Ode to Broken Things

by Dipika Mukherjee

  He heard Ranjan’s wheelchair approaching, and walked down the steps towards the older man. Ranjan pointed at the picture Jay had been looking at. “I was assisting the Indian film director, Rajhans, in Malaya. Do you remember? Anything from that time?”

  Jay spoke rapidly as the memories came flooding back; Ranjan had taken Jay for a shoot one day, and the set was within a large bungalow. When the recording session was on, they had to cover the whole house with large gunnysacks to keep the noise out. It was all very entertaining. Suddenly in the middle of an intense dialogue there would be the ding-ding-ding of the ice-cream man, so they would have to stop. As soon as they started again, an aeroplane would fly past and the director would groan loudly, adding to the noise.

  There were lots of songs and dances. These later proved to be a big hit when broadcast on radio but, on the day Jay had gone for the shooting, it seemed more trouble than it was worth. All the songs had to be recorded in one take so, in addition to the incidental noises that disrupted the schedule, any slight mistake by the singer or musicians also brought the session to a halt. The music was performed by violinists, guitarists, and keyboardists, as well as a lone tabla player, so he sat impatiently through a number of false starts. Now, dredging from the depths of this memory, he recited a Malay pantun hesitantly.

  Ranjan clapped the younger man on the back and laughed uproariously. “You probably remember our leading lady, the one with the hibiscus blooms in her hair?”

  Jay remembered a lot more. Her tight bustier had left her shoulders bare, and her sarong was wound over a lush body. She was very coy with her co-star, who wooed her with the Malay pantun. Jay laughed, “I can’t remember all the words any more; but I remember that next to her hibiscus blossoms and her bustier, the poor hero looked quite flat!”

  “Yes,” Ranjan grew pensive. “That was the golden age of our cinema. This film made good money. People flocked to pay their forty cents and see it.”

  “So, how long has your family been in Malaya? Looks like your family was here way before Malaya became Malaysia?”

  Ranjan pointed at a picture of his great grandfather, standing alone in the frame. “My great grandfather was quite a character. He knifed a friend during a heated argument and ended up in Singapore as a convict, sometime around 1860. Indian convict labour laid the foundations of the roads to Singapore, you know. You can still see the building at the junction of Bras Basah Road and Bencoolen Street. It was a jail once. Almost hidden by palm trees, but still there.”

  He was distracted by the sound of swift feet as Agni came around the corner. “I’m hungry, Ranjandadu,” she announced. “Shall we eat now?” She turned to Jay, “The food is being served outside, Professor; please join us.”

  “Okay, little mother, let’s go.” Ranjan patted Agni’s arm as she steered the wheelchair towards the large French windows. Jay noted their easy relationship. They weren’t related by blood, but the kinship in their modes of address to each other spoke volumes about the strength of their ties.

  Twenty-seven

  The highway to Ampang was relatively empty, and it didn’t surprise Colonel S to be back home in thirty minutes. He stood by the hibiscus tree in the courtyard, drinking in the fresh air on this beautiful day as the air sparkled in bright sunshine. He could see the dark clouds already building up on the far horizon though; the rain would wash away this brightness in the afternoon.

  So Jay was celebrating a Deepavali Open House right now, in a home filled with happy Malaysians drinking and eating and laughing together… while this country fell apart.

  Colonel S believed that he was the only person in this blighted country who cared in any way. That he was the last Malay patriot, refusing to partake in a celebration that honoured multitudes of copulating deities, in every shape and form, male and female, lion and elephant and fish… It was all so wrong.

  There was no God but One God, and Allah was without form or gender.

  This country was led by a motley crew of wastrels and pimps. It was necessary to periodically remind the infidels that there could be only one real religion in this world, and it was strong. That Malay hospitality for the migrant races shouldn’t be taken for granted by the Chinese and Indians; it didn’t mean they could do as they pleased in this country. If they didn’t like the Malay supremacy, balik Cina, balik kampong, lah, just send them back to their own ancestral homes.

  He pushed the remote control button and the television sounds filled the room, full of bad news as always. An Indian boy killed in police custody. A Chinese young man found dead outside the office of the anti-corruption agency. A Muslim woman to be caned for drinking beer in a bar. Everything was news.

  That female newscaster had a head like a young coconut, filled with fluid, as she cheerfully nodded her way through the miserable broadcast.

  Now she was smiling at the Hindsight fellow who was going to have a press conference tomorrow, to demand more rights for the Indian population.

  Colonel S stepped closer to the screen. So the Hindsight leader was going to be at the press conference tomorrow? That would give the government a chance to tackle this problem head-on.

  Or maybe not.

  He heard the Hindsight leader growing more strident, “We are tired of being looked at as ‘migrants’ instead of ‘sons of the soil’ like the bumiputras… Such categories have no meaning in Malaysia any more! Many of us… the non-Malays… have roots on the Malay Peninsula that go back a hundred years. For the Peranakan Chinese, it’s several hundred years, kan? In fact, the ancestors of many non-Malays got to Malaysia earlier than the ancestors of many Malays… and changing how we teach history in Malaysia won’t change that reality. So we are tired, lah, tired of being told that we haven’t been there long enough to really be Malaysian like the Malays are. Very racist, like apartheid actually. It’s like saying that African Americans are incapable of being true Americans. You see?”

  Colonel S glared at the screen. They should have kicked out these migrants as soon as Malaysia gained independence from the British, and sent these British coolies home with their colonial masters. What was this man up to? The Malays would never let there be a Barack Obama situation in Malaysia, not in the next elections, NOT EVER. Go, lah, go to America if you want your Martin Luther Kings. No one can stop you from migrating, kan?

  In those hope-filled days right after Malaysian Independence, when Zainal, Mahesh, and Nikhil had talked into the night, Colonel S was a silent bystander. He resented the way the talk was going, but was too young to object. It was because of the hospitality of men like Zainal that Indians in Malaysia were so arrogant.

  Nikhil believed that Malaysians greeting independence with the population equally divided between Malays and immigrant races was a good thing. “Exactly a fifty-fifty split! Time to champion the concept of the multi-racial, non-partisan, New Malaysian.”

  “Perhaps,” Zainal cracked a keropok with a loud bite, smiling genially. “Perhaps it will happen. But the Chinese and the Indians are intruders, my friend.”

  Zainal and Nikhil rarely argued, while Mahesh and Zainal always did, so Colonel S was not surprised to hear Maheshbabu’s retort, “Intruders? The Indians and Chinese developed this country into what it is. Otherwise the jungle would have claimed you all a long time ago.”

  “Jungle or not, it belongs to us. Whether we develop, or not, it is our choice,” said Zainal.

  “Belongs to us, Encik Zainal? You must mean the Sakais? By your logic, the aborigines of the country have the greatest claim,” Mahesh paused. “But the Jakuns – they are not worthy, are they?”

  “I do not call them Jakuns. You just did.” Zainal stopped eating and looked at Mahesh, belligerence in the set of his mouth.

  Nikhil smiled at Zainal. “Maheshbhai gets a little hotheaded. You must excuse him. Anyway, we came to Malaya at the invitation of the Malays, and immigrant labour was introduced with their consent, so perhaps intruder is a harsh word, my friend?”

  Zainal’s eyes remai
ned steadily on Mahesh. He did not acknowledge what Nikhil had said. Colonel S had swatted a mosquito in the darkness, and felt the satisfying squish of the dead bug under his fingers.

  Finally Mahesh had fled to America with his family, soon after that fateful night Zainal and Siti disappeared. What had happened to Zainal was unspeakable, and unforgivable… He could never forget Siti sobbing into his arms aku dianiaya kawan yang aku anggap darah daging sendiri… She had treated these people as her own flesh and blood, but been badly betrayed.

  Colonel S never allowed anyone from another race to come so close. He now increased the volume so that he could clearly hear what the Hindsight leader had to say. The man looked just like a talking baboon on the screen, and should be taken just as seriously.

  Twenty-eight

  The sky had darkened with rainclouds. Jay ran his finger lightly around the stem of the chilled beer glass as he admired the setting. Mridula was fussing around the food; her flamboyant sari heaved around her curves with every breath.

  The air was slightly moist with the hint of fog. Even though it was only late afternoon, fairy lights twinkled at strategic places in the garden, the highlight of which was an enormous man-made waterfall, backlit to maximise the majesty of the gushing water. Besides the sound of the water, there was the zap of insects being lured into the neon traps and the low nasal humming of the mosquitoes. The table was loaded with an excess of dishes that slowly congealed in the cool air.

  “It must be impossible to get bad food in Malaysia,” Jay remarked.

  Ranjan cocked his head and addressed the statement in all seriousness. “Except at one time. During the war years there was no food, and whatever we did get was exceptionally bad.”

  Mridula nodded her head. “Jayanta, the food was so scarce that our code words were the common foods that no one ate any more. We ate only tapioca, sweet potatoes and yams. If we spoke of putting brinjals in a shukto, there was no guessing; everyone knew it wasn’t the food being discussed.”

  “So exciting, lah! All this hide-and-seek,” Agni said with a shiver.

  Mridula exchanged a glance with Ranjan and snorted, “You all, hah! You find it so romantic-shomantic, all talk only with eyes shining like two black pearls. But we, who took risks with our lives and saw death day in and day out, found it hateful – anything but exciting! Babies dying –” Mridula broke off sharply.

  Ranjan cleared his throat. “We should talk about things which are more pleasant, eh?”

  Agni stopped eating as Abhik advanced, a heavy plate of mutton periyatel balanced on his palm, enroute to Jay. He had changed into dark slacks from the jeans he had worn in the kitchen. He placed the plate carefully in front of Jay, and turned to his grandparents, kneeling on the grass so that his face was level with his grandfather.

  “I have some bad news. I can’t come with you to Port Dickson tomorrow. I’m really sorry. The Hindsight 2020 leader is flying back from London, and the press conference is tomorrow morning. I have to be there, in case the police try anything.” He looked at Agni, then at his grandparents. “I’m very sorry, I just found out about this. I’ll try to get to PD as soon as I can.”

  Ranjan’s face was stony. In profile, anger chiselled his features until they seemed to pierce the air. “Even Agni took leave from such an important press conference at the airport tomorrow. Surely you can do something? No! It’s wrong that they cannot leave you alone even for our religious celebrations. And you, out there with all the ruffians who claim to protect us.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?” Mridula asked.

  One of Ranjan’s friends put a hand on the old man’s arm. “Let it be. You all should be proud that he is trying to make a difference. He is getting involved with the Hindsight fellers to fight for us. We never got involved, but maybe we should have, my friend.”

  Ranjan spun the wheelchair around to face his friend. “Of course I am proud of Abhik. I cannot live without him, but his work is too much! These people have no respect –” Ranjan took a deep breath and squeezed his grandson’s fingers. “Just come to Port Dickson as quickly as you can, okay?”

  Mridula’s hands rested on her husband’s shoulders, gently. Her veins stood out under gnarled joints, and her fingers were emphasised by an unusually large number of rings. Almost every finger except the thumb had a ring.

  The two Malay girls who joined the group broke the sombre spell.

  “Hello Rohani and Shiraz! Good to see you both after such a long time!” Mridula embraced them both with expansive arms.

  The girls smiled at Ranjan, hugging Mridula. Then with a “Happy Deepavali, everyone!” they settled into the space created for them.

  At some point in the early evening, a group of women had gathered at the open foyer to begin preparations for the lamp-lighting. Agni was now dressed in a turquoise sari with an intricate gold border that glittered, and Jay marvelled at the transformation. She dazzled without the least trace of self-consciousness. Jay searched for the denim-clad coquette that he identified with.

  She and two other Indian girls knelt on the floor, lighting the hundred and eight lamps that had been placed in the pattern of an Om. Pink and green lotus buds, in huge clusters, peeked from over her shoulder as she tiptoed around the intricate alpona design, which already showed signs of smearing. The diyas flickered prettily, casting shadows on her features. Jay caught his breath at the beauty of the spectacle.

  He eased himself into a low rattan armchair, which was comfortably antique. This was the first time in his life he had met such a chameleon woman, one who would be at ease in all his worlds. A Malaysian woman like Shanti, but one who would not drown, leaving him with demon teeth for a memory. Someone who had also been abandoned, was flawed, and was still looking for the sum of her parts… like him.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Abhik had a hand on the rattan chair as they watched the same woman.

  “It’s all very… magical. Somehow I didn’t expect so much feeling. In North America they have huge pujas, often held in gyms and church halls, and I’ve been squirted with ganga jal from a squeezee bottle,” he laughed. “This neighbourhood community thing feels very different.”

  “I don’t know for how much longer though,” said Abhik reflectively. He indicated the older women who had clustered around the central area, telling the younger women what to do. “Those are our gatekeepers and keep this going. After them, the next generation is all working women, with little time for rituals.”

  Agni looked across at them both enquiringly. Abhik raised his thumb to his lips to ask whether she wanted a drink.

  She made her way across the room, and flopped into a chair. “Could you get me a rum and coke? Easy on the rum, or I’ll trip on the yards of fabric, and your grandmother won’t be amused. This is some family heirloom I am wearing.”

  Abhik grinned. “What can I say? She’s keeping things in the family.”

  The implication was unmistakable, but Jay refused to ask any questions even as Abhik walked away. He turned to Agni. “Look, I’m sorry about getting a little snappy about Colonel S. Old men of his age do start looking alike. Trust me, he hasn’t left the house for months. He had problems starting his car when I first met him at his house. The battery was almost dead.”

  “He lied,” Agni said dismissively. “I saw him at the airport on Sunday. He is on our surveillance cameras.”

  “Why would he need to lie to you?” Jay asked reasonably.

  “I don’t know. Rohani is standing in for me for the rest of the week, so I can go to Port Dickson tomorrow. But, as soon as I come back, I’ll find out.” She stood up abruptly.

  “Well, in that case, good luck. I am pretty sure you’ll find someone else on your footage.”

  “How are you so sure? How well do you know this guy anyway?”

  Jay let the silence grow as he controlled his anger. “I’ve known him all my life. He saved me from the fire – yes, the one you asked me about earlier – then he set me up in a lab in Seattle and t
aught me everything I know about science. Whatever I am today is thanks to him. He has been mentor, friend… father.” His voice dropped, “I know him very well.

  The call to the faithful rang out over the noise of the guests. Stereophonic sounds of Allah hu akhbar rose and fell like the wingbeats of the birds in the darkening air as they stared at each other.

  Finally, Agni looked away. “In that case, Professor, I really hope I am wrong.”

  Jay watched Abhik and Agni from a distance. In her gregariousness, and his quietude, he saw an edge of insecurity that separated them. It was obvious that their relationship hadn’t been made public. He could hope.

  A young man was intoning like a Bollywood hero, “Hai, if you ever get tired of waiting for your prince, I am always here. I even wrote a sonnet to read out this evening.”

  “Aiyah, not another Desire on Deepavali,” Rohani mimed finger-in-throat gagging.

  Agni’s laughter pealed out as she reached for the glass Abhik handed her. “Don’t waste it on me! My mother was the poet; my networks involve computers, not people. No time for love, lah!”

  The next door neighbour, Mrs Wong, had seated herself next to Agni and was sharing a bowl of murruku with her. Jay heard Agni’s giggles over Mrs Wong’s voice. “Love shove, pah! That’s the trouble with all you youngsters! You think Mr Wong and I got love when we married? Never even see each other properly before the wedding day, now married for forty years already. No need for love-one, you take it from me. Find a good boy, family good, can earn some money, enough what?”

  And Mrs Wong looked meaningfully at Abhik.

  Agni nudged Abhik with her shoulder. “Chee, what are you saying? Marry my brother? Cannot, lah!”