by Sharon Maas
Nat had a Golden Hand as a waiter and it was not long before he found himself solicited to move on to bigger and better things. People noted his name and address; wealthy people rang him up and asked him to come and help with their weddings and religious ceremonies, and paid him handsomely. Finally he was permanently lured away by a fat Bengali, a Mr Chatterji who actually spoke not a word of Bengali, and in fact had never been to India and was a converted Christian bearing the name of William, who ran an Indian catering service.
Five years later, eight years after his first arrival from India, Nat was assistant manager of this catering service, an attractive and successful young man: a true-blue Londoner. He drove a green van with a caricature of an Indian waiter on the side, turbaned and in a dhoti, holding up a plate piled high with chapattis, smiling and winking at the world, and next to that the inscription: Bharat Catering Services — Veg and Non-Veg Meals — Weddings, Religious Functions — Bengali and Tandoori Specialities — Best Quality for Price.
It wasn't, strictly speaking, quite the thing to take the girls out in, but for some reason they adored it, thinking it quaint, and would rather go out with Nat in his Bharat van than with the Barclay's Bank manager in his Jag. Nat had never cared much for mere things, and he was never for one moment lured by possessions — perishables, he called these — or tempted to enhance his image by expensive cars, stereos, watches, and so on. Nor did he give expensive presents, nor did he feel the need to move to a bigger flat. He still lived in his Notting Hill Gate room, which he now shared with another Gujarati student, a cousin of the first one, now an up-and-coming solicitor in a Chancery Lane firm.
He hardly ever wrote to his father. He had found his way in London. He never lost his touch with women.
One evening Nat poured himself a whisky, reached for the telephone receiver with his free hand, clamped it under his chin, leafed through his dog-eared telephone book — S for Sarah — and dialled a number.
'Hallo, Sarah, how's my favourite lady?'
She giggled. 'Oh, come on, you, I bet you say that to every single girl!'
'No I don't, you really are! Any plans for tonight? Can you fit me in?'
'Any time... where to?'
'Les Enfants Terribles? I’ll pick you up about eight, all right?'
'Wonderful!'
A few hours later Nat and Sarah tumbled up the stairs, wrapped in each other's arms, laughing, eager, all arms and legs and swinging hair, his as long as hers. Nat fumbled for his key, turned it in the lock, they tumbled into the flat, into his room, leaving a trail of shoes and Nat's shirt across the hall, Nat tearing at her blouse, she shrieking at the fun of it all, as they tumbled into his room…
The light was on.
In the corner between the bed and the couch a man rose to his feet, from the floor. A small man with a friendly face and great flapping ears, coming forward with his hand stretched out, saying, 'Hello Nat . ..'
'Henry!'
'Yes, it's me. Sorry for barging in like this — would have rang you up first, but Adam didn't have your telephone number; all we had was your address, so I just came in the hope that you'd be here.'
Sarah stood with her back turned, buttoning up her blouse. Nat grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair and slipped his arms into it, glowering.
'Who let you in?'
'Well, who do you think? That nice Gujarati chap in the next room. He even gave me a cup of tea and some crisps. We had a nice talk, but then he had to retire to do some studying. Said you'd be in later and I thought I'd wait. Seems it wasn't such a good idea after all…' his eyes shifted to the doorway where Sarah could be seen in the hall, shoving her stockinged feet into her shoes.
'Bye, Nat. See you next weekend!' she called, and the front door slammed. Nat collapsed on the bed.
'But... why... I didn't know you were coming... what...'
'I didn't know I was coming myself. Just flew in the day before yesterday. Got some business in London: got to see a heart specialist, catch up with the family, a few matters to look into for Doctor... May I take a seat? Thank you.'
Henry sat down again, on the floor, as in India.
'Did Dad send you?'
'No, Nat, he didn't send me. But he did ask me to drop by and find out how you're doing. And he's hoping you'll come home in three weeks. I've taken the liberty of booking you onto the same flight I'm returning on.'
'Well, that certainly is a liberty! Who said I'm coming to India this summer? How d'you know what my plans are? How dare you...’
Nat’s voice rose. He got up and paced from wall to wall, coming to a stop above Henry, tailor-seated on the carpet. Nat glowered down, almost threatening in his anger. Henry remained calm.
'Nat, it's been eight years! Eight years! Don't you think your dad wants to see you after all this time? I just thought, hoped, I might persuade you to come, that's all. Come on, sit down. Let’s talk this through.'
But Nat began to pace again.
'And don't I count? What I want to do with my life? Henry, I'm just not into India any more. I don't know if I'll ever be. I've settled down here, I'm doing well...’
'Why did you break off your studies?'
'Well, I just decided I don't want to be a doctor.'
'And what are you doing? Why don't you ever write? Why don't you say a word about what's going on? Every Christmas a card: Dear Dad, I've got a new job, I'm doing fine, love Nat. What kind of...’
'Look, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Did anyone ever ask me if I wanted to be a doctor? All my life I've been maneuvered into a profession that has nothing whatsoever to do with me... I...'
'Don't talk rubbish. You know as well as I do that back home it was what you wanted. You're a born doctor and you know it.'
Nat rubbed behind his ear. 'Anyway, what's the point? It's over, I'm doing well. I've got myself a life. I'm not going to be a doctor. Finished.'
'It would have been nice if you'd at least dropped by to discuss things with your father, before making a decision.'
'Look, Henry: I was a grown man when I made the decision. Can you give me one good reason to discuss things with my father?'
'Merely as a matter of courtesy, which I shouldn't have to explain to you, for goodness' sake, Nat. Since he was the one financing you…after all he’s done…'
'Look, d'you mind getting off my back? If there's one thing I can't stand it's parents laying a guilt trip on their children… "After all I've done for you…" '
Nat’s voice was mocking, sneering.
'It's not your dad saying that, it's me. Because he has done more for you than you can ever imagine and it would have just been nice, Nat, if you could have come and explained things to him yourself. I shouldn't have to spell this out for you. Your father's the last one to reproach you but he does love you and thinks about you and wonders what's going on. And it breaks my heart to see him working himself almost to death, longing for a word from you, and then to see how callous you've become. And that's the reason, the only reason, I've booked this flight. Nat, do I have to beg you? Come home! Just for a while! Just talk to him! He'd have come himself but he can't, he's up to his ears in work and he can't leave his patients. He needs you, Nat!'
'Yes, exactly, that's it! He needs me! All his life he's been raising me just for himself, to help him with his work, what he wants for me. You know what I call that? That's selfishness; it's just plain egoism! What about me? What about what I want?'
But even as he said the words he felt a pain like the twisting of a knife inside him, and a picture of his father's eyes rose in his mind's eye, eyes that carried no reproach but only understanding. Nat shook his head to rid himself of that vision, and his hand rose to the back of his neck where he rubbed the spot that calmed him.
'Would you talk that way if he were a Harley Street doctor with a brass plate on his door, giving you the opportunity to be his partner?'
'Well, that's different!'
'What's so different about it?'
&
nbsp; 'Well, I'd have had the choice!'
'And, Nat, given your natural talent, you would have done it. That's not the problem, Nat. The problem is inside you. That's why you look such a mess. Why you are a mess.'
'If you came here to moralise . . .'
'I'm not moralising at all. I'm just stating a fact that's open for all to see. Look at yourself in the mirror. That's not the same chap I said goodbye to eight years ago, not even allowing for age. What's become of you?'
'Come off it, Henry. Get off my back. I've got to live my own life and I'll live it the way I want to. I'm not your little lad any more and I don't need your approval for what I do, thank you very much.'
'Nat, you're sulking. How old are you now? Twenty-seven? You act more like a sixteen-year-old in the throes of an adolescent rebellion. Well, I suppose it had to come sooner or later. Throwing you into deep water probably wasn't the best way, and if your dad had known how much times have changed since he was a student in England he wouldn't have done it. But somehow I never thought of you as a young rebel.'
'If there's one thing I can't stand it's moralizing and preaching.'
'Yes, you told me already. And if there's one thing I can't stand it's bratty know-it-alls, so I'll just bow out gently. By the way: Sheila, Adam and the twins send their love and say you should drop by again. Seems you made a lasting impression on the twins, since you were there last — what, three years ago? — they've jumped on this India bandwagon and it's been Harekrishna and Yoga and God knows what all; doesn't help that their father grew up in India himself, kind of a status symbol. Right now they're into Buddhism. Anyway, they asked me to give you this, and hope you haven't read it yet.'
Henry picked up a cloth bag from the floor and just seeing it gave Nat a little stab in his heart, for he recognised it, it was one of those cloth bags they gave you when you made a purchase at the dry-goods stores in Town, to put your cloth in, covered all over with a Tamil inscription. Poompookar, said the bag, in the curlicues of the Tamil alphabet which Nat found he could, miraculously, still read. Special sari show room, artificial-silk saris, best quality. Polyester shirts and suitings.
A memory rose involuntarily in his mind: he and his father standing at the counter chatting with Mr Poompookar while an attendant measured out a length of cotton, ripping it expertly, folding it and scribbling the price in biro on the wad of cloth, a habit the dry-goods salesmen religiously indulged in no matter what you told them. Doctor collecting the bill at the cashier's booth and counting out the limp little rupee bills and paying; having another attendant putting the cloth into a bag like this and stepping down into the pandemonium of the street, into the swirling traffic, the medley of rickshaws and cyclists and pedestrians zig-zagging through each other as in a mad dance to the music of honking rickshaw horns and bicycle bells and screeching brakes.
Henry threw a slender, blue-wrapped slab on to the bed. 'A present. With love from Nina and Jule.' He stood up, slinging the straps of the cloth bag across his arm, so that the bag, almost empty now, swung limp from the crook of his elbow as he placed the palms of his hands together. Poompookar. Best quality goods. At the door he stopped, turned, and did namaste.
'Namaste, Nat. Give me a call if you change your mind.'
Without thinking Nat found the palms of his own hands joining, returning Henry's greeting. Then Henry was gone, and Nat was alone with the stab of pain in his chest and the ghost of Mr Poompookar's smile still hovering in his mind and the unmistakable sweet fragrance of India permeating the room, left behind by Henry and his bag.
Tears gathered in Nat's eyes. He covered his face. A wave of shame and guilt and regret shuddered through him, and silent tears gushed forth. He picked up the book Nina and Jule had given him; read the title. He’d read it already, of course.
That's me, he said to himself. Siddhartha is me. Siddhartha, who lost the bird of happiness in the arms of the prostitute Kamala, who lost himself and all that was most precious…
'Henry ?'
'Oh, hello, Nat, how are you?'
'I'm all right . . .' He paused; Henry waited.
'Henry, did you keep that plane reservation?'
'Of course. Have you had second thoughts?'
'Yes. Henry, I — I've decided to go home.'
28
Chapter Twenty-eight
Saroj
Georgetown, 1968
A gang of African hooligans threw a bomb into the Purushottama-Temple. Indians ran screaming from the premises and into the street, their clothes on fire. They flung themselves into the grass verges beside the street and rolled out the flames. Before the fire engine could arrive the building was an inferno, the two neighbouring wooden houses were also alight. The inhabitants of those houses fled in time, but six Indians were killed in the temple, which was completely razed.
Workers came to measure the Roy house for a fire escape. Baba received anonymous threats. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘Animals!’
Saroj looked at her watch for the third time. Trixie was late. She had had to stay at school in detention for an extra period, so Saroj had gone to the library in the meantime and now was waiting for her at Booker's Snack Bar. She had finished her milkshake and the girl behind the counter had thrown her the second vicious glance — they liked you to go when you'd finished, but Saroj suspected that it was more because the girl was black and these days living in an Indian skin drew those kinds of glances from blacks. She squirmed on her seat, uncrossed her legs, swivelled half around to watch for Trixie.
She loosened her school tie and considered ordering a second milkshake, but there wasn't much time. This was to have been just a quick meeting, a cold drink and then a visit to Bata to help Trixie choose her latest shoes, after which they'd return to school for hockey. The man next to her paid for his sandwich and vacated his stool. Three black girls in Central High School uniforms edged themselves into the space next to Saroj. One of them slid herself on to the empty stool, and the other two glared at her.
'You finish? You not going?' said a tall lanky girl with an angry face, glowering at her.
Saroj looked at her watch once more. Trixie was twenty minutes late; she couldn't possibly wait any longer. She swivelled her stool around and was about to slip off when the second of the two standing girls gave her a shove from behind and she landed on all fours on the ground. The three girls cackled with laughter, and Saroj stood up, furious, brushing the dust from her uniform.
'Why'd you do that? I was leaving anyway!'
The girl wiggled her hips, pursed her lips, and said, imitating Saroj's accent, 'Why'd you do that? Oh my dear, listen to Miss Prim and Proper Cooly talking white!'
'I was leaving anyway!' said another girl, in an exaggerated BBC accent.
'Well, what about a nice cup of tea?' said the other in a stylised falsetto, carrying on the charade.
Tears stung Saroj's eyes. The way she spoke was a fact of life — after all, Ma spoke that way too, and she had never made the effort to speak Creolese. Now and then she had been teased about her English accent, but always the teasing had been friendly. This was downright mean.
The girls encircled her now — worse, they were joined by a group of boys, also in Central uniforms.
'That cooly-gal givin' ya'll trouble?' A boy with a six-inch Afro, the tallest, probably eldest of the group, pushed himself to the front of the group and stood directly before Saroj, staring down at her, almost touching her. She tried to step backwards but a girl behind her pushed her forwards so that she actually found herself in the boy's embrace — for he closed his arms around her and gripped her tightly.
'Hey, Errol, leave she alone, I jealous!' cried one of the girls.
'Give she it good, boy!' called someone else.
The boy holding her was pushing his face into her cheek, trying to nibble her ear. His hand was in her hair, kneading her back. She squirmed, grunting and protesting, to free herself, but he only held her tighter and laughed: 'Look how she winin' up! I like dem movements
, girl!'
'Hey boy, you tekin' all de sweetness! Is me turn now! I never had a cooly-gal yet!' A second boy tried to push the first away and grab Saroj, but the other swung her around, clasping her to his chest.
'Oh, she sweet, man, too sweet!' He ground his hips against her. She tried to cry out but his mouth was on hers, and all the others were cheering, clapping him on.
'Go on boy, tek she! Tek she right now!'
Out of the corner of her eye Saroj saw an Indian woman, probably a housewife out shopping, peer into the group to see what was going on. Fright passed across the woman's face and she turned away and was gone. Behind the counter the girl stood smiling superciliously. Several of the customers had left; at least seven of the stools were now empty. No-one, it seemed, whether African or Indian, wanted to get involved.
What happened next happened so quickly that before she knew it, it was all over, and all she remembered was the loud thump as a thick French dictionary landed on the boy's head. Then a kicking, flailing-fisted, flashing-eyed Trixie pushed herself between Saroj and the stunned boy and in the next moment Saroj's molesters, boys and girls alike, had flown. Trixie dusted off her hands and gave Saroj her most wicked grin. She bent to pick up the schoolbooks lying scattered on the ground. She grabbed Saroj's hand, held it with intertwined fingers.
'Come, girl, we got to go. No time for a drink. Sorry I'm late; Miss Dewer came by and gave me an impromptu lecture about politeness to teachers. What a bloody bore!'
It was too much to hope that Baba would completely forget the Ghosh boy. He didn't. As was his wont, he made the announcement at the breakfast table only two weeks after the razing of the Purushottama Temple.
'The Ghosh family is coming to tea on Saturday afternoon. I am expecting you to be on your best behaviour, Sarojini.'