Most people were overdressed as the day had begun deceptively cool, and the amalgamation of everyone’s perspiration made Jyoti feel slightly ill in the cramped train compartment.
Ever since Jyoti’s arrival, she’d been making a mental list of places in London that her mother would enjoy (Natural History Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, Apothecary Garden of Chelsea, National Gallery), even bought a larger print version of the London A-Z for her, but her mother had not gone anywhere by herself, choosing instead to clean up after breakfast and watch television all day until Jyoti returned from school.
Even when the two of them went out, her mother generally complained about the weather or the food or the dishevelled people rather than appreciate the art or architecture.
Yesterday her mother said, “Wouldn’t you be happier to come home and finish your thesis in Bombay? Your father and I miss our Jyoti baby so much.”
Even though this had occurred to Jyoti a few months ago, she instantly said no. The idea of leaving London so abruptly made her heart skip and she knew it was because of him. She still wanted a summer with him in London after her mother returned home, and so she said, “I need to stay and use the library for research, seek guidance from my advisors for my thesis.” It wasn’t a lie exactly—she did use the library from time to time. What she didn’t say was that she could’ve easily taken a few books home with her and posted them back, or called her thesis advisors from Bombay for help, and that several other international students were returning home to do just that.
The other day, while watching Coronation Street, her mother had said, “Well, everyone misses you back home.” She’d become enthralled with the daytime soaps, catching Jyoti up daily on Neighbours or EastEnders (Jyoti didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that she didn’t like those shows), followed by a detailed prognosis of the weather. And no matter how mild the temperature was or was about to be, her mother was always incredulous of the forecaster’s brightness on BBC One. “Eighteen degrees. Why is this fool celebrating? If the thermostat ever dipped that low in Bombay the street urchins would freeze to death.”
Jyoti had thought about saying it was cause to celebrate after the dark and cold winter London had endured, but realized it wasn’t worth the effort when her mother carried on: “How much money we’re paying for your rent, and they’re keeping the heat off?”
“It is on, Mama. They’ve turned it down because it’s spring.”
But her mother continued to grumble while watching Coronation Street. “The amount we’re spending on your rent—most people in India don’t even earn that much salary in ten years. We’ll be begging in the streets by next year.” At first, Jyoti had felt a pang of guilt but then dismissed it, knowing how her mother was given to hyperbole. Her father never complained about money. If they were really in any financial trouble, her mother would never have approved the LSE. And now that her mother was homesick, she would say or do anything to retrieve her baby home. So Jyoti took it all in stride, reminding herself how she, too, detested London at first, how she cursed the damp air, the darkness at four in the afternoon, the loneliness.
Eight months ago, she didn’t know how to operate a washing machine, had never cleaned dishes, cooked her own meals, or even made her own bed. But now these simple daily chores gave her a sense of self-reliance—something she’d never had before and she realized how sheltered her life in Bombay had been, how sheltered her mother’s was. Perhaps, Jyoti thought, she ought not to judge her mother so harshly for not venturing out to museums on her own; after all, in Bombay the only place her mother went anywhere by herself was the temple, and even to that she was chauffeured by their driver. There were always plenty of friends or neighbours to chat with. She rarely did anything on her own, and Jyoti had never found it odd or questioned such norms. But now, after living in London, Jyoti wondered if she’d be able to readjust to India, if she’d miss feeling self-reliant.
It was funny how quickly a person could change without even realizing it. Jyoti remembered the morning when she’d finally screwed up enough courage to look at Gavin. How it was the most audacious thing she’d ever done. She nearly laughed out loud now at her naiveté.
Jyoti couldn’t expect her mother to change in a week, to understand how it had taken her months to get to where she was, how she’d gone to rock concerts with Gavin, how on Sundays Gavin would insist she simply close her eyes and point blindly to a spot on the back of her London A–Z tube map and less than an hour later they’d be there, walking around the very spot her finger had been, navigating and exploring fruit and veg markets in working-class neighbourhoods, ducking into local pubs for a drink. The city was so dense and diverse—there was much to see. Some of her favourite places to walk were in the old city near where Gavin worked: the Square Mile, the financial district with the London Stock Exchange and the Bank of England that had been standing on Threadneedle Street since 1734. Jyoti loved the tiny, irregularly angled narrow streets and alleys that Gavin told her had been there since the Romans occupied the city two thousand years ago, when it was called Londonium. She’d never cared much for history, but Gavin talked about it so passionately that it became a little infectious. She was always amazed at his hunger for things like that, things that Jyoti had never thought about, like the light sources in seventeenth-century paintings, or how there had been a much taller church on the spot where St. Paul’s Cathedral now stood, built nearly a thousand years ago.
As Jyoti walked down King’s Road, towards her building, she realized she’d broken her rule about not thinking of Gavin by name and reminded herself: I will not think of him. I will not think of him for one more week.
In the drawing room, as Jyoti took off her shoes and jacket, she could hear her mother cooking in the kitchen. The fragrance of freshly chopped garlic and onions sautéing in oil was usually a welcome scent but it made her gag now. She wanted to open a window for fresh air. Had she been away from home for so long that the smell of Indian food was making her feel ill? But she and Gavin frequently went to Indian restaurants or got Indian takeout. She’d even made a couple of impromptu Indian dishes (both had turned out awful, but he didn’t complain). She opened a window in the drawing room and stuck her head out, reminding herself not to think of him. At least by name. Easier said than done.
Her mother called her into the kitchen. Jyoti came and searched the fridge for orange juice. While adding mustard seeds to the sautéing onions and garlic, her mother complained, “No fresh ginger in this country—the stuff in the shop is all shrivelled and dried up. Oh, a boy named Gavin telephoned.”
With her back to her mother, Jyoti froze stiff while looking in the fridge and her ears began to glow warm with blood.
“He’s in my class,” she said, more at a block of cheddar than to her mother. “In one of my group projects.”
“Well, he said he wanted to come by to give you something,” her mother said, adding turmeric, cardamom, coriander, and red chilli into the sizzling pan. The entire kitchen was all of a sudden suffused with the pungent tang of garlic and onions. Jyoti’s stomach was doing flips. She sprang towards the kitchen window to open it but didn’t make it in time and vomited all over the sink.
- 25 -
1997
AS A CHILD BORN DURING the end of the British Raj, Deepa Patik had grown up in a middle-upper-class family who emulated British customs as much as Indian ones and so a week ago, when Deepa arrived in London (her first trip to the UK), she had been excited, expected some civility, a little decorum, a touch of social grace. But on the underground train from Heathrow into the city, she noticed that nearly every single young person was slovenly, not to mention the tattoos and multiple earrings. Some of the adults weren’t much better. People swilled beer from cans and munched loudly on snacks, leaving trails of crumbs on themselves, discarding refuse on the seat or floor. Things improved when they alighted at South Kensington Station but only slightly. Not that Deepa expected it to be full of ladies and gentlemen wit
h tuxedos, white gloves, and evening gowns. She wasn’t stupid. But they were in South Kensington. Nonetheless, money didn’t ensure manners, she’d reminded herself as they walked to Jyoti’s flat that grey afternoon, during which a light drizzle threatened to appear but never materialized (it’d been a week now and the sun had yet to show itself properly). It wasn’t long before she realized she’d abandoned her little Jyoti baby to this ungodly squalor of a country. She’d never been keen on the idea of letting Jyoti go to the LSE. There were decent schools in Bombay, granted not as prestigious. But what did it really matter? Jyoti wouldn’t be the bread winner (even though she’d likely be much smarter than her husband). She’d marry soon, work for a while, then have a family. It was Jyoti’s father who’d put these ideas of the LSE into Jyoti’s head, saying, “It’ll broaden her mind and give her rich life experiences that will last a lifetime.” The fool was obsessed with the idea that Jyoti should go to school in the UK because he never did. They fought over it. Eventually, Deepa relented when she realized that with a graduate degree from the LSE, Jyoti would have her pick of suitable boys.
But now in London, Deepa couldn’t help but feel she’d failed in her duty as a mother to protect her Jyoti baby. She was furious with her husband because as far as she could tell, Jyoti was putting on a brave face, saying how much she’d grown to like the city, its architecture, and whatnot. The poor girl was clearly lying. She never talked about things like architecture or museums. Now she was obviously covering up the fact that deep down she was still as lonely as when she first arrived. Those early letters and phone calls had made Deepa weep. Over time, Jyoti had complained less, it seemed as though she was beginning to adjust to her new environment, and Deepa had taken some solace in that, but now she could see her Jyoti baby had just been brave over the months while she and her husband had conveniently convinced themselves that their daughter was adapting.
Every morning, after Jyoti left for school, Deepa prayed with her 108-sandalwood-bead mala on the floor next to the central heating duct. She prayed for forgiveness for letting her daughter ever leave home. She promised God that she would never abandon her little Jyoti baby again.
AFTER A WEEK, when Jyoti fell ill, Deepa was almost glad as it gave her something to do. She cleaned up Jyoti’s vomit in the kitchen while Jyoti washed herself up. Poor thing probably had food poisoning from those dirty hippies who handed out free food at her school. Tucking Jyoti into bed, Deepa said, “It just proves how careless and unclean these white people are. Even their Hare Krishnas are incapable of preparing hygienic vegetarian food.” Jyoti spent the rest of the day in bed while Deepa made her hot water bottles and tomato soup with toast.
The following morning, Jyoti insisted on going to school even though she wasn’t feeling a hundred percent. Deepa kissed Jyoti on the head before she left. “My perfect student.”
Later in the afternoon, while Deepa watched Neighbours, there was a knock at the door. She turned the volume down and peered through the peephole at a young man with green eyes holding a lovely little bouquet of daisies and irises. His hair wasn’t kempt, but he looked somewhat more presentable than the young people she’d seen on the train that first day. She wasn’t going to answer as it could’ve been a deranged criminal for all she knew, but then she remembered that there was a porter in the lobby downstairs. Whoever the young man was, he was approved of, so she opened the door, thinking he was most likely at the wrong flat.
“Oh, h-h-h-hello. I’m Gavin. Is Jyoti here?”
Deepa recognized his stutter and said, “No. Did you call yesterday?”
“Yes. I was j-just in the neighbourhood.”
“Jyoti’s at school. Didn’t you see her in class?”
“What? I mean, excuse me?”
“Aren’t you in her group project at school?”
They stood in an awkward silence for a moment, in which a number of thoughts raced through Deepa’s mind. If he wasn’t her schoolmate, then who was he? And why was he bringing her flowers? They were rather simple but pleasing, and she liked the colour scheme of white with purple. Part of her was still listening to Susan and Karl on Neighbours having a row; despite being childhood sweethearts, they were just not meant to be.
Taking the flowers, she said, “Thank you. I’ll make sure she gets these,” and shut the door.
There was a small card with the flowers that she carefully steamed open.
Dear J,
I’m sorry, I know you said not to come by but I can’t stop thinking of you. I really don’t understand what’s going on. I thought everything was brill between us. Really really miss you (and Sunday breakfasts in bed & Simpsons reruns!)
Please call. Or write. Or send smoke signals!
Yours,
G.
xo
As Deepa read the note, an eerie presentiment came to mind—a mother’s intuition from the farthest reaches of the universe arrived at such breakneck speed that it nearly toppled her over, and in that split second the earth seemed to spin off its axis as she instantly realized that Jyoti didn’t have food poisoning but she was in fact pregnant. Pregnant with this dishevelled, stammering boy’s child. At first, she nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of it: Jyoti, pregnant. It was impossible. Her little Jyoti baby? But the more she kept trying to convince herself it couldn’t be true, the more she knew it was. Deepa remembered how nauseous she had been during the first few months of both her pregnancies. How she couldn’t stand the smell of food cooking. Especially onions or garlic or any kind of spice.
Did Jyoti know she was pregnant? Maybe that’s why she’d been spending so much time in her bedroom after school. Deepa clutched her mala and started working through the beads. Om tát savitúr váreṇyaṃ bhárgo devásya dhīmahi dhíyo yó naḥ pracodáyāt Om. God! Giver of life, Remover of all pain and sorrows, Bestower of Happiness, Creator of the Universe, Thou are most luminous. We meditate upon thee—from all who proceed, to whom all must return. May thou inspire, enlighten, and guide our intellect in the right direction.
She prayed to God with fervour that her intuition was wrong, that her little Jyoti baby had not been raped, and eventually the repetition of prayer relieved her anxiety somewhat. Jyoti was a bright girl. She would never have sexual relations with a boy before marriage, let alone unprotected sex with a grubby gora. Jyoti had worked too hard all these years to just throw it all away for a fling with some dirty white boy. She had such a bright future in front of her. All she had to do was return to Bombay with her degree from the LSE and she’d be able to marry nearly any Gujarati boy in the city. There had to be an explanation for it all. Jyoti must have some kind of stomach bug, the flu perhaps? And the reason she was feeling sick and spending so much time in her room alone was because she was stressed from all her schoolwork. It was the London School of Economics, after all, and her final semester—it wasn’t meant to be easy. Deepa became paralyzed with a fear she’d never experienced, and with every breath she took she became more convinced that Jyoti was pregnant. Suddenly she had an overwhelming sensation in her stomach. Something was turning and twisting into knots. A torrent of emotions cycloned. She was angry that Jyoti would let herself get into this situation. Perhaps the boy was at fault. But, no, she thought, no matter how much he was to blame, Jyoti knew better. The girl’s whole future was being flushed down the toilet. What would people say? How would she ever find a decent boy to marry? The shame. The stigma. It was the kind of thing that followed a girl for life. No one in the Gujarati community from an equal socio-economic background in Bombay would deem Jyoti worthy. She’d have to settle for a boy a tier or two below, far away in some small town with sporadic electricity. Deepa couldn’t bear that. That had never even been in the realm of possibility. She’d always imagined Jyoti living in Bombay, near her in the city, not in the suburbs. But her world was no longer the same. The pain in her stomach suddenly turned to a sharp white-hot heat. She felt as though someone had cut open her belly and her intestines were falling out.
The mythical story of Vishnu transforming himself into Narasimha, a man-lion, came to mind. With his claws, Narasimha tore a demon’s stomach open—a popular and ancient myth of good overcoming evil, depicted in stone sculptures and paintings. Hymns of it sung during poojas and bhajans at the temple always uplifted her spirit, but now she crumpled to the floor, feeling much like the disembowelled demon lying at Narasimha’s feet, her life unraveling, spilling away from her.
O God, with your boundless glory, why have you forsaken me so?
- 26 -
1997
AS JYOTI WALKED DOWN KING’S Road, she tried not to fret about her period being two weeks late. After all, she kept reminding herself, it had skipped a month during times of stress—finals in college, or her first month in London. It was probably late because Jyoti was in a constant state of anxiety about keeping her mother from finding out about Gavin.
There was also her thesis. She’d never written anything so extensive. She was fine working with non-linear dynamics, stochastic processes, all of the multiple variables that influenced derivatives pricing; she could even adapt and create models to emerging markets, but writing a cohesive thesis about it all was so much more complicated.
Jyoti sighed as she unlocked her door, looking forward to a bath. The stench of perspiration on the chock-full tube still lingered vaguely in her nose. She was expecting her mother on the couch, recounting the day’s television highlights, but instead found her sprawled on the floor next to some flowers.
Jyoti rushed to her side. “Mama!”
Her mother’s eyes were swollen, fresh out of tears, and it seemed as though she’d aged ten years. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
A heart attack, Jyoti thought. Then she noticed the dark maroon blotch of blood staining the back side of her mother’s sari. It unhinged Jyoti slightly from her world, made her feel as though she was reeling, free-falling like skydivers who jump out of aeroplanes before they open their parachutes. She called for an ambulance as soon as she caught her breath.
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