‘Sissy? Mol?’
My father’s voice reached across the oceans, and the familiar tones ran through me like a current. I swallowed and found I couldn’t respond; tears were pooling in my eyes, my throat was constricted.
‘How are you, mol? How is school?’
My voice was a squeak. ‘It’s all right.’
‘And the Coopers? Are you enjoying staying with them?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Tell me what you did today.’
‘We had maths first thing. We measured angles and stuff . . .’
He started to say something, which meant I paused, then he stopped, and I heard my own voice echo back to me: angles and stuff. After a moment, he spoke again. ‘Carry on.’
‘We played rounders because Mrs Green was ill . . .’
He made a kind of noise in response, but which broke the flow once again. I felt tired and pressed the receiver to my ear, and then we fell silent. Even my father was finding this difficult, I could tell, but I could feel something prickling at my skin: petulance. He was the adult, he should shoulder the burden.
‘I miss you, mol,’ he said, his voice light. Then, without waiting for me to respond in kind, he asked, ‘What do you want me to bring back for you?’
Now I glanced at my mother, who was studiously attending to Danny. I took a deep breath and spoke: ‘When are you coming back?’
My voice sounded determined, as if I was convinced my words would have an irresistible pull, ensure his return. Soon, he said. Soon, soon. When, he paused, when Raju’s case is in hand.
But now I ask myself: did my father even say those words? In truth, my memory of that conversation must be inflected with my memory of the letter I received six years later from Professor Tharoor, in which I learned of Raju Kumaresan. Only then did that name enter my dream lexicon, embedding itself so deeply that now I cannot remember a time when it was an unknown.
I looked across at my mother, who must have heard my question but seemed to be avoiding my eyes, seemed uninterested in the reply. She was sitting on the floor, her legs tucked to one side, her sari palloo falling off her shoulder, rolling a ball to Danny, who grabbed it and rolled it back, bumping up and down on the ground with excitement.
‘What are you having for supper?’ my father was asking, and as I watched my mother roll the ball again, insouciantly, as if the three of us over here and him over there was the most normal set of circumstances, I allowed any determination I had harboured to ebb away. I muttered, ‘I don’t know. I’ve only just got back from school. Mama didn’t say.’
At the mention of my mother, he did not repeat those last words he had said to me – take care of Mama, okay? – perhaps because he knew now that this would be a burden I was ill-equipped to shoulder.
I forced myself to ask: ‘What are you having?’
He laughed. ‘Not sure . . .’ And then there was a sudden eruption of music behind him, shouts of laughter, and he said, ‘I won’t talk any more, mol, okay? Love you, okay? Pass the phone to Mama now.’
By now I could not speak anyway. I wordlessly held out the phone and my mother smoothed down her sari as she twisted onto her feet. Then, taking the receiver, she whispered, ‘Go outside with Danny.’
They did not talk for long. I had only led Danny to the entrance, he had only then suddenly dropped down onto his bottom and refused to walk, so I had only just lifted him up and carried him to deposit him on the border-wall around one of the flowerbeds when my mother appeared, dry-eyed, her face set in an expression I could not discern. But before she reached us, the novice announced that the Mother Superior had asked that my mother see her in the school office upstairs. As my mother went back inside the convent, Danny sat unmoving on the low wall, and I put my arms around him to ensure he did not fall. He was tired, I could see from the glazed expression in his eyes. I sniffed his head. ‘Did you miss me?’ He would not have understood, but he gave me a sudden, wide, gummy smile, which warmed my heart. But soon after, I felt an ache, remembering my father’s voice in my ear. My mother appeared behind us. ‘Come, let’s go.’
‘What did Papa say to you?’ I asked.
But she only shook her head, half-frowning. ‘I have to hand in a report to Mother Superior. I’d forgotten about it. So we’ll go to the lab quickly, okay?’
‘But I’m hungry.’ I could not stop a whine entering my voice.
‘Only a few minutes, Sissy . . .’
She walked quickly, Danny bumping against her hip, and then I sat with Danny on the grassy verge outside, watching as my mother leant over her lab bench. It seemed like a long time since my escapade – I think Ezekiel’s having a heart attack. My mother looked tired, as did Danny. Perhaps neither of them was enjoying each other’s company, I thought with some malice, but knew that was not the reason. Some hairs had escaped her plait, and fell around her face as she copied the marks from a pile of tests to a grid. I could have offered to read them out to her, to help her, but even as I had the thought I refused it. I did not want to do any more. Was I not doing enough? Removing myself from her care? Looking after my little brother at every opportunity? Who was looking after me?
‘Finished.’ She tried to smile but there was a strained look in her eyes. She locked the door and we retraced our steps to the convent, then climbed uphill towards the row of bungalows. My mother’s head remained fixed ahead as if she was unwilling to turn and look at the windows we passed, in case she saw a curtain twitch, a neighbour watching us. I trudged behind my mother’s swishing sari, and I saw the boys again, a trio under a tree. In contrast to their demeanour of old – when they had always appeared occupied, intent – they looked more sullen and lethargic, as if they had suddenly realised the limits of their environs and a malaise had befallen them. I lifted my hand in a wave, but they did not return it. They stared at us, their eyes barely resting on me; they seemed more interested in watching my mother. By now my stomach felt as if its juices were eating me up from inside, but I found I was reluctant to return to the house even though I had longed for it all week. Now I found myself thinking of the brightness and the neatness, the polished furniture and floors, the patterned curtains, packed bookshelves and bedside reading lamp that awaited me on Monday in the Coopers’ guest room. On the steps to the back door stood a basket full of fruits and vegetables and packets of milk, a small loaf of bread: Jonah’s delivery.
‘Oh good.’ My mother sounded pleased.
She bent and lifted the envelope, which gave off a small clinking sound, the change. I felt a rush of disappointment. I had wanted to see him. I had not seen him for a week, even more. Only my mother and Danny were lucky enough to see him. And then I thought, resentfully, I had missed seeing Jonah because of my father’s phone call.
My mother put her arm around my shoulder, kissed me on the cheek. ‘Welcome back, mol.’
Her eyes were dark, but she was trying to make them shine, I could tell, and she was trying to keep her voice upbeat. I could smell her hair, which always held the scent of lemons and coconuts and fresh air, and her skin, which smelled like cocoa butter.
‘What do you want for your snack?’ She was whispering. ‘Do you want some cinnamon toast?’
My favourite. She was being compliant; perhaps she had missed me. I nodded, and as she turned away I saw a wave of relief move over her features, as if she believed she had, by making this offering, righted every wrong. And I felt suddenly, viciously, misunderstood and unappreciated. I seethed inside, the anger a bitter ball in my stomach as I watched her butter the hot toast, sprinkle it with cinnamon and then more liberally than usual with brown sugar – another bribe. So that when she came to sit with me, and even before I had taken a bite, I asked again: ‘What did you talk about with Papa?’
She did not seem to notice the edge to my voice. ‘We didn’t talk much.’ She glanced at me. ‘You saw how difficult it is to talk with the delay and everything—’
‘But did you ask him to come back?’
; She looked at me then, raised her eyebrows. ‘There’s no need to ask him that—’
‘But does he know,’ I spluttered. ‘Does he know that you want him to come back?’
She stared at me. ‘Sissy. Mol. Of course he does.’
‘But what is he doing over there?’
‘He said there is some work he has to do.’
‘You mean he’s teaching somewhere?’
‘No, not teaching . . .’
‘Then what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘So how long does he have to work there?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then, ‘I’m not sure he knows either.’
‘But—’
‘That’s it, Sissy. That’s all I know myself.’
‘But why can’t you ask him to come back?’
She fell silent; the only sound around us was Danny, sitting on her lap, growling now as he tore up his own piece of toast.
‘Even if I asked, he will only come back when he’s ready,’ she said finally.
‘Ready for what?’
‘Sissy, thinnu, mol. Eat, you said you were hungry.’
I lifted the piece of toast, my stomach in knots, and threw it at Danny, who looked befuddled before picking it up and tearing it in half, with a smile.
‘Don’t do that.’ She was wiping the crumbs and crystals of sugar out of his hair. ‘Why did you do that?’
I grabbed the piece of toast out of Danny’s grasp and he started to cry.
‘Sissy, what is this behaviour?’
I laughed at Danny, then stuffed the toast in my mouth while his face puckered and turned bright red, his fingers splayed in protest. My mother suddenly got to her feet, put Danny down on the rug in the living room, then went into the bedroom and closed the door. I swallowed the wad of dough, nearly choking on it, my throat was so dry. Danny stopped crying and we both stared at each other. ‘I hate you,’ I whispered, and he rewarded me with a tentative, toothless smile. From my mother’s room we could both hear the notes of a song; she was playing her records, just as she had done those weeks earlier. And just as that day when my father had left, we were left alone.
I ate all the scraps of toast left, even Danny’s mangled efforts. Then I changed out of my school uniform and into my favourite comfy top and corduroy dungarees. I paused in front of my mother’s bedroom door but heard only the sickly-sweet tones of yet another maudlin love song. Danny was quiet. I saw he had positioned himself on his stomach on the rug, bottom in the air, with his head turned, his cheek against the ground, thumb in his mouth, readying himself for a nap. The rug would aggravate the soft skin on his cheek. I looked around and found a colouring book, tore out a sheet of paper, and slipped it under his face to provide a buffer, feeling proud of my ingenuity, and hoping that this act of kindness and maturity was one step on the road to my redemption. But then, immediately, the resentment returned: why should my mother have the luxury to barricade herself in her bedroom, to leave me alone with my baby brother yet again?
‘Don’t sleep.’ I rolled him onto his back with my toe and he unplugged his thumb with a squelch of surprise.
‘Come with me.’ I lifted him up.
His bottom felt heavy and damp but I would make him wait; I found the keys in the sideboard next to the dining table. We went out onto the veranda, and then I walked across the grass to where my father’s car remained, under the mulberry bush. I opened the door and bundled Danny inside. It was stuffy; it had sat in the sun for days with the windows shut. I rolled the window down and slipped behind the wheel. Beside me, Danny pulled himself up on the back of the passenger seat and began babbling. He was singing, I realised, a song he must have sung with my father in the car. I felt a stab of sorrow for my baby brother – clueless, unconsulted, passed around – and then he fell back, bumping his head on the dashboard. He didn’t cry, only whimpered as I rubbed his head, set him back on his feet. ‘Idiot,’ I whispered, feeling a sense of power surge through me. How easy it was to talk to him this way out of anyone’s earshot, without fear of punishment. How easy it would be to leave with him. We could go where we wanted. He started jumping up and down, holding on to the back of the seat, babbling again. I glanced at the window of my mother’s bedroom; there was no sign of her. She would be lying down on the bed, uninterested in what was carrying on outside. Had she abdicated all responsibility?
I put the key into the ignition and placed my hands on the steering wheel. The sun was setting and the tops of the trees in front of us were lit up in a golden glow.
‘Where shall we go, Danny?’ I asked. ‘Paris? London? New York?’
I imitated the mellifluous tones of the voiceover of an advertisement we had seen in the cinema on our last visit to India. The actor had listed a selection of glamorous destinations in answer to his own question – Where did she buy her beautiful necklace from? Paris? London? New York? No, she went to Lakshmi’s Boutique in Chalakuddy. Chalakuddy, a dusty strip of earth if ever there was one, with one fiercely air-conditioned, tightly sealed jeweller’s. There had been some guffaws from the audience that night at the sheer effrontery of the ad, and in my father’s car I laughed at my own joke while Danny joined in good-naturedly.
I looked at the key and contemplated turning it, but at the same moment I saw Jonah appearing at the top of the steps leading to the netball courts, just as he had done that day when it was my mother in this same driving seat. He had materials of some sort tucked under one arm and was carrying a tool bag in his other hand. For a moment I felt that I was her, Danny not my brother but my child next to me; I was in my mother’s body, the orange sari soft around me. I watched as Jonah’s eyes searched the windows of our bungalow, then he turned and glanced at the car, and I waved at him. He stopped short for a moment and then started jogging, laid his bag and the materials he had been carrying on the veranda, before he changed direction and strode towards us. He leant into the window, just as Mr Lawrence had leant into the window.
‘Hello, Sissy.’ He smiled at me and I smiled back, and inside my chest, inside me, I could feel a lifting, fluttering sensation, my heart soaring at the sight of him. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘I have not seen you these days.’
I shook my head, supremely pleased that he had noticed my absence.
‘Danny.’ He reached forward and patted my brother’s head, then his eyes dropped down and without saying a word he pulled the key out of the ignition and put it in his pocket. There was a short silence.
‘So you are well?’ He was still smiling, but there was a darkness in his expression as he looked at me.
I nodded.
‘And your mother?’ He looked back at the house.
‘She’s lying down.’
He nodded, still smiling. Then he opened the door and held it open. ‘Come, Sissy. I need to speak to your mother.’
He waited for me to climb out, before reaching back inside and extricating my brother. I found myself reddening with shame. He would feel Danny’s damp bottom, and he would know that I should have changed him, that I was a neglectful sister. But he said nothing, only followed me to the front door, my brother on his arm. When I opened it, he deposited Danny inside, but remained outside.
‘Call your mother, Sissy.’
There was something in his voice which made me run to my mother’s door and, without any hesitation, knock on it. ‘Mama, Jonah is here.’ I held my breath and waited. I heard the music stop, heard steps and then the door opened and my mother appeared.
Her hair was loose around her and hung to below her shoulder blades in long, black waves. She was wearing her sari blouse and underskirt and nothing else; she had not tucked a lungi or a shawl around her. The blue of the blouse and skirt contrasted with her skin, the goldness punctuated only by the redness of her lips, the dark arches of her eyebrows, the fan of her eyelashes and then her hair framing her like a cloak. She glanced at me, then at Danny, who started scooting excitedly towards her mak
ing small, satisfied grunts. But she ignored us both, and I watched as she walked barefoot past me to the front door, her legs scissoring under the flimsy skirt, to Jonah, who was standing on the veranda. His eyes swept over my mother: over her face and hair, her slender, golden midriff and her navel dotting her belly neatly just above the drawstring of her skirt, down the shape of her legs under the skirt. I wanted to laugh; at his obvious amazement, his eyes moving up and down, up and down, absorbing the vision in front of him. Yes, I wanted to say with a proprietary pride, she’s beautiful, isn’t she, my mother. And I felt a joy at seeing the two of them before me: Jonah back at our house, my mother re-emerged from the bedroom. Then he lowered his eyes and gave a little cough.
‘Jonah?’ She opened the door wider. ‘Come in.’
He opened his mouth again as if to protest, but then closed it and stepped inside. She bent to pick up Danny, who was now tugging at her skirt, and he immediately shoved his little fist into her blouse. She shook her hair off her shoulder, then settled Danny on her hip, and arranged his limbs around her like a lungi, one leg poised in front of the other.
‘Madam,’ Jonah said, cleared his throat, and started again. ‘I came to tell you. There is to be a curfew every night.’ He paused. ‘Because of the plane.’
His words hung in the air and I stared at him. So he knew about the plane. Until then I had only heard the other men speak of it.
‘A curfew,’ my mother repeated.
‘Yes, madam. There will be a . . .’ he searched for the word, ‘there will be a revenge.’
My mother glanced at me briefly, then nodded. ‘I understand,’ she whispered.
‘I’ve brought some things, madam,’ and he gestured to his bag and the supplies on the veranda. Within minutes, he had set to work. He had brought pegs for the curtains and cardboard sheets which he intended to use to cover the two bare windows – in the kitchen and next to the back door – and those in the living room, which only held thin cotton curtains. He cut the cardboard to size, measuring the frames exactly, fashioning a slit which we could use as a handle of sorts. We all watched him; even Danny did not squirm. All of us, I believe, taking some comfort from having this male presence in the house. He did not speak, declined the offer of a cup of tea from my mother, preferring to concentrate on his task.
The Wild Wind Page 10