Sugarbread

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  I spent most of my afternoons in the living room these days, trying very hard to ignore God as He watched me. He just stared and stared and didn’t care that it was rude. I wanted to get away from Him but I was not allowed in my room while Nani-ji napped because I made too much noise shifting about and arranging my pencils to do my homework.

  Nani-ji stretched and I heard the soft cracking of a bone. “I’m going to make some tea,” she announced before shuffling into the kitchen. “Ask your mother if she would like some.”

  Ma was resting and I didn’t want to bother her. She took long naps in the afternoons nowadays. She told me it was because she was tired from cooking two separate meals each for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “You’re all a lot of trouble,” she said. But sometimes she didn’t sleep. I peeked into her room one day when she left the door slightly open to let the breeze in. She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling, her mouth set in a grim line.

  I got to my feet and followed Nani-ji. The kitchen looked different now. The iron plate was permanently fixed onto the stove and there were other objects I’d only ever seen at the temple before Nani-ji had moved in. There was a rolling pin and a heavy marble slab to flatten the dough on. There was also a strange and heavy bowl that appeared to have been made out of cement and a small club that went with it. Ma used it to grind the spices and powders for the gravy that went with Nani-ji’s roti. The kitchen countertop was dusty with wheat flour.

  Nani-ji guarded the pot closely as if my presence would ruin the flavour. The can of condensed milk, jar of tea leaves, some fennel and a cardamom pod lay on the counter.

  “Ma puts these in curry,” I informed Nani-ji, picking up the greenish pod. It had a small slit in the middle as though it had been cracked. When I pried apart the soft pod, three black seeds spilt out. Nani-ji turned and made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Don’t touch those,” she ordered, pushing me away. But she didn’t tell me to leave, so I stayed and peered into the pot. Tiny bubbles began to speckle the water. Nani-ji tossed in the black tea leaves with her hands and stirred until the water seemed to rust. Steam curled from the pot, carrying the aroma of tea into my nostrils. I decided that if sunlight had a taste, it would be that of black tea leaves. Nani-ji continued to stir, then she added the fennel and cardamom seeds. After that came the condensed milk, which thickened the tea and gave it a creamy colour. The water nearly came to a boil; it rose and bloated in the pot, making the dark leaves spin to the top. Nani-ji hastily pulled the pot off the stove before it had the chance to overflow. The blue ruffle of flame remained until I reminded her to turn it off. “I know,” she said crossly.

  Next, Nani-ji took a strainer out of the drawer and with her unsteady hand, she carried the pot over to the sink and drained the tea into a cup. The leaves fell in clumps into the strainer. The cup was filled to the brim when I realised she had made too much. Knowing that Nani-ji hated to waste, I took another teacup off the shelf and asked if I could have the rest.

  “Just a bit,” Nani-ji said but the excess filled over half the cup. She sat down at the dining room table with a great sigh that filled the room like smoke. I was about to take a sip when Nani-ji pulled my cup away and poured my tea into hers.

  “Hey! You said I could have some!” I protested. Nani-ji made that clicking sound again, which instantly quieted me. She poured the tea back into my cup, then back into hers again. Steam billowed from the thick column of tea as she poured back and forth. I recognised this cooling method from the temple, where the women always left a great distance between both cups as they poured so that the heat could escape. Sometimes they even poured the tea into deep plates, letting the stirring fans above them cool the large surface.

  Nani-ji slid my cup back. The top was frothy from all of the pouring. I took a sip. It was warm and spicy, different from the regular Lipton tea bags that Ma dipped into hot water and mixed with milk and sugar in the mornings.

  “This isn’t like Ma’s tea,” I said. I wasn’t certain if it was a compliment. It tasted a bit like the temple tea, but not as bitter. It was sweet and filling.

  “Your Ma doesn’t make this kind of tea,” Nani-ji said. “Your Ma doesn’t make anything the way I do.” I took another sip to see if I could taste the sadness that lined her words.

  “I like Ma’s food,” I proudly informed Nani-ji. “She cooks well. I don’t even eat in school because I prefer Ma’s cooking. And when I go to the hawker centre with Daddy, I don’t eat anything that Ma can cook because I know she can make it better.”

  Nani-ji took a slow sip from her tea. When she moved the cup from her lips, I noticed that they were shiny and I realised that she had once been young. Her eyes, which seemed like heavy window shades, had been a source of light many years ago. Those creases in her face used to only appear when she laughed.

  “You want to be like your Ma?” Nani-ji asked me.

  I nodded.

  “You know why your Ma cooks like that?”

  “Why?”

  “Because she always wanted to do things differently. It got her into more trouble than you’ll ever know.”

  I took another sip. A pointy fennel seed had somehow escaped through the strainer and bobbed to the surface of the tea. I pressed it between my lips. The flavour seeped into my mouth and I knew it was no mistake that it had entered my tea. It tasted like something old but still alive. A memory.

  “Why?” I pressed.

  Nani-ji shook her head. “Don’t become like your Ma,” she told me. She rose from the table and washed out her cup in the sink. I sat and tried to drink the rest of my tea but suddenly, there was no more room left in my stomach. I glanced at God. From that angle in the kitchen, His features were crooked. I wasn’t certain, but He looked to be in agreement with Nani-ji.

  • • •

  They fought a few days later.

  I was back from school earlier than usual that afternoon because early rains were bringing on the flu and some students had not come to school. There were fewer girls for the school bus to drop off, so the bus driver took a different route, skipping Bishan altogether. During assembly, we were asked to bow our heads in prayer for our ill friends. Some girls envied those who could stay at home, but I did not. I prayed to my own God and asked that He not make me sick as well, because I could not imagine spending an entire day in the flat with Nani-ji.

  I got off the school bus and saw Roadside on the other side of the street. I envied him for being old enough to take the MRT home from school. We waved at each other. “You coming down to play today?” he called. Traffic roared between us on the busy main road.

  “Don’t know. I’ll see,” I said. Nani-ji did not know that I played with the neighbourhood boys downstairs—when I left the flat, I told her it was to run an errand for Daddy, like going to the hardware shop or buying him a can of Coca-Cola. He went along with my lie every time but we kept this secret from Ma. I could only play with the boys if Ma was locked away in her room and Daddy was at home. I also had to be sure Nani-ji would be busy with her evening prayers by the time I got home so she wouldn’t notice how long I’d been gone and that I always came back empty-handed. I had to avoid God’s intense gaze as well. But I also got tired of going through all of that trouble just to sit on the sidelines and watch the boys play; I still couldn’t take off my kara and they still wouldn’t let me join their games unless I found a way to remove it.

  I heard voices rising as I walked down the corridor, but this was normal. Passing any window on our floor, I heard conversations in languages I suddenly wished I understood. It was only when I got closer to our flat that I realised the voices were Ma and Nani-ji’s. The shards of their words pierced the dense air.

  “When you stop shouting, I’ll listen to you,” Nani-ji said steadily.

  “I won’t stop shouting because you won’t listen to a damn thing I say,” Ma replied.

  “Jini, I came to live with you so we could talk about it and move on. God wants to forgive you,” Nani-ji said.


  “I thought you would finally listen to my side of things. You don’t know what happened that day. All you want is to believe what you heard from Pra-ji and all of those gossiping neighbours.”

  “God wants to forgive you,” Nani-ji repeated.

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Ma cried. “Why don’t you understand that? Why doesn’t anybody believe me?”

  “How is anybody expected to believe you when you called Pra-ji a liar? Pra-ji—a wise man, a religious man, a righteous man. And look at you. Look at your skin. When you were about to get married, he warned me that it would get worse if you kept on lying.”

  “Pra-ji is a liar and I’ll swear to God on that fact. I won’t ever change my mind about him and if you don’t believe me, fine. But don’t you try to tell Pin that her mother did something terrible when you don’t know the facts,” Ma declared. “That’s why you wanted to spend time with my family, isn’t it? To warn Pin about becoming like me. To watch her.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  There was a long pause before Nani-ji said, “Fine. Suit yourself. God sees everything.”

  My heart pounded. Who was Pra-ji? Pra-ji meant older brother in Punjabi and the only older brother Ma had was Mama-ji, whom Ma called Sarjit if she ever spoke about him. Ma would not add “ji” to the end of any title for her brother, because you only called people Ji if you respected them. But it didn’t sound like this Pra-ji was someone Ma looked up to either.

  I heard another voice echoing down the corridor, then the rhythmic thump of metal against the concrete steps. “Karang guni! Karang guni!” The rag-and-bone man who recycled old newspapers and telephone books was making his way through the building with his large trolley and weighing scale. He didn’t pay very much but there was nobody else to give our old things to. I strained to listen to what was going on in the flat, but Ma and Nani-ji had stopped speaking. They were probably in separate rooms now, brooding. I knocked loudly on the door.

  Ma gave me a blank stare when she opened it. “I got a letter from your school today saying there’s been a flu outbreak,” she said. She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “I’ll make you chicken soup.”

  “I’m not sick,” I told Ma.

  Ma retreated into the kitchen. I heard the clicking of the gas igniter before the hiss of stovetop flames. It sounded as if she were talking loudly to herself, but everything she said was meant to reach Nani-ji’s ears. She did this sometimes when she was angry with Daddy or me. “Nobody believes me. All thought I was lying then, think I’m lying now. They’d rather believe a bloody sick old man than her own daughter. Righteous man, she calls him, after all these years.”

  Then she came out of the kitchen and leant against the doorframe, her head tilted towards the front door. At first I thought she was listening to something God was saying but then I realised that she was just listening for the karang guni man. He called out and honked a small horn like there was something to celebrate in taking our old things. The commotion of his clanging trolley, his horn and his loud calls made it sound like there were several people parading down our corridor, but the karang guni man was of small build and practically invisible. A sudden smile lit Ma’s face.

  “Pin, help me bring out all of the old newspapers,” Ma called. “Open the door for the man and give him everything. We need to get rid of all these old things.” Her voice bounced against the walls of my room, where Nani-ji could surely hear it. I went to the storeroom and began taking out stacks of yellowing newspapers. I was not afraid of the storeroom any more, now that God did not lurk in the dark corner behind my bicycle with training wheels and a box of shoes I had outgrown. I tripped over a pile of twisted wire hangers and a puff of dust entered my lungs, making me cough. If Nani-ji saw the state of our storeroom, she’d surely have more to say about dirt and Ma’s skin. This was where Ma hid everything she did not want to deal with.

  “Karang guni!” the man called out, passing our window. He peeked into the flat. Ma told me to deal with him, then she hurried into her bedroom. “Karang guni!” he shouted, tooting the horn.

  “Here,” I said, feeding him newspapers through the railings of the gate. In her rush, Ma had forgotten to unlock the gate. I gave the man two old telephone directories and a few furniture catalogues that had come free in the mail. The karang guni man looked as old as Bus Uncle but he did not have that mean look. He would not call me names. As he weighed, he asked me questions in broken English.

  “You how old?”

  “Ten,” I said.

  “Primary what?”

  “Four.”

  “Wah. So big girl. Speak English also good. You go to which school hah?”

  I waved in the direction of the school. Past our corridor, past the blocks of flats and the glossy leaves of trees were shapes of neighbourhood schools, short and boxy. I did not want to show off and tell him I went to a Christian school.

  “Study hard, ah,” he warned me. “Otherwise, become karang guni man also hard. Must go here go there, carry heavy thing, give money. Wah,” he exclaimed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Difficult.”

  Ma would have said that this was a tactic to get me to feel sorry for him so I accepted whatever price he offered for the things we no longer needed. But he really did look tired.

  “Uncle, you want water?” I asked him.

  “Huh? No, lah!” he chuckled, dismissing me as if I had been crazy to offer. “So nice ah you. Don’t need lah. No trouble.” He swiftly tied a few long pieces of pink raffia around the entire stack I gave him, then he hooked his scale to the fat knot in the middle. His slight frame trembled as he lifted, did a quick calculation, then dug into his pockets to search for change.

  Then Ma came out of her room, the keys dangling from her fingers. “Take these also,” she said after she unlocked the gates. She thrust a stack of loose cards at the karang guni man. “Make sure you recycle them properly,” she said.

  The karang guni man looked at the cards, then backed away. He told her he would not take them.

  “Take. Just take,” Ma said, pushing the cards to the man.

  “No, no, no,” the man said, frowning. “I don’t take this.”

  I looked at what Ma was giving him. They were not cards. They were old black-and-white photographs of different shapes and sizes, with perforated edges. There were five of them altogether and they would weigh almost nothing. At first I wondered why Ma wanted to sell them if they would be worth nothing, then I realised it was just that. She wanted somebody to tell her they were worth nothing.

  “Give them to me,” I told Ma. The only old pictures I had ever seen were the ones of her wedding. Before that, there were no traces that Ma even existed. I wondered where she’d been keeping these photographs this whole time.

  “Take,” Ma said, violently thrusting the pictures at the man. His arms flew up to protect himself. I flinched as well, thinking that Ma had hit him. She certainly looked wild enough then. I turned around and looked at God. Do something, I urged Him. But He just watched like an amused passer-by.

  The karang guni man’s hands struck the photographs just as Ma loosened her hold on them. They shot out in every direction and littered the floor. The man handed me the money and hastily dragged his cart away. “Sorry,” I called after him but he did not turn around.

  Ma did not pick up the pictures. She stepped over them calmly, went into her room and shut the door. Then she cried loudly. Her sobbing made me feel like I was being split inside. One part of me wanted to cry along with her, but the other part wanted to shake her until the truth escaped her lips, until her foggiest memories cleared, so I would understand what she had done wrong.

  I sat on the floor for a long time before I fanned out the pictures and studied them. There were Nani-ji and Nana-ji, too young then to be known by those titles, their faces like stone slabs, harsh angles in black and white. Shadows misted their eyes and there were no smiles, not even a hint of happiness. There was Ma, a toddler, looking p
ast the camera with round eyes. There she was again, a teenager with slick plaits down her back and stiffness in her shoulders, like she was preparing to take over the world. There was Mama-ji Sarjit standing next to her, skinny and sharp-chinned, less stern in those days; he looked startled. They all did. And then there was another boy. He was a baby in one picture, sitting on Nani-ji’s lap, and then he was taller, leaning against Ma in another shot. After that, there were no more pictures of him. He must have been a cousin or a neighbour’s child. I noticed him because he was the only one who smiled, but in a slightly crooked way that made him look cheeky.

  Ma did not come out again for dinner. The soup kept on boiling and I knew it was all she could cook for tonight. Nani-ji came out of her room, made me sit with her for prayers, then made roti for the evening. She gave me two pieces and wrapped four more for Ma and Daddy, which I thought was kind, considering the fight she’d just had with Ma and how much she despised Daddy. The surprise must have shown on my face. She caught me watching her.

  “You think I’m cruel, don’t you?” she asked softly.

  Yes, I thought, although I knew I’d get the chilli for sure if I agreed with her. I hated trick questions and thought Nani-ji was quite sneaky for trying to get me into trouble.

  “I’m not, Pin. I love your mother like your mother loves you. But your mother lies. Your mother did something terrible when she was a bit older than you. She kept secrets and she made up stories.”

  “She did not,” I said.

  “Somebody died because of your mother,” Nani-ji said evenly.

  I took in a sharp breath because the word “die” was so harsh in Punjabi. It pushed into my chest and settled there like a stone. And then it made me furious. How could Nani-ji say something like that about Ma?