Chocolate Cherry Chai

by Taslim Burkowicz

  “You think friends are this close? We’ve talked nearly every day since you came back from Tokyo. It’s Valentine’s Day, for goodness sakes!”

  “Yes, naïve me, here I was feeling sad and my ‘friend’ offered to cheer me up. What an idiot I was.”

  “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. The whole ‘I love you’ jazz … ”

  “Stop saying love!”

  “Okay, okay.” He threw his hands up from the wheel for a brief second. “Maybe you need a few days to let everything sink in.”

  I winced. “I am not even sure what it is you want from me.”

  “I want to know if you can see me in a new light, like you did tonight: the guy who opens doors for you, who reads off of wine lists at restaurants, who puts his arm around you at the movies.”

  “What about the sweatpants and movies guy?”

  “That guy will still be there, too. I would say, in some ways that is already boyfriend stuff, wouldn’t you?”

  “I hate to scare you, but I don’t think I can do this.”

  “And I can respect that. All I’m asking is that you take a few days to consider. If you decide to give me a shot, and you can’t change your feelings towards me, you can call it off.”

  “Why did you wait this long to tell me — you were in a garage band with my tenth-grade boyfriend, for god sakes!”

  “I was busy cultivating myself.”

  I bit my lip and examined the raindrops on my window.

  “What I mean is, I was busy growing up. I don’t think at twelve or fifteen or even eighteen I would have known what to do with this relationship. Do you know what I mean?”

  I rubbed my eyes, forgetting about my eye makeup. He took a sharp, smooth turn into my driveway. Somehow it had become five in the morning. I slipped my feet back into my heels.

  “O.K.,” I said softly. “I’ll think about it. Thanks for dinner. It was … it was lovely.”

  I hurried and opened the car door before he could get out and do it for me. He waited with the car running while I dug in my purse for my house keys. Plastering on a beauty queen smile, I turned and waved.

  Skipping up the stairs to the kitchen, I frantically pulled out the spices I needed and laid them out on the counter. I banged the pot on the stove and the kitchen light turned on.

  “Maya, it’s the middle of the night … ”

  “Oh my god, Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you making chai? Now?”

  I nodded, trying not to make eye contact with her. If I did, I might burst into tears. I didn’t want her influencing my thoughts right now.

  She wrapped her robe tighter around her small waist and nodded briskly, half asleep. “You know, tea will only keep you up.”

  I shrugged. I felt a bit like an insolent twelve year old, but I couldn’t help it. When I knew for certain she was gone, I turned on the stove. The coiled burner lit up orange. Like a voodoo priestess, I threw in the magical ingredients: fennel, a tea bag, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, sugar, pepper, and, eventually, milk.

  I stirred and stirred. I looked into the pot and watched as everything swirled around like a potion in a cauldron. Outside it was not yet dawn, but the sky was a mix of blue and purple, casting a bewitching shade of pink on the kitchen floor linoleum. As I mixed the chai, I wondered how it was I managed to get cast in the role of Matt’s heartbreaker. He had been my very first friend, and tonight, in the course of one conversation, we had lost it all.

  ZAINAB

  MY SISTERS, HAMEEDA AND Nafeesa, ran off to the dance room to meet the dancemaster-ji. He was a different master than the one who taught Gujarati poems to us, and the one who made us learn to write Gujarati letters using careful strokes. My sisters were dressed in matching ghagra choli outfits, colourful skirts and tops covered in mirrors. Their anklets jingled like coins in the trousers of the British men as they ran by me, making the pigeons scatter in waves of greyish purple.

  They did not know who was coming. I knew because the launderer’s son, Zuhair, had told me. A British magistrate was visiting all the bungalows of the wealthy in Surat.

  Bapu received Richard Dickenson in the drawing room. Mr. Dickenson sat comfortably on the divan, smoking his pipe, running his finger over his waxed moustache again and again. He had just arrived from a tiger hunting expedition, he told Bapu. The servants could have served Mr. Dickenson, but Bapu had me do it. I was the pretty one, the one with eyes of gold like the bracelets Bapu engraved.

  Mr. Dickenson admired my hands under the guise of complimenting Bapu’s jewellery-making skills.

  “How lovely these bungli are,” he had said, proud of knowing the Gujarati word for bangle. “Your handiwork is very fine, Mr. Naseer.” His hand grazed my wrist longer than it ought to have.

  Bapu had not been impressed by Mr. Dickenson’s antics. He had always been one to surround my sisters and me with artisans and poets. This British magistrate was ill-mannered compared to the ghazal singers he hosted. Mr. Dickenson should know not to touch my hands. Mr. Dickenson stared at the objects in our house too long.

  “Clearly, Mr. Naseer, you live a life of luxury.” Mr. Dickenson pointed to the Moghul art on the wall, the golden tapestries hanging in the windows. Our grand Indian charpoys were dressed with silk bedding, and we had offered Mr. Dickenson a selection of tea leaves to choose from: Assam, pekoe, Darjeeling.

  Seeing Bapu growing irritable, Mr. Dickenson continued. “We have a posting for you in Africa. You will have a title, Mr. Naseer, and a hefty salary. We are only taking the most skilled tradesmen with us … ”

  “Mr. Dickenson, I have no interest in Africa. We are happy here.”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Dickenson. He sucked on his pipe. “Sure.”

  He got up to leave without having convinced Bapu. This had surprised both Bapu and me.

  As he was leaving, Mr. Dickenson whispered in my ear, “You could stay and be my wife. Jangle your bracelets if you agree.”

  I kept my hands glued to my sari.

  At sunset, I met Zuhair in the courtyard. The sky was the colour of marigolds.

  “Your Bapu will go to Africa,” Zuhair said, tying the soiled garments into the bundled cloth and slinging it over his muscular arms. “The British want help colonizing Africa and they want to use the most affluent Indians to do so. Your Bapu will be easy to buy off with promises of a higher status. But along with him will come many labourers.”

  “What do you mean?” I whispered in the descending darkness.

  “The work horses, the ones who will break their backs to build Africa. The British need people like your Bapu to help oversee them.”

  “We will run away,” I reasoned.

  “You can never be a commoner, leave apart marry one,” Zuhair said. He squared his broad shoulders. The orange sun made the hairs of his thin moustache glow bronze. “Your hands are too soft to work, your tongue knows the taste of chocolate. It will never grow accustomed to eating coarse rotla bread, as grey as pigeon feathers.”

  Gently, I placed my hand on his arm. By now, we had blended into the shadows of the courtyard. “While Hameeda and Nafeesa have wasted their time learning dancing, I have been taking lessons in embroidery and tailoring. We will be fine … ”

  “Zainab, I have joined the extremists.” He was already pulling away from me. “I am not just the uneducated labourer your Bapu takes me for … ”

  “He only sees you picking up the garments,” I insisted. “He does not see the books you read … ”

  “I am sure he would not approve of a smuggled copy of La Conquête du Pain … » Around us in the courtyard, the pigeons scattered, looking for shelter in the dark.

  “Why not?”

  “You know, you are actually right in this instance, Zainab. Despite his anarchist sentiments, Kropotkin argues that people need everyday luxury in their lives, and let’s fa
ce it,” he waved his arm over the lavish mosaic tiles over the exterior wall, “no one knows how to do luxury like Hussein Naseer.”

  “I do not want to know all these details about politics. It is not the place of a lady. It is baffling to me, Zuhair, how you have changed. I wish you would stay out of it.”

  Zuhair sighed. “The extremists are trying to eradicate the British ruling class in India. We are planning attacks on the city. High officials, even if they are from the Indian ruling class, will not be spared.”

  I gasped, touching the wall.

  “Tell your Bapu he should leave India.”

  “I will. But I will stay behind with you.” I held onto Zuhair with both hands now. I forced him to look at my yellow eyes. “Have you forgotten that I am the same Zainab that shared her chocolates in this courtyard with you? We played for hours together while your father collected the linen.”

  “Fine,” he said, tying the knot on his bundle tighter. He looked at me, his gaze softening, then ran his chapped fingers through my curls. “But if you choose me, you choose my life.”

  That week, Bapu began talking of Mr. Dickenson’s visit to Mata. He told mother that the Naseer family would have a chance to live as equals to the British if we moved. He said we could escape the political upheaval that was beginning in India. Bapu produced a stamped letter from Mr. Dickenson: Bapu would receive a position as a high official in the East Africa Protectorate. Perhaps Zuhair was right. Bapu could not resist the idea of setting African jewels into crowns.

  I had put all my faith in Zuhair’s promise to return for me. The time had come for us to leave. Bapu had the servants put white sheets on the furniture. He would not sell our bungalow, despite Mata begging him to. Bapu wanted to have something to return to if Africa was a failure.

  Dusk turned to night and Zuhair never came.

  In the morning, the pigeons cooed, staring at us with their glassy bead eyes. The servants had found new jobs, and Mata and I boiled water on the mud stove. We added ground cinnamon, cloves, black tea leaves, and pepper. We tossed in fragrant fennel seeds, harvested from lace-webbed flowers nearby. We pulled out cardamom and cracked open the pods, throwing the black sticky beads into the pot. They smelled of camphor and citrus. When the chai boiled, we added fresh buffalo milk and cane sugar. This was our family chai recipe. This was not the tea we had offered Mr. Dickenson.

  We went out on the verandah to drink the chai. Bapu was already there with Hameeda and Nafeesa. Hameeda refused to look at us. Finally she stammered. “I am not leaving. I am marrying the dancemaster-ji.”

  Bapu stood up. At first I thought he might slap her silly. She cowered into the wicker chair, using a pillow to block her face, while pigeons swooped overhead.

  He was very calm. “You want to marry the help?” he said, blowing on his chai, his morning saal draping his shoulders. “Go ahead, be my guest. You will not be a Naseer any longer. The house will be padlocked when we leave. It is only for the caretaker to oversee. You will live in a hut with your beloved dancemaster-ji.”

  We left Hameeda on the outer steps with her trunks. When she begged us to hug her goodbye, crying like it was Bapu’s funeral, only Nafeesa gave in. We had a long journey ahead of us. We did not have time to mourn Hameeda’s decision.

  It was an arduous journey to reach the ship’s port. Mosquitos swarmed above the heads of the hundreds of Indians milling about — dairy farmers, tailors, bakers, cooks, pottery makers, and launderers. I had never met with the stench of so many before. There were beggars near our feet, with no chance of boarding the ship. A doctor stood at the base of the great vessel, inspecting those wishing to board, checking for signs of venereal disease. Examining tongues for signs of cholera. The kangani, or Indian headsmen, were selecting which coolies would be best suited to work at the tea, rubber, and coffee plantations overseas.

  We made it through inspection, but the sirdar held up his hand up to Bapu, preventing him from following us. Bapu was sent to embark with the male passengers. From there, we were told that two meals would be served each day, breakfast in the morning and dinner at night. There was a limit of drinking water, and there would be severe consequences for those who took more than their allotted share.

  At first, it was exciting to be on the sea. The planks, wooden and damp, smelled of sea salt, and the ocean spread out in front of us, twinkling white and silver under the moon. We were given a room below deck with a toothless woman who held a newborn baby in her arms.

  As the days went by, the sea got rougher. Soon, the smell of unwashed bodies blended with the stench of vomit and chamber pots. The crewmen erupted in a mutiny. During storms the hatches in our bunks were latched shut and we nearly suffocated. We slid on the wet boards, drenched in human waste, praying we would live to see the daylight. Dysentery spread. The baby in our bunk cried day and night. Mata tried to help, holding her and rocking her, but the baby spat up everything it ate. And then one morning, the baby did not cry anymore.

  When the men came to take the baby away, the toothless woman would not give her up. Food was scarce, but the men seemed to know what to do. They gave the woman a burlap bag filled with rice. She hugged that rice bag for forty days and forty nights. I realized that since boarding the ship, I had almost forgotten Zuhair had existed.

  Nafeesa began to complain of abdominal pain. She vomited endlessly until she retched only air. In the near darkness of the cabin, kneeling by an oil lantern, Mata found blood in her chamber pot. In her feverish state, Nafeesa spoke.

  “I knew of Zuhair and you,” she muttered.

  “Nafeesa, save your energy.” I patted her dry, cracked mouth with a wet cloth. There was a split in the middle of her lips that was yellowing with infection.

  “Let me speak. Zuhair was arrested the eve before he was supposed to meet you. He had been taken by the police for attending a political meeting. He could not come for you.” Nafeesa put her hands together in a prayer position and began to shake. “Forgive me, Zainab. I knew Hameeda would leave us and I did not want to destroy Bapu further. I knew you would have stayed behind for Zuhair!” Nafeesa cried and cried, her weak body trembling like a lone leaf on a stick tree.

  I squeezed her shoulder and told her not to fret. I was not mad at her. I was angry at Zuhair for putting his politics before me, yet again.

  Two days later, Nafeesa’s face turned greyish purple, reminding me of our courtyard pigeons. Her lips had swollen to the size of the sea biscuits we were served at breakfast and when I shouted her name, she did not respond.

  When the men came to bundle her in brown cloth tied with two strings, one at the head and one at the feet, I thought Mata would surely collapse But she held on steadfast to the trunks in our cabin.

  We had no time to grieve. We were docking soon. We stumbled onto the land, our sea legs shaking, our Gujarati travelling skirts stained and putrid. The African ground was fresh, like clay-baked earthenware. When Bapu found us he did not ask after Nafeesa. He could read the news on our faces.

  ***

  WHEN WORLD WAR I struck, British East Africa was attacked by German East Africa. Indians, including Bapu, were welcomed aboard the British naval army, for they made better soldiers than the disease-vulnerable Europeans. But Bapu was too old to fight now. He had long since completed his five-year contract on the railroads, overseeing the workers laying down tracks and living in the barracks in the Kenyan Highlands.

  Despite fighting alongside the British, after the war, Indians were still not considered their equals. Many of the coolies bought return fare to India. The British, not wanting them to aid in colonizing Africa, were happy to see them go. Indians from the elite class were encouraged to stay behind and invest in African businesses. Bapu was one such man, but he had chosen to invest in a paper mill instead of a cotton mill, a decision that turned out not to be a wise one. Indians who no longer cared about the word of God opened whisky saloons and
beer shops.

  We could not return, even if we had wanted to. In 1896 the bubonic plague had spread through India. Our caretaker had taken up permanent residence in our bungalow. Bapu would never see a penny from the relinquishment of his estate. We would never again see the way the light danced upon the lilac and orange mosaic tiles in the courtyard.

  At the paper mill, Bapu met Wahidji, a man in charge of accounts and billing. Later, Bapu promoted Wahidji to overseer of the entire mill. Bapu arranged the wedding, though I had never met Wahidji, who was seventeen years my senior. My only consolation was that I would live in my very own house, for Wahidji had a signed deed proving he owned his land. Images of pistachio milk by my bedside and bowls of mangoes on the kitchen table filled my head. I was eager to decorate my marital home in my memory of India.

  I never did hang silk curtains in the windows of my Ugandan home. Wahidji took me to a neighbourhood known as the Indian Ghetto. I was aghast when I saw the meat market across the compound. Bloody raw flesh dangled from hooks in an open wooden barnyard, congested with flies and thieves. Stray dogs scavenging for the bones left behind by vendors travelled in packs, with rabid mouths and thin rib cages. Wahidji’s house was shaped like a square pen with the centre cut out. This open space was reserved for the roaming of scrawny chickens, the beating and washing of clothes, and the grinding of spices. The walls, painted in what had once been a vibrant cyan blue, were now chipped and greasy. Dented copper cooking pots lined the shelves and manja cots — hand-woven and reeking of peasantry — sat on the barren floor.

  Many years later, the house was the same. I worked as one of my servants would have, squatting over a pot of paya curry on the kitchen floor, my sari tucked smartly between my legs. My gold star nose-pin seemed to have shrunk over the years. Embedded in my nose, it gave off only the faintest of twinkles. A handmade straw broom propped against the crumbling arched doorway was a mockery compared to the fine Moghul architecture I grew up with. An oil painting of my bapu hung in the living room. His head was covered by a tall, Muslim topi, and his trim beard was brushed in fine strokes. His sombre stare left the haunting feeling that the whole family was being observed and judged. It was the same face he had given to Hameeda when she told him she was staying behind in Surat to marry the dancemaster-ji.