, stretch out my legs and close my eyes. Sleep hovers over my eyes as the airport’s hum—its anonymity enveloping me—fades in and out of my consciousness.
I see Papa on a strange bed, prone and inert. When I approach and reach for his hand, I gasp. It is cold and rigid. His eyes flutter open. Then they stare into mine, sightless and devoid of emotion. I choke down a scream, fling away his hand, and take a few steps back.
Wide awake now, I try to quell the panic inside me. I massage my stiff neck, coaxing the tight knot until it eases. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stroll over to the brightly-lit shops—a bottle of perfume would be a nice gift for Mama, and the stores will keep my dreams at bay. I have another five or six hours to while away and I’ve lost interest in my book.
I miss Daniel, wish he were here with me. He must be waking up about now. He’ll go for a jog first—a long one since it’s Saturday—before eating breakfast. I have never known him to miss a day of pounding the city’s pavements. A dull ache grips my heart. I wonder if he’s thinking of me. Oh, God. Take me back to him. He’s so far away from me.
·20·
The plane prepares to land under an overcast midday sky. I watch Calcutta Airport—once touted as a massive improvement over Dum Dum Airport—draw near. Familiar-looking low untidy structures come into view, dotting the once-beloved landscape where roads and paths weave, going everywhere and nowhere.
The flight from London has been uneventful and dreamless, punctuated only by a couple of movies and the usual food service. The passengers now disembark onto the tarmac. I glance at the dark swollen clouds that threaten to empty their contents as we hurry into the crowded terminal building. As soon as I step inside, the heavens release a torrential downpour. Giant sheets of water pelt the stragglers as they dash inside.
We congregate in front of the immigration counter where officials sitting behind them, unfazed by the chaos, process foreigners and locals with casual indifference. Finally, I am cleared to enter the country where I was born. A throng of people, some carrying umbrellas, wait beyond a door for their friends and relatives. Our faces get scrutinized. Bengali and Hindi chatter resonates with familiarity in my ears.
While I push my luggage cart through the door, my roaming eyes pick out Shane and Robert, waving their umbrellas like excited children. Wide-toothed grins greet me. Both brothers have filled out since the last time I saw them—weight pumping is in vogue.
Robert reaches me first with a shy smile on his slender and boyish face. As he grasps my hands, I glance up at those dreamy round eyes that have caused the girls to titter. I want to hug him, but that might embarrass him.
“Hello, Jie Jie,” Robert addresses me as his elder sister, just as Shane comes over.
“The cousins have been dropping by all morning asking if you’ve arrived yet,” Shane says. He clasps my shoulders and squeezes them. Then he takes the cart from me and leads the way. Robert and I follow more slowly. The sun has managed to part the clouds and casts a watery sheen on the metallic surfaces of the cars in the parking lot.
“How is Papa?” I ask.
Robert doesn’t respond immediately. In a measured tone, he says, “Papa hasn’t said much. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s anxious to see you.”
“What did he say when he heard that Peter died?”
“You know how Papa keeps his thoughts to himself. He will never admit that he’s wrong about anything. Aunt Sue-Lin came by with the news soon after it happened. She spent the entire time with Mama and Ah-Poh, whispering about Peter and Bobby . . . as if we didn’t know what was going on, huh. I blame her for what happened to you.” Shane inserts a key into the back of a blue Ambassador. We didn’t have this car when I lived here.
“Poor Aunt Sue-Lin . . . she had a perfect record until me,” I say.
Shane puts the suitcases inside the Ambassador’s deep trunk and then raises his head, a few strands of hair falling with disarming charm across his forehead. Frowning, he says, “She’s a busybody and gossips too much. I’ll never let her get involved with my marriage.”
“That goes for me too.” Robert slides into the front passenger seat while I take the backseat.
Shane maneuvres out of the parking lot. Robert turns his head around to face me. “So, what do you think? Has Calcutta changed much?”
“It’s more crowded than I remember, or maybe I’m not used to seeing so many people anymore. They’re everywhere—oh, watch out for that cow.”
Shane’s fingers hit the car’s horn. A cacophony of blaring honks almost shatters my ears as a man appears in the middle of the narrow road. He pats the clueless cow, urges it to move away from the traffic, and a woman on the side yells some abuse.
Once the cow safely ambles out of harm’s way, we enter the highway, a divided road where Shane can now drive faster. “Why didn’t you bring Daniel with you?” He asks, watching me in the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t want to put him in an awkward position. Papa still hasn’t warmed to the idea of my marrying a fankwei.”
Shane slows down for traffic. “Papa is so old-school,” he mutters. He stops and starts. Then he starts to weave through the traffic, and I clutch nervously at the door handle, when an oncoming lorry guns for us, but Shane swerves away just in time. It will take me a few more car rides to become reacquainted with this chaotic traffic.
Almost a half hour later, the Ambassador bounces into Tangra.
“I see the roads still have potholes you could fall into,” I chuckle. “Oh look, there’s Lam Kuo-Ching in striped pajamas as usual, yakking with . . . let’s see, is that his neighbour Chen She-Sung?”
“Yeah, and they’re looking this way now. They’ll broadcast your arrival very soon at the tea house down the road.” Shane passes the gossiping duo.
“Oh, look, Mrs Ko is gawking at us. She still sits at her front porch like a she-Buddha.”
Mrs Ko’s heavy jowls shift as her lips curl at the corners to acknowledge me. I grin when I see her fleshy bottom overflowing as usual from the small wicker stool.
Robert says, “I think she squats in front of her restaurant even more now that her oldest son is married. Her daughter-in-law does all the housework while she supervises the poor girl.”
“Whoa, the smell in Tangra hasn’t changed either.” I wrinkle my nose at the combined odour of rawhide and sewage that gets stronger the deeper we travel inside my old hometown.
Shane stops the car behind a thela gari groaning under its large load of salted rawhide. We wait for the labourers, one in front coaxing the two black bulls to pull, two others heaving and pushing from behind. With a loud creak, the wheels grind over a wide, watery pothole.
Robert laughs. “You’ll get used to the smell again.”
Passing the bullock cart, we bounce over the final kilometre. Shane slams his brakes before two scruffy mongrels yelping and baring their teeth at each other in front of Chen’s tannery. He eases the brake and allows the car to move forward slowly. The dogs give up and run off in opposite directions.
I wave to Mrs Wong, who can view Papa’s tannery from her concrete bench when she leans forward, her belly flopped over her thighs. Shane honks. He maneuvres the car through the heavy wooden gate into a space large enough for a car and a few motor scooters, at the bottom of the steps to the house. Amy and James, my cousins, scamper down, followed more slowly by Ah-Poh and Mama.
They crowd around us. Ah-Poh wipes her eyes with the bottom of her cotton paj
ama shirt underneath her navy blue cardigan. Then she puts her grease-stained black-rimmed glasses back to her face.
“Your papa is coming. Go to him,” Mama whispers with a nervous smile on her lips, and tilts my head so I can see Papa approach. I’m moved by the warmth of her gaze. Her soft brown eyes, so much like mine, shine with love and tenderness.
Papa stops at the edge of the group. My heart beats faster as a gap opens for him and our eyes meet. Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I search for signs of forgiveness on his stern face. I lower my head and say in Hakka, “Papa, I’m home.”
“You look well.” I listen for an inflection in the stern voice.
“You do too, Papa.” Indeed his belly, paunchier than before, strains against his white T-shirt, and his thick hair, slicked back with Brylcreem, shows more gray.
“Have you eaten lunch?” he asks in typical Hakka fashion—all greetings relate to the three meals.
I shake my head. My last meal was at eleven in the morning.
Ah-Poh grabs my arm. “Let’s go. No more of this chit-chat. I made your favorite chicken soup.” She almost drags me up the stairs.
“So you’re engaged to a fankwei?” Papa says at dinner time. “How old is he?”
“He’s twenty-eight. He’s a good man. You will like him if you get to know him.”
Papa grunts. His chopsticks scoop a mouthful of rice from his bowl.
“I heard that Peter died recently.” Papa puts his bowl on the table, his gaze on my face. “Did you attend his funeral like a dutiful wife?”
“I’m not . . . ” I suppress an urge to correct him. Instead, I nod.
“Aiya, you are eating like a bird,” Ah-Poh says. She spoons a piece of steamed tofu, cooked with fresh fish paste and ground pork, over my rice. “Do you like the chili chicken I made?”
Our special celebrations would not be complete without this dish. But I put my hand over Ah-Poh’s to stop her from serving me more.
An indulgent smile on her lips, Mama watches Ah-Poh pile up my bowl. “Tomorrow morning you will honour your Ah-Kung in front of his picture in the hall. I have a chicken ready in the fridge and I bought biscuits and sweets for the ceremony.”
Ah-Poh’s eyes mist her glasses. “Yes, yes, Ah-Kung would have been so happy to see you if he were still alive.”
With a pang I notice that a pile of newspapers sits on an empty stool pushed against the wall. “Can’t I pay my respects to him tonight?” I ask.
“It’s better in the morning,” Mama says.
Shane chuckles. “It’s something to do with tradition. I mean, what difference does it make whether you pay your respect to Ah-Kung in the evening or in the morning?”
“Aiya, you always make fun of everything,” Ah-Poh says in a plaintive tone, but she casts a fond look at Shane.
Papa picks up a toothpick and sits back. “Ah-Poh’s birthday banquet is on Friday. I have invited three hundred guests for this special lunch.”
Ah-Poh wails half-heartedly. “I don’t know why your Papa insists on making such a big fuss. You know what they say about old people when they celebrate a big birthday, huh? They will die soon after.”
Papa glares at her. “Don’t joke about things like that. This is a happy occasion. As your eldest son, it is my duty to honour you on your seventy-first birthday.”
Ah-Poh gives a throaty chuckle. “Of course, I appreciate the big banquet you’re giving.” She turns to me and says, “Do you know that Mr Yang came all the way from Sweden just to throw a birthday party for his father who will turn seventy-one before the Chinese New Year? What a dutiful son.”
“Who is Mr Yang?” I ask.
A silence follows during which Ah-Poh lifts her rice bowl to eat. I raise an eyebrow at Mama, who says, “Oh, he’s Mrs Chen’s nephew—you know the family that lives at the other end of the road?”
Shane asks, “What have you planned for tomorrow? Do you want to go out in the afternoon with Robert and me?”
“I’d love that. Where are you going?”
Mama says, “Tomorrow, Jie-Lan and I will visit Lee Ah-Kung and Lee Ah-Poh.”
My maternal grandparents live on the other side of Tangra, a twenty-minute walk from our place.
Shane’s face clouds, but then he recovers quickly. “That’s fine. We’ll go another time.”
That night I sleep in my old room. It looks almost the same, aside from a workout bench in the corner near the inside window, which Robert has added. The clock on the wall over the door strikes thrice. Wide awake, I wonder if Daniel is thinking about me. Dinner is at his parents’ place most Sundays—he must be there now.
In the hours just before dawn, the quiet weighs upon me like a heavy blanket. Sleep is elusive in this familiar yet now strange place. The unrelenting tick-tock pushes time forward. I suppress an urge to climb the wall and turn back those miniature spear-like hands—an exercise in futility—so that I can see and feel Daniel near me again. The half-hour chimes. My brain refuses to slow down. The previous day’s reunion plays like a movie in my head.
Shane must be holding something back. He was edgy when he asked if I wanted to go out with him and Robert—who, on the other hand, is an open book. He was unabashedly happy to see me; the thought of his innocence makes me smile. Almost eighteen, his face still has the babyish look.
Ah-Poh’s attentions sometimes seem overpowering. For her, food cures all ills. If I let her, she will fatten me like a milk cow. Mama tolerates Ah-Poh’s overbearing attempts to make everyone eat well—how else would she fill her days? Sometimes I wish Mama would show more emotion, like Mandy’s mother, who hugs me every time she sets eyes on me. Mama’s quiet fortitude developed over a long period—she’d lived through four years of hell while Papa languished in a concentration camp during the early sixties. I don’t remember if Papa has always been stern or became that way only after he was released from prison for the crime of having ideals about Communism. He was no more a spy for China than the next Indian man. Nowadays, his capitalistic enterprise pays for all the comforts we take for granted.
The fifth chime on the wall-clock echoes softly in the gray morning, and I hear quiet footsteps in the hall; that would be Mama. She goes to the market to buy fresh produce and meat every day. Sometimes she picks up special treats for breakfast, like kachouri.
On an impulse, I throw my covers off and clamber out of bed. I rush out to the bathroom just in time to see Mama turn the lights on and disappear inside.
“Mama, wait,” I call.
She pokes her head out. “What are you doing up so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Can I go to the market with you? I haven’t been there in a long time.”
“Of course you can come. We have to leave soon, so go and get ready right now.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mama and I make our way to the market beneath a sky that hints at an imminent sunrise. Mama holds a two-handled bamboo basket in the crook of an arm while we pick our way over the muddy road, courtesy of the previous day’s heavy downpour. We do not talk as we focus on navigating the dirt roads. Within minutes, we arrive at the market, a square centrally located in Tangra where vendors—mostly Indians—peddle their wares behind tables, or spread on the floor over a cloth, or right out of large baskets.
As we pass the first stall, I hear Mrs Chen berate the butcher in broken Hindi. Her short, black curls bob in frantic waves as her head moves back and forth in harmony with her motor-like mouth. Her fingers point at various cuts of pork all at once. It’s amazing that so much sound can come out from someone who barely reaches up to my shoulders. She pauses suddenly when she sees me. She gawks at me without reserve, her mouth opening and shutting like a gold fish.
Mama stops walking. “Mrs Chen, this is my daughter, Jie-Lan.”
“Uh . . . I know. The last time I saw you, you
were no taller than me.” Mrs Chen casts curious glances at me, her eyes darting up and down.
I groan inwardly, but compose my mouth in the shape of a smile. What was I thinking of, when I suggested to Mama that I accompany her to the market? Gossip Central—the hub for women who aspire to nothing more than spending their days in idle contemplation of the comings and goings of the denizens of Tangra. Mrs Chen, whose dutiful nephew has come all the way from Sweden to host his father’s seventy-first birthday banquet, will have much to discuss with her neighbours.
Mama listens politely to Mrs Chen griping about her lazy ayah, who has been taking too much time off. I nudge her at the back. She makes an excuse and we bid Mrs Chen goodbye.
Now Mama’s attention falls on a fruit vendor whose apples are bright red and unblemished—perfect for our ancestor veneration ceremony later this morning. I sense Mrs Chen’s eyes follow us as we walk away. Mama squats down low to examine the apples. My gaze wanders while I remain standing. Then my ears pick up the sound of a familiar voice in animated conversation. I turn and tap my aunt’s shoulder as I approach her from behind. “Hey, Kuku.”
Kuku—Hakka for “Father’s sister”—turns around. She breaks into a wide smile and squeals my name. She grabs my chin with her free hand, the other weighed down by a basketful of groceries. “Let your kuku take a good look at you. Hmm . . . much too thin and pale. When are you coming to visit? You must eat dinner at my place tomorrow—and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Cousin Amy used to complain to me sometimes that her mother talked too much. Still, Kuku’s enthusiasm touches me. When she finally decides to move on, I watch her stocky figure weave around shoppers and vendors alike. Her hand swishes like a broom before her, moving people out of her way. I am glad we bumped into Kuku. Dinner at her place should be interesting.
Mama beckons me to join her at the meat stall where we met Mrs Chen earlier. She places her last order—a lean cut of pork. While we wait for the butcher to carve and wrap the meat, my gaze drifts. My breath catches as I exchange an intense stare with a pair of eyes under bushy dark eyebrows winged at the tips as if in flight. Mrs Chou’s icy stare does not flinch.
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