Losing Touch

  ‘Haseena, I’ve never said anything to you.’

  She is busy ladling dhal into a bowl. ‘About what?’

  ‘Richmond Park. I wanted to – I’m so sorry—’ His heart is almost throttling him.

  ‘Please, bhai.’ Haseena places the ladle carefully on a small plate and turns around. ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘But I’ve never apologized to you. All this time.’

  She steps forward and for one moment he thinks she will take his hand. ‘It was just a mistake. I don’t even think about it.’

  ‘But I—’

  She holds one hand out, palm flat against an invisible wall. ‘It’s past and forgotten.’ She smiles, turns the palm up. ‘We’re still friends, yes?’

  He nods. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Friends? This is all?

  She picks up the ladle. Straightens the pot of dhal. ‘Any news, bhai? From the hospital?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Just tests. You know how they take their time. But I’m fine. I played squash this week. Thrashed some young kid who thought he knew what he was doing.’ He doesn’t mention that his leg wouldn’t allow him out of bed this morning. He had to wait another five minutes before it would agree to move.

  Tarani comes back in to ask what else she can do. She takes bowls of food to the table, fills water glasses, folds napkins. You’d think she was enjoying herself. Why can’t she be like this at home?

  Sadiq is attempting to juggle with two of the sachets. ‘You can buy one if you like. They’re only five pounds.’

  ‘What nonsense, Sadiq.’ Haseena catches the sachets mid-flight and returns them to the box. ‘They’re one pound each. And they’re for the sale at the church.’

  ‘Oh, please, Mum. Just one more try. I can juggle under my leg, look. If I just stand like this—’ He falls.

  Tarani is laughing. Arjun, despite himself, is smiling. Their smiles flick across each other, hesitate, almost withdraw, and then the complicit our-family-is-so-bizarre understanding. He feels his chest flooded with relief. She still likes him. He picks up his tea and sips, watches Tarani’s shoulders relax and her body curve into a chair as she talks with Sadiq, laughs at his descriptions of singing exercises.

  Of course Tarani will have to change into her normal clothes for the journey home, but let her keep these things. Maybe she can wear them at weekends around the house. He feels himself expand. It is good to allow these little indulgences. He wishes he might reach out his hand and smooth her hair, just a single touch. He sets his teacup carefully in the saucer.

  ‌6

  ‌A Normal Lifespan

  February 1971

  Hampton Court. In the bitter cold, when anyone with a grain of sense would be at home, not tramping around some draughty old mansion. ‘Palace,’ Arjun says. ‘A good idea to come when it’s not overrun with tourists,’ he says. ‘And it’s free.’ As always, Arjun sticks to his idea like a dog to a tree. If he decides to take the children out, that’s it; and Sunila must be dragged along, too. The family should be together. It doesn’t matter that she is with the children all week; their grumbling and complaining and forgetting their lunch money, their dirty clothes (how can two children be so filthy?), their endless quarrelling that she hides from Arjun so that he won’t discipline them. By the weekend she is tired of them.

  She glances behind at Murad and Tarani sitting in separate seats. Murad stares straight ahead, arms crossed. Tarani looks out of the train’s window, down at her hands, fiddles with her hair, anything to avoid looking at her father sitting in front of her.

  How the young can hate. It happens so quickly, so easily for them. One moment they are in the kitchen, laughing over some joke, and then Tarani is silent in her room, hair over her face, wounded over some imagined insult, some conversation that went wrong, some wild idea she’s had that Arjun has mockingly dismissed. They are so alike, she and Arjun: the same quick manner of expressing themselves, the same sense of humour, sudden anger, sudden generosity. They even use their hands the same way when they speak. When they argue it’s like watching two mad, rival conductors swiping and slashing the air between them.

  Arjun keeps his feelings to himself about these conflicts. His position, as usual, is inflexible. I am an Indian father and she is my daughter. Tarani, however much she wishes to contain the hurt, cannot. Sunila hears the late-night muttered monologues as Tarani treads and retreads conversations, clumping around in those foolish platform shoes that Haseena gave her. Sometimes, Sunila has sat on the stairs, listening to her daughter being witty, energetic, disdainful. It’s almost as good as a play. Often Sunila can’t make out the actual words, but Tarani’s tone is exactly Arjun’s: slightly boisterous, bullying, superior. She can even do his weary all right then have it your own way voice that shows he’s right and everyone else is too stupid to understand. How has Tarani managed to reproduce Arjun’s voice so accurately?

  Sunila has longed to tap on the door, say ‘I understand’, but Tarani would be furious. Perhaps if Sunila had the courage to agree with Tarani, yes, he is unfair, her daughter might talk to her more. But Sunila has given her word: for better or worse. It isn’t Christian to take sides against one’s husband. And yet her heart goes out to Tarani. I know what you’re going through. She prays about it. Lord, please let them get along. She sits with her Bible, the mainstay for most of her decisions. But Jesus wasn’t married; He didn’t have children. What use is Jesus in a situation like this? Of course, Jesus would have had some excellent advice if only someone had thought to ask about it and then write it down. What opportunities the disciples missed. And that Paul, so busy with his letters here, there and everywhere, couldn’t he have slipped in a few questions to the Lord? Jesus was so gentle with the children, suffering them to come to Him. But how much would He have suffered teenagers with their snarky comments and their way of looking through you?

  As they exit Hampton Court Station, Arjun doesn’t respond to Sunila’s comment about the nice clear day. The pale sun backs against the pale sky but there are none of the characteristically heavy winter clouds that hold snow or sleet. It is a cheering thought, this idea of a little sunshine in the middle of such an English winter. Let Arjun sulk in his winter coat. Today, Sunila will look for something bright; some colour, some winter flower that she can tuck away to remember as she goes through the week. And she can tell the girls at the office that she went to Hampton Court. Such beautiful grounds. And they do a lovely tea, don’t they?

  The pathway to the palace is frost-crisped as though it’s been toasted in some Arctic oven. The Union Jack hangs limp between the sceptre-shaped chimneys. Let’s see Bert chim-chiminey his way across that roof. Despite the arched entrance and the white gargoyles, there is something un-royal about the ordinary-looking brick. Grey scaffolding hedges some of the apartments.

  They enter the Cartoon Gallery; the relief of being out of the cold. She examines the large paintings that don’t look anything like cartoons. Many kings and queens must have walked through this gallery. Sunila doesn’t know who they are but surely something of them is still here. She can imagine it: the sigh of a brocade dress along the wooden floor, the tap of a red-heeled shoe, the genteel conversation. What did they talk about, those old royals? Cleaning the chimneys? The plans for the next ball? Whose head to chop off?

  ‘Come on, Mum, we’re going to the maze.’ Murad comes up and takes her arm. She is grateful for his firm support – what a handsome boy he is – even though she has no need of it.

  ‘Look at these lovely hedges. So many interesting shapes. Look, there’s a bear.’

  ‘Topiary,’ Murad says.

  ‘So much more attractive than the normal bushes, although I’m sure they look nice, too.’ God did, after all, make the bushes. What would He think of his creations being shaped into birds and animals?

  ‘Murad, is Tarani all right?’

  Murad grunts.

  ‘Does that mean yes or no?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ />
  ‘She hasn’t said anything to you?’

  Murad hesitates. ‘What about?’

  ‘Nothing. Just, you know. She seems quiet.’ Sunila is hungry for what her fourteen-year-old daughter is up to and Murad probably knows.

  Murad doesn’t answer. He’s taking his A- and S-level mocks this year. No wonder he’s preoccupied.

  Arjun turns to call to them, ‘Let’s all go in together.’

  But Tarani has already disappeared into the maze.

  Arjun is irritated. ‘She’ll get lost. I’m not going to search about for her.’

  Murad slips past Sunila and Arjun into the maze.

  ‘Murad. Wait for us.’ But Murad has gone. Arjun turns to Sunila. ‘You can’t ask them to do one simple thing. Haven’t I spoken about how dangerous it is to go running into the maze willy-nilly?’

  Sunila bites the inside of her cheek at the idea of running about in a maze willy-nilly.

  But Arjun has caught her expression. ‘Go ahead and laugh. We’ll see who’ll be crying soon.’

  They stand hesitantly at the maze’s entrance. ‘Well, we may as well go in.’ Arjun walks ahead and Sunila follows.

  How neatly they keep the hedges in here, too. Sunila admires the tall, square-cut shapes that rise perpendicularly all around. If it weren’t a maze it would be quite disturbing. Just imagine being stuck in here. Is Tarani all right?

  Sunila bumps into Arjun, who is coming back. ‘Dead end. Let’s try a different path.’

  She stands aside to let him choose the next turning. They follow that one successfully for a while until a right turn takes them to another dead end.

  She remembers something. ‘Jonti came here, didn’t he? Haseena found the middle straight away.’

  Jonti had thrown his hands in the air. ‘Nawal and I were both going hither and thither. Where is centre? Have you found centre? Shall we call for help? Nawal said, “What kind of outing is this? I can get lost by myself in Hounslow. I don’t need any Hampton Court nonsense.” And then these people with rucksacks came along. I said, “Nawal, darling, come. These people will know the way. Hikers and all.” And when we finally arrive, Haseena was standing there. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.” Cool as a cucumber. “Shall I lead you back now?” I was mad. Nawal was laughing and laughing. And they made me buy cream cakes. Such injustice, bhai. When did these women get so cheeky?’

  ‘Haseena.’ Arjun stops. ‘Haseena told me…’ He turns left and his voice is lost.

  Sunila hurries around the corner. ‘Told you what?’

  ‘ … a boyfriend.’

  ‘Who has a boyfriend? Nawal?’ Nawal would never look at anyone else. What nonsense, a boyfriend.

  ‘Haseena…’ Arjun’s voice comes through the hedge separating them.

  Sunila is irritated. ‘Can you just stay in one place while I catch up?’

  Arjun is waiting when Sunila turns the corner. ‘Haseena has a boyfriend.’

  The word is wrong. Kids have boyfriends and girlfriends. Haseena is forty. What does she want with a boyfriend? What on earth do they talk about? Their dead spouses?

  ‘Who?’ Sunila reaches for Arjun’s arm, but he is already walking away around another corner.

  His voice comes back faintly. ‘Someone she met at the shop.’

  ‘What shop?’ Sunila has a distressing vision of Haseena chatting to men over the carrots in Tesco’s.

  ‘The one they’re leasing. Nawal and Haseena. You remember. For the lavender.’

  The shop in Hounslow is doing well. Orders pouring in, they say. They went to Paris for a week last September. How nice for them. Arjun has money. He could have taken her to Paris, too, but they ended up on day trips to Stonehenge and Cheddar Gorge.

  ‘…I told her…’ Arjun’s voice disappears again and Sunila tries to work out which way his voice went. Was it further along the path or did he take this left-hand turn? She looks up at the towering hedges. If only they had thought to cut little holes in the hedges, then people could see where they were going.

  ‘ …she’s been seeing him for a month…’ Arjun’s voice floats to her.

  ‘Who? The shop owner?’

  Sunila walks quickly along one path and then waits for Arjun’s voice. It comes from much closer. There’s a small gap at the base of the hedges and she catches a glimpse of his shoes.

  ‘A banker. International banking, she says.’ His voice sounds strangely bitter, but perhaps it’s just the leaves blurring the sound.

  ‘Arjun, I’m here. Just on the other side. Can you wait for me?’

  ‘Walk along and turn right.’

  But she turns right at the wrong corner and is still separated from him by long, implacable green walls. ‘What bank is he with?’

  Suddenly Arjun appears. ‘Don’t shout like that. Do you want everyone to hear our private business?’

  She whispers. ‘I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘I don’t know what bank. I don’t know who he is.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘She’s an adult. She can do what she wants.’

  She puts a hand out. ‘Is he – is he – Indian?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him. I have to talk to her. Perhaps I can meet him.’

  What is happening to the family? In the old days, people married and that was it. If your husband died, you became a widow. You didn’t go about with boyfriends.

  In this corner of the maze they may as well be in a cave, exchanging secrets. Sunila speaks softly. ‘Should you go alone? To see Haseena?’

  He clears his throat. ‘It might be better.’

  He says nothing for a while. She wishes there was a way she could touch his arm, show him she was on his side.

  There is no one to offer advice. These days, the great-aunts sit mumbling over knitting. Mum is gone, Jonti is gone and Mike, well, he is family but even though he’s English, she can’t imagine sitting down over a cup of tea to discuss Haseena with him.

  ‘Then go.’ Her whisper comes out almost as a gasp. She has always suspected Haseena of having feelings for Arjun. And probably vice versa. But if Haseena must have a boyfriend it should be the right kind.

  ‘I don’t want her to think I’m interfering.’ Arjun is looking down.

  ‘But you are her brother-in-law. And the head of the family. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you about it anyway.’

  He begins to move away. ‘Who is he, anyway, chasing after a widow like that? And what is Haseena thinking?’

  He’s angry at the man, but he’s also angry at Haseena. What does he mean? Sunila can’t call out to him in case she upsets him.

  Despite the boyfriend nonsense, Sunila feels sorry for Haseena, who started her own business, handled her son alone and has taken care of her sister. And Arjun will talk to her as though she is just a stupid woman. Sunila knows that this is the way Arjun always talks, but she is used to it and Haseena isn’t. Is there some way to warn her?

  She tries to imagine what it’s like to be Haseena, to bring up her children alone. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, apart from the kids always fighting. And kids certainly don’t want conversation, at least not hers. When did it all change? They used to run to her when she came home from work. It was Mummy this and Mummy that and what they’d learned and what their friends said. Now she may as well not exist. The sympathy for Haseena fades.

  Arjun has walked ahead and she is alone again. She turns another corner and Tarani is walking towards her. ‘Hello Mum. Are you still looking for the centre?’

  ‘I don’t care about the centre. I’m tired of this maze.’

  Tarani links her arm through Sunila’s. A few quick turns and they are out. It’s hard to believe that all this time they were so close to the exit. They wait for Murad and Arjun to appear. It’s even colder than before.

  ‘Shall we wait inside?’ Tarani is shuffling from foot to foot. ‘We can see them when they come out.’

  They plod along the gravel path and push thro
ugh the doors into the warmth of the palace.

  Tarani says, ‘I put my hands in the hedge. It wasn’t warm but it felt nice.’

  Sunila wants to say something too, but she can’t tell Tarani that her aunt has a boyfriend. She looks down. They keep the floors so well polished.

  Tarani traces over the frost on the inside of one of the small windowpanes. ‘Why do we have to come here anyway? It’s always Hampton Court or Kew Gardens. And now we’ll have to have one of those stupid cream teas.’

  Sunila wants to tell her daughter to be grateful, to look around her at this beautiful building. The English took their superior architecture to India and the other colonies. They taught the natives how to make ceilings. Ceilings protected you from rats and snakes and the hell of the Indian summers.

  ‘I thought you liked cream cakes,’ Sunila says.

  ‘I do, but that’s not the point, is it? We have to do it because it’s his idea and it’s what we always do when we come to this place.’

  ‘You like the cakes, so what difference does it make whose idea it is?’

  Tarani lifts a hand: the long fingers, the thin tendons, the smooth skin, the way the wrist bends. It looks like a flower stem. Sunila wants to say this aloud, but Tarani drops her arm.

  ‘Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t understand. You always take his side.’

  Sunila wants to shake her. Don’t you see how much he has to worry about? His job, the bills, arranging the future for you and your brother. And everyone in the family comes running to him with their problems or asking for a loan. Now your favourite aunt is running off with some banker, ruining the family name, and it’s your father who has to talk sense into her. And despite all of that, he thinks of us and tries to do something nice.

  ‘Here they are. Dad looks cross.’ Tarani sounds satisfied.

  Murad is keeping up with Arjun even though it looks as though Arjun wishes to stride ahead. They will have to sit over their cream tea, no one making eye contact, the conversation as dried out as the scones. But at the last moment, as they take the stone steps two at a time, Murad says something and Arjun laughs. And although the sun doesn’t break through, suddenly there is more light around the glass doors where Sunila and Tarani wait.