House of Trembling Leaves, The (49 page)

Their train for New Delhi left at 13.30. They made it with twenty minutes to spare. They were told they had to change at Hyderabad.

The station master wore a pair of open-toe sandals with yellow nylon socks which looked as if they hadn't been laundered in a while. The fat folds on his neck were so deep they'd turned pink and crusty. Swollen like some gargantuan sweaty bean, he brandished their tickets and barked out their platform number.

‘‘This fella makes Uncle Big Jowl look like Fred Astaire,'' whispered Mabel.

 

Thirty-six hours later, they alighted at Delhi Junction, pushed through the wall of warped-limbed beggars, and headed straight for the Maidens Hotel.

The following morning at 5 a.m., a bus took them north from New Delhi. Lu See peered out the window, rubbing the mist from the glass with her hand. She stared at the pre-dawn sky, cut and scarred with strips of colour – low clouds lit with orange and pink.

Meanwhile, Pietro pored over the
Hindustan Times
; there was no mention of Malaya in the ‘World News' section. ‘‘All quiet at home,'' he said, sounding relieved.

Lu See knew what he meant. There hadn't been any trouble in KL since the incident outside her restaurant; but the fault lines had been drawn; a large portion of the community had been made to feel like aliens in their own country. It was, she conceived, only a matter of time before new racial tremors would shake the city. But she couldn't worry about that now.

She tucked her chin into the crook of her arm and slept.

Five hours later they stopped to stretch their legs and relieve themselves behind the trees.

Three hours after that, they stopped for lunch.

Lu See emerged from the bus to the smells of woodsmoke mingled with the scent of sautéing pine needles and cow-liver mushrooms, and feeling the dry scrape of the wind against her cheeks. The rarified atmosphere made her momentarily dizzy; she took in a deep breath and steadied herself. In the small eatery the band of tourists found themselves seated around an oval table. They were served little round dumplings floating in a dark soup with large mushrooms.

‘‘What's this?'' asked Lu See, sniffing the steam.

Pietro glanced about conspiratorially and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He gave Lu See a ‘Ye Gods' look. ‘‘It's like something a swamp-dweller might eat.''

Mabel offered a corner-of-the-mouth grimace.

Lu See examined the contents of the bowl, smelling it, weighing it first in one hand and then the other, before dipping her spoon in. She wondered whether this was how Sum Sum felt the first time she tried Stilton cheese.

Back on the bus Lu See settled into her seat and stared out of the window. She saw nomads living in tents made of animal hair. She saw windowless houses with shingle-covered roofs and walls made from loam; women in long kurtas, ghaghri, salwars and cholis; farmers working fields clad in kurtas and caps.

Along the road joining Haryana to Mandi she saw snowy mountain peaks, rock monasteries, donkey-drawn caravans.
This is Sum Sum land
, she said to herself,
everywhere I look I see her face.

Up ahead she saw the rugged, muscled landscape and the outline of mountains stabbed by ice-caps. Itinerant herds of goats dotted the terrain like seedpods.

The bus stopped again in the late afternoon. The rest house had lotus blossom carvings adorning its doors with painted
gyung-drung
swastikas gracing its walls.

‘‘I think it must be market day,'' said Mabel.

Basket makers, salt traders, silversmiths and weavers lined up to greet them. Their language spilled from their throats as snatched, angular sounds.

Twenty yards along, men hunkering down to shear sheep, white wool scattered like snow about their knees, looked up momentarily and smiled at Lu See's camera. The thinness of the air made everything appear brighter and sharper. The rays of the sun seemed to travel farther.

After a while, they boarded the bus once again.

Lu See had read something – probably in LIFE magazine – about Dharamsala. ‘‘It's one of the main towns of the Kangra Valley,'' she told Pietro as he filed his nails. ‘‘And the mountain range encompasses three sides of it which give on to the valley stretching to the south. It's something like 6000 feet. above sea level with very rocky ground.''

He stuck a finger to his chin. ‘‘Good thing I didn't pack my stilettos.''

As they drew closer to Dharamsala, Lu See grew increasingly anxious.
Will we recognize one another, will we still be friends?
What would she see in Sum Sum's face? Perhaps she'd see her own reflection.

 

As soon as they settled into their boarding house, Pietro decided to hang back and explore Dharamsala proper. ‘‘I'll do some souvenir shopping. No point all of us barging in on the nuns and making a scene,'' he said. Lu See agreed with him.

Lu See grasped the handle of her art portfolio case, touched Mabel's elbow and led her through the bustling pavement life. Mabel had a Tupperware box tucked under her arm. Up ahead they could see the nunnery forecourt through the gates. Snow-splashed mountain peaks surrounded them. They passed letter-writers,
paan
sellers and women hawking rice. A woman with almond-shaped Nepali eyes, who seconds before was caressing her sandalled feet, held out a fistful of rice from a gunny sack. When Lu See shook her head no, she went back to massaging her big toe. A bit further on, under the shade of peepul trees, the letter-writers sat cross-legged on boxes, thrashing at the keys to their typewriters; every now and then they paused to listen to their clients' dictation. Further on still, a
paan
salesman combined betel leaves with lime and tobacco.

Lu See and Mabel passed through the modest set of gates and into the temple complex. No one told them where to go or where they were allowed to go.

The air was crisp and clean and alive. Due to the steep altitude, their breath sat high up in their chests.

With the autumn chill gnawing at her, Lu See hopped about from foot to foot like a child eager for the loo.

‘‘Well, this is it,'' said Mabel. ‘‘Geden Choezom Nunnery.''

They looked up and saw butter lamps burning and nuns sitting cross-legged reciting Buddhist texts.

Overhead, prayer flags shook in flames of blue and white and yellow.

They approached the Dharma enclosure and each gave the
mani
wheels a spin.

‘‘Which way do we go?'' asked Lu See.

‘‘Pietro said to head for the private huts next to the Dharma enclosure. I think this might be it.''

‘‘God, I hope Sum Sum recognizes me.''

‘‘We don't know she's even here. Don't get your hopes up.''

‘‘She's here. I know she's here.''

They entered a small courtyard.

A few days earlier, Pietro, through his diplomatic connections, had made a telephone call to the local member of parliament; he in turn arranged for Lu See to meet with the chanting master.

Mabel went up to a young nun who was busy tending some flowers and asked for directions to the main office.

Lu See's mouth felt as dry as crust crumbs. She just needed to see Sum Sum's face. Hold her, touch her; she was dying to hear her laugh. Only then would she feel a sense of release.

Blindly, she followed her daughter down a corridor, the way a child usually followed her mother.

The chanting master, or
Umze
, was a sprightly thing called Ven Sengdroma. She wore wire spectacles and kept her hands folded in front in prayer pose.

‘‘
Namas-te.
'' Ven Sengdroma greeted Lu See and Mabel with a warm smile and draped white scarves over their shoulders. Balmy jasmine incense and pale candlelight filled the room. Somewhere in the distance Lu See could hear the incantations of gods' names being chanted. ‘‘The local member of parliament mentioned you are looking for someone specifically.''

‘‘Yes,'' Lu See said. ‘‘Her name is Sum Sum.''

Ven Sengdroma's brow crinkled. ‘‘But there is nobody who goes by that name here.''

‘‘But there must be.''

‘‘Is that her Dharma name?''

Lu See had no idea what Ven Sengdroma was talking about.

‘‘We have someone called Sonam who is only thirteen, a child really.''

‘‘No, Sum Sum is her name and she is forty five years old.''

‘‘Might you tell me anything more about her?''

‘‘About your height. She was with the Ani Trangkhung Nunnery in Lhasa. Please,'' Lu See heard her voice crumble, ‘‘she must be here.''

Ven Sengdroma looked blankly at her. ‘‘I'm so sorry. It would seem that your long journey has been for nothing. There is nobody by that description that resides here.''

‘‘Are you absolutely certain?'' pleaded Lu See, desperately trying to hold her poise.

Ven Sengdroma's expression turned inwards; hands reached for a set of mala beads. ‘‘You must understand that many of our sisters did not survive the journey. Some were forced to turn back.''

Lu See's eyes began to burn with disappointment.
Please, God, don't do this to me. Please tell me she's safe.
She tried one last time. ‘‘Aged forty five with a mischievous sense of humour.''

Ven Sengdroma's thumb flicked one bead to the next. ‘‘Mischievous sense of humour, you say … perhaps you're thinking of Sengemo …''

 

Mabel stopped when she reached what appeared to be a communal reception room. ‘‘It's just up ahead. Go out through that back door. It's the first hut to your right apparently.''

Lu See paused, conscious of how anxious she'd become – her breath sounded too loud, and the curious frictionless thud sliding about in her head, she realized, was, in fact, her heartbeat.
I haven't felt like this since my Girton interview.
Just relax, she told herself.

She rose up on her toes and bounced on her feet.

‘‘I'll wait here. I think it's best if you see her alone first,'' said Mabel.

‘‘Are you sure?''

Mabel nodded. ‘‘Maximum sure.'' Yak butter candles burned all about her. ‘‘Leave the portfolio case. Come fetch me when you're both ready.''

The afternoon sunshine streamed through the slats in the shutters like sparkle-dust. A finger of sunlight illuminated Mabel's face as she perched on a sheesham wood chair and toyed with the new engagement ring on her finger. Her eyes darted to the small but lustrous diamond that lit up her hand.

Her surgeon friend had proposed only days before. Did she love him? Yes. Did she still love Bong? Of course. She would never forget him. But five years had passed since his death and, post-Emergency, she'd had to move on with her life. She'd put herself back together and rediscovered her family. She still felt a penchant for the socialist movement, but instead of fighting she'd found a better way to help the poor – she healed them. Yes, her life was good again. It too was lustrous. It had the gleam of something perfect and intense and new.

Lu See gave Mabel's arm a squeeze of support and made her way to unit 23-B. Once outside, Lu See looked up at the plate number, marked in red paint with the Tibetan words
 . This is it, she said to herself. Her heart thumped against her breastbone. Taking a deep breath she rapped her knuckles on the doorframe and waited.

Nothing. No reply. She did it again and gingerly poked her head round the half-open door with an enquiring look.

At the far end of the room a woman sat in shadow. She was hunched and withered in the ailing light. The windows were open and a cool breeze ruffled the pages of a prayer book, yet a sour smell like stale milk lingered.

‘‘Sum Sum?'' Lu See called out, tentatively. She glared into the dark, searching the black shape of a face.

It took a long time for the crooked figure to stand up straight from her sitting position. Gradually, she moved out of the shadow, emerging like a withered bat from her shrivelled-up throne. She walked with laboured gasps, shuffling across a rug that had worn down to the weft, taking tiny steps as if weighed down by cement shoes. One pace forward, pause, another pace forward, pause.

The first thing Lu See saw were her chicken-feet hands and the raised green veins which were as milky green as drain water. They looked ice-bitten.

And then a finger of sunlight splashed across her face.

Lu See tried not to gasp. She saw an avalanche of age; the features of a ruined castle, weathered by a myriad of deep spidery lines; eyes blinded by cataracts. When their gazes met, there was no recognition in the woman's expression whatsoever.

‘‘Sum Sum, it's me. Lu See.''

The woman tipped her shorn head in confusion. A gurgled emission of air escaped from her throat. That's when Lu See saw the telltale droop and realized she'd suffered a stroke.

Lu See's heart unravelled like a worn pair of rope-soled shoes.