by Meera Syal
Uncle Alan was half-running towards the gate, towards Sam who was strolling back to his moped to the cheers and claps of his gang. ‘Wait! Sam!’ Uncle Alan puffed. ‘Listen! Don’t do this! Don’t turn all this energy the wrong way!’ Sam was not listening. He was already revving up, clouds of bluey-grey smoke wheezing from his exhaust. ‘Anger is good! But not used this way! Please! You’re going the wrong way!’
Sam aimed his moped straight at Uncle Alan who was now outside the gates, making him jump back and stumble, and then he sped off up the hill followed by the rest of his three-wheeler lackeys, who manoeuvred in and out of each other like a bunch of May-mad midges until they were nothing but annoying buzzy specks in the distance. Uncle Alan sat heavily down on the grass and rested his head on his arms. People were now crowding round papa, offering condolences and back pats like he’d just come last in the annual church egg and spoon race. ‘Yow don’t mind him, Mr Ku-mar, he’s always been a bad-un …’ Papa smiled graciously at them, shrugging his shoulders, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself or what had just happened. I knew he was trying to get to me and I began pushing forward, encountering a wall of solid backs and legs.
Anita was tugging my sleeve as she held onto me. I turned round to face her, my cheeks still felt warm and taut. ‘Wharrabout that then!’ she grinned, ‘In’t he bosting!’
‘What?’ I croaked.
‘Sam Lowbridge. He’s dead bloody hard, in’t he?’
‘Anita Rutter, yow am a bloody stupid cow sometimes,’ I said, and did not look back until I had reached the haven of papa’s arms.
Papa and I walked in silence back home, ignoring the other villagers around us who were still loudly dissecting the dramatic events of the day. It was only when we approached the crossroads near our front gate that papa turned to me and said, ‘If anyone ever says anything rude to you, first you say something back, and then you come and tell me. Is that clear?’ I nodded my head reassuringly. After what I had just said to Anita, I knew that I would need papa on my side for the foreseeable future.
As soon as we entered the house, I sensed that something was wrong. None of the lights were on; the back door to the yard was open, even though it was dusk and the night air had begun to bare its tiny sharp teeth. The spice jars and sheets of newspaper were still on the kitchen floor where mama had left them and the pantry door was swinging slowly on its hinges. ‘Daljit!’ papa called, motioning me to sit on the farty settee and stay there. I ignored him; the last time he had done that to me was the night of Sunil’s birth when I had been locked in the kitchen and left with my imagination.
So I followed him into our lounge at the end of the house where he snapped on the light. Mama was sitting on the sofa staring out of the window where the first few pinpricks of stars had begun to appear. Sunil was fast asleep on her lap, the material of her sleeve imprisoned in his tightly-clenched fist. She looked up at us listlessly and then turned back to the window. ‘It’s the same sky,’ she said finally. ‘The same sky in India. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’
Papa sat down gently next to her, he seemed afraid of what she was going to say next. He tried to take Sunil from her lap, but even in his sleep he cried out furiously, holding onto mama, his eyes still shut until papa admitted defeat and let him go. ‘Daljit, what is wrong? Tell me please,’ papa said gently.
Mama could not tear her eyes away from the window, as if she was counting the stars in her head. ‘I can’t cope any more, Shyam. Back home I would have sisters, mothers, servants …’ The stars were her family, his family, she was crossing them off one by one, naming them to keep them alive. ‘I can’t do this any more. I can’t.’ She blinked back tears as papa put his arm round her and motioned me away. This time I went willingly.
I sat in my darkened bedroom and from the window watched Mr Ormerod and various helpers carrying the last of the stalls and awnings from the Big House’s grounds and onto a waiting truck. I thought about the fortune teller, and wondered what else would be coming true, and if everything that was going to happen to me had already been decided, what was the point of ever dreaming and hoping for change, for something better? It was a clear night; the few stars I had glimpsed before had turned into thousands, millions, brighter and thicker than the stars on the Mysterious Stranger’s purple cloak. They vied with the illuminated front rooms and kitchens all over the village where my neighbours, even now, would be sitting over mugs of steaming tea, retelling the story which had made strangers out of friends, labelled friendly passers-by as possible enemies, at least in my eyes. Nothing was safe any more; even my own mama had talked in an unknown poet’s voice which made me think that at any moment, the walls of my home could buckle and shake, and crumble slowly downwards into the earth.
When I had whispered up all those silent prayers for drama and excitement, I had not imagined this, this feeling of fear and loneliness. But tonight I finally made the connection that change always strolled hand in hand with loss, with upheaval, and that I would always feel it keenly because in the end, I did not live under the same sky as most other people. I did not need a bra or some blue eyeshadow to appear older, not tonight.
I woke up to a very weird morning; the weather was exactly like the weather in all my dreams, a cobalt blue sky with small high clouds blown furiously about by an impatient wind. I stayed in bed for hours it seemed, hearing Sunil’s cries and nonsense baby talk filtering upstairs, along with dozens of loud telephone calls, hurried activity with doors slamming and cars arriving and departing. I recognised Auntie Shaila’s booming tones, I knew that papa had gone out in the car for at least an hour and returned busy and full of news. I was not bothered that they seemed to have forgotten me.
I also saw Anita and Fat Sally strolling arm in arm past my house, I knew that they were going up to Sherrie’s farm to ride Trixie and I also knew that they did not have to walk this route to get there. Anita affected her usual manic highpitched tone when she was talking through someone and not to them. ‘Sherrie said I could tek me best mate with me – Sally. We’m gonna have a bosting time, in’t we?’
To my surprise, I did not care much. I felt leaden and sleepy today, in spite of the fact that last night I had fallen into unconsciousness the minute my head hit the pillow, and was still in my pyjamas, even though I guessed it must be at least midday. Finally, papa came into the room, all rosy and windswept from his wanderings. He sat down on the bed next to me and slapped me playfully on the back. ‘Guess who’s coming to stay with us next week?’ I shook my head and then a phrase entered my head like a jolt as he finished his sentence. ‘Your Nanima! Your mama’s mama! Isn’t that great news?’
Help from Overseas, my mind sang. Help, I need Somebody, Help, Not Just Anybody …’
‘Great news,’ I replied, and fumbled under the quilt for my bedsocks as my feet had suddenly gone icy cold.
8
My Nanima’s arrival did not go unnoticed in the village, probably because when papa finally returned with his precious cargo from the airport, he drove up to the house tooting his horn furiously, whereupon a noisy welcoming committee made up of mama, Auntie Shaila and Uncle Amman, Pinky and Baby, myself and Sunil, all rushed into the garden shouting and waving, causing traffic to slow down and passing women to stop and squint curiously, patting their hair into place in case there were hidden television cameras in the privet hedges.
Papa flung open the Mini door ceremoniously, and Nanima levered herself out, brushing out the creases in her beige salwar kameez suit with gnarled brown fingers and pulling her woollen shawl around her to ward off an imagined breeze. She had barely taken a step before mama had thrown herself into her massive bosom, laughing and crying all at once, whilst Auntie Shaila sniffled to herself as she anointed our front step with oil as a traditional gesture of welcome. (It was supposed to be coconut oil but a bottle of Mazola Deep ‘N’ Crispy still did the trick.)
It took at least ten minutes for Nanima to reach the front door as each of us were
shoved into her path to receive a blessing from her upraised hands. I was furious that Pinky and Baby got there before me, she was not even their sodding granny and there they were in the front of the queue, collecting a few more brownie points for their next life. But I reckoned since the Collection Tin incident, I could afford to be a little generous; after all, they had not mentioned it since. Neither had they ever allowed their mother to leave them alone with me, for which I was relieved. However, I smirked to see Nanima’s confusion as she patted them on the head, and felt vindicated when I saw mama whispering their names to her, explaining, I was certain, that they were hangers-on as opposed to blood relatives.
Papa held Sunil out for inspection; his bottom lip began quivering as soon as Nanima tried to cuddle him, so she laughed instead and pinched his cheek, handing him back to mama who kept up an excited monologue, ‘See beti? That’s your Nanima! Your Nanima has come to see you! Say Nanima! Say it!’ Then I found myself looking up into my mama’s face, except it was darker and more wrinkled and the eyes were rheumy and mischievous, but it was mama’s face alright, and suddenly I was in the middle of a soft warm pillow which smelt of cardamom and sweet sharp sweat, and there was hot breath whispering in my ear, endearments in Punjabi which needed no translation, and the tears I was praying would come to prove I was a dutiful granddaughter, came spilling out with no effort at all.
I knew Nanima was going to be fun when she rolled backwards into the farty settee and let out a howl of laughter. As Auntie Shaila tried to haul her out, she continued laughing, shouting something to mama which turned into a loud chesty cough as she finally regained her balance. ‘Meena, don’t titter like that, have some respect,’ papa admonished me gently. But as I handed Nanima a glass of water, one of our best glasses with the yellow and red roses around the rim, she chucked me under the chin conspiratorially and said something to papa who shook his head resignedly.
‘What?’ I badgered him. ‘What did she say?’
‘Nanima said you are a “junglee”, a wild girl, uncivilised …’ papa said. I ran around the front room whooping ‘Junglee! Junglee!’ and doing mock kung fu kicks at my shadow on the wall to make Nanima laugh even harder.
‘Oy!’ papa shouted over the din. ‘It is not a compliment, you know!’ But Nanima’s expression told me it was exactly that.
The rest of the evening passed in a stream of constant visitors bearing gifts of sweetmeats and homemade sabzis, anxious to meet one of the generation they had left behind and to catch up on the latest news from the Motherland. However, those of my Uncles and Aunties seeking the latest political intrigue in Delhi or the hot filmi gossip from Bombay ended up sorely disappointed as Nanima now resided in a tiny village in the Punjab and was not exactly equipped to be India’s latest Reuter’s correspondent. Most of the conversations began with someone asking, ‘So! Tell us the latest, Mataji …’ Nanima then launched into a jaunty monologue, punctuated by loud slurpings of tea and surreptitious massaging of her feet which silenced the questioner into a series of polite smiling nods.
‘What did she say?’ I tugged on papa’s sleeve.
‘She said that they are building a new road into Bessian town centre and that Mrs Lal’s daughter is finally getting married to a divorced army officer …’
‘Who is Mrs Lal?’ I continued.
Papa shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows?’ he whispered back, stifling a grin.
But frankly, Nanima could have answered their continuous questions with a series of burps or simply fallen asleep midsentence, and every gesture would have still been received with the same reverence and adoration. For her audience was there not because of what she said but because of who she was, a beloved parent, a familiar symbol in her billowing salwar kameez suit whose slow deliberate gestures and modest dignity reminded them of their own mothers. Of course they would deify her, their own guilt and homesickness would see to that, but how could this small vessel possibly contain the ocean of longing each of them stored in their bellies? It was only when papa lined the three of us up for a photograph, daughter, mother and grandmother, all of us the product of each other, linked like Russian dolls, that it struck me how difficult it must have been for mama to leave Nanima and how lonely she must have been. Indeed, I had never seen mama so fresh and girlish, as if some invisible yoke had been lifted from her shoulders and she regained the lithe legs and strong back she must have had when she cycled to and from college, humming the tunes my father sang to her through her shuttered bedroom window. I vowed then that I would never leave her, this wrenching of daughter from mother would never happen again.
Of course, this would not stop me having all the adult adventures I had been planning for myself; I would still travel and cure sickness and rescue orphans and star in my own television series, I would just have to make sure mama came with me, that was all. My mind drifted into practical overdrive, as it did with all my daydreams. It was never enough to have a vague picture, such as ‘I save Donny Osmond from near death and win a medal’. I had to know what I was wearing, whether it was a fire in a top London hotel or a runaway horse in a summer meadow, what the weather was like, who was watching and how my hair looked at the moment of rescue.
It was an annoying trait, I admit, and often I got bored with the fantasy halfway through, bogged down by stylistic detail when I should really have been concentrating on the emotion and wish-fulfilment side of things. But I needed to calculate how feasible it might be for mama to leave her teaching job and what make of car would be large enough to contain my vast wardrobe and yet be safe enough for mama to manoeuvre in a three-point turn. So I barely registered the click of papa’s camera and in the photograph, which I still have, mama and Nanima are beaming full into the lens like similar yet not matching bookends, and I am gazing dreamily into the middle distance, as if I am merely lending my body for the pose. ‘Va Meena!’ papa had said when the photograph came back from the chemist’s. ‘You have the soulful look of a movie star!’ I had not the heart to tell him I was mentally choosing my car upholstery.
Still, that evening our house seemed to vibrate with goodwill and hope, the air felt heady and rare, the food seemed mountainous and never ending, even Sunil giggled and chirruped his way through dinner from his usual position on mama’s hip, trying to form passing adult words like some drunk parrot. It was such an unseasonably warm evening that every possible window was flung open as the house became more crowded and noisy, until suddenly, the front door was ajar and our guests began spilling out into the garden, still clutching their drinks and balancing plates of food. This threw me into a minor panic; Tollington front gardens were purely for display purposes, everyone knew that. And here were all my relatives using our scrubby patch of lawn like a marquee, laughing and joking and generally behaving as if they were still within the security of four soundproofed walls.
It felt so strange to hear Punjabi under the stars. It was an indoor language to me, an almost guilty secret which the Elders would only share away from prying English eyes and ears. On the street, in shops, on buses, in parks, I noticed how the volume would go up when they spoke English, telling us kids to not wander off, asking the price of something; and yet when they wanted to say something intimate, personal, about feelings as opposed to acquisitions, they switched to Punjabi and the volume became a conspiratorial whisper. ‘That woman over there, her hat looks like a dead dog…The bastard is asking too much, let’s go…Do you think if I burped here, anyone would hear it?’
I stood uncertainly on the front porch and watched helplessly as the Aunties and Uncles began reclaiming the Tollington night in big Indian portions, guffawing Punjabi over fences and hedges, wafting curried vegetable smells through tight-mouthed letterboxes, sprinkling notes from old Hindi movie songs over jagged rooftops, challenging the single street light on the crossroads with their twinkling jewels and brazen silks. Usually, mama and papa were the most polite and careful neighbours, always shushing me if I made too much noise down the entries, always c
areful to keep all windows closed during papa’s musical evenings. But tonight, I noted disapprovingly, they were as noisy and hysterical as everyone else. I had never seen the Elders so expansive and unconcerned, and knew that this somehow had something to do with Nanima.
I hesitated on the porch step, unsure whether to flee indoors, dreading what the reaction of any passers-by might be, but also strangely drawn to this unfamiliar scene where my two worlds had collided and mingled so easily. There was a whiff of defiance in the air and it smelled as sweet and as hopeful as freshly-mown grass. Nevertheless, I froze when I heard the footsteps approaching the crossroads. It was two of the Ballbearings Committee, I was not sure which ones as in their Gooin’ Out Outfits of tight shiny tops and optimistically short skirts, they all looked like sisters. By the way they were holding onto each other, I could tell they were on their way home from the Mingo disco, although they seemed to sober up immediately as they caught sight of our crowded front garden. Two pairs of red eyes ringed in creased blue powder took in the teeming, laughing masses and two lipstick smudged mouths broke into wide wicked grins.
‘Ay up, Mr K! Havin a bit of a do then?’ one of them shouted, every word sliding into each other so it sounded like a strangely musical babble.
‘Oh yes ladies!’ papa called from somewhere near the hedge. ‘Come and join us! Whisky, yes?’
Even in this light I could tell papa’s face was flushed; he was wearing that lazy benevolent expression that always settled on his face after a good session with the Uncles, who were now gathering around him, seemingly impressed that papa was acquainted with some of the local talent.
‘Whisky!’ the other Ballbearings Committee member shrieked. ‘Hark at him! Posh or what. Not on top of Malibu, thanks Mr K. Don’t wanna be picking sick out of me birdbath again tomorrer!’ The women’s swooping laughter met the men’s bass chuckles and it really did sound like a beautiful, improvised song, as beautiful as any of papa’s free-fall scales he would perform at the harmonium. ‘Yow have a good time, Mr K!’ the women called to papa as they staggered off. ‘The world looks better when yow’m pissed, don’t it?’