‘Okay. Meet me at Pimlico tube at ten to nine. Okay?’
‘No, seriously, what would happen if you turned up with me?’
‘Not a lot. Only the boot up my back garden.’
‘Pathetic. Why can’t you tell him about you and me?’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Try. Is he a racist like my father?’
‘He is a high-caste Brahmin, a Hindu like me - though I am not a Brahmin. I am a Kshatriya of warrior caste. For him, all non-Hindus are outcastes, like untouchables back home. Close contact with you lot is soul-polluting. It is to protect me.’ ‘But he lives in our bloody country. Why doesn’t he bugger off back to his own?’
‘Because this is the land of opportunity. Here, if you work hard, you can make anything of yourself. Here it is welfare state – free healthcare, schooling, university and the rest. But more than all that, he really loves you even though you are outcastes.’
‘Crazy man. Does he really think we are what my dad thinks of the blacks – dirty?’
‘It’s a dirt you were born with and no amount of perfume from Arabia can wash it off. If you are very good in this life, you will be born clean next time, a Brahmin even. My boss calls it the “immigration of the soul”. But when we get married, you’ll become a Kshatriya warrior.’
‘Really? Can’t wait to carry a sword on the tube.’
‘I’ll lend the one we have at Number One to my Warrior Princess Rani of Jhansi. Must get it back one day.’
I was furious with myself. I hadn’t wanted to come, but here I was, and once again I could tell that the ferry was overloaded and about to go under. But HMS Swami was guaranteed a charmed life. It floated happily. A full-throated hoover greeted me with the background music of slamming doors, children tearing the place apart and ladies in glittering saris snarling at them uselessly. I was just about to turn back and make my escape, but I had been seen. By nobody less than the captain of HMS Swami herself - bumblebee eyes, a touch of rouge and about half a kilo of gold ductiled into chains and bangles and rings and earrings, eye-catchingly dispersed over her person.
‘RAAVI!’ One thing about the Swamis was that they didn’t need a loud-hailer. Sheepishly, I turned back.
‘RAAVI!’ Mrs Swami said again. It was an invitation to me to feel ashamed of myself.
The ground floor had been cleared of all furniture. The front room was full of Bagrias and Bhudias and men I knew by sight only. They sat cross-legged on the carpet, their heads covered with handkerchiefs, a sign of reverence to the house-god. They were waiting for something to happen, unconcerned as to when it would. I folded my hands on my chest, said ‘Namaste’ to them all and bloody hell to myself, and looked around for my boss.
‘One hour and still in the bathroom. Mr Swami loves bathroom. Loves it worse than women,’ Mrs Swami informed me. An angelic little girl of five came running. She held half a pearl in one hand and looked supremely happy.
‘Daddy, Daddy. It’s come off. My toof has come off.’ She held it out to her father. ‘And Mummy says I must put it under my pillow tonight for the fairy. And this one is also moving.’ She fingered another tooth in the front row of her pearl teeth.
‘Don’t touch it. Don’t touch it,’ cried Daddy.
‘I want to show it Auntie Lakshmi.’ The little angel took her tooth back and ran to the adjoining room where the ladies sat.
The pooja mandap was placed at a strategic spot in the hall where it could be seen from everywhere – the two main rooms, the kitchen, the stairs and the pantry. Made up of two coffee tables, it was covered with scarlet silk and flowers. On it stood a colourful wooden Ganesha, the pot-bellied elephant god who is responsible for our prosperity (in this case Mr Gokul Swami’s). Dhoop incense burned in a silver tray at the most beloved of gods’ feet. Exquisite twists of sweet-smelling smoke serenely joined it to the ceiling. The sight and smell brought my childhood back to me, making me homesick. I wished Ganesh-ji could arrange an instant BOAC flight to take me home.
‘So you are here finally.’ My boss showed up. He looked at his wristwatch – I was a good half hour late - and rolled his eyes. ‘The late Mr Raavi Kumar.’ He rubbed his hands and gave me a handkerchief to cover my head to sit next to him – head must be covered when you face a god. I obeyed and watched my boss pile up several pounds’-worth of silver, a little hill of it in a silver tray, and cover the hill with pink, green and blue notes.
‘Come, bitia. Come, my morning isstar.’ Mr Swami called his daughter to his side. As Veena came, he put the letter from the examination board on top of the tray and offered it to the god in a gyrating motion. Then father and daughter sat down cross-legged on either side of me. They were close to me and it seemed a strange thing to do, as if I were a special guest – there were many older and far more important men around. My boss smelled of money, Veena of a powerful perfume which gave me a headache within minutes.
Without any signal from anyone, all assembled began the arti prayer Om Jai Jagdish. We sang in one voice, including the children. Though born in this country, they sang the prayer just like children back home. The only difference was they looked better fed and wore more clothes, English clothes. Throats croaked, hands clapped, little bells tingled, heads swayed to and fro and I said to myself, what the hell. The prayer was sung repeatedly and everybody took to it with such ardour that I felt ashamed of myself for lacking it so utterly. I was not anti-god or something, only anti that which was taking place around me. Serve you right, RKM, for coming.
At long last, it was over. The house stirred with movement. It became a beehive, still segregated somewhat. Furniture reappeared. Lotus positions were abandoned in favour of chairs and sofas. I could steal away unnoticed. I rose from my chair and quietly made for the door, but my boss pulled me back and pushed me into my chair.
‘Raavi, sometime you act isstrange. Isspecial family day and everybody here isspecially.’ Then he turned to Lord Rameshwar. ‘You tell him.’
‘Good lad, Raavi understands,’ Lord Rameshwar said, put an arm around another man and walked out of the room. I was left in the hands of mostly older men. I noticed, though, that when I spoke, they all listened. As if I was an important somebody or had said something important, while I had said nothing of the sort. Only something in passing to ease my nerves. I happened to drop my pen and two fellows stooped to pick it up for me. It was all very puzzling.
Suddenly, smells so essentially Swami started to pour out of the kitchen. Then the ladies brought food. It was pooja food – wonderful vegetarian dishes good enough for any god. We ate and I listened to the gentlemen. They were talking of prices of things not available in India – tape recorders, transistors, electric shavers, etc. The ladies were talking about children. And the children were talking about philosophy:
‘My English teacher Miss Willis says she wants to be cremated when she goes,’ ten-year-old Simmi said to ten-year-old Dimples.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s being burned to ashes. How do you want to go? Put under the earth or?’
‘I really don’t want to go.’
‘What about you, Pillu? I like your cricket sweater.’
‘I think I’ll go in the ashtray,’ the eight-year-old replied. I wished Jane was with me. She would have loved these child philosophers. My headache getting worse, I just wanted to leave. But the meal was not over. Yet I went. I just slipped away.
THE BLACK HOLE OF KILBURN
Once every few weeks, the Subcontinental went a-cooking and held a feast. Bollywood songs were sung and verses – in Urdu and Punjabi – were recited by the furlong. I never missed these mad Saturday meals if I could. The only Europeans present at these extravaganzas – culinary and cultural – were my friends’ ‘continental houris’. Whatever these gifts from paradise thought of these afternoons, they never let us know.
Where my friends were concerned, their Sub was an island in the vast ocean of loneliness. This day brought back wattan, be it India or Pakistan �
�� and the Subcontinental became the slaughterhouse of sadness. Home politics were never discussed, though we sometimes said to each other that if Indians and Pakistanis could live happily together here, why couldn’t they back home? The irony of it was not lost on us. We had had to travel five thousand miles to find out. ‘Our countries should send our damnfool leaders here for a stint,’ Tariq said once.’
Jane and I had to juggle with our days to be together because of her timetable and my working hours. But we always spent every Sunday in my flat. That Friday, Jane said on the phone, ‘Can I come to your famous lunch tomorrow?’ Tomorrow’s lunch was special. It was for Mr and Mrs Melaram, with everybody contributing. I would take four cans of lager and Indian sweetmeats.
‘Are you mad, baby?’
‘Yes. I want to meet your friends. They sound nice.’
‘What if we are seen by your mum or dad?’
‘He isn’t around. Anyway, we’ll arrive separately.’
‘I would love you to come, baby, but why do you want to?’
‘To spend more time with you. Maximise our togetherness. What a lovely word, Raavi – togetherness. It means you and me.’
‘But we’ve had it if we are seen.’
‘I’ll be careful. What the hell. England is not a not a police state as far as I know.’
‘I would love you to come, baby. It will water the plant of my reputation. Fetch me flowers of envy.’
‘Will it all be curry?’
‘It will be an Indian meal, baby. A meal to remember.’
It rained all morning, putting a chill out. So I wore the warm red polo-neck Jane had given me. But it stopped just before I took the train to Golders Green. Robert stood at his gate, a boy who wanted to do something but did not know what.
‘Robert.’
‘Raavi.’
‘How are you? Gosh, you have grown.’
‘You don’t live here no more. Where do you live now?’
‘Belsize Park. How’s your mum?’ Before he could answer, there came a sharp shout from the same window from which I had once made a thief’s escape, minus a life-or-death something that had made a whole English bus laugh.
‘Robert. Inside. Now.’ Mr Muir! I couldn’t see him, but I knew it was him. His voice was rough. I realised to my shame that I was afraid of it.
‘Sorry. Must go,’ Robert said and ran away. Tariq let me in. He had cooked his speciality, chicken biryani with the world’s most expensive spice – saffron. He let me have a sneak view of it. It was almost the colour of the Dalai Lama’s robes. I walked into the Karachi carpenter’s room to see his creation. What I saw ‘sent’ me – a lamb korma in a right royal sauce. He even gave me a boti to taste. ‘Finger-looking,’ I said, moving on to Amritsar carpenter Bhagat Singh’s dish.
‘My secret weapon.’
‘Bhagat-ji, don’t be like that with old friends.’
‘Been cooking the damn thing since dawn.’ He had prepared the royal maash black dhal, every Punjabi’s favourite.
Walia had made a bucket of the kanji drink – a non-alcoholic ferment with black carrots, black salt and his secret blend of spices. Like the French camembert cheese, it smelled of sick. But it had a taste to live for. Factory worker, Bedi’s lamb trotters were so hot, one mouthful and my tongue went up in flames.
The banquet was to be held in the Melarams’ quarters on the first floor. They had taken the adjoining room and removed the hardboard partition, making theirs a sumptuous space. I stood by the window, looking out for Jane. She arrived on the dot and I ran down to let her in. She looked a dream in the dress I had bought her.
‘Do I look sexy?’
‘Celestial, special. Hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘I think your dad is back.’
‘Sod him.’ Food came in steaming saucepans amidst loud waah-waahs! There was hugging. There was laughter. There was noisy talk. White sheets were spread on the carpet, and plates laid out in a very wide circle. We sat down cross-legged, twenty one of us. Twelve gentlemen and nine ladies, including Mrs Melaram who manned the stove in their tiny new kitchen, tossing the thinnest-layered parathas this side of the Suez.
‘If we can live happy happy here, why not there?’ Mrs Melaram echoed my thoughts, pointing to the window, meaning the real Subcontinent as Tariq was dishing out his masterpiece with killer smiles for the ladies and humble nods to the gentlemen.
The other beauties were au pairs from Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, France and Finland. Their lingua franca was a sort of sub-English. They laughed more than they talked. They were all aged around nineteen to twenty-one. But the star in everyone’s eyes was Jane. Not only because she shone brighter, but because she was English.
As we started to eat, the housekeeper, Mrs Ferreiro joined us. She was visibly taken aback to see Jane. Then she glanced at me.
Having had the lunch of the second half of the century, now it was time for a bit of culture. We begged Mrs Melaram to regale us with a song. She sang with heart a Lata Mangeshkar ‘true love’ song sung daily by millions back home. She stole our hearts with more songs and I looked at my love and wondered what she was thinking. Some men also croaked along. Next was Melaram. Clearing his throat, he recited his new verse resoundingly in the Urdu of princely Lucknow.
‘Now Jane-ji will sing us an English tune,’ Mrs Melaram said.
‘I can’t sing to save my life,’ the English rose blushed.
‘Of course you can. Everyone can. Ravi-ji, you ask her.’ It started to rain again and Jane stood up.
‘I said something?’ Mrs Melaram blamed herself that Jane was going. Jane went and put her arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.
‘No, you haven’t. I simply have to go.’
‘Okay. But on one condition. Come again next time. Promise?’
‘Promise. And thank you for such a lovely lunch. Thank you so much, everybody.’
‘You’re taking my heart with you, Jane.’
The rain fell thickly. My roof multiplied the noise fourfold: Belsize Park Philharmonic Orchestra at its acoustic best. We stood glued to each other at my long window, watching in awe.
‘Did you like the lunch yesterday?’
‘I loved it. I don’t usually like parties much, but I enjoyed being among your people. They were so sweet. So natural and relaxed.’
A petrified little thrush came from nowhere and perched on my kitchenette window, shivering. It had only one leg.
‘Oh, poor thing.’ Jane’s heart melted. ‘It’s badly hurt. Can’t we take it in?’
‘It will fly away if I open the window.’
‘Open it a little and see.’ I did. The bird didn’t fly away. Just looked at me with sad bright eyes. I opened the window a little more and held my hand out to reach it. I nearly grasped it, but it fluttered its soaked wings and flew up to perch on the joint of two drainpipes along the wall a few feet away. It had only an inch of space. Unless it flew to somewhere safer, it was going to be blown off and would perish.
‘Oh! Can’t you do something?’
‘What?’
‘Something. Please.’ It was the way Jane said it. The bird sat too high for me to reach it from the window. The only alternative was to climb down, the way Jane had once done.
‘Are you scared of heights, Raavi?’
‘I know you are not. But I’ll let you know.’ I stripped to my underpants and ran up the stairs. Jane stayed put to direct me.
‘Careful, careful, only a few feet more. You are doing fine. Careful! You’re almost there. Now hold out your hand.’ As I held out my hand, sure that the bird knew I was risking my life for its sake, the damn thing leaped up and flew away.
‘Oh, buggery.’ Jane opened the kitchen window wide to let me in. ‘Silly little bird. But you were marvellous, darling.’ She clung to the rain-soaked, cold and shivering me and made love to me there and then – on the floor.
‘I love the taste of your mouth. What did you eat today?’ She had a way of kis
sing me. It was the most earth-moving thing that ever happened to a man.
‘You,’ I said and pulled her into bed to warm us up.
‘Eat me again. Eat me again.’
‘Give us a breather, for heaven’s sake.’
‘You mean you can’t get it up, your thingybob, I mean?’
‘Give us a minute, will you?’
‘No, I haven’t got much time. But talking of smells, Dad said yesterday that I smelled of curry and gave me a funny look.’
‘But you did eat curry yesterday. The world’s best.’ We moved and I placed my head in her lap, happy as a hog in a bog and smiling like a fool. I lay there for an eternity, looking at nothing. Then I felt a raindrop fall on my cheek.
‘Baby!’ I shot up as if electrocuted. The one raindrop became two, three, four …
‘Jane, why do you cry?’ Jane didn’t answer. But she smiled.
‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I am so happy.’
‘A pretty good reason to cry, I suppose.’ I held her wet face in my hands and kissed her salty lips.
‘Please don’t cry,’ I said tenderly.
‘I can’t help it. I dream of you every night and I know I am dreaming and don’t want to wake up because I know that if I do, you won’t be there. But I wake up and you are not there and I start crying in my room because you are not there.’
‘Jane, I am with you all the time.’
‘Yes, you are all the time. And I think of you all the time.’
‘Good. And so you should. Because that’s what I do – think of you all the time.’
‘Honest Injun?’
‘Honest Injun.’
‘Oh, baby, hug me. Hug me, hug me, hug me.’ It was time for her to go. I walked her to the tube in pissing rain despite her pleas not to. I had to write home so I hurried back, only to hear the phone ring nonstop. It was Mrs Ferreiro. But I saw her only yesterday, and she only phoned if there was any mail for me. Something awful must have happened at the Sub. ‘Mr Raavi,’ she said. ‘I haav not very good news for you. Mr Muir came to see me two times.’
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