“Yeah, well, I’m talking to Naniji about the Independence movement—it’s for my assignment.” I’m annoyed that I’m explaining.
Naniji says quickly, “Yes, yes, she asked me.”
Mom raises her eyebrow elegantly. “Of course. I’m sure it’s invaluable information.”
I almost say something sharp, but there’s something vulnerable about her mouth—I go over and give her a kiss.
She squeezes me. “Thanks, pet. Keep on, don’t let me stop you.”
But it’s gone, that easiness. Mom’s cut the thread Naniji was spinning for me. I wish Mom would just, I don’t know, go up to her room or something.
Naniji turns to Mom. “And how was your day, Rohini?”
“Oh, fine, fine. There’s an amazing amount of work, more than I anticipated, which is why I’m late.” She glances at the cut eggplant on the counter and says unconvincingly, “Er, I can continue here, with the dinner.”
“No, no, it’s all right. Tara’s helping, you see.”
Mom’s smile is forced. “How lovely.” She fills the kettle with water.
I turn away from Mom and start to chop the onion fiercely. My eyes sting. “Go on, Naniji, you were telling me—your birthday, what happened?”
Naniji sighs. “That’s when the mass arrests started. Later we found out that all our leaders had been arrested, every single one. But we didn’t know it at the time. All I cared about was having a good birthday. I remember I had a bright-yellow salwar khameez for the party, it was new. You know salwar khameez?” She indicates her clothes, the long top and baggy pants, then glances quickly at Mom.
Mom looks slightly offended.
“Go on, Naniji,” I urge.
“So—I had several friends coming over. I remember how my mother was fussing around, distracted. She must have known, poor woman, what was happening; she was close to Tilak’s mother. But she was determined I would have a special day. Tilak, his mother, their whole family were invited, too, but I didn’t care if they came. There were no girls my age in his family, and I thought Tilak was so stern and dull.”
“Who was so dull?” Nina comes in with Maya. Her friends must have left—I never heard them, either.
Maya jumps onto Mom’s lap and plants a noisy kiss. Nina sits at the table and repeats, “Who was so dull? What’re you talking about?”
“Will you be quiet?” I say irritably. “Naniji’s telling me about what happened to her during the … the freedom struggle. It’s for my assignment, so shush.”
Mom raises her eyebrows at me.
Nina glowers. “Well, I want to hear, too. I mean, I’m interested.”
The kettle shrieks and Mom gets up to pour water into the teapot.
I keep chopping the onion as Naniji goes over it again, how her brother told them about the Quit India movement, and about her party. But she doesn’t go into the bit about speaking Hindi at home.
Naniji continues, “So, in the evening, one by one, friends came, but no one from Tilak’s family. I remember how my mother kept looking out the dining-room window, over to Tilak’s house. I didn’t care, I just wanted my presents, and I wore my new clothes, and a jasmine garland in my hair.”
I wipe away the onion tears with the back of my hand.
“Tea, Mummyji?” asks Mom.
“I’d love some.”
I sigh and roll my eyes.
Naniji says placatingly, “I think we can sit for a while, no? I’ll put the bhaji together afterwards. It’ll only take a few minutes.” She chuckles suddenly. “My goodness, you’ve cut that fine.”
I’ve chopped the onion so hard, it’s a soggy mess. Naniji looks into my eyes and smiles, like there’s something just between the two of us.
As soon as she sits down and starts to sip her tea, I say, “Now will you please continue, Naniji?”
Naniji lowers her mug. “So then, at my party, everyone was finally there, and my mother brought in the cake, a nice chocolate cake with chocolate icing. God knows how she made it—there was severe rationing, she must have hoarded for ages to get the sugar and cocoa. We children were all sitting on the floor, on a chuddar—you know, a bedspread. And just as everyone finished singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ before I could even blow out the candles, we heard the noise next door—shouts. We all ran to the window.”
Nina leans forward. Maya’s eyes are riveted on Naniji.
“And there was a troop of British officers, taking away Tilak’s father, and others were swarming into his house. There was such a shocked silence. I remember my mother, her hands pressed to her mouth, saying, I hope Sarojini is all right. That was Tilak’s mother—your great-grandmother. Then, suddenly, our doorbell rang. And when the servant opened the door, in marched two British officers, followed by a troop of policemen.”
Naniji blinks rapidly.
I grip the edge of the table.
“The first officer, he said he was looking for Arjun. My brother,” she explains to Nina. “Arjun stepped forward, and the officer told him he was under arrest.”
Mom’s listening intently, caught up. It must be the first time she’s heard this story, too.
“And Arjun said, What am I charged with?” Naniji sighs and shakes her head. “He was my big brother, seventeen, so brash. He was not supposed to be scared of anything. But his Adam’s apple, it was bobbing up and down. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I knew he was frightened, and there was a sinking feeling inside me, like I was drowning.”
She looks straight at me, like she’s forgotten the others. “I’ll never forget the look in that officer’s eyes, Tara. Blue eyes, chips of ice, so full of contempt, like Arjun was a dog. No, not even a dog—just dirt.”
My stomach feels sick and shaky.
Naniji continues. “He said something about seditious material and searching the house for Congress Party pamphlets—that was the main party fighting for freedom. Then my mother spoke up. She was so afraid, but angry, too. There’s no seditious material here. Can’t you see there’s a child’s birthday party going on?”
My hands are clenched in my lap. I’m frozen, caught in her past.
“And he looked down at my mother and snapped, You natives! You think you can create all kinds of mischief and then hide behind a party. And he lifted his stick and smashed it down on my cake.”
Nina gasps. Mom bites her lip and holds Maya closer, rubbing her back.
“Then it was all confusion. The cake spattered brown blotches on my mother, my friends, Arjun, on my new yellow salwar khameez, everywhere. And the candles scattered and one or two burnt into the bed cloth and some of my friends screamed, and Mummyji, she stamped out the fire with her bare foot. And Arjun…” Naniji’s voice falters. “Arjun moved forward, to stop him, and the officer, he brought the stick across his face. Then I don’t know what happened, but Arjun’s cheek was cut open, bleeding, bleeding, all over his white clothes. Blood and cake were everywhere; he was being arrested, and one of his friends, too, who just happened to be there, and his friend was begging and pleading, saying how he wasn’t even a Congress Party member, but it made no difference. And my aunts, my father’s sisters, were crying, and the officers and police were tearing through things, searching, all over the house, and I could hear their boots thudding and Kunti, our cook, wailing, and I was so shocked that they went into the prayer room, the prayer room, and turned everything upside down.”
My throat feels swollen.
“Of course they found nothing. Arjun and Papaji had been careful not to keep any incriminating material in the house. But they arrested Arjun anyway. And me, I was just standing there, frozen, I couldn’t even cry, and Mumtaz, my best friend, was clinging to me, sobbing, sobbing. And, finally, they took Arjun and his friend, Arjun holding his cheek with his handkerchief, soaked red, and as they were going out the door, my mother”—Naniji draws in a long, shuddering breath—“my mother, who was normally so meek and mild, so careful not to get openly involved, she lifted her fist and she shouted, oh, she scre
amed, Karengae ya marengae, we will do or die!” Naniji’s whole body is shaking.
For a long moment no one says anything.
I blink away the moisture in my eyes. “What happened?”
“They arrested her, too.”
“Pigs!” says Nina fiercely.
Mom’s face is pale as she rocks Maya.
Naniji continues, “And as they started to take her out, suddenly, I was able to move, and I leaped forward and I screamed, Karengae ya marengae, and Mumtaz, she was still crying, but she grabbed me and slapped both her hands on my mouth.”
I can’t breathe.
“The officer who’d hit Arjun, he turned around, eyes like fire, and he raised his lathi, and my mother screamed no, and the other officer tugged his arm and said, She’s just a child. And the officer looked at me with so much hate, so much hate, but he let the other man pull him out. And I wrenched away from Mumtaz and ran to the door. She grabbed my hair to stop me, but just my jasmine garland tore off in her hands, and I reached the door and screamed, Quit India, Quit India, over and over, until the trucks disappeared.”
Naniji wipes her face.
Slowly, Mom reaches out and grips her hand.
Naniji squeezes it, then blows her nose.
I sniff deeply. My voice is shaky. “How long? How long was your mother in jail? And your brother?”
“Oh, they let her go after a few days, unlike many of the others.” Naniji looks scornful. “That’s because the jails were overflowing with people. There were thousands arrested. You’ve no idea. So many had nothing to do with the freedom movement. Arjun, he was locked up for four months, then let go. But as soon as he came out he demonstrated and was rearrested. And Tilak. He joined a demonstration—you know, to protest the arrests—so they locked him away for three years.” Naniji’s face is grim. “But from that day, I knew the British did not have moral authority. I knew their superiority was a lie. I left the English school. I told Papaji I would not go. And I started to speak only Hindi at home.”
There’s a long silence. Then Mom abruptly lifts the mug to her mouth. Naniji glances at her, and her eyes come back to the present.
I wish they could just let go of all that—it’s always there, a shadow.
“So that’s when you got involved?” I ask quietly.
Naniji nods. “I told Papaji that I wanted to do my share, be actively involved.”
“Did he let you?”
“Not at first. My mother talked him into it.” Naniji smiles. “She was a strong woman, and she did her bit.”
“Way to go, Naniji,” says Nina.
Mom nods vehemently. “Good for her. Good for you.”
Naniji flushes, her eyes bright.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Oh, at first, I wanted to court arrest, but my mother convinced me that people were needed to help spread the real news about what was going on, the police violence. And she was worried, too, me being a girl, about me going to jail—terrible things happened, there were so many stories, you have no idea what horrors. I won’t go into that. But I found out about the repression going on across the country, all that the British did. None of the newspapers were allowed to report it, not one. But we did.” Her eyes are hard. “I helped to spread news from house to house, sometimes through word of mouth, sometimes by taking around the underground newspapers. And my father, he was so angry that they’d arrested my mother, he used his big black doctor’s bag to carry news of our leaders from one house to another, right under the noses of the British. And my middle brother, Ramesh, he, too, became involved. That’s when I took up spinning khadi.”
“Spinning what?” asks Nina.
“Cotton,” I say quickly. “Isn’t that right, Naniji?”
Naniji nods. She glances at Mom again and licks her lips. “It changed my life, being part of it all—you can’t imagine. The first time I attended a secret meeting, I just sat at the edge of the room, listening. I was the youngest, you know. But for the first time I felt like I was able to see clearly, think clearly. I had a sense of belonging. It was like coming out of the fog into sunshine, to be with people all part of a common purpose, a righteous purpose. It was so exciting. The first time I put up a poster saying Quit India—it was illegal, you know—I thought about that officer who arrested Arjun, and when I hammered in the nails it was his eyes I remembered.”
“Yes!” I say.
Mom is nodding. And for that moment, we’re united; we’re all in the circle, hammering the poster with her Quit India.
Then the front door clicks open. Dad.
Maya runs to him and he picks her up and swings her around. “Me-Oh-Mayo!”
Naniji jumps up and hugs Dad. “My goodness,” she says. “Look at the time.” She rushes to the stove and turns on the burners. “I was telling Tara about the old days and I lost track. I’ll get the dinner ready. Girls, we’ll be eating soon.” She stops abruptly, turns to Mom. “Of course, if it’s all right with you, Rohini.”
Mom’s eyebrows flick upwards and her lips disappear. “Of course. Hello, Raj. How was your day?”
Dad’s eyes dart from Naniji to Mom. “Er, fine, fine. Yours?”
“Fine.” Mom smiles. “But I’m afraid I had to spend extra time at the shelter.”
“Ahh, right, right.” Dad’s blinking too rapidly. “Smells good, Mummyji.”
“Yes, very good,” intones Mom.
But it’s gone, that solidness, shattered. It’s all awkward corners and angles. Artificial again. And I want … I want to pull it together.
“Hey, you missed something, Dad. Naniji was telling us about how she got started in the Independence struggle, about her fourteenth birthday and how her mother got arrested.”
Naniji glances gratefully at me as she chops some green coriander leaves.
Dad seizes it eagerly. “Ah. Did she tell you about her shouting Quit India at the British officer?”
I snap around to look at Dad. “You knew about it?”
“Of course I knew; she’s my mother.”
“How come you never told us?”
“Yeah, Dad,” says Nina.
Naniji’s face is startled. Dad pushes what’s left of his hair off his forehead. “Well, I did tell you about the arrests on Mummyji’s fourteenth birthday, remember?”
“Just vaguely. All you told us was that members of her family were arrested—nothing about it being the middle of her party, or—”
“Yeah, Dad,” says Nina. “The way you told us, it was so feeble.”
Naniji gasps suddenly and lifts her finger to her mouth.
“Are you all right?” cries Dad.
“Yes, yes, just a little cut. The knife slipped.”
“Let me see,” says Dad.
“Wash it out under the tap,” says Mom.
And they’re fussing and fumbling, Naniji protesting that it’s just a little cut, really it is, Dad overreacting, Mom stiffly solicitous, and Nina and Maya just watching.
In the end, I go for a Band-Aid.
CHAPTER 19
I don’t pay much attention to the conversation over dinner. It drips and starts anyway, like before, even though it’s less strained. Nina says something about trying civil disobedience in school, with one of the teachers, and Dad laughs while Mom pontificates about how there has to be a real cause. I just let it swirl around me.
I’m thinking about the assignment. How can I even start to write up something like that?
My eyes meet Naniji’s.
We had this exercise one time in a creative-writing class, writing a fairy tale in the first person. Like it’s happening to you. Maybe that’s how I have to try this. Maybe it’s the only way.
“You’re awfully quiet, Tara,” says Dad.
“I was just, you know, thinking about what Naniji told me earlier, and how to write it.”
Mom says smoothly, “It’s a powerful story, but I’m sure you’ll do it justice, Tara. If you need any help, well, I can give you some tips from my wr
iting class.”
That’s all I need! But Mom looks so earnest, I just smile noncommittally.
After dinner, I rush up to my room and take out some lined paper. It’s not due till Thursday, but I want to get it down now, while it’s fresh. I start to write, feverishly. First person.
My heart pounds when I get to the officer bringing his stick down on the cake, and then I don’t know how to spell Karengae ya marengae, but I manage anyway, and I scream in my head, Quit India, Quit India, scream with Naniji as I write it, and I can’t help it, the tears stream down my face.
When I’m done I bury my face in my arms.
Holy shit.
My family. My history.
My family history.
I didn’t expect it to be like this, I didn’t. I wipe my face and blow my nose.
Then it hits me.
My class. They’re mostly white. Some of them, a lot of them, their families must have originally come from Britain.
Maybe some of their ancestors were even part of the whole thing in India, the officer with the blue eyes smashing his stick. How … how will they take it when they hear it?
And how can I possibly read it, with all those white kids listening, and me feeling, I don’t know, suddenly so, so—different? So brown.
I drop my head in my hands. This is crazy, it’s totally crazy. It’s not supposed to be like that here, is it?
Blue eyes.
I go icy cold.
Jeff’s grandfather. He’d been everywhere, Jeff said, with the British army. Even spent a few years in India. He’s a Brit—one of them—smashing her cake. Was he in India then?
For a long while I just sit there, arms limp in my lap, staring out the window.
This is the world I live in.
But how do I fit?
I’m not one of the true natives, the First Nations, and not one of the whites who marauded the globe colonizing, who tell the history of Canada from when they arrived. I’m too dark for the Samanthas and the rednecks, but not dark enough for Tolly, or Indian enough for Naniji, too Canadian, too western. Always too something. Never just right.
Except I was born here, this is my home, too; it’s the only world I know. But how does it fit here—do or die, Quit India, even Naniji’s face, as she told us what happened?
A Group of One Page 10