The room swished around me like black sesame and orange ice cream, mixing and churning and solidifying into Halloween licorice. Time was an accordion folding in on itself. The licorice formed into a clothesline. Mama was in a white sari, carefully hanging photographs, blowing on them so they dried faster. Look how she kept the clothespins in between her teeth, like they were the hairpins she used to set my hair. The meadow she stood in was filled with lavender flowers, all tinkling in different notes like church chimes gone mad.
She waved. “Nargis! Papa is here. We are off to get roasted lime corn. We are together at last!”
I recognized Papa though I was sure we had never met. He had on a three-piece suit with a short, groomed moustache that looked like it belonged on the bottom of a janitor’s broom. He waved at me with plastic flowers. The artificial bouquet squirted black ink all over Mama’s dress and she laughed like a school girl. The clothesline fell to the ground, squirming like a black and orange ribbed snake. It set firmly into train tracks. I heard a whistle. A heavy train came chugging down it. Suddenly, the front end of the track bent upward, flipping me like a coin into the mouth of the train. I rolled headfirst down the first few carts filled with British passengers. They kept on sipping their tea. I rolled until I hit the Indian cart, warmer and smelling of spices.
“Nargis, stop moving. We have a long journey ahead.” Mama wore a cloak over her sari. “Pull down your dress. Remember, we want to be presentable when we reach Auntie’s.”
“Wah! Wah!” went the baby leaning against me, with a face as red and plump as a tomato.
“Okay, Mama,” I said. I put mashed dates in the baby’s mouth and it became quiet. “I will not have to go away from you, will I?”
“I won’t send my sweetie pie away,” she answered. I held tight to Mama’s buttery hand. Another toddler laid his head on my lap, warming me like a basket of naan.
Mama’s face went dark then, splitting off into two masked heads that hovered above us. One mask was tragic, while the other mask was laughing manically, the large square teeth chiselled. I knew these masks; they were a gift made at the senior group by my friend Eileen. A passenger on the train turned to speak to me, but out of her mouth Eileen’s voice spoke: “Drama masks, sugar. How I wish I had convinced Stanley to go to the theatre. Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, and Vivien Leigh, those were the real actresses of Hollywood!”
When I looked at Mama’s face, I was relieved that her face had become whole again. The passenger sitting next to me had on thick spectacles that looked like they had been made from the base of flat-bottomed rum glasses. A long, heavy braid hung down her back like a skunk’s tail. Was her name Kulpreet? Kaljeet? How did I know her? I lifted up my hand to wave at her. But my hand was so miniature and pudgy she was unable to recognize me and only scowled.
“Nargis, do not bother the other passengers on the train,” Mama said.
The train stopped at Torora. The train platform looked like a busy Indian bazaar. People raced back and forth selling limes or stacks of steel plates. The platform floor was painted orange with black stripes, rippling up and down like the skin of a tiger. A tangy garlic smell wafted through the windows, shrimp dumplings, steamed vermicelli rolls, and broccoli and fish balls doused in oyster and ginger sauce. A Chinese lady guarded the pots. When I looked closer, I saw the lower half of her body was that of a dragon. Her scales glinted like hot blades under the sun. If I pressed my ears to the windows, I could hear her murmuring Arabic prayers.
The lady with the skunk braid stepped off the train to meet a glorious man in a red turban. “Don’t meet this wicked man!” I shouted after her.
“Nargis! What has gotten into you?” Mama said.
I knew now I would definitely be sent away. I should have behaved better. I looked out of the window. The beginning and end of the tracks had sealed together to make one perfect circle: an eternal wedding band. The circle lit up like a carnival ride in the sky, flashing as brilliantly as a bride’s sari on the eve of her wedding. A Ferris wheel. When I first came to Canada I rode a Ferris wheel — it was terribly frightening. The colours I saw spin before me were neither orange nor black, but something in between. I renamed the first colour “ischemia” — after the rotting pumpkins of Halloween. In Uganda we would never decorate the hollowed out gourd of a vegetable, and then set a candle in it to admire our artistry. I named the second colour “cryptogenic” — after our dog Georgie’s orange black fur. Georgie, who we left behind in Africa.
Looking out of the train window, I watched the African sky unroll slowly like a carpet, giving me the royal welcome. A pattern of dwarfed trees had been artfully stitched against the sky. Prison bars hung on the African sky. Safety rails on the side of a hospital bed? My barred kitchen window in Uganda?
“Mummy, we are hungry! Where’s our dinner?” I had children, but I couldn’t remember their names. I was also hungry, but had grown accustomed to the earthquakes that periodically shook my stomach. Plain water did wonders to pacify a growling stomach. It was such a pain to collect and boil water safe enough to drink. Was I pregnant? No, there was no heavy boulder of a child churning about in my stomach.
I turned my attention back to the kitchen. What ingredients did I have? The vegetable seller had been by with a basket on her head. I wanted to buy spinach bundles and beans, but I could only afford onions and cilantro. I examined the rations stored in the coolest, darkest cabinet of the kitchen, finding salt, spices, oil, and flour. I also had the leftover pieces of a cow no one else wanted, it being tough and leathery. I decided to make samosas.
When I looked into the fryer, I noticed the oil was orange with black specks. Stunned, I saw there was a cyclone brewing in the pot. Blackened or not, we would have to eat the samosas as they were. I reached in with a metal utensil to fish out the smoky pastries, but instead I pulled out a splotchy tie-dyed shirt.
My son Mook-Mook took the dripping shirt from my hands. “Mummy, is this one of your memories?” he asked, holding up the dripping shirt. “Do you remember when I trusted only you to hand-wash this shirt when you came to Canada from Pakistan?”
I nodded.
“I can do it myself now.” He rolled up the cuffs of his bell bottoms and removed his platform shoes. He scrubbed the shirt in a tub, wrung it out, then squished it into a perfectly compressed cube.
“Oh, don’t do that! Put the shirt on a hanger and let it drip dry in shower,” I called out.
“Don’t worry, Mummy. I know exactly what I am doing.”
Mook-Mook slid the black and orange mottled cube down a conveyor belt. It transformed into a black gambling die with orange spots. I picked it up. Most people would not know how to open up a box wrapped in leopard hide. But I was familiar with the material because I had an African leopard rug. Maya thought the leopard’s skin belonged only on its back, but she didn’t understand anything at all about life in Africa. I tore off the fur like it was gift wrapping. Inside the box was something soft, mushy, and wet. I pulled out a baby.
“I want to change him first!” Nina shrieked.
“No! I do!” Anisa said, tossing her braid over her girlish figure.
Mook-Mook’s school uniform glowed orange from the Ugandan sun. “What’s his name?” he asked curiously.
“Baby Faiyaz,” I said. The baby used his whole body to yawn.
“Anisa, take everyone home. Our hired helper is stealing our rations!”
“Mummy, how can you know that? You promised I could help with the baby!” said Nina.
“Children, you must go.” I stared down at the small package in my arms, nudging me gently with his silky head. I kissed his small nose. Shuddering, he lifted his arms up perfectly straight in the air.
My children didn’t move. Nina’s daffodil eyes were wide. Anisa whispered prayers in Arabic. Mook-Mook stroked his chin. Faiyaz looked away, wiping away tears.
“Good-byes don’t h
ave to be so sad, you know. It isn’t like I won’t see you all again soon,” I offered.
Nina fell to the floor and started weeping. “I am not ready to say goodbye!”
“If you collapse again Nina, I am not going to help you up,” Anisa warned.
“Look,” I interrupted. “I need my rest and you all should go home and get refreshed.”
“We are not about to leave you alone at a time like this.” Anisa bent over to collect the Chinese take-out boxes stacked on my nightstand. Big dragons smiled at me.
“I love Chinese. You ate without me?”
“Sorry, Mummy, the nurses forbade Chinese, but Nina’s husband is getting the ice cream you wanted.”
“Husband? You two are still playing pretend, huh?” I chuckled.
“She doesn’t make any sense. Were the emergency doctors even able to explain what happened?” Mook-Mook said.
“An ischemic stroke from a cryptogenic source. Meaning they don’t know why.” Faiyaz adjusted his trousers. “But nothing is confirmed.”
“How can they not know?” Mook Mook shouted.
“I have waited so long to meet all of my children and now you are all here. The time has come to say goodbye, but only for now … ” My children huddled closer around the bed, but my words were travelling through a spaghetti strainer. I tried hard to keep my lips sealed tightly around them, so they didn’t disappear in the air like pipe smoke. “I am tired, and I am going to close my eyes now.” I could hear Nina shrieking like an alarm in the background, but Anisa was silencing her.
I felt relaxed. It was good to let my mind go like this, to allow myself to think freely and not worry about keeping check and control of every thought. I was tired of trying to be the perfect wife, mother, and daughter. I had grown weary of my children ruling over every part of my life. I would give anything at all to have a few more weeks with the Chai Girls and share more stories being our real selves.
I closed my eyes. Mama came running towards me on green frosted grass. Next year I would demand a different cake. We always got Black Forest for my birthday. I would demand a tuxedo cake. I’d always wanted to try one of those. Mama was arm in arm with Charlie Chaplin. He looked like he was made entirely out of hardened sugar. Had he been a cake topper at one of my sons’ weddings?
“Papa and I are waiting for you, Nargis. What is taking you so long? We are going off to get roasted corn with lime now!” she called out.
Above her, black and orange clotheslines zigzagged in the wind. The clotheslines looked just like the British candy cane straws the sweetshops used to sell for a penny. How Maya used to love them. Or was it me? Thousands of photographs hung from the clothesline, blowing ferociously in the wind. As I ran towards my parents, I made little girl footprints in the green icing. Sponge cake peeked out from where I had taken my steps. But I didn’t care. I ran towards my parents as fast as my tiny legs would take me.
11
I STOOD IN THE kitchen, thinking about Dylan. Nanima entered, walking slowly, deliberately. “Are you making us some chai, girl?”
“Of course,” I reached up and pulled out the spice canister.
I filled a dented pot with water, and set it on the stove. I grabbed a handful of fennel seeds and sprinkled them like rain into the pot. The cardamom pods were old and wrinkled, dried out. I didn’t have to do much to coax out the buds. I tossed in cinnamon sticks, cloves, sugar, and a bit of pepper. I dropped in two bags of orange pekoe tea. Soundlessly, Nanima and I watched the water boil. I added in the milk, watching it turn the brown liquid beige.
“You’re getting better at this,” she said in Gujarati. She reached behind the vase of flowers and uncovered two pieces of wrapped milk chocolate.
“We’re not supposed to give you sweets.” When the hospital released Nanima into our care, we’d promised to make sure she ate well.
“Put them in the chai,” she instructed, ignoring me. “I have a jar of cherries hidden behind the pickles in the fridge. Add in a few of those, as well.”
I obliged while she explained: “What I didn’t know about my mother’s secrets, I had to make up. Including chai ingredients.”
I poured the tea through the strainer, leaving behind the spices and cherries. Nanima and I held the mugs in our hands. I took a sip. The taste was magical, like a red velvet cupcake with chocolate frosting.
The chai was going to my head. “How did you know that Nanabapa was the one for you?”
“I wasn’t given a choice,” she said. I thought she was going to drink the tea with me, but she was rising, taking her cup with her.
I swallowed a flavourful sip. “Must have been hard in those times, not having a choice,” I offered.
“Actually, I think it’s far harder now.”
And here I thought Nanima was unable to fathom the kind of troubles I faced today. “Why?” I asked, as she pushed away my attempts to help her to her room.
“Because you actually think you get to make a choice. Watch closely, Maya. If you let him, the right man will choose you.”
She left me alone to stare into the glassy undisturbed surface of the chai, pondering her strange words as I anticipated the next sip.
SUKAINA
WHEN MY FEET HIT the ground they made a pft pft pft sound. No use in wearing shoes. There was something sacred about toes hitting the sand, no barriers to speak of. If I flapped my arms, I swore I would lift right off the ground and be the first human to fly.
“Slow down Sukaina! Do not trip!” Pappu Uncle shouted.
Why would I trip? No one could stop me. Not even the big boys in the fifth standard. They came walking down the street like they owned it, book bags slung over their shoulders like bayonets. If I went to school like they did, I was sure I would beat them all in their stupid races. But I had other things to do, like collect water and help Amma cook. I did not have time for reading big school books, or lounging around playing kickball in the …
“Watch where you are going! Aré! What is wrong with you, paghli?”
I could not figure out what had happened. Some of my hair was stuck on a ripped book bag and boy’s school uniform, and there was a boy’s leg on my lap. Shame, shame, double shame! The boy tangled up with me had white skin, even paler than mine. After all, he did not have to fetch water from the well in the hot afternoon. He looked like he could be British, except that his hair was so black-black.
“You must be a special kind of crazy. I have never seen eyes like yours. Is everything you see yellow, just like your eyes?”
I blinked and smiled. I forgot how scared boys were of my eyes. They blazed as fiercely as the desert sun. Boys thought I was a witch. But Baba said there was no way a boy could be spooked by me. In good time they would line up and ask for my hand.
“Well, I am not really a girl.”
“Oh, you could have fooled me! You look just like one.”
“I am part lion cat, on my mother’s side. So really, I am only one quarter lion cat. All that I have to show for it is my eyes. My grandmother, she was a pure breed. She taught me how to hunt and how to sharpen my night vision.”
“Do you really expect me to believe such nonsense?” Despite his words, the boy looked shaken up. “I have to go. My auntie is waiting for me.”
In his hurry, he had left behind a leather-bound book. I opened it up. I had never before seen such beautiful pictures. All were of completed jigsaw puzzles. Some pieces were pink, others yellow. For some reason, all the pages had a blue background. Why blue? I carried the book home and decided to show it to Baba.
Baba was not much in the mood to talk in the evening. He was too busy complaining about the incompetent workers at the mill while Amma rubbed his feet.
“Ah,” he said. “That is more like it.”
Baba was much older than Amma — sometimes he looked like her father. But lately, Amma was looking older to
o. They were becoming a better match.
“Baba,” I said carefully. “Can you tell me what this book is about?”
Baba adjusted his spectacles. “Why, this is a book of maps! Wife, what do you teach these girls at home all day?”
“I teach them to cook, sew, clean and speak proper Gujarati. How will knowing maps of the world help them in life?” Amma put Baba’s slippers back on his feet rather roughly. “You put me in this tiny house in Kampala without maids, and you want me to educate the girls on worldly affairs? Did you know in my youth, I was so well-to-do that I did not know how to scrub dishes?”
“Wife!” snapped Baba. “We all know what a luxurious life you once led. Sukaina, where did you get this book?”
“I found it on the footpath. One of the schoolboys must have left it behind … ”
“Well, see that it is returned to its rightful owner. A book like this is sure to cost a lot. It is of no use to you.”
The following day I walked toward the street vendors who lined up their metal carts so near to one another they almost touched. The boys came up the street, looking smart with their leather water pouches looped around their necks. I did not look smart. I had cooking stains marking my Indian suit and my pacherri was ripped. Amma was always scolding me for losing my pacherri, so today I took the time to tie it back in a knot.
I recognized the boy with the floppy black hair immediately.
“Hey, chokri. You stole my book!”
“I did not! You forgot it. It is quite an interesting book on maps.”
“Yeah, what do you know about maps? Do you know that we live here?” Flipping open the book, he pointed to a large puzzle piece. “This is Africa,” he said.
“I know that! Look. It is shaped like a lion’s face roaring!”
“I have never noticed that before. Wait until I point that out to my master-ji!”
“Africa looks just like my grandmother’s face. I should know: she was one hundred percent certified lion. She lived right in the Serengeti, you know. Fell in love with my grandfather. He was a hunter. He loved her so much that he was unable to shoot her.”
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