Monsoon Memories (20 page)

‘No bother. I enjoyed talking to her.’

‘She says school’s fun,’ Abigail pointed at Shirin, making a face.

‘Of course it is,’ Shirin and the woman said in unison, and then started to laugh.

Abigail, belatedly shy, wrapped chubby arms round her mother and burrowed her white-blond head in the crook of her mother’s neck.

‘How many do
you
have?’ the woman asked Shirin.

‘I’m sorry?’ It took a second for the penny to drop and then she couldn’t hide her dismay.

‘Sorry, I just assumed...’ the woman looked flustered. ‘It’s just... what you said about school... I’m sorry...’ She gently untied her daughter’s arms from around her neck and stood her down before turning to walk away.

‘Wait,’ Abigail turned to Shirin, held her dress out and twirled. ‘Do you like my new dress?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Shirin managed. ‘A lovely dress for a lovely girl.’

Abigail giggled. ‘Bye,’ she said, putting her little hand in her mother’s. ‘She thought I was called Angel,’ Shirin heard her say as she skipped in step beside her mum, her voice sweet as syrup-filled jalebis.

Shirin watched them until they reached the children’s play area and Abigail disappeared up the slide. Then she stood, brushed down her suit, gathered her book and walked slowly back to the office, trying to ignore the yearning that had ballooned into an all-consuming craving. She tried to focus on safer things: the issue that had cropped up during integration testing that stubbornly refused to be fixed. Work. Emails. Emails…
You’ve survived all these years without a word from them. What’s so different now?

Abigail swam before her eyes, persistent: ‘Do you like my new dress?’

How does it feel to have your little girl wrap her arms around you, bury her head in your shoulder? How does it feel to hear her say, ‘I love you, Mummy’?

Think of safe things.
Abigail twirling, ‘Do you like my new dress?’

She thought of new clothes, the crisp foreign smell of them, Madhu’s eyes lighting up at the word ‘foreign’, of treasured parcels from Walter arriving twice a year; once in May and once just before Christmas, of Shirin going with Madhu to the post office, signing on the little square next to her mother’s name, ‘JACINTA DIAZ’ in the cursive style Sister Shanthi had made sure they all perfected, her tongue sticking out, the Reynolds ball pen which Timothy the postman had given her feeling unfamiliar and thicker somehow, used as she was to HB pencils. The exotic parcel had occupied pride of place next to the altar on top of the old wooden wardrobe which housed the good tablecloth and serving dishes, the red glow from the little bulb in front of the Holy Family illuminating the dull brown wrapping to deep russet, inviting Shirin, Deepak and Anita to rip it open and take a peek at the goodies inside. The three of them would sit at the edge of the front courtyard, their legs dangling down into the stream below, looking across the fields to the path beyond and willing Jacinta to appear. When they spotted her, a colourful dot in the distance manoeuvring down the rocky path to the bridge across the first stream, they would run, ‘Ma! Ma! The parcel’s here.’ Jacinta’s stern face would relax into a soft smile as they hurled themselves at her, barefoot and muddy. The contents of the parcel were always the same: a letter for Jacinta—a thick one—resting on top, which she touched reverently and hugged to herself, closing her eyes; clothes for Shirin, Deepak and Anita, neatly folded, crisp and shiny, feeling and smelling different to the clothes in Raju’s shop. And the best part: Kit Kats, tucked away behind the clothes and letter, nestling beside a couple of tins of Kraft cheese and just starting to melt. They would have a finger each. The fourth finger, they divided into three parts. There was always a scuffle as to who got the biggest, which Jacinta resolved with a stern, ‘Do you realise how lucky you are? Look around you. There are people starving. If you fight one more time, I am going to give the Kit Kats to Laxmi’s children who do not even have a decent roof over their heads.’ That would shut them up, and they would go outside and argue in secret.

They hardly, if ever, thought of Walter, the man behind the parcels. A pleasant, mild-mannered man who visited every alternate summer, a bit older each time. Once he was gone, promptly forgotten. Remembered briefly, gratefully, when the parcels arrived. Cursed heartily the last Friday of each month when they were forced to write a letter each—Jacinta insisted it had to be at least a page long—detailing their progress at school, their achievements: ‘Dearest Daddy, I came seventh in class in the mid-term exams. Sister Shanthi praised me for singing nicely in the choir. A python got into Beerakka’s chicken coop and ate all seven of the chickens she was fattening for Mari Habba. Nagappa caught it. It was very long, longer than Ananthanna’s field even. But it fit in a gunny bag (where it vomited two of the chickens, Nagappa said). I won the high jump. With lots of love, Craving your blessings, Shirin.’

Her father. A stranger.

A headache loomed. One of the bad ones, pressing against her skull. As she made herself a cup of coffee—strong, black—to take to her desk, Shirin tried to picture him. Walter. The soft-spoken man who stayed for the summer every two years; whose presence guaranteed feast food—chicken sukka, pork bafat, pickled sardines, mackerel fry, mutli, panpole—every single day; who made her mother smile, hum and even blush a couple of times; the man who tickled Shirin till she begged him to stop, who allowed Deepak to beat him at cards, who sat Anita on his lap and read Bible verses to her while she bunched his sparse hair with rubber bands and decorated it with aboli flowers. He drank at least five litres of water a day—Shirin had counted once—and lost it all in perspiration which permanently beaded his face and arms. He wore only a lungi and no shirt, had springy, curly hair on his chest which Shirin, Deepak and Anita had tried to straighten while he slept by weighting each hair down with pebbles, and a potbelly larger than a pregnant woman’s that he let them bounce and slide on. He snored when he slept, even louder than Grandpa and Grandma used to, and sometimes he sputtered to a stop, his mouth open, and Shirin worried he was dead. He had hair growing out of his nostrils and dimples that merged onto his double chin.

However hard she tried, Shirin couldn’t quite remember his face. She tasted the familiar bittersweet tang of regret at the back of her throat. She swallowed it down, relegated the sudden yearning to see her father—to pluck him out of her past and look at him, memorise his features until they were branded in her brain as insurance against ever forgetting them again—to that secret corner of her heart which housed other yearnings, other regrets: a corner of her heart that was forever expanding.

Her father had accompanied her to Bangalore for her wedding and neither of them had known what to say to each other. If only she had known then that this was the last chance she had to get to know him, the last time she would see him...

Unless...

She went back home someday.

Despite her promise to herself, she checked Outlook once more. And, once more, there were plenty of emails requiring her attention but not the one she was looking for.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hand Stretched to Infinity

‘R
inu, you look tired. How was your day?’
‘I got told off for daydreaming during the Kannada lesson.’

Aunt Anita giggled, the sound like temple bells. ‘I hated Kannada too. The grammar...’

‘I know, so much to remember! What about you? What did you do?’

Reena and Aunt Anita were walking back to the apartment. Her aunt had been waiting for her outside the gate to their apartment block again, sitting as usual on the mound of mud, wearing a salwar kameez, the kind that film actresses wore, with a short, pale green sequinned top and matching, flared trousers which showed off her long legs and thin waist to perfection.

She could get used to being picked up at the gate, Reena decided, but not to being accosted at school by the older boys and asked question after question about Aunt Anita. The fact that she was married and almost twenty years older than them did nothing to dent their enthusiasm. Even Raj, whom she had thought was a decent sort, and whom she secretly had a crush on, seemed besotted by Aunt Anita.

She had decided that being accosted by the boys was worse than the name-calling and teasing. The girls in her class, Divya included, were annoyed that the boys were paying her so much attention and they were even cattier to her than before.

The bus driver had slowed down dramatically when he spotted Aunt Anita waiting for Reena at the entrance to the apartment block; usually he took off before Reena had time to get off the last step, but today he took his time. The boys had started whistling as romantic Hindi film music started blaring suddenly out of speakers that Reena had not even known existed in the bus. The driver combed his sparse oily hair in the mirror above the steering wheel as Reena climbed off and then turned to flash Aunt Anita a smile that was even oilier. The queue for bidis at the little hut across the road was longer than the previous day, and the customers, instead of facing the shop, were staring at Aunt Anita with grins so wide they looked like performing monkeys.

When Reena and Aunt Anita turned to walk inside there was a chorus of groans from the men and boys. Aunt Anita laughed and waved the bus away to a wild crescendo of cheers. The bus driver’s off-key rendition of Hindi film music faded into the distance.

‘We went shopping,’ Aunt Anita said, ‘to a mall. I think it’s only been a couple of years since I last visited Bangalore, but, my God, the difference! This city is booming! Malls and flyovers popping up all over the place.’

Reena smiled, pleased to see Aunt Anita so animated. She was not depressed all the time anymore. She had stopped wearing sunglasses constantly. Staying with them seemed to be doing her good.

‘We had a great time,’ Aunt Anita continued, ‘I bought some clothes. Your mother got pillow covers, of all things. Then we ate at one of those exclusive eateries inside the mall, where it costs three times the price outside. We each had a masala dosa and some tea. That came up to four hundred rupees! It’s all these rich young software engineers that are making all the difference: the nouveau riche with their nuclear families; the pampered society wife, the spoilt children.’ She stopped, suddenly realising what she had said, and blushed. ‘Not you of course. You are the exception to the rule.’ She reached across and cupped Reena’s cheek in her palm. ‘So, have you been reading Shirin’s letters? What do you think?’

They were by the pool. The sky, a brilliant cloudless blue, was reflected in its depths. The water shimmered and sparkled like the sequins in her mother’s best ghagra choli. In the distance, beyond the flats, Reena could just make out the top of a banyan tree, the branches swaying slightly in the mild breeze. As she watched, a V-shaped formation of birds flew past, regally swooping across the horizon like a hand stretched out to infinity. She closed her eyes.

‘Reena?’

She heard the question in her aunt’s voice.

‘I... I read the first letter.’ The words she really wanted to ask were at the tip of her tongue.
Why? Why shun her? What did she do that was so bad?
Did she marry someone unsuitable? Was that it?
But so did you. Why was she punished and not you?
But she was afraid her aunt would get annoyed and ask for the letters back. So she cleared her throat and said instead, ‘They are in English.’
Super Sleuth, where’s your courage?

Her aunt smiled. ‘That’s your Mai’s fault. She made sure we wrote our letters in English—to Da, to each other. “We pay so much money to send you to English medium school, you might as well practise it,” she used to say when we grumbled.’

‘I am getting a sense of who she was. Thank you for sharing the letters, for sharing
your
Shirin with me.’

Aunt Anita beamed. It was like the sun breaking through clouds after a monsoon shower. And Reena suddenly understood why men went weak-kneed and crazy for her aunt, why they fell under her spell.

‘You’re welcome, sweetie. It’s nice to talk about her with someone after all this time.’

‘That’s exactly what Madhu said!’ A pause while she gathered up courage.
I am not going to let Aunt Shirin remain invisible anymore.
‘Aunt Shirin... She seems so nice, so kind. I cannot imagine her doing anything to warrant all of you shunning her; her own mother pretending she never existed.’

Aunt Anita flinched. ‘Please, Reena. Just leave it—okay?’

Don’t push it, Reena, don’t.
‘Why?’

Aunt Anita pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes. ‘I... It will cause hurt all round.’ She cupped Reena’s face in her palm. ‘Look at me.’ Her voice was soft. ‘Read the letters; get to know Shirin. Leave the rest be. It’s maddening, I know. But it’s for the best.’

Not what you said before. Are all adults so fickle or just you?
Reena looked away, up at the sky. The birds were gone. The sky seemed bereft. ‘I
hate
being a child. Everyone talks down to you...’ Rogue tears pricked at her eyes.

‘Reena...’

She picked up her satchel and dragged it up the stairs. She stormed into the flat, ignored Preeti: ‘Rinu, guess what, I packed you the rava dosa from Sukh Sagar.’; ran to her room and banged the door shut.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ she heard a perplexed Preeti ask.

‘She got told off for daydreaming during her Kannada lesson,’ Aunt Anita lied effortlessly. She was, Reena noted with grim pleasure, panting from trying to catch up with her.

All the adults in her life seemed skilled at lying, Reena seethed. She lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, picturing a lonely girl who yearned to fall in love, sitting on the veranda in Taipur, missing her siblings. She lay there until she could no longer ignore the hungry calls of her stomach, and when her mother banged on her door for the third time: ‘Come on out, Rinu; Mr Shastri is not worth it. You’ll feel better after eating your dosa,’ she went to the dining table and devoured her snack while studiously avoiding Aunt Anita’s eye.