by Polly McGee
***
Lola observed Rocky’s wound, hoping that prolonged staring would make it better. The ear was definitely not going to reattach. She had to concede that Gajrup was right; the best thing to do would be to remove it. Lola was amazed at the resilience of the dog, and his willingness to trust her seemingly so unconditionally. Rocky suddenly sat up, looking around as if he had lost something.
Lola felt the tug of her charge and panicked. She couldn’t let him go, but she couldn’t keep holding him by his collar with her arm for a leash. Gajrup had been gone for what seemed to be forever, and she had no way of contacting him or Poona. Rocky was pulling her somewhere, so she followed along. She was mindful of the need to stay near the temple as the only landmark she had between her and being completely lost in India.
Rocky stopped at a large puddle close by and lapped at it furiously, front paws submerged in the muddy edge.
‘Thirsty boy.’
Lola looked at their joint reflection, smashed and refracted by the drinking frenzy. She knew she had to make a decision. She splashed a bit of water on Rocky’s head as he drank to moisten the fur and soften the crust around the site of the wound. She opened Gajrup’s knife. The blade was not a talisman for hygiene, showing traces of all manner of daily slicing. Outside the temple, the priest was lighting the small ghee lamps that signalled sunset was descending. Perfect. Lola wondered if the trust between her and Rocky was sufficient to leave him while she went over to the temple and decided he was too big a flight risk. She adjusted the strap of her bag and realised her pashmina was tied to it. She looped one end to Rocky’s collar and held the other tight.
Lola walked towards the temple. Rocky followed along, attached to his pastel leash. He sat obediently as Lola held the blade over the flame of the lamp until the tip glowed red, trying to get as much of the knife’s shaft into the flickering hot point of the minuscule fire. She wondered where to do the deed. It seemed oddly appropriate to do it near the temple, but simultaneously she felt that somewhere private and more dignified was better.
Holding the knife in one hand and Rocky’s pashmina lead in the other, Lola walked back up behind the temple and stopped under the shade of a pretty papaya tree, laden with unripe fruit. Rocky sat, waiting expectantly for something. Lola imagined that his expression meant he wanted to be taken home.
‘Me, too, boy,’ she said wistfully, ‘me, too.’
She lavished a few more pats on him and rubbed his chest. She scratched under his chin strategically until he lifted his head back, arching his neck to make access easier. Lola waited until the bad ear was manoeuvred to the right angle. It was now or never.
She tucked the lead under her foot so her hands were free, took a deep breath and hoped that the knife was sharp and sterile enough.
‘I’m so sorry, Rocky,’ she said.
Lola lifted the ear, exposing the decomposing bridge of skin attaching it to his head and, imagining she was trimming some lamb back in the restaurant kitchen where she had worked in Australia, she sliced it off. Rocky opened his maw, howled blue murder and took off, the pashmina lead trailing along the ground after him.
He nearly bowled Poona over as he ran past her into the undergrowth. Lola, who had felt the colour drain from her face and had begun to shake after the fact, stared in mute horror at the remnants of the ragged ear she still held in her hand.
‘My goodness, Lola-ji!’ said Poona.
Lola was distraught at the outcome of her decision, which had seemed so heroic moments ago. Doubt poisoned her confidence. She should have waited for Poona to come and hold the lead. She could have taken him back to Hastinapuri Estate and operated there. Tears erupted, shed mainly for Rocky, with a few selfish ones for herself.
Poona gave Lola’s shoulders a motherly squeeze. ‘You did your best, bachana. That’s all you or I or God can ask for.’
The lights from the car lit a path to where Lola and Poona were standing. Lola could see Gajrup’s anxious face through the windscreen. Suddenly she was aware of the time, and the monsoonal wrath of Malina that was likely to break over both of them on their return.
***
Poona ushered Lola towards the house, leaving Gajrup alone at the car. He thought he could hear Malina’s shrieks and curses and the crashing of saucepan lids already. Back late and Lola with Poona. He was already at three strikes. His pocketknife dug into his leg, out of place from its usual spot. He relocated it inside his jacket. Lola had risen in Gajrup’s estimation today – not that she wasn’t previously esteemed. He just hadn’t really thought about her as a person before. What she had done today had shown bravery and compassion. These were good character traits for a woman, especially one they had paid big money for to be their son’s wife.
Gajrup popped the lid of the car boot. At the familiar sound, Malina flew out of the kitchen door, her face distorted with rage. Gajrup recalled the rakshasas from the Ramayana – fearsome, shape-shifting demons with thick hides and insatiable appetites for human flesh. He suspected Malina had rakshasha relatives as she verbally dismembered him, feasting on the carcass of his good intentions.
Chapter Nine
Ghosts of New Arrivals
Paksheet had successfully stowed away, but was glad when the car came to a halt as he’d begun to feel the potholes and decay of the road. It was very dark. The stench of dogs mixed with the intense aroma of warm plastic was also starting to get to him. He’d put his hands across his nose to block the smell, but it hadn’t made much of a difference. This wasn’t quite the journey he had planned.
Paksheet alighted from the boot. Grateful for the fresh air and freedom, he scrambled up a sacred fig tree and looked around him from the vantage of his perch. The city was a silhouette of shapes in a smoggy terracotta cloak as familiar as the rampart of the Ridge. He quickly identified his bearings and his lines of defence. Pleased with his ability to become master of his domain no matter where he found himself, Paksheet plucked a ripe fruit from the tree. He sank his teeth into the purple skin as he watched the shouting match below. He wondered again what human flesh would be like as the fruit yielded under his teeth. He demolished a few more fig bodies before scampering along the branch and leaping onto the roof of the house.
***
In the kitchen of Hastinapuri Estate, Malina’s rampage continued. Her blackened cleaver came down on a squash with such ferocity that the blade lodged in the cutting board. She wrenched out the cleaver and sent the board and the squash flying across the room.
Malina had been married to Gajrup since she was fourteen. The kitchen of the Sheenas’ house had been her lair for most of her adult life since the long journey she and Gajrup had made from Rajasthan into New Delhi in pursuit of urban wealth and stability. Malina had the dark skin of village women and coal-black eyes that seemed to glow with rage. Her hair was now shot with grey, and perpetually twisted into a snaking coil at the nape of her neck. Malina was just under five foot tall but, like her rakshasa peers, appeared to grow as she lumbered around her kitchen, smashing and snarling.
Hastinapuri Estate’s boutique accommodation offered guests home-cooked meals along with Poona’s exemplary hostessing. Tonight, Malina was preparing an Indian feast spiced with rage for the newly arrived guests who were revelling in the opportunity for some authentic Indian food. Dhal was a staple of the table and, like chapatis, would accompany the meal. Poona had ordered a squash curry; fresh fish spiced with coriander, turmeric and ginger; potato subji with mustard seeds; and vegetable cutlets and curd rice for the guests. The Hastinapuri Estate kitchen, like a million other dwellings both grand and modest across Civil Lines, had a shrine for offering bhoga to hungry gods. As the sun set through the ghee-spattered window of the kitchen, there was no joy, love or devotion being offered for this particular meal.
Malina had discovered too late in the day that Poona had taken a serve of the freshly made paneer to conceal the antibiotics for the park kutta, so the curd rice was subsequently more rice than curd. She
flung a handful of brown mustard seeds into a pan of ghee; they spluttered and crackled fiercely. The stove was bubbling with lentils and squash, the fish was spiced and salted and ready to grill, the ghee was hot to dab on the bread as Malina pounded out the chapatis with the flat heel of her hand.
Poona appeared in the kitchen, wrapped in a new sari – this time without dog’s blood decorating the front. She was looking tired but still beautiful, her poise somehow further fuelling Malina’s rage.
‘What a day today, the puppies, ayyo poche, na,’ said Poona.
Malina didn’t reply, pounding out the bread, her lips tightly pursed. She saw no reason why she should not display her anger in front of Poona – Malina had worked for her long enough for Poona to know that Malina wasn’t the type to hold back her feelings, particularly when she was furious.
Poona stirred the kitchen pots out of habit, lifted the fish to inspect it and added some extra salt. This unintended slight on Malina’s seasoning skills tore at her already open, invisible wounds. Poona finished her rounds of the food, making sure that the guest menu was to her liking. She passed through the door and then stuck her head back in.
‘Our dinner is for three tonight, Malina. Your house guest, Lola, will dine with Chatura and me.’
***
Gajrup hovered behind her as Poona delivered this benign bombshell. He knew Lola was not meant to be dining with the Sheenas. Watching Malina, he wondered if it was possible for a woman that small to break a cast-iron chapati pan in two. Gajrup’s tough hands were sore from digging a hasty grave for the park kutta. His hands and wrists were dark brown with dirt, and his shoes were caked with drying dog food. He wanted a beer, some dinner and a very quiet wife. He doubted that he would get them, but he shot a sneaky glance at the assorted statuettes sitting on the shrine above the stove anyway as he washed up and put on his service jacket.
***
Lola was surprised at the homely feel Poona and Chatura had achieved in a house that was full of luxury. Metres of marble floors, heirloom artworks, silk carpets and priceless antiques were softened by family photos, simple devotional images and flowers from the garden. They sat around a small table in the old family room, for which Poona was apologetic – they liked the nostalgia of shared meals there now that the children were gone, rather than the formality of the dining room.
Lola sat facing Poona, with Chatura at the head of the modest table. He was a quiet, reserved man, with a rounded belly from a lifelong love of the tantalising sweet delights of India. He was warm like Poona, but more distant. Lola thought he had a fatherly air, and he gave her a conspiratorial wink as Poona ribbed him about his Ganesh-style girth.
‘She has me on a permanent diet of loving nagging,’ Chatura whispered loudly to Lola.
Lola nodded to the offer to join him in a glass of Indian shiraz. The vineyard, he said, was of one of his many local investments. It was surprisingly good for a hot climate more adept at producing sweat than wine.
Over crunchy chaat made from spiced chickpeas and crispy besan-flour bhuja with a loose yoghurt and tamarind sauce, Poona hypothesised about what had happened in the park, why the dogs and monkeys would suddenly have become enemies, and the fate of poor Rocky. Lola was acutely aware of the ache of joy she felt at having a normal conversation with people who were friendly, and for a moment forgot about the reality behind the hand-carved doors.
‘Lola-ji, you must tell us how you know the Ramdas’ boy. Chatura and I are dying to know why you’re here and Malina is being uncharacteristically cagey about your visit,’ Poona said.
The joy dissolved. Lola took in a mouthful of wine and tried to assemble the story she had been told to tell people.
The doors swung open and Malina shuffled in carrying a tray laden with delicious-smelling dishes. She glowered at the snug assembly, delivering dinner and retreating immediately.
‘Is she always so grumpy?’ Lola asked.
Poona and Chatura nodded.
‘Always,’ Chatura said, convivially refilling her glass.
Lola drank slowly and looked at the array of food. ‘Oh, my God – proper Indian food, in India.’ Lola played for time. She let the dishes distract them from her secrets as Poona explained each one. Lola’s thrill at their dinner was genuine. Food, love and music – they were the root cause of her current situation.
Lola’s first true love had happened in a Darlinghurst restaurant called Jaipur Nights. Roshan Kalidasa was thirty-two to her twenty-two. He was a lithe Punjabi percussionist, about to be married to a girl his parents had chosen for him from a good family in Chennai. Lola worked in the Jaipur Nights kitchen for a below-table wage. She was an unlikely curry-wallah in the making, under the strict instruction of the taciturn Indian chefs. Roshan tapped out beats on the tabla when he wasn’t waiting tables. They shared staff meals and an escalating attraction. It was love, plus one.
Roshan gave way to the guilty pleasure of his lust for Lola, but was clear with her that he would follow the path his parents and culture had divined when his bride-to-be arrived. Lola believed that the power of her devotion would intervene and she would be the victor in love and its war. It was a dangerous gamble, with high stakes for her heart. She and Roshan made the most of their illicit romance, spending days off in his tiny apartment, watching pirated Bollywood films in bed. Lola fantasised herself in peacock-costumed dance scenes, hips rolling and head shaking as the tears of the star-crossed lovers were brushed aside with a dry-lipped kiss and a wedding at the final reel.
She imagined herself as Taani to Roshan’s Suri/Raj in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, locking eyes over golgappa-eating contests, their hearts as full as their stomachs. ‘Phir Milenge Chalte’ became her musical mantra, so convinced was she that their union was so incredible it was inspired by God – or whatever higher power was responsible for her bliss.
First love for Lola was heady and devastating. The nuclear detonator of their last day together before the arrival of Roshan’s future wife counted down in large red numbers at every tryst: drawn-out breakup sex before the breakup. Then, with the touchdown of an Air Singapore flight into Sydney Airport carrying Roshan’s bride, with his and her extended family, it was over. No dance scene; no altar salvation. No peacock feathers.
In gentlemanly anticipation, Roshan quit Lola and Jaipur Nights simultaneously. He took a job playing in a Bollywood-themed band at a rival restaurant. They never played ‘Phir Milenge Chalte Chalte’. On the night of his wedding reception, held at the same venue, Lola detoured past on her way home. As the Punjabi beats and shrieks of laughter shot through the open windows into the uncaring street, Lola thought she caught a glimpse of Roshan in a glittery red outfit and a matrimonial turban, but her eyes were too blurry and unfocused to be sure.
***
Niz and Amit Sheik were the owners of Jaipur Nights. The brothers were astute business people and embraced Australia, especially the entrepreneurial opportunities it afforded to those prepared to put in the hours. While their restaurant could legitimately claim the most authentic tandoori in Sydney, it was in fact a front for their more lucrative side business of arranging spousal visas to Australia. For keen and cashed-up Indian men and their families, Sydney was a paradise where the streets were paved with jobs.
This immigration-scam sideline had been a triumph until some ill-timed federal legislation changes had meant that the practice of bringing in their countrymen and shacking them up with paid Australian girls as their spouses/flatmates until their de facto relationship visas were approved was no longer legal. Without the home comforts of public-service bribery, they had to hatch a new plan to keep their customers happily married and legally in the country.
The only alternative to circumvent the law was to send Australian girls to India and create the fictitious relationships there, then bring them back with their new husbands and spousal visa pre-applications for residency. This was altogether trickier than the original scam. It was far trickier to find girls willing to travel to India, m
arry a stranger and live with their Indian family for the three months needed to satisfy the Australian government that the relationship was legit. The brothers found getting the girls to stay for long enough was the biggest headache. Those Indian mothers could be bitches, na.
Lola had been in Delhi for three weeks, and hadn’t yet seen her potential spouse to take some of those ‘intimate’ photos Niz and Amit had suggested they submit along with the visa and Indian wedding certificate as evidence.
The owners of Jaipur Nights had, through trial and error, worked out a formula for the type of girl who would fit their profile and last the distance. She had to be unencumbered and not particularly close to her family. She had to believe in the romance of the subcontinent. She had to be either young, poor or desperate enough to be seduced by the promise of adventure, plus a little cash, airfares and expenses. She also had to be reliable enough not to blow their cover if things went sour. An inner-city restaurant with a transient staff of young girls was an ideal place to groom their visa mules.
Lola fit their profile perfectly, although the downside was that she was an excellent cook and an asset to their busy restaurant. She was a refugee from a conservative one-parent family, running from an overbearing, judgemental mother and an absent father into the arms of a man who was everything she wasn’t. Older, foreign and unavailable. They had watched her disastrous relationship with Roshan push her into post-love grief, then rage. When a client emerged desperate to get her son into Australia, Lola was the obvious candidate and they had to make the decision to sacrifice good kitchen staff for a bigger payday. Lola had jumped at the offer of a three-month, fully paid trip to India to help some poor lad come to Sydney and experience the Lucky Country. That would teach Roshan to marry someone else.
Niz and Amit had shown her a photograph of the handsome Geet, and told her she would be living in a mansion in New Delhi before a traditional Indian wedding and a fully paid apartment for a further three months on her return to Australia – just like a Bollywood dream, na. Lola imagined the distinct possibility that she would meet Geet and they would fall in love at first sight. She chiefly thought about the joy of sending the wedding photos to Roshan, and him realising too late what he was missing.