‘You mean to get the lamb? Smelt good, eh? It’s going to taste even better today.’
‘No, before that. She only gave him the lamb because he’d gone over to visit her. Did he tell you?’
Abhay shook his head, then smiled. ‘Wow, he’s already brought a bit of India to Karori, in just over a week. Dropping in on the neighbours, and she’s sending over food for him. Amazing, huh?’
He added, ‘You know, I only introduced him to Janaki, as well as Joy and others at the club, because one morning he told me at breakfast that my life was too people-poor. That he would never survive here with such nonexistent levels of contact with his neighbours. So I wanted to show him that actually there are a few neighbours and quite a few people in Karori overall that we do see quite often, and who feel warmly towards us. Our lives are not as impoverished as all that.
‘Of course, the number’s gone up tenfold since Mira came along, I admit. She’s the real star of our family. I’m mostly known around here, and in a few places in town as well, like the sushi shops, as the face lagging along behind her. It’s Mira everyone asks after at the bakery, the library, the fruit and veg shop. I’m just her manager.’
I know I’m coming across as unduly suspicious and fixated here without yet having any legitimate cause (‘yet’ being the key word in that concession), and so what if a grown-up chose not to mention a casual meeting with another grown-up ( Janaki was a retired Malaysian-Indian professor in her early seventies; her son and daughter lived in Sydney and Boston, respectively; she’d lost her husband to a sudden heart attack two-and-a-half years ago), but I promise I’d resolved to let the matter go as we got up that morning and I went to make coffee while Abhay looked in on Mira. And I didn’t bring it up again, not for the rest of the day (which was the day before Christmas Eve), not until Abhay himself next mentioned Janaki when he came to my mother’s place to pick me, Mira and Tulti up that evening after we’d had a marathon present-wrapping session, doing eleven presents for different people, big and small, that needed to be delivered and put under trees the following morning.
Ashim had stayed home, and on the drive back, Abhay mentioned to me in the front seat that Janaki had called today.
‘To ask about the lamb curry? I’ve been looking forward to it. Did you guys save me some? It would have been way too spicy for the girls.’
‘Yes, we did, and I told her it was amazing, but something odd happened. She called on the landline and I answered and she asked to speak to Ashim. I said, sure, Janaki, but it’s me, Abhay, and she quite awkwardly went “Oh, hello”, and asked again for Dada. So then I said that the lamb had been delicious while walking to hand the phone over to Dada, but she still didn’t seem to register that she was speaking to me. She just kind of vaguely went “That’s all right”, and then nothing else.’
I agreed that was strange, and added after thinking about it that Abhay himself had told me more than once that Janaki had been seeming ever more absent of late. He had even speculated that it didn’t look so much as though she was losing her grip on little things, but that she just didn’t ‘feel like’ holding on any more. For example, three or four times recently she’d invited Abhay over and then either not answered the door, or not been home at all, or replied to his knocks from inside to say that she was feeling poorly and was in her pyjamas, and could they meet another time? And that happened at 5.30 in the evening on a weekday, after she herself had asked Abhay over just an hour before. Each of these incidents had occurred in the past few weeks.
I should also say that this shows why Abhay was slightly hurt by what he perceived as her coldness. They had become quite close in the past two years, since Mr Duraisamy had passed away, with Abhay regularly going over to chat with her, or for this or that small thing she needed help with (the loose hinges of her kitchen cupboard door, for example, or else trying to install a rented car seat when her daughter was visiting, or simply driving Janaki to and from Karori medical centre for a doctor’s appointment when her own car was at the garage). Actually, he did himself an injustice by overstating Ashim’s ‘Indian touch’ with the neighbours: Janaki sent food our way pretty often in fact, partly because she had become an ever smaller eater and often found she had prepared too much.
The next morning, Ashim informed us that he’d decided on behalf of ‘the family’ to invite Janaki to join us the following day for Christmas dinner. Abhay immediately said it was a great idea and that he was embarrassed not to have thought of it in earlier years. I too had no objection, except thinking that Ashim could have run the idea by us first, but then reminded myself that extending such an invitation was exactly what he would have done, and expected to have the right to do, in India for any family celebration, even say if it had been Mira’s wedding. ‘Tomorrow’s my niece’s wedding. Come along, and bring your family,’ I could easily imagine an Indian saying even to a new business acquaintance, and the guest count of six hundred would have gone up by four.
Christmas dinner was mostly fun, and Tulti especially liked the spread of different-coloured foods and meats on the table. She’d enjoyed everything about the day (her first-ever Christmas celebration on a big scale, and she also reminded us how often she’d come across these scenes in different storybooks; ‘except there would be snow outside,’ I added), from present-opening and stocking emptying-out in the morning … no, I should begin with leaving out the cookies, juice, carrots and water for Santa and his reindeer the evening before. The weather cooperated and we were able to eat outside on the front deck for the third year out of the last four (amazing and once-unknown in the Wellington I grew up in — a tiny, possible consequence of climate change that I for one could get used to). Janaki seemed happy to join us, chatting away with my mother and Ashim while Abhay and I went about carving or carrying things, and particularly liked the Palliser pinot gris we opened. She’d brought along a box of chocolates each for the girls, but continued to speak — and quite openly and unconcernedly at that — the absolute bare minimum to Abhay throughout the long evening. After just two instances of this — when Abhay asked her how much lamb she would like, and then tried to get her attention to pass on the kumara, and both times she responded with a clipped ‘Thank you’ — I caught his eye, and was forced to concede that his impression had been accurate from the phone call a couple of days ago. Janaki was definitely upset with him about something.
Between dinner and dessert, Ashim stood up and made a speech, in which he thanked not just us who were assembled there, but the neighbourhood of Karori and the entire city of Wellington for making him and Tulti feel so welcome. He then said this was the first Christmas he’d spent with his brother’s family, but that he hoped there would be several more. In fact, we couldn’t know how much this occasion meant to him, precisely because there had been so few of them in his life: celebrations for which his entire family had been together. Not even at his wedding had this been the case, he reminded us.
Three thoughts passed through my head at this point, all woefully un-Christmassy. First, at his own mention of his wedding, I suppressed the urge to say ‘Still not your whole family here, mate. Remember that other person from your wedding who isn’t here today, and also the other sibling?’
Second, we were on the front deck of our home, beyond which was the fence and then the street. I thought our neighbours on either side and across the street might be dining al fresco too, and would overhear that we had never managed to be together as a family for any important occasion in my brother-in-law’s life.
And third, exactly as he said the words about how unprecedented a sight this was for him, my eyes went around the table to take in the reactions of all the adults, beginning with Abhay. As I expected, Abhay looked ashamed and guilty, and valiantly smiled, and then he even applauded, and suddenly I felt a surge of protectiveness towards him and also anger on his behalf. Shut the fuck up and sit down, Ashim. There are outsiders present who don’t need to hear forty years of family history skimmed over in a single
out-of-context statement. Even my mother, who knew (our version of ) Abhay’s family story, looked mildly uncomfortable as Ashim emphasised his point, and her eyes went over to note Janaki’s reaction.
As did mine, from where I was sitting: I saw her shake her head and a stern although likely unconscious look of disapproval pass over her face, even though she continued to look only at Ashim, and suddenly I believed I had cleared up the mystery of her recent coolness towards Abhay. Ashim had sprung his version of the story upon her, in which (OK, I don’t know exactly what he said) he and his sister were turned out of their own father’s house, where they had sought shelter only after losing their mother to cancer, on the pretext of nothing more than a small childhood incident that went wrong, which itself was motivated by grief above all else. And while Ashim’s stepmother had orchestrated the banishment with gleeful opportunism, Abhay, who had been a witness — no, much more, a full participant in the thing — had not once adequately defended his brother. One unlucky evening had altered two lives forever, and it might have been even worse and he and Aranya could have spent the rest of their youth in boarding schools far apart were it not for the humanity of their paternal grandmother, who thereafter took over as their only guardian.
And Janaki would have said, or at least thought to herself, but I have known Abhay for at least three years, and especially well over the last two, and he’s come over to chat once a fortnight and we talk about everything under the sun, but not once has he shared even a glimpse of this enormous secret.
Exactly, Ashim’s expression of sorrow would have triumphantly confirmed. Perhaps that is the extent of his shame. And I too wouldn’t have said anything today, Aunty, if you hadn’t asked about where I grew up. Why bring up the past for no reason, especially when we have finally found one another again after twenty-seven years, he would have added with impeccable magnanimity.
In my defence, I believed in the fairness of my next step, impulsive though it certainly was. Let’s carry the fight to the fucker for once, who has disregarded every norm of — forget guest-like but brotherly — behaviour; let’s make him feel some shame for a change. To hold your younger brother responsible for something that happened when he was nine, in the case of a misadventure that you admit leading him into, and for which the punishments were meted out from on high solely and arbitrarily by your stepmother and your father? Worst of all, to imply that your brother might be responsible not just for failing to argue your defence stoutly enough, but also for a conspiracy, along with his devious mum, to expel you from your Baba’s house forever (yes, cue comparisons to the Ramayana and of yourself with the grievously wronged Rama)?
And then to almost twist that brother’s arm into inviting you over to his home twenty-seven years later (is there a fairer way to describe how that transpired?), and promptly go about sharing these canards with his neighbours who heretofore really liked and esteemed him: well, would it be so harsh to extrapolate that precisely such slandering, such underhanded vindictiveness, was perhaps one of your principal motives in insisting so forcefully that you had to visit New Zealand right away, even if we couldn’t afford to bring over your wife?
I quietly fumed over Ashim’s behaviour all the way through Christmas cake and other desserts and clearing away afterwards with Mum’s help, while Ashim and Janaki continued to chat over wine as if they had been friends for three years, and Abhay slowly nudged the girls towards their bedtimes. Mum and Janaki left at the same time, and then Abhay took the girls for story-time to Mira’s room after a prolonged selection procedure over which of their new presents they wanted ready at the foot of their respective beds to take on holiday the following morning. I, just after lending Ashim my laptop to reply to his emails and Skype with Moushumi, decided to waylay him before he made his call, so that we’d have some time while Abhay was still with the girls.
‘Ashim, I wanted to ask — did you tell Janaki something about why your family separated when you were young?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did. I was surprised she didn’t know. She asked about where I grew up, so it was impossible to avoid the question of why.’ Ashim looked at me as he answered from his place on the sofa, my computer on his lap. I suddenly realised that although he used Firefox while I did most of my work on Chrome, I had never once signed out of anything before handing over the machine to him, or indeed leaving it for his use throughout the week at home.
And now, if I started signing out of Facebook and Gmail and my work account, would he notice the sudden change?
‘Well, I’m sure you explained the context, but Janaki seems to have decided to believe Abhay was to blame. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but her entire manner towards him has changed.’
No, I hadn’t noticed, he said.
Abhay should normally have been here by now, but perhaps the girls were taking longer to let him go, after all the excitement of the day.
‘Look, you have every right to make your own friends here, and of course you can talk about anything you like, but all I want to say is, do also be careful about how you present things to new people, who might not have much previous knowledge of your family, or indeed of Indian life at all. I mean, it would be a shame if Abhay were suddenly held responsible by people here for something that happened when he was nine, and in which—’
‘Did you ask Janaki if that was bothering her? To me, she seemed friendly towards everyone. I saw her thanking you repeatedly for a lovely evening.’
‘No, you’re right, she did, and of course I didn’t. Maybe I’m misunderstanding her manner, or she has something else on her mind entirely. I guess I should just restrict myself to saying, before Abhay comes out of the girls’ bedrooms, that whatever you feel about things between the two of you or from the past, do by all means take this chance — and especially over the next few days when we go away and there’ll be plenty of time to talk and I’ll be happy to do things with the girls — to talk it out, so that perhaps by the time you leave, both of you will have a much clearer, and up-to-date, idea of how the other feels about those same things. I know for a fact that Abhay would really like to embrace you and share things with you; for him that’s what this trip is all about, he’s told me that so many times, so please take that chance as well with him. That’s all I want to say, really.’
Ashim had closed the laptop and put it beside him while I spoke. He was still on the larger sofa, legs stretched out before him and arms crossed over his chest.
‘Lena, two days ago I found out that you guys are planning a trip to Britain and Germany in June, around some conference of yours but also to catch up with old friends. Am I right about the details? In the course of the same conversation was also the first time that Abhay mentioned he had become a New Zealand citizen in September. He was saying how strange it was that until he applies to become — what is it, an overseas Indian or something? — he’ll need a visa for any trip to India; that Chhotka’s wedding was the last time he travelled home as an Indian citizen.
‘Anyway, the reason I bring it up is that he was also telling me about the flights you’ve booked and how happy he is that you’re going through LA on the way to London so that you can stop at Disneyland with Mira, and he said how nice it was to plan a trip without having to worry about getting a single visa beforehand, as he would have had to do when he was Indian; as I would still have to, although I’m adding this, Abhay didn’t. And I learnt that he’s looking forward to renting a car in America and driving on the highways in LA, and he’s looking forward to driving in Germany, and that ever since he got the passport he still sometimes visits some Wikipedia page that tells you how many countries you can travel to visa-free with a New Zealand passport and how few with an Indian one, and how miraculous that makes him feel now to be one and not the other, and all I wanted to say to him, but I didn’t, was “Congratulations, but do you realise that this difference between us might also come down to that one evening?” And do you realise that you’re talking literally about going round t
he world on your next holiday — because that’s what you’re doing, right, if you fly to LA from here and then come home via Hong Kong as Abhay described — but that I needed his, and your, help to come here with my daughter, and to pay the visa fees, and I couldn’t even bring my wife. And once again without raising my voice I want to say that it all goes back to that night, which is something Abhay seems neither to realise nor acknowledge nor indeed tell anyone about.’
It’s true that you sometimes cannot believe what you’re hearing, even though the immediate thing Ashim had just mentioned — Abhay’s reaction to getting his new passport — I could acknowledge straightaway as an uncanny reproduction of what he must have heard, because of the number of times Abhay had shared those exact feelings with me.
I had to sit down before I next spoke. That’s how shocked I was to find that my most uncharitable imaginings were in fact true. My brother-in-law had had us in his sights all along.
‘But that’s not fair at all — firstly to say that you were denied other opportunities because of that one night. You still had your father, who had the same obligations towards all three of you. And even if we start with that night, it was Abhay’s mother and your father who collectively made that decision, not Abhay. If someone really failed to defend you, who was also at the railway station that night, it was your Baba, Ashim. Abhay’s mother might have been overly harsh and got the wrong end of the stick, but you can’t shift responsibility for their decision onto Abhay’s shoulders just because your father is no longer around. And for that matter, from what I know of the story, have you ever asked yourself why you had to live in that part of Howrah at all, after your parents had divorced? Wasn’t that a failure of duty on your father’s part towards the three of you? It’s not my place to ask this question, but please don’t hold Abhay responsible for decisions your father made or failed to make.
The Man Who Would Not See Page 6