“What are you talking about? You said you only ever wanted one kid. You always said that’s why I am your only child!”
“No,” she said gravely. “You are not my only child. I have two children. Two sons.”
Sunil gripped the phone with two hands. “You lied to me? For thirty years?”
“Yes, I lied to you. I had to lie. If you come to Nairobi, come home to us, I will explain. I will tell you everything.”
Then his mother was gone. Sunil stared. He shivered. He reached for Amy, who embraced him with both arms.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Who is Bimal? Why did you tell her we were married?”
“Because we will be.” He pulled her down with him until he felt her warm breath on his neck, and the weight of her pressed against his quavering heart. “And then we’ll go to Nairobi.”
4.
[00 h: 32 m]
Every night, under open sky, lions invaded their camps. Lions with an appetite for human flesh prowled around the Commiphora with snapping jaws and vicious claws. They snuck up on the sleeping men so fast—like that!—the jaws unhinged. Eaten to death. Crunchy bone and bloody tongue.
They called those lions Ghost and Darkness. Because the men did not believe they were animals. The lions were demons wearing fur. Ghost and Darkness could not be killed. The Englishmen tried with their rifles, but the demons always escaped. When a man was taken, ripped from his tent, dragged from the infirmary or a railway car, there was a debate: Who was the murderer? Ghost left tooth marks in the skull. Darkness ate the belly and left the head alone.
This was in Tsavo, one hundred miles upcountry. The name is infamous now.
My father arrived from Jamnagar in 1898. He was recruited by a firm promising a better life, and he was one of the “free” Indians, unrestricted by the government. Left to accept whatever deal he could find. He was an adventurer. He was truly desperate, okay? Not many of our Jain people were coming to Africa then. Mostly he worked with Punjabis, some Sikhs, many Muslims.
The men working the rail line were sick all the time: malaria, scurvy, jiggers hatching in their feet and hands. On any day, half the men were laid out flat. When the water is strained from mud, what can you do? It is a miracle anyone survived.
Maybe you have heard of one of the heroes of that time, Pir Baghali? This man ran so fast he could catch a peacock and was so pious and kind he could put a python to sleep. He spoke the language of animals, and his powers kept his people safe from the lions. They even said his kerai full of sand and cement floated a few inches above his head. When he died, they made a monument to him—now it is a mosque, I think—near Mackinnon Road, on the rail between Mombasa and Nairobi. The trains slow down and whistle when they pass.
Fear kept the men awake, but it also brought them together. On the dhows, the men had shared their nightmares—of crashing stars, drowning, giant jellyfish. Here, on the plains, in the nyika, they stayed awake and vigilant at night by telling stories, the stories of Shiva and Parvati and Ganesh. (After all, here they were, surrounded by elephants.) My father told of the Tirthankaras, who conquered the cycles of birth and death. Around their fear, they wound words like bandages.
Those who survived the night were so relieved in the morning that they broke into sudden, insane laughter. They joked about the lions choking on their turbans before finding a soft, juicy bite. And the killings were not all bad. Some were merciful. When the men taken were so weak they wouldn’t have lasted two more days. What did the sahibs care about the workers? There were so many more to fill the place of the dead. Every week, more Indians arrived. The sahibs were always calling for more carpenters, more blacksmiths, more dirt diggers.
On the nights the lions took one or two or three of the men away forever, my father prayed so hard for sunrise. All the men prayed for hammers and nails and more workers to speed the pace of the rail. To be done and finally see the waters of Lake Victoria, where they could lay down their tools. The Hindus wished for arms stronger than Shiva’s, our people wished for the patience and renunciation of Mahavira, and the Muslims prayed for who knows what from their prophet—their God is a vengeful one.
Is it a surprise, then, my father was so devout? So strict. You can’t understand a war against nature until you have survived. Survived in order to be born into the next life, a better one, by meditating so deeply you are dry of all karma, and perhaps you can taste just a little bit a possible end to the eternal cycles.
Yes, the lions ate whites and savages, too, but our men—the masons, track layers, water carriers—were most exposed.
The lions ate twenty-eight in all.
And yet, there is reason to be a little grateful to the lions.
Because of the killings, word of the men’s courage spread back along the rails. Reached the ears of their cousin-brothers in Mombasa. Newspapers in London printed their misfortune. Members of Parliament read out gruesome accounts to the floor. Their story began to be told.
Because you know what these men did? They mutinied. Refused to work until the lions were slain. Refused to pound steel nails, shape tools, carry the earth, and even to fetch water. That is the way to get the bosses’ attention!
These men never meant to stay in this country. Who is remaining in this rotten desert-jungle? they said. Not me! But first they owed their labor—there was always more steel to bind, another fishbolt to secure—and when that was done, they had no money to go home. The scouts, you see, had counted on their death. If you were “free,” you were not protected, not guaranteed a return. Some five or six thousand Indians remained in this place of heat and rain and sweat, squeezed between the whites and the savages.
Now, turn that recorder off and tell your aunty to bring the two of us tea. You over there, so far away, you have some, too, and think of us.
5.
In the kitchen, Sarada pointed down the hall to where Premchand sat reading a newspaper. “What is going on with him? He slept all day. He isn’t like this in Columbus—only here, isn’t it?”
Sometimes Urmila wished her little sister did not know everything, that she hadn’t confided and relied on her so much over the years. Urmila was the oldest daughter, not counting the two who died as babies, and she’d worked alongside her mother since she was four, patting flat endless rotlis, stirring dal, frying samosas, washing clothes in the cast-iron pot, taking her siblings to school and cleaning up after them. Yes, her husband had fallen asleep in the waiting room of the hospital, so what? He had given her worse embarrassments. “He is the same as always,” she said.
She peeled the skin of a ripe mango away from the flesh and bit in. The rush of sweetness calmed her. Juice slid down her fingers. She took in the swept tile floor, the sparkling appliances and stone countertops. The new gas stove. In a dim room next to the pantry, the housegirl made chapatis. Urmila drifted to the window, where watery light spread through leafy branches.
The weather had been drippy and cool since they arrived, and her room upstairs was chilly.
Where was the sun of her childhood? The baked-clay smell coming up from the earth and the sky blown with cooking smoke? Previous visits, she’d stepped off the plane and felt at home; the old rhythms had come back, settled into her arms and legs.
Urmila had felt such relief when Bimal opened his eyes after surgery, but now she could think only of his face, how it was pulpy thick, bloody and bruised. A jagged wound slashed from the corner of his mouth across his nose and eye, up to his hairline. They were taking turns watching over him.
Sarada put Urmila’s plate with the mango peels and the hairy, sucked-clean pit in the sink, then looked at her, fists on her hips. “This is a tricky time for you, sister. You have to be careful not to get in the way. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the Oshwal Centre.”
Everyone was talking about the Centre. The beautiful building made from imported stone, the top-of-the-line sound systems, t
he commercial-grade kitchens. Why doesn’t Columbus have something like this? they asked. It was so good for the community, especially the young people, keeping them away from the bars and clubs, where they drank and mixed with all kinds.
“They have some classes, a little yoga, a track for walking. It will be good for you. So you can breathe when Sunil arrives. I agree with you, bringing him here. It has been too long since we have put our eyes on him. Times of crisis, a family needs to be together.”
Then Sarada handed her an onion and a towel to cover her clothes. Urmila had dressed for dinner, her emerald green sari bordered with pink. She hadn’t expected to be put to work in the kitchen. Trying to keep me busy, she thought.
Urmila slipped off the skins and cut the onion in her hand, slicing the blade toward her palm.
She said to her sister, “The other day, this American woman came into the store. She wanted my advice on starting a business. Now she is dental hygienist, but she wants her own shop. She is jealous of me.”
Sarada nodded and listened as she chopped potatoes.
Urmila had first met Maddy a month ago when she’d bought two pairs of sandalwood salad tongs, then last week the woman had found her at the Wok n’ Roll, where Urmila liked the egg rolls. Maddy had reintroduced herself, then sat down across the table.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Maddy had said. “Your own business. For years I’ve wanted to start a greenhouse, but my husband always said it was too risky. Now we’re divorced.”
“Oh? So you are fighting a lot and then all of a sudden it’s over? Or he cheats on you or what?” Divorce was a topic that interested Urmila.
“No cheating. We didn’t do that. We married too young, grew apart, wanted different things. You know how it is.”
But Urmila didn’t know. She didn’t know a single person who’d divorced. She’d heard of only one, the niece of a cousin-sister in London. Perhaps if she’d seen a divorce up close, she might have had the courage to get one.
Learning that Maddy’s son was also in Boston, Urmila had boasted about Sunil. For a moment she had tried to imagine him at the university—how did he fit in? Did he have friends? What did they talk about in his classes? How was it possible he’d gone all the way to Harvard? She wished she had a photograph so she could carry him around, show him off, and see him in his place. What did the buildings look like? Did he have a car? She did not allow herself to think about the girl. Yes, she told Maddy. She was proud.
The way Maddy smiled at her, sweetly and with trust, had made Urmila feel her own accomplishments were unshakable. The rest of the afternoon, she’d almost felt sorry she was leaving for two weeks. She had hesitated before locking up and taping up the sign: Gone to Kenya on Business: New Items Upon Return!
Urmila told all this to her sister, then said, “So, I am going to help this woman with her business plans.”
“What do you know about flowers?” Sarada said.
“It is just selling, like any other.”
Urmila had told Maddy, You need something of your own. Women do.
“Yes. Like your son and his philosophy,” Maddy said. “Not everyone can do that. I don’t even know what it means.”
Sunil used to ask so many questions—to insanity. Unlike most boys, who pulled the wings off insects and found dinosaur bones in the yard, who asked, Where does the rain come from? How many stars in the sky? Sunil would dig down hard. If they were watching TV, he would ask, Why didn’t the man beat up the robber? What makes that woman keep her secret? The detective says he knows, but how can he know for sure?
“There is another thing,” Urmila said now, slowly. She had to tell someone.
Sarada’s face stilled while her hands continued to peel and dice.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He has married an American.”
Sarada’s knife clattered to the counter, loudly to the floor. The housegirl rushed in to pick it up, rinsed it, wiped it on her kikoy, and handed it back.
“Who is the girl?” Sarada stopped short, knife pointed at her sister.
“I haven’t met her,” Urmila said.
“What? No one has met her?”
“After everything we give him.” Urmila bit her fist until it hurt, the onion bitter in her mouth. She couldn’t bear it, one son in critical danger and the other farther away than she’d ever imagined. “This is how he poisons us.”
“He is unusual. But he is sweet! I remember him as a little boy.”
Her husband, too, during Sunil’s unruly high school and college years, had tried to convince her: “Look, he is young and focused on his studies. He cannot be thinking of us all the time. Let him grow.”
But Sunil grew only more distant.
“What do you know about her?”
Urmila tried to speak, but even the girl’s name was hard and threatening in her throat.
“What does he think?” Sarada’s knife swiveled toward the living room.
Urmila did not answer.
“Wait, you are telling me your husband does not know? What kind of seeds are you sowing?” Sarada wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, careful not to mess her hair. She pulled the potatoes into a metal bowl, added the onions and spices, and handed it to the girl. Washed and dried her hands. “This is a deep hole,” she said.
“Sunil does not love us.” Urmila wished she could cut out her son’s marriage like a rotten spot from a peach.
“What will you do when she arrives?”
“Naa. She is not coming. I forbid it.”
“Are you going crazy? Losing your marbles? Your son takes a wife and you forbid her? These are not the old days. Young people do what they want.”
Urmila’s insides turned to water. “I want only him,” she said. “That is all.”
Sarada hugged her fiercely, gold necklace pressing hard into Urmila’s chest. She said, “You believe in your heart of hearts that your son is going to arrive alone?” She pulled back and held Urmila’s face, hands cupped around her chin in a gesture so firm and intimate and ancient Urmila nearly melted in a heap of tears. “Have you forgotten who raised him?”
Her sister smelled of lavender, which she claimed was soothing. Urmila tried to inhale, but her breath was scarce and thin.
6.
When Bimal was fifteen, Sunil fourteen, the two boys shared a bed in a Mombasa motel room that reeked of smoke and mildew. It turned out to be Sunil’s last trip to Kenya—finally he found a way to get himself kicked out of the country.
The Diani Beach Bungalows were sandwiched between the dirt and the ocean, across the road from the Shan-e-Punjab restaurant. Sunil was old enough to realize that his family knew only their own kind, the East African Gujaratis—the Chandarias, Shahs, Patels. When his mother said we Indians, this was the group she meant, whom she cared about. The ones who scraped their way and had made good. Made money was what she meant.
“This is nice for you boys, yes? No more sleeping alone,” Mital Aunty said the first night. Because they were just a year apart, the cousins were always thrust together when Sunil and his mother visited. When they were young, Sunil had enjoyed this; Bimal treated him as something of a celebrity, coming from America, and Sunil had the pleasure of presenting his cousin with shiny Matchbox cars and gleaming white baseballs, which his cousin accepted gratefully, even though no one in Kenya cared a thing about the major leagues.
Nearby was an airstrip, and they woke repeatedly to the thunder of planes. By the third morning, Sunil stayed in bed to sleep more when Bimal and their mothers left to lie on the beach, but a cleaning lady marched in with a bucket of muddy water and squished a mop across the floor.
Up from their cabin were the whitewashed chalets where the real Americans stayed. But it was low season, the scorching middle of summer, and the shore was nearly empty.
He found the shade of a palm tree. Wearing a ba
seball hat, long-sleeved shirt, and shorts, he sat and hugged his painfully lengthening legs to his chest. He despaired at the empty time stretching ahead: he was being walked down a long dry plank, at the end of which was another plank. Bimal was acting like a baby, not wanting to stray too far, not even down to the fruit juice cabana. Sunil had thought they’d get up to some adventures, but instead his cousin basked in the attention of the women. His mother was always particularly attentive to Bimal. Now Bimal splashed around close to shore, dumb pleasure on his face. Knee in the air like the Karate Kid. Sunil wondered if his cousin had seen any movies besides the Bollywood imports at the Shan, where Indians sat in the front and Africans in the cheaper seats at the back. Along the water’s edge was a ridge of half-dried kelp like the scum that accumulated on the handle of his mother’s toothbrush.
His mother called over. “It is hot like anything! Go jump in the waves.”
Like anything. She couldn’t be bothered to compare the heat to something particular, just to anything.
He was scared of the ocean, hated the heat, and she knew it. This dump, unlike the nice hotel where they’d stayed in Florida, at Disney World, didn’t have a pool.
The advantage of family trips, though, was that Sunil was no longer alone with his mother. By the time he was thirteen, his father was receiving fewer invitations to speak, traveling less. But his father stayed out later now—paperwork, he said—and was withdrawn at home. It took effort to get him to crack a smile—a delay between the joke and the reaction, and sometimes no reaction at all other than “Hmmn, is it?” In response, his mother wound up, spun like a top, and found ever-increasing opportunities to voice her displeasure. Sunil thought he understood. It wasn’t fair that his father should have stopped traveling only to be out of the house or silent. But his mother couldn’t let it go, couldn’t carry on as she had in his father’s extended absences. She needled him, provoked fights with both her husband and her son.
The Limits of the World Page 5