Losing Touch

  He clenches his eyes shut. Sunila will not allow it. She would never put him somewhere like that.

  The living-room door squeaks open slowly and a dark-tufted head appears. Seven-year-old Sami. Arjun smiles and tries to articulate a greeting. Sami puts his finger on his lips.

  ‘Ssh, Grandpa. You’re too old for talking.’

  Arjun smiles. ‘No – one – is – too – old – for – talking.’

  Sami seats himself carefully on a stool next to the chair, as though Arjun might be crushed by any sudden movement. Arjun supposes his grandson sees the decrepit wreck of a human being.

  Sami says, ‘I am very strong. You are very weak.’

  ‘Yes – son.’

  ‘I wrote a story about me. You can read it. ’ He puts a crumpled piece of paper in Arjun’s lap.

  ‘Thank you – Sami.’

  ‘I learned about the rainforest. There are all kinds of animals that stink. And there’s a snake called a strictor that squeezes alligators.’

  ‘Boa – constrictor.’

  ‘No. A strictor. And then the snake lets go and the alligator is tired to death. Now I can sing you a song.’

  Arjun nods. Sami clears his throat and slowly open his arms, takes a large breath, closes his eyes.

  ‘Tarara boom de-ay. Tarara boom de-ay. Tarara boom de-ay. Tarara boom de-ay.’ He lowers his arms and opens his eyes. ‘The end. You can clap now.’

  Arjun attempts to move his hands, but they lie like thin, exhausted birds in his lap. Sami reaches across, lifts his grandfather’s hands and gently claps them together.

  ‘Thank – you.’

  ‘Mum knows the whole song.’

  ‘Your – mother – is – a – good – singer.’ It is something he has never told her. He is suddenly ashamed. He should have encouraged her to sing. Why didn’t he? What held him back? Fear that she might be rejected by some snooty English person? Why didn’t he insist on singing lessons?

  ‘Mum’s a great singer.’ Sami rubs his forefinger across his nose. ‘My nose is always scratchy after I sing.’ He looks at his grandfather hopefully. ‘I know more songs.’

  ‘Sing – another.’ Arjun is afraid of falling asleep and losing these few rare moments with his grandson.

  Sami opens his arms again and closes his eyes and sings in a high-pitched voice, very fast. ‘Singa-songa-sixpence-pocket-fulla-rye-four-an-twenty-blackbirds-baked-ina-pie.’ He gasps and hauls in another great bucketful of air. ‘When-the-pie-was-open-the-birds-beganta-sing-wazen-thata-dainty-dishta-set-before-the-king.’

  Arjun smiles and nods. ‘Beautiful, Sami.’

  ‘I know a lot of songs. I can sing a bedtime song to help you sleep.’

  He manages a breath. ‘Yes.’

  Sami stands with his arms straight by his sides. He tilts his head back, and with barely a breath between lines rattles off, ‘Five little ducks went out one day, over the hill and far away. Mother Duck said quack, quack, quack, quack, but only four little ducks came back.’

  Five little ducks. His mother, Jonti, Pavitra and he had come to England. His father had stayed behind, planning to earn money and send it on, but had died of pneumonia during the winter flooding. And now Mum, Jonti and Pavitra were also dead.

  He was the eldest. He should have died first. But now he is hanging here on a cartoon thread as he slips from ledge to ledge; from walking, to shuffling, to leaning on a cane, a walker, to assisted walking, to a wheelchair. How long before he makes the last drop into the gulch?

  Sami puts his hand on his grandfather’s head. Arjun feels the weight and heat of the solid little hand. ‘Now go to sleep.’

  The tears slip out and trickle down Arjun’s cheeks. He cannot lift his hand to wipe them away. Sami uses his t-shirt to wipe his grandfather’s face. Arjun breathes in the little-boy sweat and a clean, young scent that might be laundry detergent. Arjun prefers to think of it as his grandson’s special smell.

  The living-room door opens again. Tarani comes in. ‘Sami, let Grandpa rest.’

  ‘I was singing to him.’

  ‘That’s lovely. Grandma has something in the kitchen for you.’

  Sami says, ‘But Grandpa is sad.’

  Sunila would say, He’s just tired. But Tarani says, ‘Yes. He is sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Old people remember a lot of things and not all of them are happy.’

  ‘Oh. When I grow up I’m only going to remember happy things so when I get old I won’t be sad.’

  ‘That’s a good plan.’

  Sami leaves and Tarani sits on the stool. ‘Shall I plump up your pillows?’

  Arjun shakes his head.

  He tries. ‘Tarani. I – am – so – sorry – about – your – singing.’

  She sounds baffled. ‘My singing?’

  ‘We – should – have – sent – you – for – lessons.’

  She starts to rub cream onto his hand. ‘Well, I don’t think I would have been much good. As long as Sami doesn’t object to my singing.’

  ‘He – is – so – proud – of – you. Me – too.’

  He wants to tell her he should have listened to her long ago, encouraged her, told her how proud he was of her. He wants to tell her that she will be happy with this new man she’s just met, whoever he is, that he will be better than the last one. Better than Arjun’s marriage to Sunila. He doesn’t have enough breath to say any of it.

  ‘I know, Dad. It’s okay.’ She smiles at him. Hesitates. ‘Sometimes I’m impatient with Sami. He is only being his curious little self. But I’ve got all these other things to do. You know, last week, we were going to Haseena Aunty’s house. I had to drop him off and then pick up the dry-cleaning and do some photocopying. He was dawdling around and making me crazy. Then, just as we’re finally there and walking up the drive, he looks up and sees the bushes. “Lavender, Mum!” You should have seen him, Dad. He pushed his face right into the bush and inhaled. I though the whole thing was going to disappear up his nose.’ She laughs. ‘Then he said, “You smell it, too.” I was about to tell him to hurry up, but I did smell it. And it was like the breath of morning.’

  Feels her taking his useless hands and placing them around her waist. Feels his daughter embrace him. There is some pain you cannot breathe through. She picks up the crumpled story. ‘He was so excited to bring this to you.’ She places it between Arjun’s hands.

  ‘Thank you, pet.’ And closes his eyes, the grip on his grandson’s story loosening.

  I am seven yeers old. My hare is darkish. I am nice to athre popel. My hobbis are to paint and drwor I like to play baskitball. Oh and also my name is Sami. Reneber all the things that I do. Good by now I am done ritig.

  ‌

  Acknowledgements

  Magnums of champagne or appropriate non-alcoholic beverage to:

  Editors: John Reed who first believed in me, Jean Casella who nurtured the novel, Juliet Mabey, Charlotte Van Wijk and Holly Roberts, the amazingly patient and encouraging editors at Oneworld Publications.

  Christopher Learned, Jerry Mansfield, Jeff Murphy, David Patnoe and Pamela West, who gave invaluable feedback in the novel’s early stages.

  The Flamingo Diamond Chix who are my Cheer-Group Ultima.

  Ed Hunter for his email to Aliya Hunter.

  My family in England.

  My cousin Stephen for his joke about the Colosseum.

  My dear friends Zena Fairweather, Kim Young and Helen Nathaniel.

  My daughter, Aliya, for the gift of herself and the use of her childhood stories and sayings.

  My patient and loving husband, Andy.

 

 

 
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