The Cambridge Curry Club

by Saumya Balsari

  ‘The Korean girls?’ suggested Durga.

  ‘Auntyji, this is not for you,’ appeased Heera smoothly, attempting a seamless exchange with a blue Beanie Baby teddy announcing It’s a Boy across its chest. ‘Take this, only two pounds.’

  ‘Who put that blue teddy there again?’ asked Swarnakumari, perturbed. ‘I had thrown it into the rejects bag.’

  ‘I did; there was nothing wrong with it. Why did you throw it away?’ Eileen was surprised.

  Swarnakumari remained silent; some secrets were best kept buried, like the stories the black bags never revealed.

  The elderly lady held the monkey firmly in her grasp, waving Heera away with her stick as the daughter spotted the sign IndiaNeed and the photograph of the smiling Rajasthani villagers on the wall.

  ‘Does the money you make go to India?’ she probed.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And only to India?’

  ‘Yes,’ repeated Heera, surprised.

  The daughter catapulted her protesting mother out of the chair. The monkey tumbled onto the floor, where it lay brazen, its furry tail on display. They left without a purchase.

  ‘We are all the same here, the same brown skin fighting for respect in this society. Why carry on India–Pakistan enmity here? Even the leaders of both countries have started peace talks now, so what’s the problem with these two? The daughter was pretty, though. She reminded me of Nafisa,’ observed Heera. ‘You know, Swarna, Nafisa coolly sent her mother-in-law back to Lahore, and I hear the room has been given to three Japanese students. Of course, it’s not far from the Bell Language School, so the room must be in demand. She’s making good money, but how do those poor students all fit? I know Japanese girls are tiny, but still, three? By the way, her sister Razia is with Nafisa’s neighbour’s husband now. He was helping Razia build her extension.’ Heera chortled. ‘Arre, if you ask me, he should have looked after his own extension, if you know what I mean. Anyway, long story, some other time.’

  Eileen bent to pick up the monkey. ‘I’m off to rearrange the soft toys,’ she announced, her quick eyes noting their disarray. She placed the monkey on the shelf next to a blue-eyed china doll. The story of Beauty and the Beast had always been a favourite with her.

  ‘Girls, why are the English so mad about their teddy bears? Teddy waiting on their beds, telling Teddy their secrets … Bob has a teddy called Charlie, you know. Such a shabby teddy! Only one eye. When I first met Bob, I actually offered to sew the other eye on.’ Heera chuckled. ‘You know how it is in India, those dhobis wash the clothes so carelessly sometimes, the buttons become loose, so my mother had a huge collection of assorted buttons, all colours, all sizes, in a big biscuit tin. I could have found an exact match. But Bob said he preferred Charlie with one eye.’ She called out, ‘Four out of four Englishmen don’t wash their teddies, Swarna!’

  Two startled elderly ladies sifted through the pile of net curtains, eavesdropping with bright bird eyes. ‘Are you all Alsatian, then?’ chirruped one, turning to Swarnakumari. ‘I have a lady next door who is Alsatian. She’s very nice, very nice, very well-spoken indeed. Lovely dark eyes. Dear, when you’re ready, could you measure up this curtain for me?’

  Swarnakumari turned to Durga in bewilderment.

  ‘Forget it. Asian or Alsatian, what does it matter? No point trying to explain to these sweet buddi biddies,’ whispered Heera. ‘Half of them can’t hear, half can’t see, half can’t walk, half can’t talk.’

  ‘Dogs and Indians once had to use the back door,’ mused Durga.

  ‘The Irish too,’ added Eileen as she disappeared down an aisle. She was fiercely proud of her heritage. Annoyed by Durga’s appropriation of the Diaspora to signify Indian sub-continental migration alone, she usually remained silent. Some things were felt, and not always said.

  A middle-aged woman had been standing uncertainly in a corner; she rummaged in her bag and removed a plain gold band and a platinum ring studded with a large ruby. ‘There, you can ’ave ’em both and good riddance,’ she rasped, flinging them on the counter in front of Heera. ‘Me old man’s done a runner, gone an’ left me, so I took me engagement and wedding rings to the jeweller’s down the road.’ She jerked her head sideways to indicate the location of a Mill Road shop. ‘An’ what d’yer know, they’re worth no more than five quid after all these years. Five quid, I tell yer!’ she repeated, her voice rising. ‘I been with ’im all these years, and the bugger couldn’t even give me a decent gold ring. So I says I’ll take ’em down to the charity shop and get rid of ’em. You can do what yer want with ’em,’ she told Heera. ‘Don’t never want ter see ’em no more.’

  Heera handed the rings silently to Eileen, who placed them on a little velvet fold and slid them onto the jewellery shelf below the till counter.

  A wedding ring always reminded Durga of Pooja, the popular, leggy prefect at her school in Bombay, now Mumbai. Pooja and Anil had married, won a Wills Made for Each Other couple contest and a new car. A year later, Durga had sat uncomfortably in a living room in a Cuffe Parade apartment overlooking the bay, witness to a marriage rotting twig by twig. Pooja had initially turned a blind eye to Anil’s affairs and embarked upon revenge romps of her own. Her husband’s Malayali chauffeur with jasmine oil-greased hair was startled, but willing. It was her discovery of the maid’s gold earrings tucked under Anil’s pillow that impelled a dramatic confrontation between the couple. He must choose, Pooja said imperiously. Anil obeyed with alacrity and stayed with the maid; humiliation sent Pooja out of her marriage and house into obesity. Durga had heard later that a week on a health farm in Bangalore had restored Pooja’s holistic balance. Two months later, she wedded the masseur and flashed a new gold ring on her finger; jewellery was both the bane and balm of her marriages.

  ‘They’re new, don’t you want them?’ asked Eileen, handing a pile of net curtains to Swarnakumari.

  ‘I have already got net curtains, na. Your Uncle says our house must look English from the outside.’

  Swarnakumari never referred to her husband by name, oblivious to the confusion caused by ‘Your Uncle’ as the substitute. She had initially refused to arrange the display when asked to ‘do the window’, and announced with a vigorous shake of her head, ‘I am not here to clean. Your Uncle would not like me to do that.’ Diana Wellington-Smythe had merely arched an eyebrow, enunciating in slow English thereafter to Swarnakumari and the Korean volunteers.

  ‘White wisps of respectability,’ commented Durga, examining the net curtains. ‘Give the immigrant net curtains and he simply blends, like the tea packet labels that say Product of more than one country. But to blend or not to blend into the diasporic cuppa – that is the question.’

  Swarnakumari picked at a loose thread on the curtain. ‘Durga, my Mallika is not listening to me at all nowadays. See, she is now twenty-two. She has finished at Emmanuel College and she wants to do postgraduate also, but I am thinking if she settles down with a good Bengali boy, she can also continue her studies, but she is not agreeing. Early in the morning she was fighting with me when Your Uncle was not there. Tell me, if your parents find an intelligent boy from a good family for you, you will agree to see him, na? At least you will not say “No” straight away?’

  ‘What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘You both are similar – see, you are twenty-nine, your studies are over, now you are doing this research on charity shops for the television, and soon you are going to London for your new job. But you must also think of marriage, or it will be too late. That is what I keep telling Mallika.’

  Heera bent to pick up a basket of baby clothes. ‘Too late? Too late for what? You know, girls, when I was eighteen I was in love with a boy called Javed. He was our neighbour. He used to write beautiful Urdu love poems. Then my parents found out. Usual Hindu–Muslim problem and both the families immediately stopped it. Javed was sent to Dubai; he owns a big construction company now. Three days before he left, we met for the last time and we went for
a walk on the beach. He suggested a camel ride, and we sat on the same camel, but the camel wouldn’t move. It just sat there in the sand. People were staring and laughing and suddenly there were many stalls there – peanut-seller, balloon-seller, coconut-waterwala. People even threw peanuts at the camel to make it move. Then the owner told us to get off, and he kicked the camel hard on its bottom.’

  Heera paused; no one said anything. She continued, ‘We went back home. Javed didn’t say a word to me again, and he left for Dubai. For many years, I refused to see any of the boys my parents showed me. After all, if you fall in love, you fall in love, right? The heart remembers its broken song for ever. Then Bob came to Hyderabad. He knew one of my brother’s friends, and that’s how we met. There was such a big fuss when Bob proposed – you know, how could I like a gora, an Englishman, how could I leave India forever and go to England and all that – but we got married anyway.’

  ‘Your Bob is a good man, just like Your Uncle,’ confirmed Swarnakumari.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Heera, ‘he is a good man, otherwise why would I follow him to this country?’

  ‘Javed was a Muslim, and you a Hindu. Baba, it would not have been possible. Love is blind, I know, but I am telling you, such marriages are very difficult,’ Swarnakumari said sagely. ‘There is too much difference. Too much adjustment for both parties.’

  ‘And your esteemed opinion is based on …?’

  Ignoring Durga’s sarcasm, Swarnakumari persisted earnestly, ‘See, in arranged marriages, quarrels about basic things are not there. Everything is matched. That is why these marriages work, na?’

  ‘Work. Marriage is work,’ muttered Eileen, who had been listening with interest as she returned with an armful of boy’s clothes, looking as if she would hold them forever.

  ‘Tell me, Swarna, do you love your husband?’ asked Heera moodily.

  Swarnakumari was surprised. ‘Of course. You always give your love to the man you marry.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. What sort of love is the love for a husband?’ said Heera.

  ‘A mistake,’ said Durga.

  Swarnakumari continued patiently, ‘A marriage should also be blessed by the gods, but it is the woman who has to make sure everything is in its proper place. Then only it works. She must accept that there are things she wants but cannot have. The tragedy is our young girls these days don’t know themselves what they want. They are confused, and they feel pressure. They are trying to be like these English girls. Parties and clubs, drink, wearing those clothes showing everything, and they want—’

  ‘Wild sex with white blokes,’ interrupted Durga.

  Swarnakumari was shocked. ‘My Mallika needs—’

  ‘Wild sex with black blokes? Oh, of course, sorry, these things don’t happen in good Asian families.’

  ‘What dirty talk is this? It does not suit you, Durga. Take my advice, and let your parents help you get married. They can easily find an intelligent boy, good personality, same values, same social background.’

  ‘Leave my parents out of this. And what’s with you first-generation Indians, anyway? You came here thirty years ago with a suitcase you never unpacked. It’s all about tradition, family, culture, honour, isn’t it? Why are you so keen on carrying on tradition? It’s as if you’re scared – you have to obey, or else. But does tradition exist? Is it real for us to taste, smell, feel and hold?’

  A customer approached the till. ‘Er, could you …’

  ‘Anything wrong with what I said? One day when you girls become mothers you will understand your own mothers. Each generation will not listen. It will understand only later. That is the tragedy of life. Tell me, Durga, who are you without your roots, hanh? It is because of our roots that we can survive in this society. Why do you want to deny our Indian culture, that’s what I don’t understand.’ Swarnakumari matched Durga’s passionate outburst with one of her own.

  ‘Don’t you see that you seize upon “Indian culture” out of desperation and fear? Fear of erosion and erasure of identity. Why not welcome the churn of East–West encounters instead, take the plunge into the flow and see what happens? Diaspora isn’t only about displacement; it’s a progression, a moving to a new location of the liberated self.’

  ‘Baba, I do not understand this high talk of yours. What I am saying is there is nothing wrong if parents guide and advise children even when they are older. That’s all. Your parents must surely be telling you the same thing.’

  ‘Blankets,’ interjected the customer.

  Durga cried, ‘Leave my parents out of it!’

  ‘My Arthur used to say—’ reported the customer unsuccessfully.

  ‘Why, your parents should not worry about you just because you are grown up?’ pursued Swarnakumari.

  ‘I said, drop it.’

  The customer grew bold. ‘Could I just …’

  ‘Yes, madam?’ inquired Swarnakumari, noticing her for the first time.

  ‘Do you have any electric blankets, dear?’

  ‘No, madam, but do look in that section there. We have some new Edinburgh wool blankets,’ replied Swarnakumari as the customer moved away.

  She continued, ‘Baba, forget it, why are you getting so upset? You know, so many things have changed for the better from twenty-five years ago. You must have heard how we used to buy baked beans to make an Indian dish, and in those days we could not even get coriander. What could we teach our children about India, living here in Britain? That is why I am thinking there is nothing wrong at all if youngsters like these Bollywood films nowadays.’

  ‘Did you understand anything I said? Oh, and about Bollywood, let me tell you, the only reason you welcome those films is because at last there’s something much bigger than a bunch of coriander to reflect your “Indian values”. But I think Bollywood has stereotyped us further in this country, shut us all in a cage called “Asian”. One size fits all, so my Asian bum doesn’t look big in this. Do the J. Kumar grocer and I have anything in common? No, but we’re all Asian, so let’s party.’

  ‘I don’t understand—’ Swarnakumari began.

  Durga interrrupted sharply, ‘At last, Mr and Mrs Jones next door know the real me. I’m Asian, right, so of course, all I do is I boogie my belly and bounce my bosom to the bhangra beat. Jerk and jhatka, ooh, that’s hot, that’s Asian cool! Swarna, the future is so bright it’s not orange, but brown.’

  ‘Durga, what are you talking about? Everything is so easy for your generation now. Let me tell you something. Mallika’s father and I got married in Kolkata. He left, and I came later to England. In Kolkata my family had five servants – five. And first day in England, he gave me an empty milk bottle in my hand and told me, “Roll out chapattis with this!” The kitchen window must be kept shut also. “No Indian cooking smell should go to the neighbour,” he warned me. You cannot imagine the shock; it took me such a long time to forget my Kolkata, to like this country, even other Bengalis, the weather, even my own house …’

  The eavesdropping customer agreed. ‘Don’t blame you, dear. I still don’t like the weather. No good for me bones – got arthritis you see, just like me sister Maud. She’s the younger one, holidaying in Spain at the moment she is, but our poor Edith was buried with her pacemaker she was, and ooh, what a problem she used ter have going through metal detectors in airports. She went on a holiday to Rome and those Italians thought she was a terrorist. Bleep, bleep, bleep, the detector went off and poor Edith got such a fright, I can tell yer. My Arthur used to say—’

  ‘How can we help you, madam?’ prodded Swarnakumari.

  ‘Er, well, yes, I wanted an electric blanket, you see, but you don’t have any, so I thought I’d donate these ten pounds. Mary did say to me ter make sure the money goes ter those wee cats. My Arthur always said—’

  ‘I think you mean the cats’ charity next door, madam. It is called Catnap. This is IndiaNeed. Our money goes to poor Indian villagers.’ Swarnakumari shook her head vigorously. ‘No cats here.’ She pointed to the photogr
aph on the wall behind her of the group of smiling Rajasthani villagers. A larger photograph of Diana Wellington-Smythe shaking hands with the Duke of Edinburgh hung adjacent on the wall.

  ‘Oh, but we do have one,’ contradicted Durga. ‘Her name is Mrs Well—’

  Swarnakumari frowned.

  ‘Well, dear, I’ll be off, then. Goodbye. You too, dear, goodbye,’ sang the customer, opening the door. ‘My Arthur always used to say …’ The traffic outside drowned her voice.

  Durga wanted to call her back, ask about Arthur. What did he always say? Who was he? Husband, lover or son? He was dead, or perhaps he was alive and now said something different, something he had never said before. And what if everything Arthur had ever said was gone, washed away like the ashes and flowers floating on an Indian river, and one human being had the power to keep his spoken word alive in an echoing universe?

  The customer returned, popping her head through the door. She paused, lost in thought. ‘There was something I had to remember,’ she announced amiably. ‘And I’ve forgotten what it is. Never mind. Goodbye.’

  Memory was a capricious tool; it airbrushed the cavities of time. Javed no longer wrote Urdu love poems – he wrote invoices. After a successful career as a builder in Dubai, he had recently purchased a plot of land in Harrow, north-west London, for the development of offices and residential flats. His wife had custody of the children, for whom he felt affection but no pangs of separation. Javed was now a new man, and he intended to behave like one. ‘Freedom by fifty’ was his new life slogan.

  He had never sat on a camel again, although fate had confidently despatched him to the land of camels. As long as he was within sight of a dromedary, it was clear that his marriage to Shabana would remain doomed. Shabana was a Pathan, fair and loose-limbed, with light grey eyes and silky brown hair; she was also a deeply religious shopaholic. He had indulged her excesses, and even when her two younger sisters and mother joined a household already bursting with servants, his protests remained benevolent and mild. With the sunlight pouring onto his desk one afternoon, he stumbled upon her latest bank statement. Blinded by the intensity of the light, he misread the digits and decided that Shabana had stretched both her credit and credibility too far; he had reached his limit. In a moment of insight, Javed discovered his was a marriage by numbers.