Losing Touch

  She must be in her late forties? Early fifties? Her hair is lovely: silver with light brown streaks. She has a small straight nose and dark brown eyebrows. He wonders if she is an actress.

  Clearly she wants to be alone. Under normal circumstances, he might not even have hesitated at the doorway, but his anger propels him through.

  ‘I have been examining the pictures.’

  She looks up, startled.

  ‘They are an abomination. An absolute abomination. No one wants to look at pink beaches and fishing boats. It’s time they stopped putting up this remedial nonsense. Perhaps paintings by children. At least that would be more interesting.’ He says, ‘Arjun Kulkani at your service.’

  The old-fashioned words have an effect. She smiles. ‘Marlene Varga.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Varga.’ He bows slightly. ‘And how are the gardens?’ He joins her at the window. ‘Aha. As I thought. A sad state. Why do hospitals think that they must always plant rhododendrons?’

  She says, ‘Just what I was thinking. So many rhododendrons.’ Her accent is barely distinguishable.

  ‘What this place needs is dahlias and peonies. Lots of colour. And sunflowers.’

  A gentle smile. ‘Sunflowers. I so love this yellow and black combination.’

  ‘I planted some in my garden a few years back.’

  ‘And did they grow?’

  ‘They grew, but they didn’t flower. I had all these ten-foot stalks and not one flower.’

  She laughs. ‘I can just imagine that. How disappointing. I very much like these small white flowers.’

  ‘Jasmine?’

  ‘They are a winter flower with the scent of a lemon. It is a longer name than jasmine.’

  He runs through the names of white winter flowers. ‘Clematis?’

  ‘Ah, yes! Clematis. My neighbour has some and they grow over my fence. And I can stand underneath and look up at them.’

  He inhales too, imagining the smell of flowers he has only seen in the gardening catalogue.

  A young voice crashes into the room. ‘There you are, Mr Kulkani. I’ve been looking all over for you.’ Rebecca, in her thick boots and rumpled dress, smiles at him. ‘So, who’s this?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Mrs Varga, this is Rebecca. She is the daughter of one of my church friends.’

  Mrs Varga says, ‘I am pleased to meet you, Rebecca.’

  Rebecca is too loud for the room. ‘I’m just taking care of Mr Kulkani. I’ll have to put him back on the bus now.’ She says this as though he is some doddering idiot who might wander off in his nightshirt.

  Mrs Varga says, ‘How good it is to have friends.’

  Rebecca stands with her hands on her hips. ‘Ready, then?’

  ‘Mrs Varga, I have to go now. It was a pleasure to talk to you.’ He half-bows to her, aware that Rebecca is watching him.

  They walk out of the hospital, Rebecca pressing lift buttons, opening doors, assuring him that they’ll soon be out of this place.

  It’s colder now, the promise of a warm day gone. Rebecca pulls her knitted hat on. She looks even younger.

  ‘What did she want, then?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Mrs Varga. She didn’t want anything.’

  ‘She wasn’t a nurse. Who was she?’

  ‘A patient, probably.’

  ‘Just came up to you, did she? Well. You’re a bit of a dark horse, even if you are old.’

  He wants to protest. It wasn’t like that. We talked about flowers. And forty-three isn’t old.

  But she’s right, of course. He’s been flirting. And this child saw it.

  ‘I’ve got David Cassidy and you’ve got Mrs Varga.’ Rebecca nudges him. ‘It’s all right. Your secret’s safe with me, Mr Kulkani.’

  On the bus, Rebecca talks about how difficult life is with her mother. Arjun nods sympathetically for this, too, is a need for attention, for a little love.

  He imagines Mrs Varga standing under the white bell-like flowers, her face turned up, eyes closed as she inhales the fragrance. He inhales Rebecca’s overpowering perfume and coughs it out quickly.

  Mercifully, she is persuaded to stay on the bus and he is relieved to wave her off. The momentary elation over his flirting has worn off and the half-mile home feels much longer.

  Sunila has left the front door unlocked and comes hurrying out into the hall.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Nothing conclusive. Tests in two weeks.’

  There is a faint chemical smell and he sniffs to detect the source. He glances at Sunila’s hands. She has painted her nails rose pink. She curls her fingers under. ‘I thought I’d do something to pass the time.’

  ‘It looks nice.’ His voice goes up and down uneasily. Her fingers are short and her thick, ribbed nails aren’t disguised by the nail polish.

  Suddenly he feels a longing shift and tilt its anchor inside him, and his age settles into his bones. The lift of a pretty smile, the chance to spread creaking wings and the illusion of flight when in fact all he has done is resettle on his perch.

  Gradually the leg will function less and less and, eventually, the other leg too. He looks down at his right hand, extends the fingers. What will it be like not to hold a squash racquet, to fire back a return or aim an unreturnable shot? His feet are rooted firmly on the hallway carpet. His body fills the space there, strong and present. What will it be like not to stand like this? Has he become someone else over the course of a couple of hours during this hospital visit? He will go out of the house tomorrow, walk along the road to catch the bus, sit in the train and stride up the steps to the office. Even now he knows this thing is already moving inside him, switching off neurons like unnecessary lights.

  Sunila says, ‘Cup of tea, then?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‌8

  ‌No Cure

  April 1973

  Tarani deftly wraps two bottles of mango pickle in green tissue paper. Sunila admires the slender fingers, the quick movements. Such a shame. She’s sixteen and she still bites her nails.

  Tarani dumps the money into the small moneybox. ‘Mrs Singh’s pickle-oo is going like the blazes, yes please?’

  Sunila laughs at the Indian accent, then whispers, ‘Don’t let Mrs Singh hear you. She’ll think you’re making fun of her.’

  ‘What-what-what? Making fun only? How dare you!’ Tarani mimics the small woman with caterpillar eyebrows. ‘Sorry, Mum. I’ll behave.’ She shakes the moneybox. ‘Look, the aunties’ pillows, bed sheets and floor cushions are sold out and it’s not even ten.’

  Haseena and Nawal’s business has come a long way from lavender sachets. Three days a week they wear long white aprons embroidered with ‘H&N’ as they work behind a counter on one side of Pritty’s Flower Shop in Hounslow. The window has a small display of soaps, pressed-flower cards and decorated picture frames. Inside, there is a tasteful arrangement of cushions, crocheted blankets, satin bed sheets and even plastic placemats with lavender buds inside. Sunila bet against those. Who would want a lumpy placemat? But the women in Hounslow can’t get enough of lavender. The commissions have started to come in for monogrammed down quilts, table runners and wedding-party favours. So exotic, so tasteful.

  Sunila tells herself that she is happy for Haseena and Nawal, but she is hurt. Sunila has always been good with flowers. The women at church ask for her flower arrangements and she willingly gives them away. Why didn’t Haseena and Nawal ask for her help? She could have suggested hundreds of ideas for the lavender, and her pressed-flower cards would have been much more colourful. Nawal’s are merely leaves and a few flowers with some kind of ink flourish that is meant to look ‘Eastern’. At a deeper level, Sunila admits that she would have liked to be involved in a family business, something she could take pride in. She imagines her name on the flyers and business cards: HN&S. Almost like M&S. What style and cachet she could have brought to the shop.

  Well, no use crying over what’s not going to happen. She looks around the chu
rch hall. The women are comfortably chatting at their neatly ordered tables of cakes and pies, jams and jellabies, relishes and samosas, handmade chocolates and braided breads. There’s a scented goodwill in the air as they recite recipes and complain about their children, who pester them for whatever is being sold here at Hounslow Evangelical.

  Tarani hugs Sunila. ‘Mum, are you okay? I’m just joking with you. You British are so uptight.’

  It’s an old joke and one that Sunila can now endure. Tarani doesn’t see herself as British any more. She’s begun to claim her Indian side with an enthusiasm that is slightly repulsive. But perhaps that’s because Tarani has had an easier time than Murad, who still rejects any suggestion that he is Indian. Tarani only had a fraction of the name-calling and teasing Murad had to go through at school.

  Murad is resitting his S-level chemistry, but it doesn’t look like he’ll score high enough for Cardiff University. Tarani, a year away from her A-level exams, is sailing through economics, maths and English. Sunila mourns Murad, the firstborn, the beloved son and centre of her life. Meanwhile, Tarani, suddenly a young woman, ignores the tragedy of Murad’s exam results and scandalizes her father with blue eyeshadow, big, clumping boots and red glittery skintight trousers.

  As if trying to insult everyone at once, Tarani renounced last year’s family holiday and took her glittery trousers and yellow boots to Paris with her friend, Edwidge. It was hurtful that Tarani preferred Edwidge and her museum-mad parents. There were plenty of museums in London. And what was wrong with a nice trip to Weston-super-Mare? Where this travel bug comes from Sunila still doesn’t know. It isn’t proper how the young hop from one country to another, seeking who knows what, mingling with foreigners who speak all kinds of gobbledygook. Where is the normal life she once believed was possible for her children?

  ‘Did you see those loony people at the corner?’ Tarani is peering out of the window facing the street.

  ‘Come away from the window. Someone will see you.’

  ‘Mum, you’ve got to see this.’ Tarani beckons and Sunila finds herself gazing out at the peaceful drift of the clouds, the broccoli crowns of the trees and a brown spaniel trotting busily along in front of a young man.

  By the traffic light, two girls and one boy each hold a yellow banner printed with black lettering. Trust in Christ, Jesus is the Answer and Pray Each Day and Give Thanks. Sunila is indignant. Who are these people to walk around advertising Jesus like He’s a carpet sale?

  Tarani shakes her head. ‘It’s such a lovely day. I want to go out there and hand them a few pounds, tell them, “Go to an art exhibition”.’

  ‘There’s more to life than swanning around art exhibitions. At least they love Jesus.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mum. If you were to go up and ask them what their banners meant, they wouldn’t know what to say. I mean, they’re beyond.’ Tarani turns back to the table.

  ‘I think it’s perfectly clear what it means to trust in Christ,’ Sunila mutters. Her voice sounds stiff and old. Beyond. Is this what the young say these days? Isn’t that disrespectful?

  ‘Mango pickle? Absolutely. Here we go.’ Tarani wraps a bottle of pickle and smiles at a young couple.

  Sunila waits until they have left. Is this the opportunity she’s so longed for? Can she lead Tarani into a calm discussion about giving her heart to Christ? ‘Well, you’re probably right. But asking people to give thanks and pray isn’t such a terrible thing, is it?’

  Tarani looks up from counting the change. ‘Sorry, Mum?’

  ‘Giving thanks. You know.’

  Too many arguments have made Sunila wary of her daughter, who can say such careless, cruel things about God. How can Tarani remain so resistant to the call? If she could only see how God takes care of everything. Even for this trip to Hounslow, God sent the bus on time. It could easily have been late and they wouldn’t have been able to help in setting up the tables. Sunila, the wife of an elder, can’t just sit back and take things easy. Not like Mrs Hargreve, the poor darling, who sits about and waits for everything to be done. Sunila allows herself to think of other pleasures: church mornings when she graciously accepts congratulations on her flower arrangements from the other church women; when Pastor Hargreve warmly shakes her hand; when she kindly permits Mrs Hargreve her choice of the arrangements, although she always picks the one with the most roses. Is Mrs Hargreve beyond?

  ‘I’ll get us a cup of tea, shall I, Mum?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Sunila watches her daughter squeeze between people like a little woodland creature. Well, perhaps not a woodland creature. That sounds too dark and Tarani is quite light. If they were in India, and thank God they aren’t, they could quite truthfully advertise her as wheat-complexioned. Some of those marriage ads are such nonsense. Wheat-complexioned, indeed, when the girl is as black as coal. The nerve of some people.

  Tarani arrives back, holding the teacups up like raffle prizes. Sunila smiles brightly at her daughter. ‘Bless you. You brought biscuits as well.’

  ‘Chocolate. Mrs Hargreve gave me a funny look when I took four but I smiled at her sweetly. There was a whole plateful, and it’s not like I took the last ones.’ Tarani settles one cup in front of Sunila.

  Sunila can’t help a smile at the thought. ‘I’m sure it’s perfectly okay, darling.’

  ‘Nice cuppa.’ Tarani sips appreciatively. ‘Not like Paris. They love their coffee but you can’t find a decent cup of tea.’

  Sometimes Sunila suspects that her daughter brings up Paris just to be irritating. What can Sunila say about the quality of tea or coffee in Paris?

  Tarani puts her tea down and shuffles her chair closer to Sunila. ‘Has Murad made a decision yet?’

  Sunila rotates the cup in the saucer. ‘Not yet.’ An Australian couple at the church have invited Murad to come with them back to Cairns and try out their tourist-guide business. Just for a change of pace.

  Tarani bites into a McVitie’s. ‘Lots of people are going over. Edwidge’s older sister just took a job in Melbourne.’

  ‘And why should Murad go guiding tourists around? What does he know about Australia?’

  ‘It’s a chance for him—’ Tarani falters and stops.

  Sunila nods and speaks quietly. ‘He’s still disappointed about the first S-level, you know. It was a terrible blow.’

  ‘Mum, Murad’s really clever. He can retake again. He’ll do well.’

  ‘Even so. You don’t know your brother. He was always a sensitive child.’

  ‘He’s nineteen.’

  Sunila rotates the cup. ‘It’s not really this S-level business. Of course he could pass this time. It was the rejection from Cardiff.’

  ‘He can still go to uni, Mum. Sussex offered him a place already. They don’t need an S-level.’

  ‘But the programme at Cardiff is so much better. He knows about these things. He researched it all up in the library.’ Sunila feels her eyes beginning to water. ‘He wanted it so much.’

  ‘I know. Well.’ Tarani scratches an ear. ‘This job in Australia sounds great. I’d go.’

  Sunila sighs. ‘Not everyone is like you, child. He can’t just rush off to the other side of the world because someone offers him a job. He’s more thoughtful about these things.’ Sunila grips the saucer. Calm, calm, calm.

  ‘Mum, are you still upset about Paris?’

  ‘You just don’t think sometimes, Tarani. We’d made plans.’

  ‘To go to Weston-super-Mare?’

  ‘Your father was planning to take time off specially.’

  ‘Mum, we can always go to Weston-super-Mare. This was Paris.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of chances to go anywhere you want. But you had to go right now. Everything is right now with you. Not a thought for the rest of us.’ She manages to keep her voice down, although she can feel herself beginning to tremble. How she hates this kind of talk. If only she and Tarani could just get along better.

  ‘I’m tired of staying at home all the time
.’

  ‘What “all the time”? We went to Cheddar Gorge only last year.’

  ‘I want to go somewhere else. Somewhere abroad. I loved Paris. I even managed to say some things in French.’

  Sunila is unmoved. What’s wrong with speaking English? All these years she’s avoided speaking Hindi so that her children could have a pure British upbringing and now her daughter wants to start gabbling in some foreign language.

  ‘You can go anywhere you want when you’re older.’

  ‘How much older do I have to be? Look at you – you came all the way from India to England. That must have been amazing.’

  How to explain the sheer relief of leaving India for England? But she’d suffered for it. The cramped voyage in third class, the embarrassment of being sick the whole time, how she prayed to stay alive for those three horrible weeks. Back then, travel was a necessary evil. How can Tarani enjoy it? Sunila feels like she has nurtured some kind of cuckoo.

  ‘It was different. It wasn’t all fun and games.’ She wobbles one foot, trying to release the argument anxiety. ‘Anyway, your brother feels there are more important things to consider than just some hare-brained scheme.’

  ‘Murad is afraid. That’s why he won’t do anything. But this chemistry S-level isn’t the end of the world. And anyway, he passed five exams. That’s more than most people.’

  Sunila suddenly remembers Tarani’s sullen face when she had to help cook dinners for guests, to hand around the food, to wash the dishes afterwards. Why can’t Murad do it? It was no use telling her that boys didn’t do these things. Tarani rebelled against going to church, against playing the flute or even being polite to guests. Arjun, unable to handle the rude outbursts or the sarcasm that he was unable to beat out of her, stopped trying to talk to her. Murad, for all his silences, was never rude.

  ‘Murad cares about his family.’ Sunila feels heroic, not saying what she really wants to say, resisting the old impulse to slap this selfish child’s face to bring her to her senses.