His thoughts turned to Heera pickled in time, and of her soft arms and bubbly optimism. He had heard she had married an Englishman. His lip curled. What did an Englishman know of love, of its obsessive sweep, rain-drenched passion, mystic couplets of yearning divided by immeasurable distance? Of the glance like a sweetly poisoned arrow and the tender curve of lips, of the dusky, honeyed surrender of being and soul, of the tortured wait for an answering echo of devotion? What ardour could an Englishman produce in that miserable weather, when the rain and the cold could only dampen the blood to congeal into colourlessness? He tried to recall the poems he had written to her more than two decades ago, but remembered nothing. He wondered if a fragment was what his life was, she the other; together were they meant to be whole, for what had driven her to an Englishman, revenge or indifference? She had haunted him. She could not be happy with an elegiac Englishman.
He looked at the slip of paper on which Heera’s disapproving cousin had reluctantly written the telephone number and address of the charity shop. He was driven by dread; would she be as he remembered? A man needed a dream, a passion to live and die for, or what was life worth? He had made a mistake once in relinquishing her love. Far worse to yearn and ache, never knowing, than to try to make it happen and fail; far better to reach for the dream than pluck air.
Despite his roguish looks, Javed was in torment as he glanced in the mirror at his dyed black hair, the tiny wobbles of flesh fanning his cheeks and the portly frame. He was forty-nine, and dissipated. The doctor had warned him about his cholesterol. He took three tablets twice a day and had to remember the large white pill was to be taken first, before the smaller two. His lips twisted ruefully. Romance had to be more than a weak-hearted, pill-popping middle-aged man, who couldn’t chase a bus any more, asking a lost love if she had ever thought of him again. Then the image of the jeering crowds and the camel arose before him, and he was filled with new resolve. The camel had not moved then, but today he would move mountains with his hope. He would go to Mill Road to see Heera.
The telephone rang. ‘Sir Puzzle’, who had been standing near the till, jumped like an electrocuted cat. Every Tuesday and Thursday the elderly man wandered into the shop, lifted his cap with gallantry to greet the women and request new jigsaw puzzles. The harder the better, he pleaded with a twinkle in his eye, preferably with a piece missing.
‘Good morning, IndiaNeed,’ said Heera. ‘Heera here … Heera … The wheelchair? For the Arthur Rank Hospice? Yes, I’ll keep it ready for collection this afternoon … Yes, I’ll remember what you said earlier … No, it won’t happen again, Mrs Wellington-Smythe … Goodbye.’
Heera returned to the Staff Area and brought out a wheelchair from behind the curtain to park near the till. She noticed a video cassette lying on one of the smaller sorting tables.
‘My little nephew loves Thomas the Tank Engine,’ she confided amiably, ‘but I’d better check the tape first. Those Korean girls sold Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and that eediot customer complained after a whole week that it was an adult video. She bought it for her toddler’s birthday party, she says, and the children saw some hot Russian babe called Nikita with seven LittleJohns. What does she expect? This is not Blockbuster. But she kept the video a whole week, so how many “children” watched the Russian babe Nikita “by mistake” is what I’d like to know. Arre, I also found a video once, and it was called Birds in the Bush. So I nicked it from the shop for a day, and it really was about some rare Australian birds, but I didn’t complain,’ divulged Heera with a chuckle. ‘Anyway, girls, sad news. Meera Patel’s husband died last week. Massive heart attack. He was watching Jerry Springer. Don’t tell anyone, all right? Meera told me she’s telling everyone he was watching Newsnight.’
Looking shocked, Swarnakumari moved to a table to arrange children’s books. ‘Poor Meera,’ she murmured sadly. ‘Who will colour her hair for her now? Terrible, na.’
Discovering a second pair of trousers and a tweed cap in another black bag, Heera continued, ‘Her sister Madhuri was mixed up in some dispute with her English neighbour fifteen years ago. There was a common blocked pipe, and they wouldn’t decide who was going to pay for the repairs. Anyway, things got really bad between them and the neighbour called Madhuri a “black bitch” in front of her in-laws from Surat – can you imagine, during the Diwali days, that too! And then Madhuri said that during the night this angrez woman’s dog had done a wee over her rangoli pattern on the ground near the garage. She said it must be on purpose, naturally, because English dogs are so well-trained, they never do their business just anywhere, so how else can it happen? But of course, who knows the truth? The English neighbour may not have been to blame, but anyway, one thing is clear. I would not like to be called a “black bitch”, either,’ concluded Heera firmly.
‘Nor “fast colour”,’ added Durga, enjoying Eileen’s puzzlement.
There was a twist to the story: Madhuri had garnered her children’s support during Diwali to enthusiastically etch traditional Diwali rangoli patterns using white powder on the path near the garage. The English neighbour’s elderly father was visiting that year, and took an evening walk with his terrier in the fading light. The moon was already visible among the bare branches of the tree-lined street as he noticed what appeared to be a ghostly white Nazi swastika shining on the ground. A war veteran, he returned unsteadily to his daughter’s home, incoherent and disoriented. Convalescing on his bed, he pointed wordlessly with a trembling finger in the direction of the window. Later that night there was a sharp passing shower, and the rangoli patterns were washed away, leaving the ground dry by the morning. The rest was history.
‘Look, girls, how is it that all the manky trousers and tweed caps in England land up at Lady Di’s posh shop only? The more she wants to impress her friends, the more rubbish we get. Funny smell in here.’ Heera sniffed. ‘Smells like cat pooh.’ She thrust her hand into the bag. ‘It is cat pooh!’
Swarnakumari wailed. Heera dragged the offending bag away and commanded, ‘Give me your soap dispenser, Swarna!’
Swarnakumari removed it with reluctance from her handbag. ‘I will also go and wash my hands,’ she said. ‘Dirty, dirty shop. Much better for me to go and help in the old people’s ward at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. When I see those poor helpless people I tell myself, I am not staying in Cambridge when I am old, but Your Uncle has got so used to life here, he likes this English law and order. Just the other day he showed me the Cambridgeshire County Council blue library van. It had stopped outside old people’s flats so that elderly people could climb into the van to borrow books. Your Uncle told me so proudly, “See, Swarna, this is why I like this country. I can see where my tax money is going.” No, Your Uncle will not leave England.’
At the precise moment when Heera marched towards the telephone to do battle with her employer, ‘Your Uncle’ folded away his newspaper. Two hours earlier, Mr Chatterjee had embarked upon his daily trek to the newsagent next to the Methodist Church, bought his Bengali newspaper and savoured the headlines. As he walked away from the till, he sneaked a ritual glance at the covers of the girlie magazines that Mr Patel, a family man, placed on the highest shelf and always upside down.
Peering sideways, Mr Chatterjee wondered about Newton’s law of gravitation and whether the falling apple could ever have remained suspended in mid-air.
CHAPTER FOUR
All cats are grey in the dark
MR CHATTERJEE TWITCHED the net curtains at the bay window of his semi-detached home and peered outside. It was 8.13 a.m., and as always, Mondays to Fridays, the woman emerged, wheeling her bicycle out of her doorway. A freckled toddler sat stoically on the child seat, and the woman bent over the strap, displaying exposed breasts to an expectant Mr Chatterjee. With a flash of black fishnet tights and the twirl of her skirt, she was gone.
Every weekday morning, the sight of the woman was as wholesome as a portion of tropical fruit in a breakfast of toast, juice and tea. Growing up as a boy in Cal
cutta, as the city of Kolkata was then known, he had been accustomed to the British legacy of thick white bread, and as a creature of unswerving habit he rejected new-fangled wholemeal, wheatgerm, organic, rye, poppy seed and barleyseed varieties. The white slice emerged every morning, lightly browned from the toaster. The popping sound soothed his waiting ears, and, thick and respectable, the bread stared up at him from the white and green patterned Johnson Brothers plate, waiting for the corners and edges to be carefully buttered. Thin-cut marmalade came next, followed by a single slice of mild Cheddar cheese and his cup of Earl Grey; not for him the nostalgia-inducing vapours of ginger tea laced with cardamom.
Mr Chatterjee was a man of method, and order his only god and guru, although he dutifully accompanied Swarnakumari once a year to the Bengali community’s Durga Puja celebrations in London. Mr Chatterjee surveyed his household with pride; everything was in its place, and all the clocks obeyed the same master, as did the weeds.
He had perfected a daily regime that started with the head, not the heart. Every Saturday he vigorously massaged coconut oil into his receding hairline. The oil seeped into every corner of his being, soothing away self-doubt and dandruff. It coated every thirsty, curious hair until it lay down satiated and limp. Yoga face massage followed, as he slowly pinched his sallow forehead, cheeks and nose to nervous life.
On Thursdays he walked from his neat front lawn to the Rock Road Library, reading the newspapers there for hours. Mr Chatterjee followed British politics closely, and was informed, if conservative in his views. On Wednesdays he strolled to the city centre and spent the afternoon at Heffers, Waterstone’s and Borders, often browsing through the old books outside the Fisher Hall. Once a month he accompanied Swarnakumari to the Sainsbury’s at the Coldhams Lane roundabout, and every Tuesday he drove her in their white Vauxhall to the local Tesco at Fulbourn. The trolley always carried the same brand of soap, detergent, juice, cornflakes and honey.
On Mondays he wrote letters of complaint to the local authorities and sent readers’ views to the newspapers. He always wrote each note in a neat, rounded hand with a blue Parker fountain pen. Respected Sir/Madam, he would begin, drawing attention to the overflowing bin in the park, the litter left by school-children walking on Queen Edith’s Way and the pupils smoking in the quiet lanes.
He wrote to the heads of various schools, accusing them of moral turpitude. In his view, despite their school uniform, their female pupils looked like young women of dubious character. He listed a number of suggestions: skirt lengths well below the knee, stockings thick and opaque, shoes flat and sensible and the hair neatly tied back with school ribbon. No cosmetics or jewellery, nor smoking in uniform or ‘mingling’ between boys and girls outside the school gates.
Overhanging boughs on Trumpington Road were a danger to cyclists and walkers, he wrote to the City Council, and the bus service down Queen Edith’s Way was disappointingly irregular.
Peering through the net curtains, he hurried to the door. Habituated to Mr Chatterjee’s simmering excitement, the postman ceremoniously handed him the post on an imaginary silver salver. The sight of the buff envelopes filled Mr Chatterjee with nervous suspense; he opened each letter with care. Those from the Inland Revenue were sharp and advisory, others from the credit-card companies and retail outlets relentlessly unforgiving. It was the latest stern summons from the DVLA local office for repeated road offences that captured his attention. He penned an immediate response:
12 Newton Square
Cambridge
Respected Sir/Madam,
I have received an envelope containing Summons Section 29 – Unlicensed Keeping – requesting the defendant to appear at 10.00 hours on 25th November at the Magistrates’ Court to answer the information that on 23rd August at the A14, a mechanically propelled motor vehicle was kept on a public road for which a licence was not in force, contrary to Section 29 (1) of the Vehicle Excise and Registration Act 1994.
I have noted there is an accompanying document, which outlines the full nature of the offence concerning the expiration of driving licence and continued driving of the vehicle without displaying trade licence plates. I have noted that despite being told the offence would be reported, the offender made no attempt to respond. This indifference is not surprising. It comes from the man Langley Tonner, who repeatedly uses this address for reasons I cannot fathom. He has never resided in this house, of which I have been the owner for the past three decades, and he is completely unknown to my family and myself. I do not know why he continues to evade the long hand of justice and the law in this manner, causing such inconvenience and harassment to my family and myself. I receive Inland Revenue tax bills and summons to bailiffs’ courts at this address on a regular basis because of this man.
I have repeatedly contacted Royal Mail, urging them not to deliver mail to him at this address, but have been informed that it is not possible to take any action in the matter. Apparently, a letter with an address and stamp must be delivered. I urge you to find the offender without delay and prevent him from using this address henceforth.
Yours faithfully,
Shyamal Chatterjee
Despite his failure to convince the DVLA and other authorities of the misdeeds of the elusive Langley Tonner, Mr Chatterjee had engineered a more recent coup of which he was proud. New kitchen units had been ordered from a leading local DIY firm; they were delivered with five items missing, including the new sink tap. Incensed, Mr Chatterjee telephoned the company.
The girl at the other end loved her vowels less than her nail extensions, but he understood that Customer Services could do nothing, for Customer Services was not the same as Sales, and Sales Orders were at a Norwich number. After listening to Vivaldi’s Primavera four times, he was transferred to a queue with Westlife easing the pain. Sales had little contact with the factory near Basingstoke that delivered the items, and the factory recommended he try Customer Services instead.
Mr. Chatterjee wrote an irate letter to the company director, sealed the envelope and carried it to the post office, where the friendly woman recommended ‘recorded delivery’. His further purchase of a weekly stamp booklet was a secret indulgence, producing the excitement generated in lesser beings by a lottery ticket.
Seventy-two hours later, the missing units had arrived safely, although Customer Services had been unable to specify a time of delivery.
Mr Chatterjee took the new items of unsolicited mail to his garage with an air of quiet achievement. Tying a fresh bundle, he placed it on the existing stack. It was thirty inches high and consisted of five hundred and seventy-one letters and leaflets and brochures, weighing sixty ounces. Ever since he had heard of a retired gentleman whose photograph had appeared in the Daily Mail displaying seventy ounces of junk mail, Mr Chatterjee had been determined to compete, ambitiously setting his sights on a two-year record. Swarnakumari never visited the garage, and it was yet another of her husband’s secrets of which she was unaware.
Having completed the important business at hand, Mr Chatterjee turned to the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that arrived with regularity in the post, requested by the rascally Langley Tonner at Mr Chatterjee’s address. He stared at the bold eyes of the models on the pages, their flirty posture as they slung their fingers casually over a bare hip or a bikini strap, bronzed bodies sheathed in tiny garments of lace and crochet. He felt unease tinged with self-disgust meeting the gaze of the young girl with the golden beach skin. She looked fourteen.
Shortly after his retirement, Mr Chatterjee had begun to surf the Internet. Reluctantly discontinuing his subscription to the National Geographic, he now attempted to find material online on the tigers of the Sundarbans. His search for ‘wild animals’ led him directly to a website of girls clad in faux fur bikinis. Surprised but not unappreciative, Mr Chatterjee decided on further explorations with a click. He was confronted next by a Teen Lusties live video with free sound and chat, no credit card, no hidden charges, and was to regret his mistake once he was floo
ded with regular offers on Beach Babes and Barely Legal Sluts along with guaranteed breast and penile enhancements. Puzzled over his automatic transfer to an Asian Babes Home Page, he was annnoyed that his ethnic origins had become public knowledge on the Internet. The pneumatic images of a girl called ‘Shonali’ were particularly disturbing; the name sounded Bengali, and he wondered why an Indian girl would bring such shame upon her community. Disgusted, he resumed his search for a heater for Swarnakumari’s conservatory, which, in turn, led to a flood of intriguing adult inducements ensuing from the word ‘heat’.
World news occupied centre stage several times a day; he listened to the radio and watched television until the headlines were as familiar as a shloka or mantra. He hastened to share the information with Banerjee, who made clucking noises of disbelief, shaking his head at the evil in the world that had so narrowly missed Cambridge and the Banerjee and Chatterjee households. Together, they mourned the old days, each tragedy serving to highlight and underline their present wise life choices. Banerjee began listening to the news himself on his new digital radio, ahead by two additional bulletins while his friend took a nap. He was thus able to refer to items in the afternoon bulletin of which Mr Chatterjee was as yet unaware.
Mr Chatterjee took his constitutional twice a day; the benefits of regular exercise were balanced by the opportunity it provided as the Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordinator to observe his neighbours, their homes and their habits without embarrassment. Mr Chatterjee firmly believed that a Bengali man’s home was his castle, and he its commanding military officer. Mondays to Fridays, Swarnakumari served him macher jhol, corchori, posto, sukhto, macher tok, mutton kosa, begun baja, chingri macher malai curry, amer chutney, dal, chapattis and rice. On Friday evenings, he had a gin and tonic.
The Cambridge Curry Club Page 5