by Amrit Chima
But then there were other things, valuables surreptitiously secreted away, as if from fear. Family photos. Jewelry. A set of house keys. Bundles of Howard Street rent money. “I want only cash,” Jai had told Darshan after Manmohan’s death. “Because where will you be if I need it?” And he could not argue because she had once been left with nothing at a Greyhound bus depot. She meticulously wrapped everything in cellophane, then foil, then bathroom hand towels before expertly concealing them around the house. And soon these too were forgotten, erased from her memory.
The loss of her possessions stirred Jai’s rage, provoking a powerful suspicion against others, a narrowing of the eyes. “Someone has stolen from me,” she told Darshan in a low growl. She had then glanced about, eyes suddenly clearing, expression now worried. “I have lost my keys.”
For a time none of them did anything, believing Jai’s developing eccentricities were the natural result of old age. She was otherwise in exceedingly good health, mobile and relatively agile for her years. They left her alone during the day while at work, calling frequently but not often stopping by except on Saturdays for a weekly trip to the gurdwara, or when Darshan needed to mend something. Distances were too great across the Bay Area, traffic maddening. This was before any of them appreciated the significance of Jai’s peculiarities. They did not know—not even Darshan, who was the first to recognize, though too late—that six years of loneliness had entirely unraveled her, had forced her to invent a new world of circumstances in which she was no longer the invisible, assiduous backbone of her family, but weak and frail and in need of rescue, of everyday bustle, of constant company.
~ ~ ~
The yoga mat was well padded, a defense against the cold of Manmohan and Jai’s concrete garage floor where Darshan had managed to clear some space. He sat upon the mat as if on a pontoon, a vessel to safety as the sea of archived possessions—stacked high and in all directions—threatened to capsize on him. Many were in unopened boxes as if just purchased: a camping tent, an LED-lit vanity mirror bought in the early eighties, a handheld vibrating back massager, a VHS machine, a mini tape recorder. On the lower shelves he had found an entire set of dumbbells, cloth for tailoring suits, spare sets of silverware and dishware. High above were power tools never used, new bed sheets, lightbulbs, quite a number of spare house slippers in his parents’ sizes, flannel coats, sneakers. Everywhere he looked, he had discovered excess, things stored in reserve. It was a bunker, a safe haven for an eternity of life in which one would always have the essentials.
The door to the kitchen was propped open. He could hear his mother affably chatting with the nurse they had all hired to live with her, the chink of a spoon on a ceramic plate, several moments of light, friendly laughter.
He organized much of the paraphernalia, for donation, while in search of the cash his mother had lost. None of it had been unearthed inside the house, several thousand missing—although Navpreet and Livleen had retrieved most of the jewelry and photos, storing them in a combination safe in the master bedroom. For her protection, he had begun, once again, to deposit rent money into his mother’s account. Still, he rummaged through the garage hoping to find the hidden cash, to allay the family’s worries, because it was his fault, his ignorance about Jai’s condition, a habitual oversight when he had pressed the money into her hand every month.
He stood, hefting a wooden crate from the corner. Prying it open, he discovered some hand tools from the lumber mill. Refitting the lid over the top, he pushed the crate out of the way, the wood scraping unpleasantly across the cement. He shoved aside another crate of tools, working his way through the boxes toward the wall. He reached for a broom to brush away the cobwebs that had grown thickly in that corner, sidling between two boxes to access the recess. Looking down, through the shadows he detected the shape of a familiar old chest and small plywood box.
Resting the broom against a shelf, he made room, grunting as he pushed the crates farther out of the way. He knelt, the cold of the concrete biting his knees through the thin fabric of his trousers. Intimidated, he faltered, furtively glancing about, even now feeling it a betrayal to open these two remnants from Manmohan’s past. He remembered that night up in the lumber mill’s main house rafters, defiant and uncaring, willfully invading that private space, moving things about, attempting to uncover some secret, some personal element that would humanize his father. But in the end, when he had come across the box and chest, he was too afraid to pry them open, too afraid of what he might find, of what he could know.
Taking a breath, he finally unfastened the rusted latch of the plywood box and raised the lid. Pulling out an object wrapped in old and yellowing paper, he carefully peeled away the layers to discover a black and white photo of a little boy smiling into the camera. He pulled out his reading glasses, peered at the image, a memory of the main house’s living room roused. But he had been very young and could not be certain.
Emptying the remainder of the box, he surveyed everything now on the concrete floor: an infant-size grey blanket, two halves of a coconut shell, and a cotton sling sack filled with plastic toy tools. Absently fitting the coconut halves together, he had the strange sense that all of this had once belonged to him. His body grew warm with a sensation of experiences not his own. The garage seemed to expand outward. He looked down at his knees, still firmly settled on the cement, and suddenly the feeling was gone. Touching the contents of the box, he willed himself to remember, but his mind went instantly blank, felt heavy as if with sand, and he gave up.
With regret he replaced the items and turned to the chest. He lifted the lid, giving rise to a concentrated bubble of stale air. A painted wooden elephant lay on top of a neatly folded red turban. He turned the elephant over in his hands, admiring the clear artistic skill despite the faded color, then placed it next to the chest. Holding the turban, moth-eaten and threadbare, he felt an incredible compulsion to bring it to his nose, to gather through his senses the history he believed was contained within it, inhaling the scent of something much like rusted metal. He found a set of sharp metal chisels, a broken-toothed wooden comb, a green vial, a smoking pipe, a woman’s sari and salwaar kameez, an ivory bangle, a ledger of some sort, and a square tin of letters written in Gurumukhi, the sender’s name he made as Khushwant Singh Toor.
Resettling the tin at the bottom of the chest, as an afterthought, he took off his father’s watch and set it beside the letters, covering both with the red turban.
Opening the frayed leather cover of the ledger, he flipped through the pages, recognizing enough of the script to determine that the columns indicated names, debt owed and amount paid. A lender’s book.
Guilt gnawed at him as he looked at the ledger, at the meticulous records, at the enduring and tireless order, reminding him of his great failure of the last few years. He had been careless after Manmohan’s death, swathed in his own pain, blind to his mother’s, to the rest of the family’s. His role had always been caretaker of the Toors, a duty willingly shouldered despite the difficulties, the irascibility. But years of his steadfast diligence had crumbled, money lost, valuables missing, a family rightfully distressed. And his own shame.
~ ~ ~
The prejudice against him was growing. Darshan could feel it, the acrid, fermenting animosity. They no longer talked with him, no longer argued, his children, his brother and sisters. Instead they had stored and stored their bad feelings, allowing them always to grow. He looked back over the years, surveying his actions, his motives, the sacrifices he made for their greater good. He hated being forced to analyze and take stock of his own well-intentioned deeds, to question everything now. It had already all been done. But his siblings and his own children had no more faith, and he was beginning to lose his.
Sonya writing, poor and struggling in New York where artists were trampled by stampedes of Wall Street brokers and real estate moguls, so often needing financial support despite his best arguments for a more respectable job. Anand, much more pragmatic, workin
g in finance for an international corporation, had stayed home to amass a savings, yet was so grudging with his free time, so unwilling to help his father with affairs of the family, with Howard Street, with Jai. And his brother and sisters, who had once given him the latitude—however resentfully—to manage their parents’ care because they knew he was the only one willing, now endured his presence with a chilly, silent martyrdom, shunning him, making him lonely.
Sunday afternoon. He poured a capful of soap into a pail full of warm water. Immersing his arm to the elbow, he stirred in broad circles, the mixture bleeding through and between his open fingers. He clutched at the warmth, the soft suds dripping like talons from his fingers as he removed his hand. Opening the hose, spraying the loose grime off of his car, he watched the water cascade from the roof down the windows. Closing the spout, he dipped a large sponge into the bucket and began to scrub the trunk, working his way toward the front.
The phone rang, a muted peal from inside the house. He paused his washing, ears perked, concern for his mother sending a trill of dread through his limbs. He visited every day now, but it was not always enough. She sometimes forgot who the nurse was, incessantly calling his name, wielding vases and lamps, threatening to smash them until he showed his face and proved that there was still something recognizable remaining in her shrinking, tiny world.
“Your sister,” Elizabeth called through the living room window screen. “Navpreet.”
Wiping his hands on a rag, he went to the line in the garage, picked up. “Navpreet?”
“Darshan,” she said without emotion. “Livleen and I would like you to come to Bebe’s to discuss the future of her care.”
“What’s happened?” he asked. “Did something happen?”
“We have found a replacement for the nurse,” Navpreet told him. “A woman Bapu and Bebe knew in Fiji, a familiar face.” There was a pause over the line, and then his sister’s voice went flat. “We brought her to see Bebe, but she would like to meet you as well. She will not take our offer until you’ve agreed.”
“All right,” he replied. “When?”
“She is here now.”
“It will take me about an hour.”
“Hurry up,” she said. “I’ve made other plans.”
He tucked the receiver onto the cradle, for several seconds staring outside at his wet, soapy car, feeling slightly encouraged by the call. He went to the kitchen, told Elizabeth, who nodded and kissed his cheek before pouring herself a glass of orange liquor and opening her cookbook. “Don’t be too late,” she said. “I’m trying something new today.”
He went to change, slipping into a clean pair of trousers. Tying the laces of his sneakers, he smiled, recalling a time in Fiji when he and Navpreet had snuck off under the house with a loaf of Jai’s bread. They had eaten the soft middle, returning the shell of crust to the pantry. Jai later sliced into it, crying out in surprise and anger. “Let’s do it again tomorrow,” Navpreet said as they laughed from the other room. It was a game they had played, together, for nearly a week before Jai caught them.
Arriving at his mother’s house a little over an hour later, Darshan opened the front door without knocking, calling out as he entered. There was no answer, but they were there, waiting for him in the living room. He slowly shut the door.
A nervous energy sparked the air. Navpreet, Livleen, Taran, Mohan, and Lehna were all seated on the sofa, uncomfortably compressed together. The chairs had all been removed except a single empty one positioned opposite the sofa, a long, wooden coffee table between them.
Navpreet gestured toward the lone chair. “Come in, Darshan.”
“Where’s Bebe?” he asked.
“In the kitchen. Please, have a seat.”
He did not move. “Where is the nurse?”
Navpreet smiled, her manner easy. “With Bebe. They are preparing tea. Please,” she said again. “Sit.”
Slowly lowering himself into the chair, Darshan glanced toward the kitchen where from his vantage he could see only his mother’s house-slippered feet beneath the ship-hatch table. In front of him on the coffee table were many of the pictures Jai had hidden, now removed from the safe and arranged so that only he could see them. Several were portraits of Manmohan. Most were group photos of the whole family.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Shall we begin with a prayer?” Navpreet said, placidly glancing around. “From Guru Arjun Dev Ji’s Psalm of Peace.” She closed her eyes and began, carefully enunciating. “‘If a man meditates on the Name, he will not go the round of births. / He will be immune from the torture of Death, / and will shed off all mortality. / His enemies will keep away from him, / And he will be safe from all harm. / His mind will always be on the alert, / And will not be affected by fear, / Or troubled by pain. / This meditation is learnt in the company of the holy. / All riches in abundance for him who is God-intoxicated!’” She opened her eyes and smiled dreamily. “Waheguru ji ka khalsa, waheguru ji ki fateh.”
“Beautiful,” Mohan murmured.
Her gaze lingered on Darshan, who regarded her with impatience.
Reaching over the armrest of the sofa, she retrieved a manila folder. “To the point,” she said, opening the file, suddenly business-like.
Livleen shifted uncomfortably, and Taran put his hand firmly on her leg.
“We have all suspected it for many years now,” Navpreet continued. “I have been watching you. I have been making meticulous records, which I have here compiled in an effort to bring to light what we have all known to be true since the beginning.”
She paused for effect and waited for some reaction.
He frowned slightly, and she appeared pleased with this.
“We have concrete evidence now. Facts and figures.” She raised her chin, anticipating a challenge, then proceeded, stressing each word. “Irrefutable proof that you have been stealing.”
His frown deepened, and he regarded the photos. They were intended to inspire remorse, this once great family now shattered because of him. Yet none of the faces were smiling, expressions all sober. It was unnatural. He looked dispassionately across the table at his accusers.
“We are not stupid,” Mohan said as Navpreet held up the file of documents.
Darshan flattened his palms against the tops of his legs. “Let me see that.”
She tucked the folder onto her lap, crossing her hands over it. “I will not allow you to twist everything around. We are here today so you can admit what we already know.”
“I do not know what you know,” he replied, an empty space opening in his chest, a cavity of pressure, a growing ache.
Her composure crumbling in the face of his denial, she scooted to the edge of her seat. “You tried to get your name on the Howard Street deed. We all remember how upset Bapu was. And all the cash you gave Bebe the last few years just gone, disappeared.” Her face reddened in anger. “You left for India, made us work at Howard without ever paying us properly, almost destroying my medical career. We had to slave away serving tables at the restaurant and dealing with tenants while you got married and traveled the world. And then you took the restaurant from them, profited off their loss. You always got everything you wanted, and we paid for it. We refuse to sit back any longer and let this continue.”
While Navpreet spoke, Livleen eyed him stonily, saying nothing.
“I have asked you repeatedly for Howard income and expense statements for the years 1994 to the present,” Navpreet said.
“I have always sent them,” Darshan told her. “Every time you requested.”
“That is a lie,” she said, turning to face Mohan and Livleen. “He is lying. This,” she again brandished the file and tapped it forcefully, “concludes that he stole in excess of sixty thousand dollars. That plus interest—”
“Interest?” Darshan asked, glancing around at everyone.
None of them replied. Navpreet breathed hard with furious self-righteousness.
He rose.
�
�If you pay it back, we will forgive you,” Navpreet said, nearly shouting now. “It would be generous considering what you have done.”
She quickly stood as he walked away, about to block his path, stopping when she realized that he was headed for the kitchen. “We’ll be waiting for you here,” she called. “We are not finished.”
Jai smiled cheerfully at Darshan as he sat beside her. There was no nurse from Fiji. Only the one he had hired, portioning out a bowl of dhal to feed his mother. Jai raised a hand to place it on his head, and as he bent to receive her blessing he was surprised by his shock at his family’s subterfuge, and the ache in his chest grew larger.
“She is having a good day,” the nurse told him, setting the bowl in front of Jai. “She does not remember much of the present, but the past seems to make her happy.”
“Good,” he murmured.
The nurse blew on a spoonful of the lentils and raised it to Jai’s mouth.
Taking his mother’s hand, Darshan cupped it against his cheek. “Bebe, I am leaving now, but I will be back tomorrow.”
She began to hum, chewing her food.
Navpreet moved swiftly when Darshan reentered the living room, sprinting to obstruct the front door as he strode purposefully toward it. “You cannot run away,” she said.
“I have nothing to say.”
Emotion made her voice thick. “I wanted to go to Oxford. But because of you, I had to come here where I could only be half as good as I wanted. Bapu never knew how good I could have been. He misplaced his trust in you. You took everything from us.”