“I hope it’s not too sweet,” Naina said playfully as she presented a cup of tea to Rahul, accompanied by a saucer containing a few biscuits.
“Nothing short of perfect every time,” Rahul assured her with a beaming smile, after taking a quick sip to validate his point.
Appreciation of the remark was evident in the softness expressed through Naina’s eyes. It was always a pleasure to spend a few moments with Rahul. He had been a part of her life since she was a little girl. His presence had always made her feel at ease. They had shared common struggles in life. There was nothing to hide from him. Naina could be herself around Rahul for she knew that he knew all about her, and where she was from. She headed back inside to retrieve the parcel for Vicky. From the periphery of his gaze, Rahul’s eyes followed Naina with fondness. Having lost his own parents at a very young age, he had had great respect for Naina’s father, an admiration for a man who very much reminded him of what his own father must have been like, based on his grandmother’s stories. Having felt and shared in Naina’s grief when her father was no more, Rahul felt a new yearning in his heart for her as she had blossomed into a sweet young woman over the years. How he would ever share these sentiments, he hadn’t the nerve to do so thus far. Even if he could muster up the courage to approach Naina with his feelings, what did he have to offer? He was merely a gofer of sorts, running around from here to there to serve others. He would need to make something of himself, become someone before he could ever expect to be seen with respect, Rahul thought, just as Naina returned. Upon finishing his tea and biscuits, Rahul accepted the parcel from Naina. He replaced his hat on his head and the two strolled towards the front gate.
“How are Aunty and the family?” Rahul enquired.
“Just fine,” Naina replied, turning her eyes to the ground as she slowly opened the gate for Rahul. His sincerity always made her emotional.
“Glad to hear it. My grandmother always says time heals all. And since I’ve survived her rolling pins and broom handles over the years, she must be right,” Rahul added to end his brief visit with a laugh, as he always did.
Though she smiled, Naina’s eyes moistened. There was something very different and quaint about Rahul, something very special about him and how he made her feel. Not quite able to understand, what she did feel for certain was a sense of absence whenever he left. Though she spoke no words in response as Rahul mounted his bicycle with the parcel clutched in his left hand, the sparkle in her eyes expressed the gratitude she felt for Rahul in her heart. How could she not? Were it not for Rahul, who had recounted the details to Naina and her family, they would never have known what had happened to her father.
***
At the time of the fateful event, Rahul was a young sweeper boy. He had worked alongside Naina’s father who had been murdered for letting his shadow fall over the owner of the factory. The inebriated owner, who was seated in an open courtyard that day, had shouted at Naina’s father to bring him a glass of water. In his drunken stupor, when the glass of water was presented to the haughty man under the midday sun, he became livid and beat Naina’s father to death because the lower caste labourer had unknowingly cast his shadow over the higher-class proprietor. “How dare you taint me with your misfortune!” the owner had scoffed, unperturbed as the brown earth surrounding him turned crimson with the labourer’s blood as the poor man was pounded to the ground, while the sun beat over his corpse.
With a money-lined handshake, as Naina’s mother had described it, the mishap was written off by the police as an accident despite the many eyes that must have witnessed the atrocity. Had Rahul not whispered the details of what he had seen to Naina’s family after the incident, they would have never known the truth behind her father’s misfortune.
“That wicked bastard has taken everything from me and my children,” Naina’s mother had wailed, cradling her head in her shaking hands. “You must help me child, you must come with me to the police and tell them what really happened,” she begged Rahul in desperation.
With his head lowered to hide the emotions on his face, Rahul murmured, “I can’t tell them again, Aunty. I already tried. They didn’t listen. They said I must be confused. One of them shoved me and told me to go home,” he explained with a trembling voice between gasps.
Though Naina’s mother had pleaded with Rahul to accompany her to the police station to file a formal complaint, it was to no avail. The frightened boy swore that he would disappear should he be sequestered by the police, fearful of the type of interrogation which would ensue to clear his confusion. His reddened eyes, swollen from the tears he wept, told of the remorse in his heart for the dead man who had helped him attain the job that had assisted in feeding his own needy family. Though Rahul had confided in Naina’s family about what he had seen, for his lack of courage in pursuing a further attempt to file a formal eyewitness account with the police, he had asked for their forgiveness.
Her face filled with sadness, Naina’s mother had bent close to Rahul and whispered what they both already knew. “You are right, my child,” she had acknowledged with a heavy heart, “you are right,” she had repeated, her eyes pooled with tears. Fearing that Rahul might be endangered by remaining at the mercy of a man who did not hesitate in taking a life, Naina’s mother ensured that Rahul was also brought to work for Vicky Gill.
“Why are you giving up Mummy? How can you let that man get away with it? He killed Papa! Don’t you care?” Asha had lashed out once Rahul had left, Naina in tears by her side.
With that, Naina was stunned as she watched her mother’s palm meet Asha’s right cheek with an unexpected force. The reaction on her mother’s face was one of bewilderment, as if she were disassociated from the action her body, her right hand, had taken against her daughter. This was one of the very hands that had massaged their legs when they cried at night from growing pains. It was one of the same hands that had served them food when there was not enough for Naina’s mother. This was one of the very hands which had held them tight as no one else could, the very hand Naina had seen Papa so often take into his own, to assure Mummy that things would be alright. Now, Naina watched as her mother’s hands shook, as she stood before her daughters in shock. The commotion had at some point awakened Shaan whose soft cries could be heard in the adjacent room where he had been napping. Speechless, Naina’s mother took Asha into her arms and held her close. Asha, also still in shock, let herself be held, sniffling soft sounds of hurt. Still by her sister’s side, Naina clung onto Asha’s kameez, burying her head into the hollow of her sister’s back, shaken by it all.
“You must try to understand, there is much that is beyond our control,” Naina’s mother tried to explain. “Of course, I care. I am as angry as you, and if there was a way, I would kill that monster myself,” she had admitted with determination in her eyes. “But that isn’t how things work in this world, my child. It’s because I care that I have to contain my anger so that I can remain by your side.”
“But there were others by Papa’s side. Why won’t they go with Rahul and tell the police what really happened? Why Mummy? Why?” Naina cried out through tears.
“Because they are scared. Because there is no one to protect them. They won’t help because they can’t without harming themselves,” Naina’s mother admitted.
To her children, in the best way she could, Naina’s mother had explained that, “it was understood that people without means had to learn to be blind to survive; blind to feelings, blind to sufferings, and even blind to injustice. Clear sight was reserved for those who could afford to see,” she had especially advised her youngest daughter whose very name worried the widow. ‘Naina’ – one with clear vision. It was Naina’s father’s wish to name their youngest daughter ‘Naina’, hoping that his daughter would forever see goodness. It was now her mother’s task to teach her children, and particularly her little girl, when to be blind.
***
The cooling effect of the night gone by would linger no more as the
intensity of the heat enveloped all within its breadth under a heavy cloak of humidity. The dampness seemed to seep into everything, leaving both the living and nonliving virtually limp. It permeated the packets of sweet and savory biscuits from Lovely Sweets Bakery that Naina had often served the Gill family, robbing them of the crispy strength necessary for withstanding the ritual of tea dunking. It saturated the linens and garments that she folded and stored in the tall gunmetal Godrej wardrobes positioned in each bedroom of the home. The humidity also infused the bound stacks of rupees deposited within the wardrobe safe in Memsaab’s bedroom, rupees that Naina had many times been presented when asked to run an errand. The humidity even softened the almonds which Naina had occasionally seen Memsaab offer to her grandchildren, clandestinely removing a few nuts from a silk satchel, also tucked away in the wardrobe. Though Memsaab’s granddaughter would often give Naina a few nuts from the palm of her hand, in such moments, Naina had learned to look away, not wanting her eyes to impart a sense of longing for that which this present life would not afford her.
Working through a succession of chores, from the rooftop veranda, Naina hung her second, third and fourth bucket of laundry for that morning. By midday, the heat was relentless. The earlier mass of cloud cover had dissipated under the sun’s rays that now pulsated down on those who dared to step out from the refuge of shaded interiors. Luckily, she could complete the hanging quickly, having several years of practice. Attentively, she selected the position of each garment according to the familial hierarchy, averting any suggestion of challenge to the matriarch. In accordance, Naina reserved the newest nylon clothesline for Memsaab and her husband’s clothing, below the sun sheltered awning and furthest from the veranda’s wall.
One by one, the buckets emptied. As usual, Naina hung the unmentionables last. One such item, a pastel coloured cushioned brassiere, truly confused Naina when she came upon it for the first time within Rani’s bucket of laundry last summer. Rani was Memsaab’s eldest and better looking daughter-in-law in Naina’s opinion. Never had Naina seen a bra like that before. Although naïve, she was sensible enough to withhold her curiosity about the unusual garment until she got home, for her older sister Asha to sort out.
“It’s called a ‘padded bra’ stupid! – to make her ‘BBC News’ hotter!” Asha had jeered.
When the look of puzzlement lingered on Naina’s face, Asha had offered, "For her BOOBS, dimwit! To make them a hotter broadcast than they are!"
“But why would Rani need such thick padding for extra heat in the middle of August?” Naina had persisted.
“You’re such a dumb duffer sometimes, Naina!” Asha had continued to mock. “Do you think your prissy Memsaab, Prakash Gill, would have brought Rani home to her eldest son Vicky as a wife had she known what a ‘flato’ Rani was?! Rani has to entice her privileged husband with at least the illusion of juicy-juicy mangoes over her teeny-tiny God-given boobies,” Asha had smirked.
But, didn’t Vicky notice the size of Rani’s shrinking breasts when they met under the covers at night? Did she not remove her padding when she went to bed? Perhaps Vicky didn’t notice in the dark. Maybe his wife kept the bra on. Now that she thought about it, Naina recalled that Rani would often still be sporting a plumped-up bust line even in her sleeping clothes when she saw Rani in the early morning. Possibilities still sprouting in her head, Naina dared not question her sister further. Still, Asha’s insight and Rani’s transforming bosom stirred Naina’s fascination with the scope of facilities bigger people could draw upon.
Lost in thought, Naina was momentarily caught off guard by the clip-clopping sound of heeled slippers making their way up the marble staircase. A well-groomed young woman wearing a long flowy pink skirt appeared before her. With a quick gesture of a nod, meant more as instruction rather than greeting, the woman, revealing bare white ankles, directed Naina to, “Tell Rani Didi I’ve arrived.” She had addressed Rani with the title of Didi, meaning ‘older sister’ as a customary sign of respect even though the women did not share a blood relation.
“Come on in Pooja,” Rani called from her bedroom suite, already anticipating the arrival of her threading girl.
“Naina . . .” Rani continued, but did not need to complete her instruction.
Naina had already acknowledged with, “Of course, I’ll be right back,” knowing clearly what was being requested. She dashed towards the kitchen, returning with a tray. Naina presented each woman with a stainless-steel cup of sweet red sharbat, a drink of concentrated rosewater-flavoured syrup dissolved in icy water. She often served the Gill family a similar version of the drink mixed with chilled full-fat cow’s milk on summer nights.
“No, no, Didi, no need,” Pooja gestured dramatically, by way of suitable social convention.
“Please, please, I insist,” Rani encouraged with the traditional gracious response, with equal dramatic gusto, as Naina remained standing between the women holding the beverages.
Having served the women, Naina stood by the door with the empty tray in hand, watching as the cups dripped beads of cold sweat from their shiny surfaces onto the marble floor. In her heart, she felt a pang of envy watching as the women partially consumed their drinks, thinking how nothing would go wasted in her own household.
As if reading Naina’s mind, Rani offered, “Take the cups down to the kitchen and make some for yourself, Naina." Naina couldn’t help notice that as she spoke, Rani glanced first towards Pooja, and then towards her with a contrived smile.
“You’ve let some time pass since our last visit,” Pooja chit-chatted as she started to weave and twirl the thread around her fingers to receive the stray and unwanted strands of hair around Rani’s eyebrows.
Naina had slipped back to the room in a quiet manner. From a distance, she watched and listened discreetly with interest.
“What to do with so many duties and a demanding mother-in-law?” Rani both joked and vented.
Both women chuckled as Pooja guided Rani’s fingers to stretch out the skin above and below her brow line. Pooja was no ordinary esthetician. She owned the ritziest Ladies’ Beauty Salon in the colony and provided an in-home service to her more affluent, willing-to-pay clients.
“Pass me the baby powder by the red bag,” Pooja indicated with her eyes to Naina.
Completing Rani’s eyebrows with a final snip-snip using tiny scissors, Pooja made the subtle inquiry, “Didi, have you been in the sun?”
“By God, running after these children all day,” Rani began, but Pooja interjected.
“No need to worry, I can fix that,” she assured. “Would you like me to do the facial? It will bring back your fair glow. You wouldn’t want that darkness to settle in,” she added, furrowing her brow.
“Yes, yes, of course, go ahead, Pooja,” Rani acquiesced, as her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment.
Naina was chagrined to have witnessed this exchange between Pooja and Rani. She squatted invisibly along the far wall of the room peering gloomily at her own sun baked complexion reflected from the back side of the stainless-steel tray which lay atop her knees. Still focused on the women, she was mesmerized by Pooja’s fingers scrolling over Rani’s face, massaging in the magical Fair and Lovely. She had seen the lotion advertised numerous times over the various televisions throughout Memsaab’s house. She wondered if it would work on her own skin as well. Could it possibly rescript her destiny as the ads promised? Amazed by the thought of the possible transformation, Naina was again struck by the facilities afforded to the bigger people. This could make her look more like her Bollywood starlets. Then for certain there would be no need to search for her prince; instead, he would seek her. Naina felt a thrill of excitement radiate through her. The thought of Sanjay, the boy with the handsome eyes, being drawn to her brighter and lighter complexion filled her with extraordinary glee. She twirled a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid contemplatively. Perhaps she would ask Asha about the lotion later that night.
Meanwhile, Pooja’s deli
cate fingers continued to swirl over Rani’s face. Naina admired Pooja’s fingernails, coloured in a brilliant coral, which were painted the same colour as her exposed toes. The young woman carried herself with a confidence rivaled by no other, one that Naina wished to possess one day herself. Naina’s focus then shifted from Rani’s face to her elevated bosom as she leaned back in the chair before Pooja. The lacy border of a lilac brassiere spilled out from beneath Rani’s blouse. Judging by the visible cleavage, it must have been a padded bra that Rani was wearing. As she continued to gaze in awe, Naina couldn’t help but wonder if Rani’s BBC News were at least fair, if not juicy – that, however, she would not dare ask Asha.
***
Dear Diary:
Asha acts as though she knows everything, or at least way more than me. She doesn’t though, and I’ve told her so. Well, maybe she does, sometimes, about certain things and certain people. Like Sanjay. Some days ago, as I was walking home in the evening from Memsaab’s, he was standing by the vacant lot beside our factory. He signaled towards me as I approached. Something about a puppy he had found behind the bushes. I told him that I had to get home, but he said that the pup was so cute, that it would only take a minute. More so than the puppy, I couldn’t resist Sanjay’s smile and had just started to follow him when Asha screamed out my name from the rooftop, yelling at me to get inside. I was so embarrassed that I charged at her when I got in. She seemed angrier with Sanjay than with me. She warned me to stay away from him. She said that he only wants to use me! Said she would kill him if he ever tried to show me anything again.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 3