17.
Anup grew eggplant, peppers, and herbs in a small garden. Walking Premchand through the rows, he showed off the avocado tree and flowering mango that would bear fruit after his guests went back to America.
They sat on straight-backed wooden chairs under a large blue umbrella. From a wooden lockbox by the back door, Anup withdrew a bottle and poured them each a whiskey. They toasted to Bimal’s recovery, to the reunion of their sons. The boys were together now in the house, in Bimal’s childhood bedroom. The one son lay recovering and the other hovered, unsure what to do with himself. This is how Premchand had left them. Bimal did not look healthy yet, but his color and energy were better. During the drive over, Sunil had fidgeted and gripped his hands together, stared silently out the window. “What are you nervous about?” Premchand had said. “Already you have been reunited. You are both good boys.”
The whiskey pricked his nose and burned on the way down, but it wasn’t unpleasant. One’s taste did change over time.
“What do you suppose they’re saying?” Anup waved his hand toward the house.
Premchand wanted to know, too. How long until he could go back in and join them? Anup’s business talk and boasting bored him. He’d already said, more than once, how enterprising Bimal was—how he’d gotten the venturesome genes from Urmila’s side instead of the studious ones from Premchand. A few years ago Bimal had joined up with Rushab Patel’s oldest son to sell PVC piping, then turned the company into something larger.
But Anup seemed to have forgotten his own question and had returned to singing his son’s virtues. “Another good thing about my son,” he said, drink loosening his tongue, “he does not enjoy his wife too much. You Americans think all this love going on between husband and wife is okay, but it is distracting. A man should care for his wife, help her when she is sick, give her nice things, but the other is not so important. When they are showing so much affection, this hugging and kissing, the man looks weak and the wife looks like a whore.”
Premchand had always thought his brother-in-law was weak-willed, but he didn’t remember such crudeness.
Still, Premchand thought of Sunil’s arm around Amy’s waist, their sitting close on the sofa. Lying down in the grass yesterday outside Gopal’s, looking like lovers. Premchand did not care what others thought, but his stomach turned when he thought of Amy being harmed by gossip. Should he caution Sunil? No, there was nothing to say. Let them be as they are. He had raised an American son.
This morning it had rained again, briefly, and a few water drops slid off the end of a leaf. The air was steamy, soft and inviting. He longed to stand and stretch his legs. Another walk would do him good.
Anup talked on, but his face wasn’t bright and teasing anymore. Premchand realized Anup was accusing him of “buying into the Hollywood mystique—a son at Harvard, a new car every year.” What was behind this? Was he worried Sunil would convince Bimal to leave Kenya, move to America?
Premchand had Anup’s opposite concern. What if the stories of Bimal’s life in business lured Sunil away from his studies? Sunil and Amy’s financial struggle might cause his son’s belief in himself to waver. As soon as he got home, Premchand would increase his monthly support.
Yesterday his son had outlined for him the philosophical problem of his dissertation, the role of evolution on moral beliefs, and the intensity in Sunil’s eyes had thrilled Premchand, even though his son had admitted he didn’t know if he could succeed. In fact, he had looked a little green just speaking about it, like the old days when he eyed tapeworms under Premchand’s laboratory microscope.
Premchand wanted to leave, go for a walk, but now, bursting forth, as if from the hedges, was a group of men. Relatives shouting, “Here is Dr. Chandaria!”
They stood against the sun, their edges blurring, all reaching for a glass and a pour. One of the men reminded Premchand that as a newly minted doctor he’d treated him for tetanus. Premchand remembered the incident but hadn’t identified this man as the patient, so much time had passed. Was this how Urmila spent her days, reminiscing and chitchatting? The externals of a life—marrying, going places, raising children—did not differ so much from one person to the next, and he saw little reason to dwell on them unless you were seeking advice.
“In the early years we could have used your skills,” Anup said. Then, abruptly, “You have seen the new American Embassy?”
Premchand shook his head.
“It is too far away from the commerce section, all the way over to Muthaiga. I tell you, Americans show your lack of faith by putting yourselves so far away.”
“Moving was the prudent thing to do,” he offered.
“It was the coward thing. Leaving is always the coward thing.”
Premchand couldn’t tell if the others agreed with him—some were nodding, some staring into their glasses. “When you are smart, you think about all your options,” he insisted.
When a loud crash sounded from Bimal’s room, Premchand shot up.
“Sit down,” Anup said, “The women are in there. They will take care of it.”
But Premchand couldn’t sit, couldn’t remain. “I must go. Excuse me.”
In the driveway, Gopal was smoking. “I brought your wife and daughter-in-law,” he said, placing a warm hand on Premchand’s shoulder. “She’s a pretty girl. Too bad Urmila doesn’t like her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just teasing. The usual mother-in-law teasing, you know. Listen, can I tell you something? My sister has asked me to help her find another supplier. I don’t want to interfere, but I can see things are going poorly. You know, sometimes it is best to put these things to a final rest, like with an old animal. The kindliest option.”
It was ugly, the way Gopal was going behind Urmila’s back. Why did he want his sister to fail? More than that, Premchand hadn’t realized until now that pulling out his support for the store would mean setting Urmila adrift. And if she stayed home, they’d be at each other’s throats. “Thank you,” he said. With the whiskey flowing through him, it was easy to dismiss his brother-in-law and keep walking.
“A good man,” Gopal said, in a way that sounded like he was referring to himself. He patted Premchand again on the back and sent him on his way out the gate.
18.
The room was stifling, but Bimal was wrapped in several blankets. “It smells like hospital, doesn’t it?” he said. “I ask the nurse to open the windows, and then Mum comes in and closes them all when I’m sleeping.”
“So I can open one?” Sunil needed air.
“Please.”
Sunil slid open the panes, then hovered near the open window to gulp the soupy afternoon.
“In the hospital I was very groggy and unable to congratulate you on your marriage. Good for you! When I’m out of this bed, I can meet her and have a proper chat. How is everyone taking it? She is American, yes?”
“You mean white?”
Bimal winced in an attempt at a smile—his scar was still healing—and nodded.
Sunil sat down in the metal folding chair next to the bed. He grimaced, crossed his arms, felt the damp cotton of his shirt. “She and my father are getting along fine—very well, actually. My mom is another story. She’s resistant, so the two of them haven’t even spent much time together. I hope it’s just stubbornness and will wear off eventually.” Amy was with his mother and aunt right now, picking up last-minute things for the safari, coming back in time for tea. “One more day,” Amy had said to him before Sunil and his father left the house. She was visibly steeling herself, making a hard exoskeleton of the shorts and T-shirt already crisp from drying outside on the line.
“Surely it will take time. Listen, Sheetal is Indian and she and Mum still have problems.”
Sunil was impressed by how lively Bimal sounded, but he also saw the yellowing bruises under his eyes, the tired creases.
“We saw Bapuji—Nana. I introduced him to Amy.”
Bimal brightened, eyes creased at the corners. “This makes me very happy. I know he is losing his mind now, but he remembers a lot from the old days. Things I want to share with you sometime. What did he say?”
“He didn’t really say anything, to Amy, I think he was getting tired. Sarada Aunty was having a hard time piecing together his words. But he didn’t jump out of his chair and shout, ‘Naa!’”
Bimal laughed gently. “The important thing is that you saw each other. You know he has talked about you—he is so curious about America, and what you have become.”
“Mom suggested he didn’t want her to immigrate to the US.”
Bimal performed a small shrug. “I don’t know about that. He is not saying mean things about her or anything, but surely the separation was hard when it was fresh.”
The thought cut Sunil. He nodded. “Before technology, it must have been a kind of death to have a child move so far away.”
Bimal pursed his lips. “Yes, I think you are right about that. But tell me, what is it like to be back in Nairobi? You have been killing many cockroaches? You used to smash them with your shoes.”
“That’s right! I hated them. But now that I live in a city, instead of the suburbs, I’m used to roaches.”
Then Sunil told his brother how, yesterday, he had stolen a moment from sitting with their grandfather to visit his old bedroom. At first, lying on the cool bedcover, nothing in the spidery walls had cracked open any memories. “Mostly, I’ve been preoccupied with seeing you. But the longer I sat there, the smell—mold, I think—crept into me, and—” Sunil broke off for a moment, hesitant. “Honestly, what I remembered was being scared there at night. My mother was staying in another house, at Sarada Aunty’s, and I had this fear that I’d been left behind. The house was so quiet at night, I thought I’d wake up and everyone would be gone.” Sunil sighed. “I was not the most confident child.”
“But you remember in Mombasa when I was stung, I cried like a little boy.”
“Understandable—it was scary!” Sunil paced along the foot of Bimal’s bed. “That moment yesterday was the strongest memory I’ve had, when a place felt physically familiar. The rest of the time here, we’ve been tourists, going to places I’m sure we didn’t go when I was a kid. So it feels new, and overwhelming. Nairobi is huge!”
“You get used to it. One goes to only a few places.”
“You know what I remember?” Sunil grasped at the images that had come to him the first night, watching cricket with his father and cousins. “Anup Uncle teaching me to bowl. He was so patient, and he knew what he was talking about. After that summer I asked my dad to find a cricket league in Columbus. Once or twice we played together with some families, but we didn’t keep it up. Do you still play?”
Bimal shook his marred face. “No time. Maybe on weekends I would, if I had a son, but not with a daughter. Those carefree days are ancient history, don’t you find?”
“I have tons of time,” Sunil said. “I just don’t spend it very well.” Bimal’s daughter, Raina, must be two or three. His mother had recently forwarded to him a photograph of the girl wearing pink shoes. This girl, he realized, was his niece.
From the chirpy tone of youth—his voice was still high even at fifteen when they were together in Mombasa— Bimal’s voice had deepened into that of a smooth radio announcer, but his solemn, attentive gaze had not changed. The way he listened with his mouth parted, nodding encouragingly as Sunil talked. As boys, Bimal would ask about the new sports cars in America, and Sunil unspooled the details of Firebirds, and futuristic Lamborghinis, the petite Ford Pintos that wrapped their drivers in flames. Sunil had been gratified to be the source of entertainment, the focus of Bimal’s unwavering attention.
“How are you feeling? Are you still in a lot of pain?”
“It’s a bit better. I try not to think about it. I have a great deal of physical therapy ahead.”
“Of course.” Sunil was the healthy one, the active one, but so far he was not doing a stellar job keeping the conversation running smoothly. After a long pause, he said. “Tell me about your job. You work with your dad now?”
“I started with that, then broke off to partner with a classmate to work in plastics. Eventually we were bought by a multinational. Now I broker medical supplies to hospitals, buying things from USA and India and UK and selling here, and in many other countries.” Bimal described a new insulin pump he had just begun to offer his clients, one that had remote-control programming. Diabetes was a growing scourge.
“Did you recognize anything they used on you at the hospital?”
Bimal scrunched his eyes, thinking.
“That was a bad joke, I’m sorry.”
“Ah. It was funny.” Bimal stretched his arms. With his lower half securely bundled, he looked like a Glo Worm—masked, childlike, a touch comical. “Our parents are insecure about their success. You know how they always talk about Africanization. They’re worried about sudden changes in policies. The playing field is more competetive now, too, with Africans getting educations.”
“They don’t seem insecure to me.”
Bimal insisted they were, under the surface. “Mum’s always worrying about getting kicked out of the country. Gopal Kaka asks me about foreign investments in the countries I visit for work.”
As Bimal talked more, describing how much he traveled—racking up enough frequent flyer miles for first-class flights and free stays at resorts in Thailand and Dubai—Sunil saw that his brother was pleased with his life and its luxuries. But what Sunil heard was a life dictated by work and family obligation. To Sunil, it was terrifying, being reliant on pleasing clients, and the scrutiny that came from living so close to home. Sunil was more like their father; he had to stray to feel he had grown up.
“The hardest thing still is not knowing what comes next,” Bimal said. “I’m not as worried as Mum, but the government is unstable, which is bad for business. Life is good now, but something could come along. I think about Raina, and what I want for her. Like she says, ‘Here today, gone tomorrow.’” He shrugged. “Something she learned from the cartoons.”
As he spoke, Bimal shifted, and the bottom edge of the sheet loosened to reveal feet thin and too still, horned with sharp, alien toenails. On the toes curled wiry black hair, hair missing from Sunil’s own flat feet, and he was reminded that he really did not know this man. He wondered how honest he could be with him. When he was a child, he sometimes had the feeling that his relatives were his mother’s spies, bound to report back any bad behavior.
Sunil stood up and walked to the window. He ran his fingers down the heavy curtain. “Our dads are sitting out there.”
“Drinking whiskey.”
“What? No. My dad doesn’t drink.”
“I bet he is now.”
Sunil looked past the garden to the umbrella hovering over a group of chairs. He watched Anup Uncle refill his father’s glass with brown liquid from a large bottle.
Sunil could only laugh, laugh at all the things he didn’t know—might never. He felt an ease spreading through him, as if he were the one imbibing. Bimal was calming to be around. Sunil saw how tough his brother was, even in this battered, weakened state, how resilient, and how comfortable in his own skin, and he wondered, Do I have any of this strength? After a long pause, he said, “I have to ask you. Did you know about us? Even when we were kids?”
Bimal sighed, swallowed dryly, with effort. Sunil poured him a cup of mango juice, and he took small sips. “Yes. But my mother made me promise to keep the secret. I don’t know why. I planned to tell you anyway, that time in Mombasa, I felt I should tell you, but we were hardly alone, then you left early. You were a problem child.” He tried to smile, his scar lightening as it pulled taut across his face, but the stitches stretched only so far. Bimal then said
something startling, something Sunil had never considered. “Aunty didn’t want to have her baby at all.”
“What do you mean? She came here to have an abortion?” This was shocking. Even during his father’s speech yesterday, his mother’s forced-still posture, this had not crossed his mind.
“It wasn’t why she came. She came not knowing. When she discovered, she looked into it. But it was illegal here. Still is. In India, too, she tried all around, even in the UK.”
Sunil was about to ask why his mother hadn’t gone to a clinic in the States, but then he remembered how old he and Bimal were. Too old. With care, he poured himself a cup of juice. His fingers were weak. “I can’t believe that—I had no idea.” His mother must have been desperate. Beyond the pain he now felt on his mother’s behalf, Bimal’s searing revelation astonished Sunil with the contingency of their situation, his and Bimal’s connection that was already so tenuous. “You might not have existed!” he exclaimed. “Do you ever think about that?”
“Not at all. It was meant to be.”
“What, like destiny?”
Bimal nodded.
“No, think about it another way. We could have grown up together. Had each other to talk to.” A phrase of Lieberman’s came to him. “Bear witness, that’s what I mean. We both were so alone growing up—in these fucked-up situations.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Bimal told him frankly.
Sunil heard the words, but he didn’t pause. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about what they could have had, couldn’t help spinning aloud the fantasy of having a brother that he’d spent years concocting, before he had any idea his conjuring had a parallel in reality. “You could have grown up in the States! Four of us.” Bimal in a bedroom down the hall, riding bikes down the grass-split sidewalks. Following his big brother’s silhouette around the corner, pawing through record shops, squashing together in the back seat of their parents’ Olds, competing at video games. The life they could have had and the life he didn’t.
The Limits of the World Page 15