Sugarbread

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  “Once. I was pregnant with you and I was craving all sorts of funny things. I ate durian back then too. I don’t even like durian.”

  “What’s the dragon fruit like?” I asked. I didn’t need her to go on about durians. The foul smell was bad enough, like rotting fruit.

  “It’s…I don’t know, honestly. I can’t remember. Why don’t you try it for yourself?” Ma asked.

  I shook my head. “No thanks. I was just curious.” I was afraid I would hate it, then I’d get a scolding for wasting food.

  “Come on, Pin. I’m curious too. I haven’t eaten it since before you were born. If you don’t like it, you can give it to me,” she said. I decided that this was fair, and I nodded in agreement. Ma sprang from the table and hurried into the market. I took another long sip of my coconut water, feeling my belly bloat. The sweetness was overwhelming. It blocked the smell of fish, raw meat, incense and wet cardboard that wafted out of the lanes. I didn’t mind the mingling smells any more. I knew that if Ma was to trust me to run errands on my own, then I needed to get used to the market. When the smells entered my nostrils, I pretended they weren’t so strong or I willed myself to taste something different in my mouth. The coconut water made it easier of course but if I didn’t have a drink, I thought of rich chocolate or sweet sticky lapis sagu.

  Ma returned with slices of dragon fruit on a plate. She picked up a satay stick and skewered a slice. “Try it,” she said, handing the fruit to me. “And if you like it, then hurry up and finish. We have a lot to shop for tonight. Your Mama-ji is coming over for dinner.”

  Hearing Ma mention Mama-ji distracted me for a moment, and as my teeth sank into the crunchy slice, I couldn’t taste anything. Then I remembered what had happened a few weeks ago and suddenly the sweet dragon fruit juices filled my mouth. I took another piece, then pushed the plate back to Ma.

  “You finish it,” I told her. She popped a slice into her mouth. Her eyes were glazed over. She was searching her mind for recipes. I knew she would have to invent something new this evening. She had never prepared a meal that stood for forgiveness, love and the erasing of bad memories all at once. For a moment, I dreaded entering the market, thinking of how frantic Ma would become when ideas began to flood her mind. But then I thought of Mama-ji laughing and chatting with Ma at our dinner table and a sense of peacefulness settled over me like a blanket.

  • • •

  Mama-ji had shown up at our flat the previous Saturday morning, ringing the doorbell. I was sitting down in front of the television, lazily flipping through channels. I thought it might be the karang guni man again but I sat up when I realised that I hadn’t heard him call out or honk his horn. I scrambled to my feet and looked through the peephole. I was expecting so much to see a woman—either Rani or Fat Auntie—that I was shocked instead to see a man. He was looking down at his feet, so I could not recognise his face at first. Out of habit, I called for Ma but then I remembered that she was at her doctor’s appointment at the skin clinic. Daddy was working a morning shift. I squinted and looked through the peephole again. “Who is it?” I called out. I tried to sound assured.

  The man did not answer. He acted like he had not heard me, or maybe he really hadn’t. The noises of traffic and construction from across the road made it difficult to hear anything through the doors lately. Daddy said it was just as well because he was starting to get tired of hearing the neighbours’ arguments. “I shouldn’t be listening to their family problems any more than they should be listening to ours, don’t you think?” he asked me. For some reason, it had never occurred to me until then that the other families in our block had similar problems that seemed larger than life in their private worlds. I agreed wholeheartedly.

  When I finally opened the door, I was so stunned to see who it was that I couldn’t utter a greeting. The only words that threatened to spill out of my mouth were strings of questions and accusations. What are you doing here? Are you going to scold me? Why didn’t you believe my Ma? What do you want? But Mama-ji did not look like he was there to stir up trouble. In fact, he looked slightly nervous. He rocked back and forth on his feet as if to keep his balance on unsteady ground. He kept his hands behind his back but brought them forward to begin a wave that he never completed.

  “Hello, Pin,” he said awkwardly. His arms hung by his sides like dead branches.

  “My mother and father are not at home,” I said. I tried to keep the iciness out of my tone but it was there anyway. I noted the slight raise of Mama-ji’s eyebrow and I realised I had gone too far. “Please come in,” I said, unlatching the padlock that held the gates tightly together.

  Mama-ji stepped inside the flat and I remembered to ask him if he wanted a drink. “A glass of water, please,” he said. “No ice.” I went into the kitchen and poured water from the tap into a tall sea-green glass Ma reserved for guests. The rattan chair creaked as Mama-ji sat down, then I heard him chuckle. “Watching cartoons early in the morning, girl?” he asked me. I searched his eyes for sarcasm but he looked genuinely amused.

  “I like them,” I said defensively before shutting off the television.

  “How is school?” he asked. “You’re in Primary Five now?”

  “Yes,” I said, pleased that he knew. Most people would have taken one look at me and guessed that I was still in Primary Three.

  “You’re still going to the girls’ school?” he asked. “The Christian one?” I nodded. “It’s a good school,” he said. “Sometimes I wished I had enrolled your cousins at First Christian Boys’ School. All they learn in their school is foul language from the other children.” He shook his head. “Your mother was right to send you there.”

  “I like it,” I replied. I looked at God, who was expressionless. He seemed to be looking at both my uncle and myself with the same blank stare. Silence followed. Mama-ji sipped loudly from his glass.

  “My mother’s not at home,” I said again. Why are you here? I really wanted to say.

  “Yes, I know,” Mama-ji said. “I won’t be staying long. I have somewhere to be, actually. I wasn’t expecting to be invited in but I just realised that I haven’t spoken to you since you were a little girl. And you’ve grown up so much since.” The lines at the edges of his deep-set eyes crinkled as he grimaced. “I feel like I haven’t spoken to your mother for an eternity.”

  I did not know what to say. “I’ll tell her that you came looking for her,” I said.

  “Please do. I want to speak to her. Also, give her this,” he said. He reached into his back pocket and with a slightly trembling hand, he presented the small velvet pouch. It bulged with an oddly familiar shape—Ma’s jewellery. “Actually, this is a gift for you, isn’t it? Mothers always pass the wedding jewellery down to their daughters when it’s their time. Or these days they melt it down and shape it into something more trendy.”

  I opened the pouch and inspected the contents, feeling the weight of the jewellery in my hand. Mama-ji smiled at me. I was too surprised to smile back. “But Auntie…” I said.

  Mama-ji’s smile remained on his face but it was accompanied now by a loud sigh. “Oh, let me worry about your Auntie. Rani called us one day and asked to speak to her, but your Auntie was not home so I asked Rani why she was calling. She blurted out the whole story, then hung up before I had a chance to ask her anything. It was all I needed to know though. Why would somebody lie about something like that? Particularly Rani. She was always a sweet person. She wouldn’t lie. In my heart, I never believed that she had run around with those Malay boys. I think Pra-ji wanted a reason to keep her from working for somebody else. Several wealthy families had gone to Pra-ji’s house and seen what a hard worker she was, and had offered to pay her more to work for them. He knew that he couldn’t match their offers so he made up stories about her. The poor thing. So many people talked about her after that, I think she herself started to believe their stories.”

  “If you believed Rani, then why didn’t you believe Ma?” I asked angrily. I gripped t
he jewellery bag tightly in case this was a cruel trick.

  “I believed your Ma, dear girl,” Mama-ji said shamefully. “I always believed her. But I was too afraid to speak up. I’m sure your Ma has told you all about the Punjabis we grew up with. If Pra-ji insisted it was raining on a day when the sun was shining brightly and there were no clouds in sight, everyone would believe him and call you a fool. Or worse, a traitor. At the time, I thought it was important to have those people on my side. Our father was gone and people were already whispering behind our backs. One day, a group of teenage boys were saying terrible things about your Ma and I defended her. Instead of backing down, they shouted back that our whole family was a mess. They said, ‘Your father left you, your mother’s a maid and your sister’s…’” At this point, Mama-ji seemed to remember he was talking to me and he cleared his throat. “They said I wasn’t much of a man if I couldn’t even keep my sister under control. They said nasty things about my wife, your Auntie, as well. I started keeping quiet because I didn’t want to give them a chance to insult me any more. The more invisible I became, the less people bothered me.”

  Mama-ji patted my knee and rose from his seat. “You keep that jewellery safe and be sure to tell your mother I stopped by,” he said. He paused and looked at God as if seeing Him for the first time. “I understand if she’s still angry at me. The kind of betrayal I showed by not standing up for her in the first place…well, it takes more than a lifetime to forgive that. But I’m thankful that Rani spoke to me. She confirmed everything I already knew but needed to hear anyway.” He shook his head and suddenly, his eyes became cloudy. He directed his gaze towards God again. “I only wish your Nani-ji had been around to find out the truth.”

  When he walked out of the gate, I was still speechless. I had run into my bedroom, stuffed the pouch of jewellery under my pillow and sat on my bed, my mind racing.

  At first, Ma thought the returned jewellery was an elaborate joke. She called Mama-ji and the first words that came out of her mouth were, “Who do you think you are, coming to my house and telling your pitiful side of things to my daughter? Don’t you think her mind has been poisoned enough? You would have been happy to see how terribly Ma portrayed me when she was living here. She made it sound like I gave Bilu that bleach to drink. You tell your wife—”

  But then her voice fell away and she listened. I did not hear what Mama-ji was saying. Ma looked transfixed all of a sudden. I wanted to pick up the extension but then I remembered what Daddy had said about listening to other families’ problems. This conversation was about Ma’s family, the family she had long before Daddy and I became a part of her life.

  Ma finally hung up an hour later. She entered my room, drying her eyes with her long sleeves. Tears streaked her face. I handed her the jewellery pouch and told her it was all there. She didn’t bother checking to see if I was telling the truth.

  “I’ll keep it aside for you,” she said, managing a smile. “We’ll put it in a safe deposit box in a bank and when you’re old enough, you can melt it down and get something really beautiful made out of it.”

  Rays of light from the setting sun poured in through the slats in my blinds, casting shadowy streaks across the flat. God sat still, anticipating. It would be a long time before I could claim the jewellery as my own but I already knew that I would keep it exactly the way it was.

  • • •

  Ma twisted her lips now. “I can’t eat any more dragon fruit,” she said. “More than a few slices and it just becomes too much.”

  “We shouldn’t waste it,” I pointed out. Ma began looking around as if searching for somebody through the crowd. When she finally fixed her eyes on something, I followed her gaze. She was looking at the juice stall owner. “Wait here, Pinny,” she said softly. She brought the plate of fruit to him and kindly asked if he wanted any. “Otherwise we’ll throw it away,” I heard her saying in Malay. “And I hate to waste food.” The man looked hesitant at first but then he took the plate. “Thank you,” he said. He gave me a small wave and smiled. I waved back.

  Ma gestured for me to get up. “All of the good vegetables and meat are going to be gone by the time you’re finished with your drink,” she lamented. “Bring the coconut with you.” I picked it up and followed her to the mouth of the lane, where people poured out with their sagging shopping bags.

  “Ready? I asked Ma. I grabbed her hand and we went in.

  Ma and I shuffled from stall to stall without saying much. She pointed at fruits and vegetables, and I picked them up to inspect the skin for bruises and marks. I couldn’t help but look at Ma’s arms when I did this. Her skin was improving now that she was less stressed about the jewellery and her problems with Fat Auntie. Scars and some redness still remained just beneath the surface of her skin like ghostly shadows, always a reminder. She was still diligent about applying her cream, and wore long sleeves out of habit. But I noticed that she did not worry as much about me as she used to. If I had a rash from scratching a mosquito bite or a swollen spot on my face, Ma did not panic. She just reminded me to take care and rubbed some mild lotion on the area before I slept at night.

  “What exactly are you cooking tonight?” I asked Ma. It was an important night, the first time that Mama-ji and Ma would eat a meal together since they had lived together as brother and sister. Fat Auntie was invited too—I had heard Ma politely telling her at the temple a week ago that she would be happy to have her over—but she had haughtily told Ma that she had other plans.

  “I don’t know,” she said. We were at the dry goods stall. Ma reached for a basket and began throwing in shallots, cloves of garlic and knotted ginger roots. She handed the basket to a woman who stood in shadow behind the wooden plank counter. “Give me the best price,” she told the woman distractedly, tracing her finger along the sides of a crate full of plump rambutans at the next stall. The woman was expressionless as she weighed the contents of the basket and told Ma her price. It sounded too high to me but Ma quickly paid and we went on.

  After the dry goods, we went to the chicken stall, then the fish stall, then bought more vegetables, leaves, spices and roots. I watched as stallholders raised their knives and chopped fruits. I turned away when I saw them sawing through the bones of dead animals, whose entrails were piled in a corner. We left the market with more bags than I had ever remembered carrying. I knew we’d have to stop to rest a few times on the way home. Ma strutted ahead of me, suddenly filled with a sense of purpose. I still didn’t know what she planned on cooking and neither did she. But she was walking as if it didn’t matter. She would figure it out.

  “Hey!” Ma stopped and waved. I had to shade my eyes from the morning sun to see who she was calling out to. It was Daddy, walking out of the 4D shop. His head was down and he was concentrating hard on his tickets, willing them to become winning numbers. Ma kept on waving and she shouted his name, but he did not look up.

  “Your father. Now he’s bought his numbers, he’ll be thinking of them all day,” Ma said, shaking her head.

  I laughed. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s Daddy.”

  “Pin,” Ma said, her eyes still on Daddy as he slowly approached. “I want you to know something, in case you ever have any doubts.”

  A familiar sense of dread welled up in my stomach. Here we were, in the same place we had been the first time Ma told me she never wanted me to become like her. The canvas awnings shaded the shops below, and the windows from an opposite block reflected the glaring sunlight. “What?” I asked, wanting to close my eyes and ask her to stop.

  Ma looked at Daddy, who finally noticed us. He waved back with the hand that held his tickets so they flapped in the air like wings.

  “I was never forced to marry your father. I know I said before that when people found out about me, my choices were limited…and they were. But I would have chosen your Daddy anyway. If I could go back to the past, I would change everything but that.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I know,” I said. The smile Ma
returned lit up her entire face, making her look happier than I had ever seen her.

  I looked at Daddy walking towards us now, tucking his tickets into his pocket, then pulling them out again to make sure the numbers hadn’t changed while he wasn’t looking. I blinked and I saw him again, this time a rail-thin boy with skin darkened by the sun, a mess of curls on his head, racing down a dusty path that wound through old houses. In my mind, he was chasing a football until it vanished, but he kept on going until he saw one house—Jini’s house. He stopped outside, picked at the grass and even dared to touch the gate. Nobody came to chase him away.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my family for their encouragement and support, especially when this novel made the Epigram Books Fiction Prize shortlist. Thank you to my husband, Paul, whose cooking skills rival those of Ma in this novel. I love you.

  Inman Majors, Pinckney Benedict and Richard Bausch saw the earliest drafts of this novel when I was a student. Their faith in the story and their guidance made it possible to complete this book years after I left school.

  Thank you to Edmund Wee, Sheri Goh, Melissa De Silva, editor Jason Erik Lundberg and the rest of the publishing team at Epigram Books for their vision, support and feedback. Thank you to the judges of the Epigram Books Fiction Prize for including this novel on such an esteemed shortlist.

  About the author

  Balli Kaur Jaswal is also the author of Inheritance, a universal story of family, identity and belonging, newly re-released by Epigram Books. Born in Singapore and raised in Japan, Russia and the Philippines, she studied creative writing in the United States. She has received writing fellowships from the University of East Anglia and Nanyang Technological University, and was named Best Young Australian Novelist of 2014 by the Sydney Morning Herald.