by Meera Syal
Afterwards, Dhruv took her to a dhaba café nearby, with Formica tables and framed posters of black-and-white Hindi films on the walls. They ate chicken kebabs, which sizzled on the plate, and dense creamy daal, which they licked off their fingers in the rare pauses in their conversation.
‘This looks just like my mum’s mate’s café back in the East End,’ laughed Tara. She was almost full but couldn’t stop eating. At some point that day her appetite had come back; her whole body felt hungry.
‘Not homesick, are you?’ Dhruv asked through a mouthful of naan. He obviously liked his grub – the slight roll of his tummy under his sweatshirt told her that. Tara found it comforting, the sight of someone at ease with their body and their food. You can tell what a man’s like in bed by the way he dances and the way he eats – she had read that somewhere. She imagined Dhruv breaking buttons on shirts and ripping seams in his haste to get naked and tuck in.
‘OK, do I have pickle on my nose again?’ Dhruv asked her, rubbing his face with his sleeve.
She had been staring at him, maybe even drooling. Old deeply buried feelings pushed at her skin, too painful, too messy. She needed to eat some more.
‘Homesick?’ She bit into a papard, which splintered satisfyingly on her tongue. ‘Sick of home, more like. Wherever that is now. I love it here, it feels … relevant. New. Does that make sense?’
‘Totally.’ Dhruv nodded. ‘You know India is the world’s youngest nation, statistically? Almost half our population is under twenty-five, the median citizen is a twenty-nine-year-old city dweller. By 2020, sixty-four per cent of the population will be of working age. It’s what economists call a sweet spot. Now, if we can develop our neglected manufacturing sector and pull emphasis away from our over-developed service industries, we could do something about all the jobless bored men who take out their frustration on our newly emancipated working women …’
Tara stopped chewing and stared at Dhruv. ‘Bloody hell, is that your election speech or does it just come out of your mouth like that?’
‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Dhruv said reverently, nodding. ‘And I’m an unemployed Economics graduate hoping to go into journalism, and those are my best chat-up lines right there.’
‘Always does it for me, statistics and flow charts,’ Tara shot back. It struck her how impressive it was that he could be witty in several languages. Dhruv had made the students laugh on several occasions with a stream of Hindi, only some of which she had understood. All those impromptu lessons with Mala hadn’t helped with comedy banter in the slightest. But then, everyone seemed to be effortlessly bi- if not tri-lingual. Why did the English ever need to acquire other languages when everyone did them the favour of speaking theirs?
‘So, you finished college and started volunteering for Shakti? Why?’
Dhruv swallowed down a mouthful and wiped his hands on his paper serviette. He took some time to do this, cleaning around each fingernail thoughtfully.
‘My sister,’ he said finally. Tara waited. ‘Usual story – married to a guy the family knew. The minute she’s his wife he turns into some … caveman. He had been violent towards her for some time before she finally told us.’
‘God …’ Tara breathed, afraid to say more.
‘Of course, the minute we knew, we brought her home. She filed for divorce – and then found out she was pregnant, so …’
‘She went back?’ Tara blurted it out.
Druv nodded. ‘We told her so many times … My parents, they didn’t care about what the neighbours would say, they supported her, but Nisha … she wanted the child to have a father. And she thought it would change him.’
‘Is she … I’m sorry, don’t say if you—’
‘Oh, she’s alive,’ Dhruv said. ‘She told us the beatings stopped. She had a boy – that helped, I suppose. I don’t know if he’s still actually hitting her. But she’s scared of him, you can see it. He doesn’t like her visiting us. I’ve hardly seen my nephew. And this is an educated middle-class woman who was given every chance to just … leave. That’s what made me want to do something. That’s how deep it is, the conditioning, the brainwashing. Physical violence – you can see it, you know what you’re dealing with. But this – fear of change, choosing to stay in your prison – that’s where the war is. In your head.’
Tara’s phone rang. She couldn’t answer it for a moment, still with Dhruv, with his sister in a flat somewhere not far from here, holding her son and listening for dreaded footsteps at the door. When she saw it was Nanima’s number, she snatched it up. Dhruv saw the colour drain from her face.
‘Where are you?’ Tara said in a high, scared voice. ‘I’ll find it. I’m coming.’ She stood up, disoriented. ‘Where’s Batra hospital? Is it far?’
‘Not near …’
‘My grandfather’s … he’s been taken ill. I need a taxi … can you—’
‘I’ll take you.’
Dhruv gathered up Tara’s equipment, looped her handbag around his arm and led her away.
He crumpled slowly like a deflating balloon. That’s what Ravi Luthra had told her. Walking in the heat of the day to the government offices to ensure the water and electricity in the flat were switched off, then finding the locksmith to change all the locks … why did Ravi let an old man do all that when he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything?
‘I couldn’t stop him, Auntie,’ Ravi told her, shaking his head. ‘He insisted it all must be done today. I told him I would do it, but …’
Ravi assured her they were in the best neurological hospital in Delhi – they would know if it was a stroke, they would know what do to afterwards. Thank God they had been sensible enough to keep up their travel insurance. Prem was hooked up to a lot of machines; she had to find his hand carefully under the wires and tubes and not move it too much, because of the drip which had left a vivid purple stain around it. He had always had very delicate skin. Bruised like a soft peach. Sita was very impressed with the hospital, so clean and modern. Didn’t Indians always make the best doctors? No joke to her. The nurses called them Uncle and Auntie – that kind of thing made a difference. They had discussed only once where they would like their ashes to be scattered, because that kind of talk upset Prem. They had both expected the other to say, ‘In the Ganges, of course. Back to Ganga Mama to join the debris of our ancestors.’ But neither of them had said that. Sita liked the idea of Brighton. They had been on several day trips there over the years and she loved the noisy pier and the sound of the waves on the tumbling stony beach. Prem wasn’t too specific, but he had insisted it should be somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere high and remote with no other people around, where he could get some peace. It had surprised Sita. It made her wonder, had he not found peace with her? Now she thought about it, in the hospital room with its soundtrack of soft beeps and trills, when had the poor man had any peace? He had fought his way out of poverty, endured the loss and trials of emigration, seen his daughter grow and suffer an unhappy marriage just when they thought she was settled, and now, this new baby. Could she have done more, to cushion him from all the stress of their lives? On the other hand, hadn’t they been more fortunate than most?
Of course, Prem couldn’t hear any of her thoughts, but if he could, if he had been able to speak to her, he would have told her that for him there was not a moment of regret, not a moment he would not have had again with her.
The sound of the phone ringing had dragged Shyama up from the depths of slumber, reeling her towards a surface she still hadn’t found. Everything that happened afterwards felt as if she was still somewhere underwater, each movement clumsy and slow, as if weights were dragging on her feet. She might drown. Tara’s voice so far away, she sounded like she was six years old again and it wrung her inside out. Toby’s strong arms, his voice on the phone, ringing round for a plane ticket. Throwing a few belongings into a bag. Where was her passport? A hurried scribbled list of instructions for Geeta at the salon, her diary wiped – for how long she wasn’t sure.
It was only when she stood motionless in the hallway, her single bag at her feet, and looked up to see Mala peering at her from the top of the stairs that it struck her across the face like a slap. Mala. The baby was less than four weeks away. First babies often came before the due date, especially South Asian ones. ‘We cook more quickly, sweetie,’ Priya had advised her. How could she leave? How could she not go?
‘Shyama …’ It was the first time she had heard Mala use her name without the Madam attached. ‘So sorry for your papa. I can do anything? When you are away?’
Shyama shook her head, gathering her thoughts; it was like trying to catch surf, her head pounding rhythmically like an incoming tide. ‘Just … look after yourself. I will be back before … very soon. I don’t want to leave you alone—’
There was an end to that sentence, but she couldn’t remember what it might be. Toby. He had thrown on the first clothes that came to hand, a rumpled sweatshirt, stained jeans. He still had bed hair and pillow creases across one side of his face. She thought he had never looked as handsome as he did now.
They drove in silence for a while. It was early enough for the usually choked North Circular Road to be fairly empty – they would make good time. Night frost glistened on roofs and lamp posts, made cobwebs into icy doilies on passing hedges and fences. The first flush of a wintry dawn glowed far off on the horizon, pearly grey, the pale moon fading as if being slowly bled dry.
‘I wish you weren’t going,’ Toby said finally. Then corrected himself. ‘Sorry, I know you have to … I mean, I’m sorry you have to … like this. What I meant was, I wish I could come with you.’
They both knew why he couldn’t.
Toby’s unease felt like a physical pain, his guts twisting with every bend they took. He would have always said he was fond of Prem, comfortable with him. Now the possibility of losing him made him feel weak and lost, ambushed by how much he missed both of those dear old people. But there was something else, a fear that chilled him even with the car heating on full blast; he bit his tongue to stop his teeth chattering. He would be alone with Mala. It felt like staring into the headlights of an oncoming car, messy and inevitable.
‘Careful!’ Shyama called out sharply. A car horn screamed at them, its banshee wail dying away just as quickly. Toby jerked the wheel quickly, steadying the car.
‘I should have got a cab. You’re still half asleep, love.’ Shyama placed a gentle hand on his thigh. Even through the denim he felt cold. ‘You didn’t bring a coat,’ she said. ‘Funny, neither did I.’
Shyama called Toby from Delhi every hour on the first day. By the week’s end, Prem was still in a coma but the tests were looking hopeful – no apparent brain damage. There was no obvious reason why he hadn’t woken up yet. The prognosis was ‘cautiously optimistic’, although the doctors stressed they could not tell for sure what damage there might be until he regained consciousness. Sita had joked that it was the only way he could get some rest, after all the chaos of the last couple of months. They were all there, his wife, daughter, granddaughter. All the relatives had wanted to visit, but Sita was the gatekeeper, she only allowed in a favoured few – this wasn’t a sideshow, after all – Prem’s elder brother, his two sisters. No sign of Yogesh, the former favourite. But then Sita had warned that if he dared to show his face, he might end up in hospital himself. Toby wasn’t to worry.
Neither, he replied back, was Shyama. The last scan had reassured them that although smallish, the baby seemed healthy, and that their due date could well be later than they thought. Which was good news given the circumstances.
Sita and Shyama had both made Tara return to work.
‘No point sitting here all day, beti … you come when you can.’
As it happened, Tara came every day, sometimes early in the morning on her way to Shakti, often around six o’clock after work, bringing her Nanima and mother magazines, bags of hot just-fried jalebis, or masala chaat from her favourite stall, still in its flimsy paper tray. And she brought a small CD player and soundtracks from old movies that Prem would remember – Pakeezah, Three Char Sau Bees, anything with Raj Kapoor in it.
‘Just play them to him, Nanima, I know he can hear us,’ she urged Sita.
Tara looked just like an Indian girl now, Sita observed proudly. She had grown her hair, thank God, and she must have been putting in coconut oil because it had come back thicker. She wore it in a ponytail or sometimes loose: a plait would have looked nice, but you can’t have everything. No more horrible black smears around her eyes, lovely cotton tops and smart jeans, and her face had filled out. Even without a scrap of make-up she looked healthy, even in such terrible circumstances. And all the adventures she was having! Some school project here, some internet project there, some out of Delhi. Those were the only couple of days when Tara didn’t visit, although she phoned annoyingly often to make up for it.
One day she arrived and Sita worried for a moment that Tara’s old demons had returned, whatever they might have been. She looked pale, her eyes red-rimmed. When she kissed her grandfather’s forehead, as she always did, she let her lips linger as if she wanted to warm herself on his skin. She later told Sita that she had been to a special hostel where a charity housed and rehabilitated the victims of acid attacks, all women, all of them disfigured by men they had known – rebuffed suitors, abandoned husbands, jealous boyfriends. The cruelty of the world shook her like the sapling she was. Sita let her sway and grieve. Let her learn it now; there would be much more to see and mourn some day, hopefully still far away.
‘I am very impressed with your knowledge of Hindi films,’ Sita told her, until she realized where the knowledge must be coming from. The plumpie boy who was so often with her granddaughter nowadays, sitting in his car in the parking area below, tapping on his phone. She couldn’t tell much about him from this high-up window, but she watched them drive away together so often it had become a sort of comforting ritual, along with combing Prem’s hair every morning and massaging his feet. Along with the daily scooter ride from Prem’s eldest brother’s house (they had insisted on pain of torture that she and Shyama should stay with them, so they could be fed and watered and have company around them every evening). She let them spoil her – it made up for the years of feigned deafness and blindness about the stolen flat. They hadn’t wanted to get involved. Well, they were now.
Shyama’s anguish for her father was renewed every day as she walked into the hospital room and saw him again, unchanged, seemingly asleep. It never left her, a shadow that moved with her when she ate, talked, flicked through endless magazines. But it was tempered by her growing realization of how her daughter was changing before her eyes. Every day that Nana-ji slept on was another day when Tara grew a little more in confidence, poise and knowledge, bringing back morsels from the world outside this room that Shyama fell upon hungrily, always eager for more. Their conversations never seemed to have a beginning or an end: they picked up from where they had left off the day before; they parted with sentences that ended in those three dots that Shyama had always thought denoted irony. Now she knew they meant there were some stories with no clear ending.
Tara had told her mother about Dhruv after the first week, when Shyama had asked why Tara wasn’t staying at her uncle’s house with them.
‘It just feels wrong, you paying out for a hostel, on your own, when we’re all here,’ Shyama had told her.
Tara shuffled her feet, her old childhood sign that she was hiding something, and pretty unsuccessfully.
‘I’m not in the hostel any more, Mama …’ She called her that now, reverting to her first word. Shyama felt a sharp pang of something like déjà vu, except she saw before her not the child Tara had been, but the woman she was becoming. How had those years flown by so quickly? There was a new baby coming soon to fill the void, but Shyama knew now that nothing could replace a child – not even another one. The fact was, from the moment they existed they claimed a piece of you; as they grew, so did that sliver of your heart
in their hands, and when they left you, they took it with them without a backward glance.
‘I’m staying at a friend’s house …’ Tara shuffled her feet some more.
‘The friend who is also your taxi service here and back?’ Shyama enquired. She’d clocked the young man sitting like a devoted pet in his car downstairs. She’d half expected to see him stick his head out of the window and let his ears flap in the breeze whilst he waited.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Tara continued.
‘You don’t know what I think,’ replied Shyama, enjoying this.
‘He lives at home, with his parents. I’m staying in his sister’s room, sharing with her, Devika. She’s lovely, she’s a first-year Chemical Engineering student, really brainy, and his mum and dad are so sweet. They offered to put me up after they heard about Nana, because they said, why waste all that money on a hostel? They put up loads of Dhruv’s friends because they’ve got this huge house – it’s really ancient, falling apart practically. They’re not rich, it’s an old family home, and there’s always a bunch of young people hanging around. They’re sort of old hippies really, his parents. I think you’d have a lot in common and they’ve been asking to meet you, but you’ve been so upset and—’
‘I’d take a breath now before you hyperventilate,’ Shyama said.
Tara did so, letting out a shaky sigh. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her wrist jangling with thin silver bracelets.
My girl is so beautiful and young, thought Shyama with a swell of pride and envy. ‘Do you like this boy?’ she eventually asked. Seeing Tara’s sheepish expression, she added quickly, ‘You can tell me it’s none of my business …’
And then they both said, ‘But it is …’
Tara insisted that Dhruv was just a friend, a good and special friend. Shyama asked for his parents’ number; she felt out of her depth as to how awkward a social situation this might be, but they were putting up her daughter and she had to meet them. She had to make contact as soon as she could – she didn’t know how much longer she was going to stay, would be able to stay. She called up immediately, had a brief but friendly chat with Dhruv’s mother and was invited to supper the following evening.