****
It was almost evening when Shami and Krish, were taken home to join their mother, and their two sisters, Lisha and little Padma. Priya lay sobbing on the bed in her bedroom. The children waited around looking at each other, and then at their mother. They were all confounded at the unfamiliar disorder. Layla walked into the room and carried the crying Padma.
“Priya, you need to be strong for the sake of the children,” she whispered soothingly. “I’m sure that’s what Mahen would’ve also wanted. So please be strong. I know it’s not easy.” She held back her tears as she added, “But I understand your loss, he was my baby brother.”
“How can I be strong Lalita?” sobbed Priya. “Show me how to be strong, please do… when my financial support has died,” Her body shook with grief, “I might as well die too. I just don’t have the strength. I don’t know how I’m going to cope.” Lalita realised that something must’ve happened for Priya to think about her financial position at this juncture.
She understood Priya’s fears. No matter how unstable her brother had been, at least he’d provided a roof over their heads, and put food on the table. It made sense why Priya felt insecure and vulnerable. But Layla, herself a political creature, knew that her brother had fervently involved himself in the political activities of the anti-apartheid movement which she’d encouraged him to pursue. This awareness of Priya’s fears, gave her an anxious sense of remorse.
“Don’t talk like that my darling, we can think about such things later on,” said Layla. “Come along, some of the neighbors have sent supper. You need to eat something to give you a little energy.”
Shami and the rest of the children were taken out into the marquee to eat their supper. Shami listened to the talk at the supper table. A few close relatives had returned to the cottage after the funeral, most of whom were the couple’s siblings and some elders in the family. They sat around in the marque, solemnly chatting to one another.
“I spoke to Priya just now,” Priya’s sister Sita, was saying to her husband; “And she revealed that Mahen didn’t have any insurance policies. So it seems that the burden is going to somehow fall onto us.”
Her husband gave a guarded response, “What do we do? We have to help somehow.” He was mindful that other people were within earshot.
Layla though, was quick to retort. “If you think that my brother’s family is going to be a burden to you, then I suggest that you keep your help to yourself. I’ll be there for them!” she snapped fiercely at Sita.
“What’s your problem, Sita?” Trevor questioned irately. He felt embarrassed at his sister’s thoughtlessness. “Whoever wants to help and steer this family during this difficult phase in their lives, shouldn’t feel forced to. Do so only if your heart wishes to, ok?” He glanced at his sister in annoyance.
“If I can remember clearly”, continued Layla, not prepared to give up the matter so easily. “You and your entire family used to be in and out of my brother’s home, making the best of what little they had to offer. And yet you have the audacity to say that they’re already a burden to you!” Layla was really revved up. It’d dawned on her that Sita was responsible for Priya’s stress earlier on. She flashed daggers at Sita. “Instead of showing concern and comforting your sister in her hour of need, you were busy finding out about insurance policies!? I can’t believe this!” she added in disgust.
“I’m not prepared to listen to your annoying side comments,” snapped Sita defensively. She then added cruelly, looking at Layla, “Anyway, you can get off your high horse. Your brother was a bloody terrorist! The whole world knows that now! What you think those terrorists were doing at the funeral today? If he’d spent more time with his family rather than bombing up post offices, my sister wouldn’t be in this dilemma.”
Layla readied herself to launch a defense on behalf of her brother. At that precise moment, Priya entered the marquee. There was an immediate hush. Priya regarded Sita miserably. Everyone knew that she’d heard the heated exchange of words. The marque was, after all, a mere two feet away from the tiny cottage.
“I won’t be a burden to any of you. I don’t want that. When the thirteenth day ceremony is over, I’ll look for a job.” Tears streamed down her face as her voice broke. “You know that my husband never allowed me to work. But it’s about time now that I faced reality for the sake of my children,” she sobbed, looking down onto the plate of beans and rice that Layla had served her.
“Don’t let these things worry you, Priya,” soothed Layla throwing a vicious look at Sita. She wiped the tears off Priya. “Furthermore, don’t allow small-minded people to bring you down. Just know that we’re all here for you. If you have to work we understand. But know that you’re not alone. Eat your food before it gets cold, my dearest.”
“Priya, I didn’t mean anything by what I said,” protested Sita in her typical vain effort to console her sister, “I just meant that we all have to look out for you and the children.”
“I am sure that’s what you meant, Sita,” remarked Priya softly. “Besides, my husband was never a terrorist. He believed in a greater cause and he stood up for his beliefs. While some people cringed under the apartheid laws, he decided to make a difference.” She looked at her sister with a sad gaze. “Never mind he was not much of a socialite. But he believed in a better life for us all; you, me, and everyone else. That’s why he became an activist. He was a freedom fighter believing in equality for all. He might not have been anyone else’s cup of tea, but he was most definitely mine. I confided this to you earlier, Sita, when you enquired about the activists’ presence at the funeral. I least expected that you’ll use this to damage my husband’s credibility. It really hurts.”
She slowly picked at her food. Sita threw Layla a dirty look.
Shami swallowed his meal quietly and absorbed all that was said. He couldn’t taste the food, and it seemed to stick in his throat. He couldn’t believe that his aunt, Sita, had been so nasty. She’d always been so pleasant when his father was alive. He looked closely at his mother. She was a pretty, dark complexioned lady, who was known to be innovative and hardworking. Priya grew vegetables in the tiny garden behind the modest cottage on Second Avenue. This provided for the family’s needs, and she also sold some of the fresh produce to neighbors. The little income that she’d earned, had supplemented Mahen’s meager earnings. It was true that they’d had their share of sorrows. But Shami’s family had always been a content one; even with Mahen’s over indulgence in booze.
Shami remembered family visits to the few beaches that allowed entrance to non-whites, and likewise to the nearby municipal park.
The earlier conversation took hold and his mind rewound further to when he was a barely school-going child. He pictured how his father had once attempted to find a good picnic spot for his family, and strayed too far away from the allotted beach. He was confronted and severely reprimanded by a young white policeman for encroaching space reserved for whites. His father was furious at been belittled, in such a cheeky manner and that too with an air of supremacy, by a youngster barely out of school. The white beach-goers had looked on curiously as if Mahen was some sort of trouble monger. He’d driven his dejected family home with anger blazing in his eyes. Priya had never seen her husband so unforgiving. At the time they’d only had two children. Both had insisted on playing on the beach, but their father had been adamant that they might as well go home seeing that they couldn’t enjoy the same pleasures as everyone else.
As the days went by, Shami gradually learned that this was the law of the land, where a privileged few were fortunate enough to indulge in the riches of the land. It was at this stage in his fledgling life, that he’d heard hushed whispers of the people’s hero, Nelson Mandela; imprisoned many years ago for his fight against unjust laws that separated people on the basis of their race. Speaking Mandela’s name out aloud, meant retribution from the apartheid security f
orces. He noticed too, that his father had begun disappearing late into the nights. Despite these challenges, his father had always tried to give his family the best that he could afford.
It was only in his advanced years, long after Mahen’s death, that Priya confided in Shami the actual scope of his father’s political involvement.
II
Three months later.
Priya found herself a job at a hairdressing salon which one of her husband’s comrades, Senzo Ngobese, had made her aware of. She was employed as a helper, to sweep up the hair from the floor and do other odd jobs that needed doing. In the recent days, she helped her boss to sort out his paperwork.
Her employer was a middle aged Afrikaner man who always wore safari suits and a cap that hid a bald patch. On this one particular day, he asked her to work late. He needed her assistance with the paperwork and filing. This surprised her; and at the same time, it also depressed her. She was eager to go home each evening to spend time with her children. This was something they all looked forward to.
“You must be so lonely. Am I right Priya, without a husband and all?” enquired her boss unexpectedly in the midst of their work. She’d perceived Wan Wyk’s weakness for women of color. She had at times caught him gazing at her lustily. Her instincts told her to be weary.
“Not really, Mister Van Wyk. My children are all the company that I need, and they make me so happy,” replied Priya, trying to sound as if she hadn’t understood where he was headed with this.
“That’s nice. But it’s always great to have male company now and again, mm?” persisted Van Wyk. “It’s good that the children keep you busy, but nothing beats having a man in your life.”
“Not really, Mister Van Wyk. My life’s perfect as it is,” responded Priya with a nervous laugh, feeling uncomfortable.
Van Wyk was a thin, tall man with a trimmed beard streaked with grey. He had piercing green snake-like eyes. It was generally accepted that he’d inherited a large sum of money many years ago. He continually walked around with a serene smile. Van Wyk arranged feeding schemes for the underprivileged and was highly regarded for his charitable contributions amongst people of color. However, the main reason Comrade Ngobese had planted her at the salon, was because they suspected Van Wyk of been a police informer. There were too many coincidences. His charitable works allowed him to interact with many of the activists. They’d at first seemed glad that he was concerned with how apartheid affected the living standards of the people. He deceptively used his position of trust in the community to gather sensitive information, which was passed on to his masters in the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging. Priya did not know the exact details; however she was expected to watch the coming and goings of people visiting Van Wyk. She regularly communicated her observations to her controller.
Van Wyk passed some paperwork over to Priya. He came around to double check over her shoulder. She was already feeling uncomfortable when he suddenly pushed his hand down the front of her dress. She tried fighting him off. But he forcefully kept her seated while he fondled her.
“Don’t resist it Priya. This feels so good,” he whispered yearningly.
“Please don’t, Mister Van Wyk. I’m pleading with you. Don’t do this to me, this is not right,” pleaded the terrified Priya.
“Come now you beautiful thing. You’re going to love it. There’s no one here to interrupt us. It’s been a long time for you, without a man to fulfil you,” whispered Van Wyk to Priya who was shaking with fear. He sucked on her ear, while running his hands all over her body. He pulled her up and rubbed himself against her. She could feel the unwelcome intrusion against her body. Van Wyk attempted lifting up her dress. She turned around furiously, and slapped him across the face. It echoed in the small make-shift office at the back of the salon.
“You ungrateful whore!” he yelled viciously with a reddened face and fisted her hard. He ripped open her dress, pushing her roughly against the table. He was breathing hard. “You drive me insane. You smile teasingly at me from morning to afternoon, huh? Now you want to play hard to get! Is this some sort of game for you!?”
“Please Mr. Van Wyk,” she sobbed. “I’ve always tried to be friendly. I didn’t think that you would take it otherwise.”
“You’re a damn liar! A big tease is what you are!” He willfully unzipped his trousers, at the same time forcing open her legs. She kicked out at him, with all the strength that her petite body could muster. The impact hurled him heavily against the flimsy wall. He fell in a heap and lay still. She halted in her retreat when she saw blood seeping out from under him. Priya was dumbfounded with shock. “Could she have injured him that badly?” she pondered. She cautiously approached Van Wyk and turned him around, kneeling by his side. His eyes and mouth were open, and his body appeared still. The already traumatized Priya shook hysterically as the shock hit her. She heard a sound behind her and spun around in fear. A frightening figure, wearing a long coat and a hat, seemed to materialize as if out of nowhere. Comrade Ngobese stepped out from the shadows, holding a gun with a silencer.
“I came to give you an envelope, but your children informed me that you hadn’t reached home yet,” he simply said, as a matter of fact. “I thought it unusual so I came here to find you.” He gently picked her up and covered her nakedness with her his long coat. “Go now sister, quickly! We’ll take care of this mess.”
“He seemed so modest,” sobbed Priya to Layla. It was Layla who’d introduced her to the cell members. “I took the job simply because Comrade Ngobese wanted someone to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the salon. It all seemed so uncomplicated.” Priya felt that she was somehow at fault.
“Priya, when it comes to fighting for our cause, we often get caught up in uncomfortable situations. It’s never easy. You’re not at fault here; Van Wyk appeared to be a good person, but was in fact a wolf parading in sheep’s clothing. It was a political ploy to deceive our people. We all trusted him.”
Priya looked up at her sister-in-law with a distressed look. “But I still can’t get over it, Layla. He seemed so good and caring towards me. At times he gave me extra cash in appreciation of my hard work. Even while passing on information, I’d already begun doubting Comrade Ngobese’s suspicions. I felt you could never get a more saintly person than Van Wyk.” Her voice broke, as she continued, “Then he tried to force himself onto me, Layla.”
“We know Priya, the comrades don’t wish you any harm, but they feel that your value for the cause lies in your innocence. They want you to exploit this to your maximum advantage. We’re not asking you to compromise yourself. I would never want that from you. But people adore you for your innocence. ” She paused while she gave her widowed sister-in-law a compassionate look, and for the words to take its desired effect. “Look at how valuable it was having you positioned at Van Wyks place. We gleaned some useful information. We intend using you for similar work over the years. Whatever money you earn from these encounters is yours to keep. All we expect is that you report to Ngobese exactly as you’ve been doing. Your support is crucial in infiltrating our antagonist’s camp. You did well at Van Wyks place, Priya. The information you passed on to us was invaluable in tracking our adversary’s movements and familiarizing ourselves with the sort of dirty tricks they’ll pull on our people next.” She placed an envelope onto the bedside drawer. “The committee’s approved that we pay you some compensation bearing in mind the sacrifices that you’ve been making for the struggle. We’re aware that you’ve been through testing times since Mahen’s death.”
Priya gratefully accepted the money. It troubled her that she was at the mercy of handouts. Many of the other activists operated without any sort of remuneration. “I feel terrible taking this money,” she said timidly. “Believe me; I wouldn’t accept this if I could help it.”
Layla held Priya’s hand in her own. “Don’t let it worry you. They realized you’d say th
is, that’s why they tasked me with handing you the money,” Layla responded to Layla in a gentle and soothing voice. “Think about what you’d had to endure last night. Van Wyk sauntered around as if he was a saint, but only you know what you had to endure. He played on your innocence and took advantage of a grieving widow. You’ve had to tolerate him ogling you in all the time you worked there and always remember he attempted to rape you last night.”
“Rape …,” repeated Priya in a strained and exhausted voice. The anger began creeping in. The reality set in. “Yes that monster tried to rape me! Layla, I had to fight him off, I can’t believe his nerve! He… he…” Then she broke down uncontrollably. Layla held out her arms and hugged her sister-in-law.
“Hush now my darling, its fine, we’re here for you,” said Layla quickly. “Ngobese’s punishment was quick. The police think it was a robbery gone wrong.”
“Leave me alone for a while”, requested Priya. “I need to put things into perspective.”
Layla nodded her head, but continued talking, “Priya, we need to talk about Shami. He’s a sharp boy, that Shami. The comrades see value in him. We feel that we should start preparing him to join our struggle.”
Priya sat up stiffly. “No! I will never allow my son to involve himself in this political turmoil. He needs to make a stable life for himself. He’s still a baby, he’s my baby,” she remarked in a helpless expression. “Look at the life Mahen had to lead. He divided his loyalties between his family and his country. I don’t want Shami going through the same conflicting emotions. It will destroy him. I’ll never allow this! Don’t allow them to take my baby away. Please Layla. I’ve already lost my husband to the struggle; I can’t afford to lose my son too.” She began crying as if she’d already lost Shami.
Layla inserted her emotions into a sheath and gazed silently at Priya for a good few seconds. “Give it some thought, my dearest, you’re still shaken up,” she finally commented. “His tasks will be simple and nothing dangerous. I will see to it. Let him fulfill his father’s dream of a free and equal nation. As long as we live under the present regime, his life will never be stable. Let him be the change, Priya.” With one or two more reassuring words she parted ways.
Shami slowly came in from the next room and hugged his mother. He didn’t say anything. He just held onto to her while she cried her heart out. His own heart felt heavy with emotion. He knew that he had to do his own bits and pieces to make life less demanding for her.
That night Shami lay awoke. He couldn’t sleep much. The thought of what his mother had endured made him restless. Frantic thoughts ran through his mind. He directed his fury at his father. His father had left them in these deprived circumstances. They were at the mercy of a cruel world and it was entirely his father’s fault. His aunt’s words echoed in his mind. He’ll have to be the change; for the sake of his mother and siblings.
III
A few months later.
“How much did you say?” asked the overweight man in the brand new Datsun sedan, eyes opened wide in mock horror.
“Only fifty cents, sir.” stammered little Shami almost in fear.
“What? Fifty cents!!! You mean a whole fifty cents!!?” exclaimed the fat fellow.
“Yes sir. I’ll wash your car, scrub and polish your wheels and clean inside too,” replied Shami.
The fat man looked at the slender, barefoot Indian boy. He held a metal bucket, and a tattered bag. The boy’s clothes were patched and sewn together with the odd cloth. A pin held the front of the urchin’s trousers together.
“How long will you take to finish?” he asked.
“About half an hour, sir”, replied Shami.
“Well… what are you waiting for lad!?” bellowed the fat man. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight. It was a bright and sunny day.
“Thank you sir,” exclaimed Shami. And with that he leapt into the task with fervor. When the man was out of sight the boy quickly skimmed through the sedan’s cubby-hole. His amateur’s eye artfully checked for any tell-tale signs. Satisfied, he hurriedly removed some papers and placed it under the cloth in his zipper bag which carried his cleaning stuff.
A short while later the fat man inspected the car. He paid him his dues with a beam on his face. “Just keep up what you’re doing lad. You’re doing nicely. If I ever catch you begging at the street corners I’ll personally drop you off at the police station. You hear me lad? Ok? But not without a good spanking, you hear? Good sincere effort harms nobody,” he said.
“I don’t beg for money uncle, I earn it,” said Shami passionately, with pulled shoulders and a straight back. The thin shabbily dressed boy struck such a side-splitting sight, that the fat man bellowed with laughter.
“Be good now,” and off he went.
By the end of that first Saturday Shami had washed ten cars. He couldn’t believe that he’d earned so much of money. The odd allowance given to him by his father used to be ten cents at most. The inspiration for washing cars had come by chance while he’d passed through one of the suburbs. He’d seen a sign that read “Carwash – R1.50”. His enterprising mind wondered whether he should charge extra next time. He stopped at the supermarket and bought bread rolls, milk, margarine and a kilo of sausages. “We’ll eat well tonight,” he thought happily. He asked for a receipt to show his mother and headed off home.
It was late in the afternoon when he arrived home. Priya stood at the end of the rugged driveway looking frantic. She sighed with relief when she saw her eldest son making his way up the street. She decided that she had to reproach him. But as he came nearer she saw that he was holding a plastic bag with what looked like foodstuff in the one hand. On the other hand he grasped a metal bucket. She simply shook her head in bewilderment. “Shami, what are you doing walking around with my bucket. I thought someone had stolen it!” she gasped in astonishment. She did think that it made a comical sight though, and chuckled to herself.
“Sorry Ma. I was washing cars at the shops,” replied the weary looking Shami with a lopsided grin. She sobbed in admiration at this imaginative son of hers. They walked up the driveway together, she holding the bucket and him holding on to the outcome of a full days sweat.
They had a pleasant supper that evening. As she lay in bed that night, she considered all the modest things which Shami had done to earn extra money for the family. Her own earnings were measly. However she was anxious that it was taking a toll on his schoolwork. She’d already received a note from his form teacher. As she drifted off to sleep, she recalled that a family acquaintance had asked if Shami could help at his workshop the following Saturday. She needed to address this with Shami and caution him about neglecting his schoolwork.
The next night, a silhouette moved stealthily along the shadows outside the cottage. He crept to the space between the huge rock and the boundary wall where Shami had left a small package. Ngobese smiled at Shami’s tact. The boy’s resourcefulness would prove beneficial to the struggle. The bald-headed man was a police informant. His over-confidence had made him too careless. The comrades needed to pay the man a visit. Priya resisted Shami’s participation in the pro-Mandela movement. But he began to covertly involve himself with the anti-apartheid struggle. It was a hilarious sight watching the shabbily dressed boy perkily accompanying his aunt for cell meetings. The movement needed every little bit of help that it was able to glean.
The Journey - A Short Story Page 4