It had made sense all at once, Shirin remembered, smiling at her naive five-year-old self as she walked up and down Ealing Road trying to work up the nerve to enter one of the myriad sari shops lining the street. She saw her childhood self standing on the path, Timothy the postman laughing along with her. ‘I knew my ma was going to have a baby. I touched her stomach and felt the baby kick. I want a girl and Deepak wants a boy. Oh, I forgot to ask Ananthanna if I’ve got a brother or sister. If it’s a brother, my grandmother will be happy.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, boys are always better, aren’t they?’ ‘Rubbish. I think girls as kind as you are worth a million. Look how you worry about your ma. Boys don’t do that.’ ‘Don’t you worry about your ma?’ And Timothy the postman had thrown his head back and laughed, his nose crinkling in a fascinating way, ‘You’re a sharp one, you are.’
A shiver traversed Shirin’s spine. She was aware of goosebumps sprouting on her arms, the creepy feeling of being watched…
She realised that she was standing in front of ‘Krishna Saris’, that while she had been lost in the past she had been grinning at the unnaturally thin blonde mannequins decked in gold-flecked maroon saris, bindis and high heels, reclining coolly in the shop window flanked by kurta-draped dark-haired male counterparts. What was that reflection in the window? Was it... She blinked, tried to think clearly, keep panic at bay. The reflection moved, took shape. No. She half turned; poised to run. One of the shop assistants peered around the mannequins, checking her out, apparently trying to decide whether she was crazy or just a too-keen window shopper. Their eyes met. The shop assistant withdrew. The next minute, she was at the door. How could Shirin have mistaken this slim, efficient-looking Asian girl clad in a sky-blue ghagra for the spectre from her nightmares? ‘Excuse me, ma’am; is there something wrong with our display?’
‘Oh no, no, I was just looking.’
‘Do you want to come in? We have saris, churidars and salwar kameezes, lehngas, chaniya cholis...’
She couldn’t turn away now. Once inside, the familiar, nostalgic smell of new fabric, whisper-soft silk, transported her back eleven years to another world.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘No thanks, just browsing.’
The shop assistant got the message and left her alone. Kishore Kumar crooned ‘Meri Sapnon Ki Rani Kab Ayegi Thu’ via the speakers and Shirin remembered the driver of the rickety old rickshaw that had conveyed them to the hospital to visit Ma. He had been singing a Kannada song at the top of his voice, the rickshaw dancing in tune thanks to the many ruts in the road. ‘Raj Kumar film,’ he had announced grinning, displaying rotting teeth, sickly yellow gums…
Shirin squashed onto her grandmother’s enormous lap, being tossed up to the flimsy roof of the auto every time the rickshaw hit a pothole. The hospital: square corners, right angles, no familiar orange ‘Mangalore Tiles’ on the roof; smelling of the bitter tonic Shirin was forced to drink when she was ill, mixed with the phenol the cleaner had used to scrub the floors. Her terror reflected in her brother’s eyes. Shirin worrying if this was all a trick, sucking at the clean handkerchief Madhu had tucked in her pocket. Maybe they wouldn’t get to see their mother at all. Maybe this was the place where they sent naughty children. Nuns swarming everywhere, one leading them down an endless corridor to a long room filled with mothers and newborn babies, the babies sounding just like kittens. Shirin, peering out from behind her grandmother’s sari, spotting her mother at the far end. Her mother: wearing a strange gown and cradling a comma-shaped bundle in her arms. Shirin running, her footsteps echoing on the granite floor. Deepak following suit, ignoring their grandparents’ admonishments. Jacinta patting Shirin’s head and Deepak’s with her free hand. Shirin noticing nothing but the bundle her mother was holding: tiny, with a scrunched-up face the size of Shirin’s palm. Shirin reaching out a tentative finger and gently rubbing the baby’s cheek: downy, like moss. The baby mewling, miniature palms bunched into fists punching the air. Warmth spreading through Shirin. ‘Is it a girl?’ Not really caring anymore what sex it was. Jacinta nodding, yes. Her grandmother sighing, sinking heavily onto Jacinta’s bed, ‘Not another girl!’ Shirin clapping her hands, jumping up and down, ‘Deepak, what did I tell you? God answered my prayers.’ Her grandmother mumbling, ‘Wish He’d answered mine.’ And Anita, as if wanting to locate the source of all the noise, opening her eyes and looking right at Shirin, her tiny face flooding red as she started to yell, a huge cry for such a little thing.
And Shirin had loved her sister, completely and unconditionally from then on, despite the fact that her grandmother chose that moment to say, ‘At least this one is fairer than Shirin. This one is going to be pretty. Takes after our side of the family...’ And the comparisons began.
She realised she was holding an emerald sari up to her cheek, as if the feel of it would transport her to monsoon-drenched fields sparkling in humid, after-the-rains sun; as if it would bring back the tart, spicy taste of raw mangoes soaked in rock salt—the mangoes just this colour: a dark, heavy green. It was the colour of the churidar she had worn to Anita’s christening, the colour splashed across the first picture her sister made for her, the colour of the guavas in the tree in the courtyard before they ripened in the sun, the colour that Shirin most associated with home...
‘What did you buy?’ Vinod asked when she returned, laden with carrier bags.
‘Wait and see,’ she replied.
‘Tease...’ Vinod said, swatting at her with his Financial Times.
* * *
‘You can come in now,’ Shirin called, eyes shut tight against her reflection in the bedroom mirror.
She had not wanted Vinod to be present while she donned a sari for the first time in eleven years. What if she had forgotten how to wear it? Once she’d put on the blouse and underskirt, she unwrapped the sari—the emerald of the Arabian sea at Pelam beach, placid after being whipped to a frenzy by the monsoons; the gold green of the Varuna River on a humid, rain-parched morning.
For a few minutes, Shirin simply sat on the bed in her blouse and underskirt, caressing the smooth silk of the new sari, revelling in its familiar feel. When she did start to dress, she heard Madhu’s voice, telling her exactly what to do: ‘This is the side that you tuck into your stomach. Now do the pleats. Gently does it, don’t mess up the folds...’
When she’d finished, she looked up and found herself gazing at a girl from the past—a girl she had thought was lost forever. Images trotted in front of her, one after the other in quick succession. She closed her eyes, sat on the edge of the bed and called out to Vinod.
When she heard him come into the room, she stood, opened her eyes.
‘You look beautiful,’ Vinod’s voice was soft with awe. ‘Saris suit you. I had forgotten just how much. And this colour, it’s perfect...’ He came up behind her, put his arms around her. Shirin watched her reflection flinch, saw the quick flash of hurt in Vinod’s eyes before they both ironed out their features. Vinod did not move away to give her space as he would have done once. Instead, he waited. And gradually, she leaned back, relaxed into his embrace.
‘Why did I agree to do this, Vinod?’
‘Because it was either a sari or a corset?’
She laughed. ‘Seriously...’
Vinod bent down, whispered in her hair, ‘You’ll be fine, Shonu. You needed to do this sometime. ‘
‘I...’
‘You’ll have fun.’
‘Do I really look okay?’
‘Are you fishing for compliments?’
She smiled, looked at herself critically in the mirror. ‘Do you know what would go wonderfully with this sari?’
‘What?’
‘My gold.’ And for a brief moment, as was so often the case these days, she was transported. To Canara Bank, Taipur’s only bank. Smelling of money, gold and old secrets—a
dank, wet smell. Jacinta, wringing hands in front of the portly, sweaty bank manager: her stoic mother nervous! ‘I would like to get my gold out of the safety-deposit box, what with my girls now approaching marriageable age.’ Gold twinkling up at them in myriad shapes: bangles, bracelets, necklaces, earrings; tucked into her mother’s underskirt and transported carefully home. Gold, padlocked in the Godrej wardrobe next to the altar, the key in a knot at the end of Jacinta’s sari, with her at all times. ‘For when you get married, Shirin. Gold as part of your dowry.’ ‘Where is it, do you think?’ She wouldn’t look at Vinod.
‘Gathering dust in some vault in Bangalore, I expect. It was registered in my father’s name, at his bank. When we left, I couldn’t...’ He paused, waited until her gaze met his in the mirror. ‘Do you resent having had to leave everything behind? You could have had your pick of saris, instead of having to buy a new one...’
‘Of course not! A small price to pay, in the circumstances...’ She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation, now, after skirting the topic for so many years. She paused. Should she? Yes. ‘Do you...? Resent it?’
He looked at her, ‘The truth?’
She watched their reflection: she in a sari, caught in a strange eleven-year limbo; he in his usual present-day uniform of stripy shirt and black trousers; his arms wrapped around her, her head resting on his chest. ‘Yes.’
‘Sometimes I do.’
‘Oh.’
He caught the flash of guilt in her eyes before she could mask it. ‘Shonu. It wasn’t your fault. None of it.’
Eyes. Empty. Accusing. A mother’s wails. A mother’s anger.
‘I don’t even know why I thought of the gold.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ Vinod gently released her from his embrace and went to the wardrobe. ‘When you told me you had to wear a sari, I got you this.’
He held her palms in his and deposited a little box in them. She opened it with tremulous fingers and discovered a thin gold necklace nestling on scarlet velvet, a little heart-shaped pendant that had the letters S and V engraved. Frolicking waves kissing a duet of initials encased within a heart: T loves S. The roaring of the sea loud in her ears. The roaring of desire loud in her body. Where had she gone, that young girl? Why was she thinking of that now, when her husband had just given her a gift?
‘Shall I put it on for you?’ Vinod asked.
She nodded, unable to speak.
She watched as he tenderly secured the clasp, his touch the merest whisper on her skin.
He looked up, asked, ‘What do you think?’
She fingered the little heart, ran her thumb over their entwined initials. ‘It’s perfect.’
* * *
‘Shirin, you look great in your sari! Even more beautiful if that is possible. Come, let me introduce you to everyone.’ Kate looked gorgeous in her outfit, the green of her shirt bringing out the green in her eyes, her hairdo making her look very elegant. When Shirin told her so, she laughed. ‘Have you met Jyoti? She’s from PricewaterhouseCoopers, who do our accounts. Jyoti, this is Shirin, one of the most valued members of my team.’
Before she could thank Kate, she had disappeared amongst the crush of people and Shirin found herself facing a smiling older woman wearing a marigold sari with saffron flowers set in a gold border and absolutely dripping with jewellery. She reminded Shirin very much of Aunt Winnie.
‘Busy, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Have you got a drink? No? Come with me.’
Afterwards, armed with drinks and canapés, they found a relatively quiet corner to sit and chat. Jyoti was from North India originally but had lived in the UK for nearly thirty years. ‘This is my home now,’ she said. ‘My relatives in India have passed on. The kids are settled here. What about you? Do you go back often?’
Shirin took a big gulp of her drink. ‘Not as much as I would like.’
‘Do you have any family here?’
‘No, they are all in India.’ Please don’t ask me any more questions.
Jyoti reached across and patted Shirin’s knee, her myriad bangles jingling with the movement. ‘Beti, don’t get me wrong. I am telling you this as an aunt...’
Oh, God, has she guessed? Did I give something away?
‘...since you have no relatives here, nobody to give you advice. And men, they are useless in such matters.’
Shirin carefully laid her glass down on the low table beside her. She crossed her hands on her lap to stop them trembling.
Jyoti touched the thin necklace Shirin wore, light reflecting off the gold rings adorning her every finger. ‘This is well and good and with churidars it would be perfect. Did your husband give it to you?’
Shirin nodded, relief flooding as realisation dawned.
‘You felt you had to wear it, so as not to hurt his feelings. I understand.’
Shirin grinned widely. She knew exactly what Jyoti was going to say next.
‘Your sari, Beti, it is so grand. What it needs is gold. Lots of it. Not this flimsy little necklace. No offense, mind.’
‘None taken,’ laughed Shirin, reaching for her drink. Her first impression had been right. Jyoti was very much like Aunt Winnie. Being in her company was like being among the aunts back home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chats on the Veranda at Twilight
‘They are in chronological order. That means...’
‘I know what it means.’ Eagerly, Reena took the precious parcel from Aunt Anita’s hands—a sheaf of worn blue envelopes, held together by a rubber band.
‘I don’t know if you’ll understand some of the things she...’
‘Aunty! I’m eleven!’
‘I know...’ Aunt Anita’s eyes twinkled. ‘Look after them. They mean a lot to me.’
‘I will.’ And, with a quick peck on her aunt’s cool cheek, ‘Thank you.’
Hiding the letters in her history textbook, Reena went to her room and closed the door. Once inside, she gingerly pulled out the rubber band and opened the first letter. Shirin had a neat, slightly sloping script. Reena tried to picture the young woman she imagined Shirin to be, writing it. She couldn’t. She lay on her stomach on her bed and began to read.
Progress so far: This detective is in possession of letters Shirin wrote to Anita when Anita was away at college. This detective assumes Shirin was around twenty-two? Check this. She has a cursive handwriting that would have made Eugene Ma’am, this detective’s English teacher, very pleased.
Some extracts from the first letter, which this detective has carefully chosen as they might provide clues into what happened some time—a year?—later:
1)This extract shows that the subject misses her sister and brother who are both away at college:
Anu, if you are missing home, I can assure you, you are not missing much. Everything is pretty much the same here, just as you left it, except that it’s not as vibrant, not as lively without you around. I miss your voice, the mischievous glint in your eyes, the way laughter bursts out from inside you like a waterfall. I miss Deepak with his practical jokes, his loud laugh, and his boundless appetite. It is quiet here without the two of you.
Do you remember the evening before you left, how we sat on the veranda watching the rain pouring down in frenzy? The coconut trees in the front courtyard swayed wildly. Little streams formed in the paddy fields, churning the freshly dug soil ready for sowing into a muddy mess until all we could see were fields of water. In Ananthanna’s field, women bent double against the rain and sang as they sowed paddy saplings, their makeshift cane shelters making them look like giant question marks. They sang a haunting melody and from where we sat, sheltered and warm, drinking hot tumblers of sweet tea, we could just hear it. Do you remember how happy we were to just sit there in companionable silence? I miss that.
Yesterday, I sat on the veranda ag
ain, when I got back from college. I sat there with my accounts book, ostensibly to study, but really to daydream. I sat till the day started to wane and the setting sun swathed the sky in many shades of pink and the crickets started their nightly orchestra. Madhu came out and collected my plate. She had made bhel puri for me, with potatoes and green peas and chaat masala—just the way you like it. Are you jealous? She chided me for sitting outside in the dusk. ‘The mosquitoes will have a nice juicy feast,’ she scolded. ‘Come on in.’ ‘In a minute, Madhu,’ I mumbled, feigning interest in my notebook. ‘Don’t act like you are studying. It’s dark. You can’t see a thing,’ she said. I was glad she couldn’t see me blushing. She switched on the veranda light and went back in. The light bathed me in a warm, rosy glow and attracted the flies. I watched the more intrepid of them get too close to the light and die with a buzz and a sigh. I wondered what you and Deepak were doing.
NOTE: Look up meaning of the word intrepid.
Intrepid (adj.) fearless; daring; bold: as in—Reena Diaz was an intrepid sleuth. [This detective plans to impress Eugene Ma’am, her English teacher, when she uses the word in class tomorrow. This detective has been trying to copy the extracts in Shirin’s cursive style, and she has to admit, her handwriting is already much improved.]
2)She envies her sister her freedom:
Anu, are you missing home? Or are you enjoying the freedom, savouring the joys of being on your own—of not having to get up for mass, or say the rosary every night, no nuns and no guilt trips, no confessions and long sermons.
I can imagine what your argument will be. You still have to get up for class, share a room with a stranger, and stick to hostel rules. But you are away from home! On your own! You can talk to boys without the whole village knowing and telling Ma you are running wild. You can stay out till late, or stay up all night if you want to. You can have midnight feasts. You can dance in the rain without the village gossips starting rumours. You can paint the town red. You can have a boyfriend. Will you? You must have a long line of admirers to pick from already. Knowing you, though, you will choose someone different, someone unique. Have you found him? Who is he?
Monsoon Memories Page 14