The Konkans

by Tony D'Souza

  Then in a different voice, my father would say to my mother, “What do you think about it, Denise?” and my mother would sigh and say, “What do you think I think about it, Lawrence?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. Would you be happy living out here?”

  “I was happy in the city.”

  “Marshall Caldwaller lives out here. He says it’s a good place to raise a family.”

  “He’s your boss and rich. Of course he would say that.”

  “Why is nothing good enough for you?”

  “The city was good enough.”

  “Why are you always so miserable?”

  “Why are you always running away?”

  “Who is running, Denise?”

  “You are.”

  “I am only trying to do what’s best for my family.”

  “Your family was just fine on Nelson Street. Well, you took us away from that. It’s still a sore point with me. Don’t you think it’s better that we not get started?”

  “Nelson Street was where we began. We cannot stay at the beginning.”

  “There is only so far we can go, Lawrence. Being here won’t change who we are. And as soon as you’re here, you’ll know that. Where will you go when there is nowhere left?”

  “I am only trying to make my family happy.”

  “Your family is me and one little kid who would be happy anywhere we went.”

  “You don’t know what nice things are.”

  “Don’t start that with me.”

  “You and your people don’t know.”

  “At least I know who I am. Why do you take us to these places? Why do you insist on doing this to me? Even if we could afford to live here, why would we have to? Can’t we say no sometimes? Why do we always have to win? You’re sad, Lawrence. You of all of us don’t know how to be happy. What do you think when you bring us here? That someone will see you in your fine car, which isn’t even new by the way, and stop us and say, ‘Hey, what is a guy like you doing not living out here? Come on and buy a big house. You are one of us. We’ve heard the Ridge Lawn Country Club hasn’t let you in after two years of trying, but we’re different. You won’t have any problems here. You definitely need to live here. Come on and hang out with the gang.’”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You’re never going to.”

  “You should have stayed in India.”

  “I think so, too. But do you know what? Without me, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’d have found a way.”

  “You’d be a bank clerk in Bombay with two pairs of shoes to your name.”

  “You have no idea what I would be.”

  Then we’d drive home in silence, and I knew better than to say anything.

  My mother came up to my room one Saturday in the summer when I knew it was time to put on my shoes because Uncle Sam was coming to get me. When I brought my shoes to my mother from the closet, she set them aside and lifted me onto her lap on my bed. She pulled up her shirt and put my hand on her belly. She said, “You grew inside here, Francisco, do you know that?”

  “I know that, Mom,” I said.

  She petted my hair. “What do you feel now?”

  “Your tummy.”

  “Do you know what’s growing in Mommy’s tummy now?”

  “No.”

  “A baby, Francisco. Your little sister is growing inside me. In a few months, you’ll be able to feel her kick. What do you think of that, my little boy?”

  “I’m happy.”

  My uncle Sam did not come to pick me up that Saturday, or any more Saturdays after that. My father was home more, and my mother stopped smoking. My father read his newspaper in his armchair in the living room while I played with Lincoln Logs at his feet. My mother slept upstairs. The grandfather clock kept time in the quiet room. When I’d tell my father that I wanted to see Mom, he’d lower his paper and put his finger to his lips and say, “Both Mommy and the baby are sleeping. We must not disturb them so the baby can grow big and strong. We want our sister to grow up to be beautiful, don’t we? It is time for us to be big men and leave them alone.”

  My mother became a foreign thing, always sick, drawn and distant and short with me when she was there. At first, she was very thin, and then she got bigger and bigger. My father came to inhabit the house in a way that he never had, and I think that it was in this way that I first came to know my father.

  When he wasn’t reading his paper, he was at his desk in his study, looking at papers in his hunched way. The study was the one room of the house whose door was almost always closed, and even the few nights that it was open, I was afraid to go in there. But now that my mother was sick with the baby and my father was home, that’s where he always was. I would stand at the doorway and watch him work. For a long time, he would stare quietly at a paper, licking his finger to turn a page, and at other times he had a pen in his hand and was writing, the sound of it in the quiet room like he was making cuts in the top of his desk.

  “Dad,” I said to him one evening, the word leaving me as soon as I’d thought it, when I hadn’t really wanted to say anything at all. He turned in his chair and looked at me in his way that let me know he was angry, and then that left his face.

  “Come here to me, my son. Come and sit on my lap.”

  I went to him and he lifted me to his lap. He kissed my head as he held me close to him. Then he said, “Sometimes your father forgets what is important to him in this world.

  “Do you know who we are, Francisco? Who of all these people in the vast world just you and I are?”

  “Who, Dad?”

  “We are firstborn Konkan sons. Do you know what this means?”

  “No.”

  “I am the firstborn son of my father, just as my father was the firstborn son of his father. You are the firstborn son of me. The pressures become more and more difficult for us as the generations pass.”

  “My uncle Sam is the second-born son.”

  “That is good, Francisco. Yes, your uncle Sam is the second son, and his life is very much easier than our lives are, than your life will be. We have more responsibilities as first-born Konkan sons than anyone else in the world. Do you know what these responsibilities are?”

  “No, Dad.”

  My father petted my hair again, held me close to him as he never had. From the bottom drawer of his desk, he took out a picture. It was black and white with a thick white border all around it. The people in it were all Indians, and I recognized the stern face of my grandfather. Beside him was a small woman with a dot on her head, and I knew she was my grandmother. All about them on either side were children. They were standing in front of the gate of a house with many plants and trees in its yard. There was a dog that looked yellow, even in black and white, sitting on its haunches at the edge of the picture.

  “Do you know who these people are, Francisco?”

  “It is Grandfather and you.”

  “Do you know which one I am?”

  “This one. The tallest one in the white shirt.”

  “And which one is Sam?”

  “This one on the side.”

  “These are all my sisters and brothers, Francisco. There are many of them, aren’t there? There would be more, but some died as babies. Still there are many, seven in all. Now Samuel and Lesley and I are in America,” he said, and touched his finger to each one of their faces. “The rest are in India. These are the servant girls. This one is the boy who cleaned my father’s shoes. All of these people need food to eat, clothes to wear, medicines when they are sick. And do you know who must give them these things?”

  “Grandpa.”

  “And when your grandfather dies, who will it be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It will be me, Francisco. I am the firstborn son of the firstborn son. Taking care of all of these people is my responsibility. Sam and Les can run and play as much as they like, but I must work. I must see that all of these people are safe and
happy, just as I must see that you and your mother and your sister to come are safe and happy. That is why I am always away. That is why I am always working when I am home. Does your uncle Sam work at his desk like I do, Francisco?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “No. Your uncle Sam can run and play. And I am happy for him. I want him to enjoy and do those things. That is what my responsibility is. To let my brothers and sisters run and play even though I cannot. And you are the firstborn son, so when you are big and I am old, that will become your responsibility. To work so that your sisters and brothers and cousins can run and play. You and I are the same. We are the only ones. We are special. The others will always come to us and call us ‘Babu,’ and we must not let them down. Will you promise me not to let them down, Francisco?”

  “I promise, Dad.”

  My father shifted me onto his knee, put the photo away, closed the drawer. It was quiet and dark in his office, the only light the small one over his desk, and the house was quiet around us. My father said, “I am going to tell you a story. Do you want to hear this story, my son?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “When I was your age, India was not yet India, but still a colony of Britain, the jewel in the king of England’s crown. We were all subjects of the king of England. It is the same as if the Firths came to our house and told us everything we could and couldn’t do, how to spend our money, what jobs we could have, who could go to school, who could not. It would not be nice to be told these things, would it?

  “In our town, Chikmagalur, the British officers had a club, and in their club they had all the nice things, the nice food, the nice clothes, the servants in uniforms to bring them all those things. They made the servants wear white gloves, because they said that the servants’ hands were not clean. But the servants’ hands were my hands, were your hands, Francisco. Many people did not like the Britishers because they behaved this way, but to other people, the Britishers were good.

  “The Britishers made laws so everyone wasn’t running around like dogs in the street. The Britishers built trains so we could move around, gave us electricity and running water so that we could live like proper people. Despite all of these good things, many people began to fight the Britishers. They put bombs on the trains and broke all the laws. The Britishers needed help to stop these bad people, so that they could go on making India a modern place. Our family was very poor before the Britishers came because we are Konkans and Catholic, and the Hindu people all around us did not like that we would not follow their ways. So your grandfather went to the Britishers’ club in his best shirt while they were at dinner, and he clicked his heels together and said, ‘Thank you for bringing law to India so we don’t have to live like dogs. Thank you for making us modern in every way.’ And the Britishers saw that your grandfather was a good and strong man and they said to him, ‘Santan D’Sai, you must be one of our captains,’ and they gave your grandfather a uniform and sent him to police school in Bombay, and then he became the police commissioner of Chikmagalur.

  “Well, there was a great forest around our town, and in the forest were sandalwood trees. The sandalwood tree has the best scent of all the trees of the world, and it is very precious. The Britishers made laws so that the Hindus would not cut down all of the trees, as they otherwise would have done to make money selling the wood. The Hindus did not like that at all. They began to go into the forest and cut the sandalwood trees at night, just because the Britishers had told them that they couldn’t. When the Britishers noticed what was happening, they called Grandfather to them at their club. Grandfather was in his uniform, and he clicked his heels together and saluted them like this. He said, ‘Yes, sirs. What can I do for you, sirs?’ The British officers stood up from their tables and they said, ‘Santan D’Sai, you must stop the Hindus from cutting the sandalwood trees. If you do not stop them, there will be no more sandalwood trees left in the forests of your people.’

  “‘Yes, sirs, I will take care of it, sirs,’ your grandfather said, and saluted them at their tables. Then he gathered his police officers at their station and made a plan. They would march into the forest and hide themselves among the sandalwood trees. And when the sandalwood poachers would come to cut them down, they would shoot them.

  “I was a boy your age at this time, Francisco, and I loved my father very much. Sometimes he was very harsh with us. When we were bad, he would take his belt down from its hook in his closet and strap us with it, but your grandfather was also very fair. When we were good, he would bring us jamun fruit from the market, which we all loved as a treat and it would stain our teeth purple.

  “So Grandfather put on his heavy belt and hung his gun off the side. All of the others were still babies, except for me and your uncle Sam. But I was your age, and your grandmother said to me, ‘Lawrence, you must kiss your father good-bye tonight before he goes on his mission into the forest.’ I did not know what this meant, but still I kissed Grandfather, and then Grandfather went in his uniform with his police officers that night and hid in the trees. The forest in India is very frightening at night, Francisco, there are tigers and leopards in it. There are leeches in it that will suck the blood from your ankles if you are not careful. But Grandfather was very brave, and he hid in the sandalwood trees with his men. Most of them were also Konkans. But your grandfather was the very bravest one. The moon came and went, and then it was very dark. They could not even see their hands. Everyone was listening and waiting, thinking about their families asleep in their homes. And then they saw lamplights in the trees and heard the sawing and grunting of men at work in the trees.

  “The sandalwood poachers were there, and Grandfather and his police officers began to shoot at them. The sandalwood poachers shot back. On and on went the shooting until all of the poachers were dead. But when the shooting finished and the other police officers put their lamps on your grandfather, they could see he had been shot as well.

  “‘Santan D’Sai, you have caught a bullet!’ the other officers told him, and Grandfather said, ‘But I feel as fit as a tiger.’ Then they approached him with their lamps, and even he could see the blood spilling out of the side of his shirt. Then he sat down on the dirt and said, ‘Take me to my family.’

  “The police officers carried Grandfather back into Chikmagalur, and they laid him on our family’s table. Then they sent a servant boy to fetch the Konkan surgeon. They lit lamps all over the room. The other children were asleep, but I was not. We did not have electricity then, only those lamps, and I could see Father’s face sweating and twisting in the lamplight. Moths came and beat themselves against the lamps. Their shadows fluttered all over the walls. I knew my father would die, and I could neither think nor breathe. All that I could do was stand to the side and watch as he writhed on the table. All of our dinners we ate there. Now I knew that Grandfather would die there. Then the surgeon came with his bag, and he yelled at Grandmother to boil water, and he cut Grandfather’s uniform from his chest with his scissors. The wound was wet on Grandfather’s side and all the men in the room were quiet when they saw it. The surgeon put his metal tools into the wound, and every time he did, my father screamed. ‘It’s good that he is screaming,’ someone said to me, but I was afraid to lose my father. Then the surgeon washed his hands in the water that my mother brought because he was going to cut into my father’s side. My father called to me from the table and I went to him. His face was covered with sweat. He reached and held my face in his hand. Do you know what he said to me, Francisco?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Your grandfather petted my face and he said, ‘Lawrence, if I die, you must not cry. You are the firstborn son of the firstborn Konkan son. For five hundred years, we have lived among these Hindus. We will not start crying now. You must be brave, or I will not be proud of you. And more than anything, my son, I want to be proud of you. Everyone will depend on you when I am gone. Do you understand me, son? These Hindus may have killed me tonight, but they have not killed my son. Will you let m
e live in you as all of our fathers have lived in me?’

  “‘I promise, Father,’ I told him. That was when I understood what it meant to be a firstborn son.”

  “Did Grandfather die?”

  “You know that he is still alive, Francisco. The surgeon cut his side and took the bullet out. When Grandfather was well, they gave it to him and he threw it to the pigs in the yard. He still has the scar, right here on his belly. But he is old, and now it is my time to be the firstborn son. Do you understand me, Francisco?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “We must always protect the people we love.”

  Then my father opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and in it were a ball, and a wooden elephant, and a carved box with a knife in it. The knife was made of ivory, and my grandfather had given it to him when he’d first gone away to school in Mangalore, to open the letters my grandfather would send to him with news of the family. There were not many things from India in our house, but in the bottom drawer of my father’s desk were the few things that he had kept: the cricket ball from the tournament in Chikmagalur in which he’d bowled and taken six wickets, the carved elephant he’d been given by the beloved servant who had cared for him when he was a boy, the sandalwood box that my grandmother had kept her gold earrings in, the ivory knife with its scene of rajas riding on elephants in a tiger hunt. From that night on, I always wanted to open that drawer and touch those things, but I knew my father’s temper, and I never did.

  One time when my mother was very fat with my sister and my father was away at golf, my uncle Sam came over to tell me stories about my wife in India while he put me to bed. But first, I lay coloring a clown’s face on the living room floor while my uncle and mother sat on the couch and talked about what my sister’s name would be.

  My mother said, “How about Beatrice? That’s my great-aunt’s name, the one who took me in after I ran away from home.”