Losing Touch

by Sandra Hunter

  These days they don’t go to church. It’s too much for Arjun, who has to sit near the back in case he needs the toilet. And she won’t go alone. All that pity. And they call themselves Christians. They’re gloating over the fact that the Kulkanis no longer hold so much influence in the church. How the mighty have fallen. Well. God knows what’s in people’s hearts and they’ll get what’s coming on Judgement Day.

  The phone rings. Arjun calls out from the bathroom. ‘Get the phone.’

  ‘I know. I heard it.’ She hurries to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Mum!’

  She sits down suddenly on the sofa where Arjun’s sheets and blankets are still muddled together.

  ‘Murad?’ Her voice dries up.

  ‘How are you? Sorry I haven’t called for a while. It’s been crazy at the shop.’

  ‘Oh, Murad!’ She feels herself pouring into his name. Three months since they last spoke, and then only briefly because he was leaving on safari.

  ‘So, how’s everything? Dad holding up?’ Dead. 1974 when he first moved to Australia and only a year later when he became this new, bouncy voice on the phone. He’s forty-nine now and the years have settled the stretch into his voice.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s just in the bathroom having his wash. I’ll call him.’

  ‘In a minute. Tell me about yourself first?’ He sounds so perky.

  ‘Well, I, I don’t know. I went to Sainsbury’s yesterday?’ Without realizing it, Sunila copies the question-like style of their conversation.

  ‘Sainsbury’s? Still there, then?’ Murad chuckles. ‘Good old Sainsbury’s. Marks and Sparks too, I bet? You like your Marks and Sparks.’

  ‘Ye-es.’ Sunila is hesitant. Is Murad making fun of Marks and Spencer?

  ‘Can’t remember the last time I went there. Must be—’

  ‘Five years. Since you were here.’

  ‘Five years? That long? I can’t believe it. So, Mum, still doing your hospital work?’

  ‘That’s changed now. The hospital work takes almost all day. I can’t leave your father—’

  ‘That’s right. Of course you can’t go.’ Murad’s voice is softer. ‘You probably don’t get out much at all, do you?’

  ‘Well, I do the shopping. At good old Sainsbury’s.’ She laughs a little and Murad laughs too. ‘And the post office. You know, here and there. Short trips. Sometimes I go on the bus to Uxbridge. It’s a new line. It’s just around the corner on Adelphi Crescent.’

  ‘The U7, isn’t it? Goes along Charville and up Pole Hill. Took it into Uxbridge last time I came over.’ He sounds more like his old self.

  ‘That’s right. Your old school.’

  ‘Mellow Lane. I used to bike to school up Pole Hill.’ Mella Line. Oi used to boike.

  ‘I remember when you came home and told me. “Mum, I made it up Pole Hill.”’

  Murad laughs. ‘Quite a climb, eh? The rolling hills of Hayes.’ Heels of Highs.

  ‘No hills here, son. All flat as far as the eye can see.’

  ‘I know. A lot of flat bits out here, too. But not where I am. And you should see the rainforest, Mum. We do four or five tours a week now.’

  The name of his company comes back just in time. ‘What happened to the Ride the Bay, the kayaking and all?’

  ‘We’re doing a fair bit of business so we’ve expanded into these eco-rainforest tours. People are wild for eco-anything.’ His voice is unstretching a bit; more like his younger self. ‘But Mum, it’s beautiful. The flowers. Amazing.’

  Murad describes the Bumpy Satin Ash, the Red-Fruited Palm Lily and the nectar of the Golden Penda that attracts parrots. He never showed any interest in gardening when he was living here. Why couldn’t he have loved her garden?

  ‘Yes, I do like flowers,’ she says weakly. Even her Papa Meilland rose, with its deep red velvet petals and throaty scent, can’t compete with some big, gaudy, yellow thing that parrots prefer. ‘Murad, you know I’d love to come and see your rainforest, but, you know, your father’s flying days are over.’

  The words fall into some kind of air duct between London and Queensland. Do they boom and echo on their way to the wide Australian deserts where Kipling’s Old Man Kangaroo hops through the saltpans, whatever saltpans are? These days her phone conversations with Murad are hinged on fence posts that become further and further apart. It’s as though a time machine has whisked Murad into some other galaxy and she can only watch through a small, misty porthole.

  How wonderful it would be to travel again: the anticipation of leaving, feeling the ground drop as the plane lifts up, pushing through the clouds to another world where there is always sunshine. Dorothy Frances Gurney might have felt nearer to God’s heart in a garden, but Sunila has always felt closest to God in an aeroplane. How liberating it is to fly. No one asks you for anything, no one complains if the food isn’t hot enough, no one asks if you’ve potted the begonias.

  ‘Ah, Mum, I was only joking. Can you imagine getting Dad on a plane? I’m coming over to see you. Three weeks’ time.’

  ‘Really? Murad, are you really coming?’ She runs out to bang on the bathroom door. ‘Arjun! Murad is coming!’ She turns back to the phone and ignores the muted roar of protest from the bathroom. ‘This is the best news I’ve heard in a long time. It will be so lovely to have you here. You can have your old room. I’ll have to clear a few things away.’

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d stay at a bed and breakfast—’

  ‘What are you talking bed-and-breakfast nonsense? Why spend all that money? I just have to move some of Dad’s stuff out of the way.’ She hesitates. ‘We’ve redecorated it since you last saw it. Dad’s favourite colour. Pink.’

  Murad clears his throat. ‘Listen, Mum, you don’t have to—’

  Murad, here. After five years. ‘Now. Tell me what you’d like to eat. I usually cook curry and rice for Dad.’

  ‘Anything, Mum. Curry is fine. We don’t have a lot of Indian restaurants around here. Mind you, there’s a Thai-Indian fusion place. Bombay prawns. Pakoras. Amritsari fish. Amazing.’

  ‘Darling, as you know, we – we don’t eat prawns. And we don’t have deep-fried food. It’s not good for your father.’

  ‘Oh, no worries, Mum. Whatever you cook will be fine. So, let me give you the flight times—’

  But her heart is bursting for her son. ‘Murad. If you want prawns, I’ll get for you.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, Mum. I know you’re not allowed to eat seafood.’

  Bottom feeders, the Seventh-day Adventists call them. But wouldn’t Jesus get prawns for His son if he wanted them? Is it blasphemous to think of Jesus having a son?

  ‘The flight’s coming in at some terrible hour. It’s Air New Zealand. Do you have a pen?’

  She finds a pen in the kitchen and shakily writes down the details. She hears Arjun trundling back into the living room. She follows him to his armchair and holds out the phone as he takes forever to turn around, position himself at the edge of the chair, lower himself onto the seat, push the walker out of the way, retrieve his handkerchief and blow his nose, tuck the handkerchief back into his pocket and finally sit back and take the phone. ‘Hello, son? You’re coming to see us?’

  Murad is coming. Murad is going to be right in front of her, eating her food, drinking her mango lassi and telling her all his news; Murad who always understood her much more than any close friend. When Murad sees her he will understand, without explanation, how she has had to care for Arjun day and night. He’ll see how she has anticipated and answered all of Arjun’s demands. He will understand all her lost hours, her wasted days, the self-denial that has reduced her shopping trips to once a week. He will wipe away her tears and there will be no more suffering.

  She carefully copies Murad’s flight times on the calendar. Two whole weeks. He can’t stay longer, of course, because of his business. Demanding and all, but look at what it has done for him: so strong and independent, even if he does talk a bit funny. How wonderful it would be
to tell everyone at church. They’d be happy for him, too, so it wouldn’t count as boasting. Perhaps Arjun might consider going to the Harrow church next Saturday, just for the second service. She glances at him, cradling the phone in both hands, the fingers unable to grasp.

  ‘So, how’s Australia, then?’

  Will Murad tell Arjun about the flowers in the rainforest? What secrets can she hold on to, that Murad will tell her not to tell anyone? She remembers the long-ago days of whispering in the kitchen when Arjun was in the next room or upstairs: don’t tell Dad…

  Arjun doesn’t talk to Murad for long. His arms are tired and he hands the receiver back with, ‘See you soon, son.’ She grabs at the phone.

  ‘I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to ask if you would eat kedgeree—’

  ‘Mum, I’ve met someone.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘No, a boy. Just kidding.’ Murad laughs. ‘She’s got her own business. Scuba-diving.’

  ‘My goodness, well, that is good news. I’m so happy for you. Owns her own business, too, just like you. How lovely.’

  ‘And she’s coming with me. To England. That’s why we’ll probably stay at a B&B. It’d be a bit of a squash in the pink room upstairs.’

  ‘A B&B?’ Sunila can’t keep the surprise out of her voice. Murad is forty-nine and yet she is embarrassed about him discussing his sleeping arrangements. ‘I suppose that might be best.’

  ‘No worries. Really. Sasha’s pretty easygoing, anyway.’

  ‘Sasha? Very nice. Is she, ah, Indian?’

  ‘Indian? No. She’s a born-and-bred Aussie.’

  Aussie. Relief. Not Indian and not one of those Aborigines. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with Indians or Aborigines. Some of them can be very nice.

  ‘So where did you meet her?’

  ‘Travel adventure convention. Our stalls were right opposite each other. Ride the Bay and CoolDive. Loads of people around her stall, too.’

  ‘That sounds nice. How old is she?’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  Eight years younger than Murad. The fading dreams of grandchildren crack, fragment and pixel away. Even Tarani’s pregnancy was touch and go. Still, an active forty-one-year-old might have a chance.

  ‘Isn’t she a bit old to go scuba-diving?’ Beat. ‘It’s not that she’s too old. Forty-one is young, isn’t it? It just seems strenuous, that heavy equipment and being in the water all day.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. Sasha’s been scuba-diving all her life. And you should see her. She’s got so much energy.’

  Sunila imagines her grey-haired son with his pot belly and a slightly less grey-haired, pot-bellied woman standing on the bottom of the ocean floor in their diving gear. She’s seen these sporty older women with their overbaked skin. Is this Sasha a hearty type? Does she say ‘G’day’?

  ‘And how long have you known each other?’

  ‘Let’s see. Must be a year now.’

  He talks on about Sasha while Sunila bites back the words. And it took until now to tell me? Murad has always been cautious. He just wanted to be sure about Sasha. And it’s a good thing that he’s waited before bringing someone all the way to England for a visit. Should she ask about Sasha’s parents, or will Murad take offence? But he is saying goodbye and there’s no time to ask more questions.

  The reality hits her. She won’t have Murad to herself. No late-night chats over tea and biscuits. No opportunities to talk to Murad about God’s plan for him. Even though it’s been thirty years since Murad left the church, she still talks to him about Jesus. It’s her responsibility. She would like to remind him of Honour thy father and thy mother. There’s no honouring involved with sons who uproot and tear off to Australia.

  It’s all very well owning a business. Nice to say to the friends and neighbours, Oh Murad’s business is flourishing. Cairns, you know. But this kayaking; what is the attraction of straining your arms and back? By all means, go to the seaside. Jesus loved Galilee, although she can’t imagine Him paddling about in a yellow plastic boat. And what is wrong with having a business in England? So many nice places to kayak, like Brighton or Cornwall. And then there’s the Lake District.

  And how will Arjun take the news that some scuba-diving stranger is coming with Murad? The truth is that Arjun may not have much longer. His trips to the toilet are much slower. His voice is weaker. He sleeps less at nights, nods off during the day. But how happy Arjun will be to see Murad. The last time, Arjun stayed awake for nearly all of Murad’s descriptions of Cairns and the funny kayaking stories. She can see that Arjun is as baffled as she is over Murad’s choice of business, but at least Murad is happy. That’s what counts.

  Murad should be happy; he should have a partner. What is life unless you have someone to talk to? She will tell him that when she sees him, and he will smile at her in his gentle way. Yes, Mum. The thought makes her want to cook or clean something. That kitchen windowsill could use a good wipe down. She rinses the cloth out under the cold tap. But she cannot fight back the feeling that she has lost some small, comforting thing that once shaped the whole day. She stops mid-scrub. She will never get it back.

  ‌14

  ‌Weakness of the Facial and Tongue Muscles

  Phone call:

  Sami: I can’t sleep.

  Arjun: You’re having a hard time, aren’t you?

  Sami: I’m very boring at night. There’s no sleep anywhere.

  To: taranikulkani@gmail.com

  Dear Sami,

  Sometimes I think that rain washes sleep away and that is why you could not find any. I’ll bet tonight you’ll find quite a bit of sleep and it will be all washed and fresh from the rain.

  All last night and this morning we had some snow but mostly wind. When this happened, I couldn’t find any sleep either but it didn’t wash away with rain. It got so cold that the sleep turned to ice and froze like an ice cube. Now that the sun is out, I hope that it melts enough sleep so I can find it tonight, just like you will!

  Love

  Grandpa

  August 2004

  A life measured in buttons. Arjun presses the button that elevates him into a sitting position on his bed. If he waits a moment he will have sufficient energy to ease himself sideways into the wheelchair next to the bed. But the energy doesn’t come. There’s no more mystery about where the energy went. Energy doesn’t come to the elderly, or to those whose diseases are taking them, piece by piece. The firing of neurons is now a faint kindling.

  Once those fires used to take him, without conscious thought, to church where he stood beside the pastor. He remembers, once, how he lightly ran down the steps from the rostrum to help old Mrs Baldwin stand up to read from the Bible. How fragile her shoulders were under the blue polka-dotted jacket, and the thin hands that shook inside the white gloves. How grateful she was, smiling at him from beneath the brim of the white hat, as he steadied her after her reading and helped her back to her seat. She must have been terrified, wondering if her legs would give way, if she would lose her balance. What courage she had; something he can understand now.

  Jonti, once compact, body thin and helpless and shaking, Nawal gently buttoning his shirt. ‘See what I have to put up with, bhai? Treated like a baby, only. And this Nawal.’ A quivering hand dancing in the air, reaching to touch Nawal’s cheek. ‘How she takes advantage, isn’t it? Signs the girls up for some fancy summer camp in Bournemouth. She says I wobbled my head yes. But she knows I can’t wobble my head no.’ And Nawal holding the quivering palm against her cheek. His eyes on hers, the only focus his body can manage.

  Once it was easy to rock up, to use his body’s weight to ease himself off the mattress. He actually used to walk to the bathroom. But he has learned to wait. Most of the body’s cravings can be subdued, as he learned even before he became sick.

  The miracle that he once had a lean, muscular body. Some of the women from the club used to pass comments and smile when he played in squash tournaments. Could he have had coffee wi
th one of them, or even an affair? What was he like, back then, that these ridiculous ideas were feasible?

  Back then he was a young, healthy thirty-six. He wore white shorts and ran after small rubber balls with speed and accuracy. Surely he was a superman in those days. Do those other squash players from back then also lie in bed wondering where their bodies went, wondering at what date the synaptic rush and response slowed and failed?

  Further back was his boyhood in India. How easily, fluidly, he ran up and down mountains as though up were almost the same as down. How he jumped over rocks, between rocks, balancing with his arms flung out, his body leaning this way and that as the impetus carried him forward, forward.

  In some faint responsive memory of movement, he moves his legs and finds he can edge himself gradually, carefully, into the wheelchair without catching his feet on the coverlet. He smiles at the triumph; he can still get out of bed by himself, which means he can still go to the toilet by himself. Small victories. He can’t even boast to Sami, who is not only well past the stage of getting out of bed by himself but doesn’t need a safety rail at night any more.

  Arjun realizes, with humility, that he is far behind his grandson, now bounding ahead into his future. At one time he was angry: if the brain could regenerate cells, why couldn’t his body rebuild muscles so that he could walk in the garden with his grandson?

  He has become accustomed to letting go. He is no longer anxious to keep up with Sami whose world no longer contains Arjun’s stories of tigers and elephants, or descriptions of the Himalayas, the old peanut and monkey jokes. Sami writes his own stories now and Tarani types them in emails to Arjun:

  Et all your los

  Eat all your lunch

  Et samwis et noodlos ed pasdo