“Jasbeer, putthar, is that true?” Bibi-ji transferred her glare to her charge.
Jasbeer squirmed. “I was only pretending to be Shaheed Dhyan Singh. Jason said I was a wimp because I wore my hair in a bun like a lady, so I was showing him how brave Sikhs are.”
“That’s not the way to show bravery, young man,” the principal said sternly. “I am sure Mr. Dan Singh would not have used a kitchen knife.”
“Not mister,” Bibi-ji said. “Martyr.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Longbottom was confused.
“Shaheed means martyr,” Bibi-ji said. “It was Martyr Dhyan Singh, not Mister.”
“I see,” the principal said although he still looked confused. “In any case, we don’t allow knives or any other such implements in the school. And if you, Mr. and Mrs. Singh, could make sure our young brave here does not arm himself for school in the future I will be very grateful. He could have hurt another child, and matters could have become very serious, very serious indeed.”
Jasbeer’s teacher, still looking uncomfortable, followed them out of the office. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Singh, Mr. Singh. But I couldn’t allow Jasbeer to bring a weapon into school. I hope you understand.” It was clear that the meeting had been an extremely awkward one for her.
“Yes, yes we understand.” Bibi-ji smiled wearily.
“He is a bright boy otherwise,” she continued. “A very smart boy, with great potential.”
“Thank you.” Bibi-ji felt a glow of pride, even though she suspected the teacher said this to all the parents. She watched Jasbeer give his teacher a winsome smile, his eyes bright with mischief, and looked at him sternly. But what a handsome ladykiller of a boy he was, this child who had been granted to her by the generosity of Wahe-guru, Ooper-Wallah, The One Who Knew Everything.
Once they were out of the school, Pa-ji loosened his tie and ripped it off. He shrugged out of his jacket. He slapped Jasbeer on the back. “That’s my boy,” he said. “He is a Punjabi lion all right, he has the right instincts. I hope you showed that Jason or whatever his name was, a lesson, eh? What, putthar? You want to join the army, enh? Like who, tell me?”
“Like Theka Singh, like Udham Singh who taught General Dwyer a lesson, like …” Jasbeer shouted, swaggering behind Pa-ji as they walked to the car.
Phat! A large hand landed on his back. It was Bibi-ji, who was bringing up the rear. “Bas, bas, this is not your British-times story, this is Canada! No more of this war nonsense, you understand? And you”—Bibi-ji rolled past Jasbeer and tapped Pa-ji’s back a little harder than was comfortable as she waited for him to open the car door and then lowered herself into the front passenger seat— “you stop encouraging the boy with all this nonsense, understand? Keep your soldiers and martyrs inside your stories and books. This boy is going to get an education. I promised his parents that. And he is to become a lawyer. Or a doctor. Maybe an engineer. And you better listen to me, Jasbeer, otherwise you know what will happen?”
“Yes, Bibi-ji.” Jasbeer settled into the back of the car fully aware that, whatever their differences, Bibi-ji’s anger was a temporary thing and would dissolve like mist in the sunshine of her love for him. “You will beat me until I’m inside out.” Jasbeer leaned over and kissed her neck, knowing that she would never lay a hand on him hard enough to really hurt. “So hard that I’ll fly to Timbuctu.”
“Good, don’t forget that for one instant. And your Pa-ji also will get what he deserves if he puts any more of these stupid ideas into your head. Did you hear, Mister Khushwant Singh?”
“Bak-bak-bak, that’s all she knows to do.” But Pa-ji didn’t get any further into the argument—as Lalloo had so often pointed out, in the interests of domestic harmony sometimes it was wise to lose.
As they drove down Main Street, Bibi-ji noticed how much busier it had become since they had moved here all those years ago. Two blocks from their restaurant was Majid the Barber, the red and white striped pole outside his shop glistening with new paint. A jewellery store had opened across the road, and Lalloo had opened a travel agency beside it—a shrewd move, it turned out, as there was never a shortage of desis waiting to buy cheap tickets to India. After much thought he had named it Far Out Travels, and the customers had poured in almost from the first week. Farther on were two new grocery stores competing with Mrs. Wu’s, but all three shops appeared to have a healthy flow of customers. Lalloo had been right after all, Bibi-ji reflected—location was everything.
They passed the Bhats’ home. Bibi-ji wondered whether she ought to consult Leela on bringing up Jasbeer—Preethi was such a dependable child. Arjun seemed a little moody, but he never got into trouble at school, the way Jas did. The car stopped in their driveway just as the mailman trampled across her lawn and leapt over her prize roses to get to her neighbour’s.
“Oy!” she shouted, waving her arm wildly out of the window. After all the trouble she took, feeding her roses with tea, crushed eggshells, manure … But the mailman was too quick for her and already two houses down the road by the time she was out of the car.
Grumbling to herself, she pulled a sheaf of envelopes out of the mailbox, shuffled through them and sighed at the sight of a flimsy aerogram, a corner of which was covered with Indian stamps. Nimmo again. Bibi-ji would have to complete that letter soon.
“Can I go over to Preethi’s?” Jasbeer asked, seeing that Bibi-ji was distracted.
He felt a clip on his ear. Bibi-ji wasn’t that distracted, it appeared. “You are not going anywhere, putthar,” she said, hauling him into the house. “You are going to write a letter to me—three pages—telling me why it is not a good thing to take weapons to school. In running hand.”
“But—”
“No buts. You will go up to your room and write me that letter. Are you listening to me?”
Sulky scuffing of shoes on her favourite carpet. Frothing resentment inside the eleven-year-old breast. “Yes.”
“Listening with both ears?”
“Yes!”
No more indulgence, she reminded herself. And, above all, she would have to keep reminding Pa-ji: no more history. She tore open Nimmo’s letter, and a photograph fell out. Nimmo and Satpal with their two younger children. “Jasbeer, come here and look at what your mother has sent,” Bibi-ji called.
Jasbeer stopped at the foot of the stairs but did not turn around. “What?” he asked sullenly.
“Come and see,” Bibi-ji said. “It’s a photo of your family.”
Without a word, Jasbeer stamped up the stairs. Bibi-ji bit her lip and stared after him. Then she began to read the letter. Nimmo and Satpal yearned to see their son. When would Bibi-ji be able to bring him to India?
Bibi-ji walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the familiar chorus of gossiping voices and blaring television. She settled down at the table to finish the letter she had started writing to Nimmo two days ago. “We have just returned home from a meeting with Jasbeer’s schoolteacher, who says that he is a bright boy with great promise. I know that you will be proud to hear this. But you will see for yourself how smart your son is when we come there in December this year.”
THIRTEEN
THE SMALL JOYS
New Delhi
March 1971
A hot morning in March. The gulmohur trees were in full bloom, the flowers like flames against the silver sky. Nimmo stood at the side of the road, as she had done for so many years, and watched Pappu trot down the alley.
“Be careful when you cross the road,” she called, and her son, taller and thinner at nine, turned around and waved. Nimmo thought of other mornings when two little boys had made their way to school, and her heart clenched with pain. What was Jasbeer doing at this very moment, she wondered? She wanted to see him so badly. A letter had arrived from Bibi-ji two months ago with news about how well he was doing at school, but there was nothing from the boy. Nimmo suspected that all was not as wonderful as Bibi-ji made it out to be, but was nevertheless pleased to hear that Jasbeer wou
ld be home in December.
She continued to watch Pappu until he merged into the many tributaries of people emptying on to the main road. A small truck backed up towards her, and she moved aside hastily. The general election campaign was in full swing, and every day brought another truck with yet another political party’s posters and banners. The city’s walls were plastered with them. They hung down from trees and were strung across narrow streets from upper-storey window bars. Garibi Hatao!—Remove Poverty, urged Indira Gandhi’s party banners. Indira Hatao! shouted her opponents’ banners, urging the public, with equal fervour, to remove Indira instead. Nimmo smiled at the wordplay and returned to her house. There was no doubt in her mind who she would vote for. She loved Mrs. Gandhi for her stubborn strength, her refusal to be pushed aside by all the powerful men who surrounded her in cabinet and in the opposition parties, and for the sense that she gave to women across the country that if she could survive so could they. They could survive anything at all and triumph, it just needed conviction and persistence. Nimmo had already cast her vote.
As she re-entered her home, Satpal emerged from the bedroom carrying their three-year-old daughter, Kamal.
“Here, hold her,” he said, handing the child to Nimmo. “She won’t let me put her down.”
“You’ve spoilt her by picking her up all the time, and now it’s become a habit.” She nuzzled the little girl’s face and said, “Your daddy has spoilt you, hasn’t he?” She put the child down on the ground and said firmly, “Come, let’s have some milk and halwa, okay?”
The child nodded and toddled towards the kitchen, where she settled down on the floor and crossed her plump legs. Nimmo sat in front of her and fed her small balls of sweet semolina halwa, making sure there was a raisin in each mouthful.
Satpal gathered his lunch box and his raincoat. “Will you be at home this afternoon? Or is this the day you teach at the gurudwara?”
Their temple had started a small nursery school and Nimmo volunteered as a teacher there twice a week. She liked the change in her routine, and Kamal enjoyed playing with the other children.
“No, not today,” Nimmo said. “Why? Are you coming home for lunch?”
“Perhaps,” Satpal replied mysteriously.
“Then why are you taking your lunch box?” Nimmo asked.
“Just in case I can’t come home.” He grinned, and for a moment Nimmo thought he looked like Jasbeer used to when he was up to mischief.
“Well, I have to go to the Ram-Leela field at five o’clock. If you come home while I am away, get the keys from Kaushalya’s house,” Nimmo said.
“You are going to listen to your Indira Gandhi again?”
“Yes, today she is giving an election speech. Everyone is going. You should also come to this one.”
“Sunny was telling me that she is creating a lot of trouble in Punjab,” Satpal said. “People are getting angry there. All these politicians play games with us and we, like fools, keep voting for them again and again. She takes away our river water and gives it to Rajasthan, she cuts up Punjab and creates a Haryana for the Hindus, and now she is planning to give them Chandigarh as well. That city belongs to Punjab. First it was Partition and half our land disappeared. Now our own leaders are chopping it up like a piece of meat. How much more are we supposed to give away? Without Punjab this country would be starving, and look how we are treated—like stepchildren! Is it fair?”
“Oof-oh! Why do you listen to that nephew of yours? Why, even Manpreet said that he is hot-headed, always in trouble these days. Now what mother would malign her son like that unless it was true? He failed his first year of college, you know. And you are a Delhi-wallah, why are you concerned with matters in Punjab? You have never even lived there.” Nimmo held a glass of milk against Kamal’s lips, urging her to sip at it.
“What are you saying? I could be living on the moon and still Punjab would be my heartland. And should be yours too, more than mine. You were born there.”
Nimmo wiped her daughter’s mouth with the end of her dupatta and said firmly, “This is my heartland. This house, this gully, this city. Nowhere else.” She got to her feet. “So do you want me to wait for you this evening?”
“No, yes, I will see. Don’t forget to leave the keys with the neighbours, though,” Satpal said. “Go and listen to that woman tell her lies! Garibi Hatao, she will shout, and we will all cheer and vote for her. And then a week later, poverty will still be found in these gullies, and there will still be no water in the taps or electric current in our homes and it will go on and on. You will see, mark my words!”
That afternoon at around two-thirty, soon after Nimmo had convinced Kamal to take a nap, she heard a hubbub outside. She went to the window to see what was going on. A small tempo-truck was parked on the road, and Satpal was supervising its unloading. Something large—it looked like a cupboard of some sort. Nimmo opened the front door. Ever since the birth of their daughter, Satpal seemed to have thrown caution and thrift to the winds, seemed to have forgotten that they still owed Bibi-ji a large sum of money, still had uneven returns from their mechanic’s shop. Last year he had bought a refrigerator that often dripped water on the floor, thanks to the frequent power failures in the summer months. If Satpal had to buy something, why didn’t he put down a deposit for a telephone? She didn’t like going over to Asha’s to receive calls from Bibi-ji or Satpal.
She moved aside as the men staggered in carrying an enormous steel cupboard wrapped loosely in corrugated cardboard and plastic sheeting.
They shouted contradictory orders at each other. “Lower it! Watch the doorway!” “Raise it, mind the floor!” Kamal woke up startled, and Nimmo hurried her out of the way. “Why couldn’t you have told me that this was why you were coming home?” she said, annoyed. “I could have gone next door with her.”
Satpal grinned unrepentantly, his eyes shining with excitement. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “Now move, woman, this is going in there.”
After the delivery men had gone, Nimmo circled the khakhi green-painted steel almirah, stroking a finger across the manufacturer’s name, set in stylishly raised silvery steel lettering across the top corner, and wondered at how smoothly the handle turned down to reveal the enormous inside with its heavy shelves, its small locker right on top, the space for hanging clothes. She had seen advertisements for it in the newspapers—Buy a Godrej, Feel Safe for Life—but had not thought she would ever own one. At six feet it was a big cupboard, taller than Satpal, and it covered most of the wall. A person could stand inside it when the shelves were removed. It smelled cold.
“Very secure!” said Satpal, knocking his knuckles against the thick green-painted steel. “Very safe.”
“What shall I do with such a big cupboard? How much did it cost?”
“I’ll take care of the cost. You can start filling it with things for Kamal’s wedding.”
“Wedding? Are you mad? She is three! And she gets an education before a husband—you promised me that.”
“Then start saving money for her college,” said Satpal, a little annoyed by her lack of enthusiasm.
After he had left, Nimmo went outside to bring the laundry in the house before heading to the maidan for the speech. She pretended not to notice Asha, who peered over their shared wall.
“Arrey, Nimmo, you got an almirah today?” Asha asked. As usual, her voice was tinged with envy. One day, Nimmo was sure, Asha’s constant envy would puncture the fragile bubble of her happiness.
“Yes Asha, we got an almirah,” she said, hiding her annoyance. “But I don’t know what I will do with it. As you know, I have nothing to put in a steel cupboard, nothing to hide or protect.” Except my children, my happiness, my life.
“Everyone has something to hide, Nimmo,” Asha replied. “And your husband must be doing well to be able to buy such an expensive thing! So maybe you will have lots of jewellery to put in there soon?”
“I don’t have any now, if that is what you are asking, Asha
,” Nimmo said, her voice sharper than she had intended it to be.
“Baba, why should I ask anything? Why should I care what you have or don’t have? Hunh!” Asha pulled the pallu of her sari over her head with unnecessary violence, her bangles jangling.
“Why speak only of me, Asha?” Nimmo continued. She remembered how superstitious Asha was about her own family. “I hear that your husband is getting very wealthy. I hear that he has many important political friends helping him rise in the world!”
“Wealthy? Us? Never! We barely manage to keep this roof over our heads!” Asha clicked her fingers over herself to ward off evil and disappeared indoors before Nimmo could say anything further about her prosperity and bring down jealous spirits.
Kaushalya’s head appeared over the other wall as soon as Asha’s had disappeared. “Baap-re-baap, the nosy parker spends the whole day watching who is doing what. When does she do her own work, I wonder?”
Asha’s face popped back, like a cuckoo from a clock, ready for an argument. “I heard you, Kaushalya!” she shouted. “Spreading rumours about me, I heard you!”
Nimmo paid the vendor and slipped into the sanctuary of her home. She peeked into the bedroom to make sure that Kamal was not up to any mischief, and then went to the kitchen to start preparations for the evening meal before heading to the maidan to hear the prime minister’s speech.
The afternoon sun was beginning to lose its intensity and a welcome breeze dried the sweat on Nimmo’s face as she pushed her way through the crowds that had arrived to hear Indira Gandhi. The enormous field was already crammed with bodies, and it was with some difficulty that Nimmo and her companions found a space for themselves. This was largely because Nimmo had insisted on finding a spot near the exit gates, where the policemen were stationed.
“If something happens,” she said, preparing as always for every catastrophe imaginable, “we can run out fast and the police will be nearby also.”
Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? Page 17