Monsoon Memories (17 page)

And she had. She’d been shopping in Kenton, almost a year later, when an ungovernable impulse made Shirin decide to visit her—this stranger she had accosted at a bus stop. She drove to the block of flats, walked up the two flights of stairs, the poky stairwell stinking of urine and littered with Burger King wrappers and beer cans, and knocked on number 22—the doorbell was broken—remembering the way the woman had held on to her hand, pointing upwards in the general direction of her flat. ‘I live number 22. Come, have tea.’

Nobody had answered. Shirin had checked her watch. It was 7:00 p.m., a time when most people were home. She’d knocked again, louder this time. She was just turning to go when the door to number 20 opened and a black woman poked her head round the door.

‘If you’re after Tushara, she’s moved.’

‘Oh,’ Shirin had said, momentarily at a loss as to what to do next. ‘Where to, do you know?’

‘No. Kept herself to herself she did.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ Shirin had smiled at the woman and turned to go.

‘She couldn’t speak no English, didn’t know nobody. Not like the other Asians here, with their aunts and uncles and cousins all crammed into one tiny flat, you know what I’m saying? You the only one come lookin’ for her.’ She had looked curiously at Shirin. ‘What was it you wanted?’

‘Oh, nothing important. I gave her a lift once and she invited me in. I was busy then, said I’d come another time’

‘Too late now, darlin’.’

Too late... Shirin thanked the neighbour and made her way down the stairs, trying to picture the Sri Lankan woman—Tushara her neighbour had called her. She recalled a small lady with a closed smile, wispy hair escaping her bun, her joy at being recognised, the intense loneliness coming off her in waves. But when Shirin tried to picture her face, all she could see were Madhu’s familiar, much-beloved features, seared in her mind like a worn, much-used map.

She had never approached anyone else again, no matter how familiar they looked, except just now, when irrational impulse had hijacked sense.

‘I’m Malini, by the way,’ said Anita’s look-a-like, formally extending a hand.

‘Shirin.’

‘Nice to meet you, Shirin. Bet you will laugh about this with Anita when you see her next...’

If I see her...
Shirin surreptitiously crossed her fingers. She thought of the email, even now making its way to Anita’s inbox. She had clicked on Anita’s picture, found a little bio for her, an email address in the contact details section, and before she could change her mind, had sent her an email. Had she seen it yet? Anita, laughing at something, saying to someone, Uttam perhaps, ‘Give me a minute, I’ll just check my email.’ And there, nestling among the spam and the agency circulars, From Shirin.Vaz @cstsolutions.org.uk: Hi Anu, It’s me. I’d like to talk. If you would, too, email me back. Love, Shirin, xxxx.

She had thought and thought about what to write, had composed a long letter filling Anita in on all that had happened during her eleven years away—nothing much when she got right down to it, her life these last few years spent wanting, aching, missing—asking Anita question upon question about everything she had missed, was still missing. And in the end, she had deleted it all, had written just those three sentences and run the email by Kate, who had said it was ‘just right’. Was Anita opening it just now, as Shirin went about addressing strangers by her sister’s name? Would she reply? What if she didn’t? ‘Ah, Shirin, don’t think that way,’ Kate had said.

A memory: Shirin is five years old. She wakes to Jacinta’s sobs. Her mother’s nightie is wet with sweat and she is breathing very fast as though she’s been running for miles between sobs. Shirin panics. She’s never seen her mother cry before. A frantic, dishevelled Madhu runs to wake Ananthanna next door. The neighbourhood dogs howl. Deepak sleeps, little snores escaping from between pursed lips. Madhu wipes Jacinta’s forehead with a muslin cloth, ‘It’s all right, ma’am. Ananthanna is coming with a rickshaw. Hang on.’ Ananthanna and his wife lead a hobbling Jacinta gently out the door. And Jacinta is swallowed by the night.

Questions circle Shirin’s head, chasing sleep from weary eyes: Is her mother going to heaven? Will they only be able to visit her in the cemetery, stare at a wooden cross adorning a mound of mud and imagine it to be her, like they did old Mr D’Cunho? She closes her eyes tight, trying to shut out a world which makes no sense at all, a world where Madhu is the calm one and her mother the hysterical one, a world which turns upside down while Deepak sleeps and her grandparents snore. When she opens them again it is morning. Beside her, Deepak stirs. Sun slants in through the iron bars of the window, creating patterns on the wall. Sun shining this bright only means one thing. Deepak smiles. ‘No mass today.’ He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. ‘Why?’ And then, taking in the rumpled bed sheets and empty space beside him, ‘Where’s Ma? Has she gone to church alone?’ Shirin puts a finger to her brother’s lips and asks him to follow her into the courtyard. They squat under the guava tree, on the sweet-smelling bed of leaves and, with a mere tremble of her upper lip, Shirin says, ‘Ma is going to die. We’ll have to visit her in the cemetery. We are going to have to be very brave.’

Madhu comes looking for them. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling? Why are you hiding? Don’t you two want breakfast? I’ve made Sajjige Roti, and tamarind chutney to go with it.’ She peers closely at them, ‘Have you been crying?’ Shirin tries to smile but her mouth won’t do her bidding. ‘Is Ma going to die?’ Deepak asks. Madhu bends down, scoops them both up in her arms. ‘Of course not, silly boy.’ ‘I’m not silly, she is. She told me Ma is not coming back.’ Deepak buries his head in Madhu’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry about your mother.’ Madhu’s voice is tender, ‘She’s going to be fine.’

For the first time in her life, Shirin does not believe her.

Later, she sits on the little mound of earth by the mango tree where their compound ends and Ananthanna’s begins, from where if she looks really hard she can see the road and anyone turning into the little clearing that widens into the path leading to their house. She draws faces in the mud with a twig, Rex dancing circles around her, messing her sketches. She listens intently for the sound of an auto rickshaw signalling her mother’s arrival home—hope triumphing over the knowledge that weighs heavy in her chest: something bad has happened to her Ma. She watches the postman arrive on his bike, the menagerie of neighbourhood dogs keeping pace, kicking up dust, trying to nip at his ankles. He props his bike beside the bush by the clearing and, picking up a packet of blue envelopes—stamps peeking out—makes his way down the path, half whistling, half humming a Kannada blockbuster tune. He comes to a halt beside the mound where she is sitting. She refuses to look at his face, unreasonably angry with him for having turned up instead of her mother, staring instead at his long thin legs, clad in the khaki postman uniform, which is now the dark brown colour of mud. He’s wearing Bata chappals with blue straps, one of them held together by a large safety pin. His feet are dirty and one of his toenails is missing. His long legs fold, bending gracefully into a V shape, and suddenly she’s looking into his gaunt, bespectacled face. His hair is wet, and when he smiles, his eyes crinkle, creating a busy network of lines along the sides of his face. ‘Hello there, little one, who are you waiting for?’ Rex, who’s been barking furiously, stops at the sound of the postman’s voice and tries to lick his face. Shirin bursts into tears, ‘My ma is going to die.’ ‘It can’t be possible! Who told you that?’ The postman rocks back and forth on his haunches, looking completely at ease in what has to be a very uncomfortable squatting position. His eyes are kind. ‘You don’t think she’ll die?’ ‘I don’t think God will let her! How can He allow a pretty girl like you to be orphaned?’ Shirin smiles for the first time that day, a warm feeling settling in her heart. No one has called her pretty before. People sigh when they look at her and say to Jacinta: ‘Good thing Walter’s in the Gulf. This one will need plenty of dowry,’ which makes frown lines appear on her mother’s forehead.

An auto rickshaw pulls up. And Shirin is running, pigtails flying, praying, ‘Please let it be my ma. Please, Mother Mary. I will be a good girl, I promise.’ Ananthanna gets out of the auto. Alone. Tears prick Shirin’s eyes. Ananthanna smiles when he sees her. ‘Shirin, go tell everyone the baby’s been born. Mother and baby are doing fine. The nuns said to visit in the afternoon.’ And Shirin, bent double from trying to catch her breath, her hair flying in all directions, laughs until tears track dusty streaks down her face.

It had made sense all at once, Shirin remembered, smiling at her naive five-year-old self as she walked up and down Ealing Road trying to work up the nerve to enter one of the myriad sari shops lining the street. She saw her childhood self standing on the path, Timothy the postman laughing along with her. ‘I knew my ma was going to have a baby. I touched her stomach and felt the baby kick. I want a girl and Deepak wants a boy. Oh, I forgot to ask Ananthanna if I’ve got a brother or sister. If it’s a brother, my grandmother will be happy.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, boys are always better, aren’t they?’ ‘Rubbish. I think girls as kind as you are worth a million. Look how you worry about your ma. Boys don’t do that.’ ‘Don’t you worry about
your
ma?’ And Timothy the postman had thrown his head back and laughed, his nose crinkling in a fascinating way, ‘You’re a sharp one, you are.’

A shiver traversed Shirin’s spine. She was aware of goosebumps sprouting on her arms, the creepy feeling of being watched…

She realised that she was standing in front of ‘Krishna Saris’, that while she had been lost in the past she had been grinning at the unnaturally thin blonde mannequins decked in gold-flecked maroon saris, bindis and high heels, reclining coolly in the shop window flanked by kurta-draped dark-haired male counterparts. What was that reflection in the window? Was it... She blinked, tried to think clearly, keep panic at bay. The reflection moved, took shape.
No.
She half turned; poised to run. One of the shop assistants peered around the mannequins, checking her out, apparently trying to decide whether she was crazy or just a too-keen window shopper. Their eyes met. The shop assistant withdrew. The next minute, she was at the door. How could Shirin have mistaken this slim, efficient-looking Asian girl clad in a sky-blue ghagra for the spectre from her nightmares? ‘Excuse me, ma’am; is there something wrong with our display?’

‘Oh no, no, I was just looking.’

‘Do you want to come in? We have saris, churidars and salwar kameezes, lehngas, chaniya cholis...’

She couldn’t turn away now. Once inside, the familiar, nostalgic smell of new fabric, whisper-soft silk, transported her back eleven years to another world.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

‘No thanks, just browsing.’

The shop assistant got the message and left her alone. Kishore Kumar crooned ‘Meri Sapnon Ki Rani Kab Ayegi Thu’ via the speakers and Shirin remembered the driver of the rickety old rickshaw that had conveyed them to the hospital to visit Ma. He had been singing a Kannada song at the top of his voice, the rickshaw dancing in tune thanks to the many ruts in the road. ‘Raj Kumar film,’ he had announced grinning, displaying rotting teeth, sickly yellow gums…

Shirin squashed onto her grandmother’s enormous lap, being tossed up to the flimsy roof of the auto every time the rickshaw hit a pothole. The hospital: square corners, right angles, no familiar orange ‘Mangalore Tiles’ on the roof; smelling of the bitter tonic Shirin was forced to drink when she was ill, mixed with the phenol the cleaner had used to scrub the floors. Her terror reflected in her brother’s eyes. Shirin worrying if this was all a trick, sucking at the clean handkerchief Madhu had tucked in her pocket. Maybe they wouldn’t get to see their mother at all. Maybe this was the place where they sent naughty children. Nuns swarming everywhere, one leading them down an endless corridor to a long room filled with mothers and newborn babies, the babies sounding just like kittens. Shirin, peering out from behind her grandmother’s sari, spotting her mother at the far end. Her mother: wearing a strange gown and cradling a comma-shaped bundle in her arms. Shirin running, her footsteps echoing on the granite floor. Deepak following suit, ignoring their grandparents’ admonishments. Jacinta patting Shirin’s head and Deepak’s with her free hand. Shirin noticing nothing but the bundle her mother was holding: tiny, with a scrunched-up face the size of Shirin’s palm. Shirin reaching out a tentative finger and gently rubbing the baby’s cheek: downy, like moss. The baby mewling, miniature palms bunched into fists punching the air. Warmth spreading through Shirin. ‘Is it a girl?’ Not really caring anymore what sex it was. Jacinta nodding, yes. Her grandmother sighing, sinking heavily onto Jacinta’s bed, ‘Not another girl!’ Shirin clapping her hands, jumping up and down, ‘Deepak, what did I tell you? God answered my prayers.’ Her grandmother mumbling, ‘Wish He’d answered mine.’ And Anita, as if wanting to locate the source of all the noise, opening her eyes and looking right at Shirin, her tiny face flooding red as she started to yell, a huge cry for such a little thing.

And Shirin had loved her sister, completely and unconditionally from then on, despite the fact that her grandmother chose that moment to say, ‘At least this one is fairer than Shirin. This one is going to be pretty. Takes after our side of the family...’ And the comparisons began.

She realised she was holding an emerald sari up to her cheek, as if the feel of it would transport her to monsoon-drenched fields sparkling in humid, after-the-rains sun; as if it would bring back the tart, spicy taste of raw mangoes soaked in rock salt—the mangoes just this colour: a dark, heavy green. It was the colour of the churidar she had worn to Anita’s christening, the colour splashed across the first picture her sister made for her, the colour of the guavas in the tree in the courtyard before they ripened in the sun, the colour that Shirin most associated with home...

‘What did you buy?’ Vinod asked when she returned, laden with carrier bags.