Nothing Like Love (35 page)

“It ain’t ready,” Krishna heard himself say. He had grown lazy in Tobago, spoiled under Auntie Kay’s doting.

Anand arched an eyebrow, wiry grey, pointed directly at him. “Then go and watch the water boil.”

Krishna found his mother staring at the rising steam, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. “Ma.” He put his hand on her shoulder and noticed how delicate, how frail, it felt. “What happened?”

Maya’s chin trembled. She shook her head, silver fly-aways quivering. “Is your father, Krishna. He so old and everybody only breaking he heart steady.” She gazed up at him, imploring and snappish as if Krishna could set it right if only he wanted to.

“What we go do? How we could marry you to Chalisa Shankar now? People go say she slack.”

They had said the same of Vimla once. Maybe they still did. Krishna couldn’t be sure.

“Your father work hard to be a good pundit to these people. He work hard to keep the Govind name clean.”

The Govind name. It always came down to that. Status. Pride.

“And allyuh only dutty-ing it up!” Maya raised her voice to a harsh whisper. “Shamelessness all over the place!”

Krishna’s hand fell from her shoulder. She was blaming him. He stared at her, bewildered. Had she thought this of him all along? Krishna wanted to remind his mother that the disgrace hovering over the Govind family was not his doing. Not this time.

A tear escaped the others and slid down Maya’s cheek. “Your father want to see you marry a nice girl before he dead,
Krishna. He asking too much?” She brushed the tear away and clasped her fingers around the mug handles. “He want to see you become a successful pundit. Why you doesn’t study hard and be grateful for the man’s guidance?”

She lifted the mugs off the counter. Krishna stepped away to let her pass. He didn’t ask when they would consider what
he
wanted. He realized now that had never been their concern. Krishna’s sole purpose was to carry on the Govind name and safeguard its integrity. Beyond that, he had no value.

“You see, Baba …” Headmaster started cautiously; he tiptoed with his words. “I still ain’t have a teacher for Saraswati Hindu School.”

Krishna saw his father’s eye twitch, the green vein beneath his left eye throb. Maya set the mugs down on the table and retreated, throwing Krishna a worried look.

Headmaster coughed. He started to lift the coffee to his lips, but the mug wavered in his hand under Anand’s stare and he set it down again. “Is important—as you know—to give the novice teachers time to prepare and already the new school year is upon us.”

Anand fell quiet. Krishna stole a glance at him from the hammock. Maya sat outside the kitchen door and broke bodi into a bowl on her lap for today’s lunch. The beans snapped between her fingers like nervous heartbeats.

When Anand said nothing, Headmaster went on. “It ain’t have a better person for the job than Vimla Narine.”

Krishna brought his foot down and the hammock skidded to a halt. Maya brought her hand to her lips.

Headmaster’s gaze flitted like a bird from Anand’s dark stare. It landed on the table, on his hands, on Maya, and then curiously, travelled up Kiskadee Trace like he was searching for someone. He returned to the conversation and this time his voice quaked less, although Krishna couldn’t imagine why. “She is the brightest. We must think of the students …” He trailed off at Anand’s sharp intake of breath.

“The students?” It came out in a hoarse whisper. Anand leaned forward with his palms together as if he were beseeching Headmaster not to be a fool. “You come here to talk about the students and Saraswati Hindu School, when I planning my son wedding to a hoity-toity—”

“Anand!” Maya interjected. She put the bowl down and hurried to his side just as Anand bolted out of his chair and sent it toppling.

Headmaster shrivelled. He mopped his face with his yellow handkerchief and for a moment pressed the fabric behind his lenses and over his eyelids.

Krishna was on his feet now, ready to restrain his father should madness bait him into doing something foolish.

Maya’s fingers found Anand’s. She murmured to him with tenderness, the way a mother would a small child. The pulsing beneath his eye slowed until it was no more. His shoulders slackened. “Roop, I ain’t have time for this nonsense now,” he said. He kneaded his forehead.

Headmaster shook his head and swallowed. “Baba—” His voice was pleading, persistent. “You forget Vimla is one of the top-scoring students in the country. She go raise Saraswati Hindu School standing in the south.”

Anand studied Headmaster. Krishna could tell by the way
his father trailed his fingers along the bristles of his moustache that what Headmaster had said pleased him. “True. It go be good for the school.”

“And, Baba,” Headmaster said, “if we don’t offer Vimla a position at we school, she go surely go elsewhere. To another school. Attend university, maybe.”

Anand’s fingers strummed his moustache now. “Surely,” he repeated.

“Saraswati Hindu School go lose the brightest student we ever had, and maybe the best teacher.” Headmaster’s voice grew louder, more urgent now. “We must keep she so she could draw more students, more prestige, to the school!”

“But, Roop.” Anand sounded old, tired. “You forget that Miss Vimla Narine ain’t have the purist reputation in the district. She is a sound student, yes, but she character?” The question hung in the air between them for a moment.

Headmaster pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Baba, it was a moment of indiscretion.” His smile was reassuring. “And can we really blame she?” He gestured to Krishna, standing stunned by the hammock. “Look at your fine son! He is the spitting image of Bhagwan Shri Krishna self. And we know, Baba,” Headmaster said with a wink, “how our Bhagwan Shri Krishna tempted the fair milkmaids into the night with only his charm and the song of his flute!”

Anand’s eyes misted. “Jai Shri Krishna,” he murmured. Glory to Lord Krishna. He glanced at his son. Pride coaxed his lips into a half-smile.

“We know that aside from this unfortunate error, Vimla Narine is a wonderful girl.”

Anand sighed and folded his arms across his chest, but he did not disagree.

Headmaster shifted to the edge of his seat and leaned forward. “She was my brightest scholar. And look, Baba, at her parents. Is there a more devout woman in the district than Chandani Narine?”

Anand’s chin dipped. A nod? “But Om Narine is a rum sucker.” He shuddered. “Remember Krishna Janamashtami? Disgraceful.”

“He does work hard at least.”

Anand’s fingers found his moustache again. “Roop, will she uphold the school’s values? Can I trust she?”

Headmaster folded his hands on the table and looked his old friend square in the eyes. “Anand, your compassion is infinite like Bhagwan’s. If you could forgive the Shankars for their awful misstep and accept Chalisa as your daughter-in-law, surely you could forgive Vimla. She was once the district’s darling.”

And she is still mine, Krishna thought.

Anand’s back went rigid and Krishna feared all Headmaster’s convincing would come to nothing now. He braced himself, waiting for his father’s temper to spark yet again, but instead Anand’s attention fell on a blue emperor butterfly circling the air between him and Headmaster Roop G. Kapil. It flitted close to his face, brushing his forehead. “Jai Shri Krishna,” Anand said, smiling. The butterfly danced away and he turned back to Headmaster, his face animated with an excitement indicative of a bright idea. “Roop—” He extended his hand. “Tell Chandani, Om and Vimla to come and see me this afternoon self.”

Headmaster took Anand’s hand in his own and beamed. “Sita-Ram, Baba. Sita-Ram.” He bobbed a bow and was gone before Anand could change his mind.

O
m pulled the car to the side of the narrow road and honked his horn. The seer man’s house was painted salmon and Om wondered if there was some magical significance to the colour or if the seer man just preferred salmon to, say, the ever-popular Caribbean-blue or sea green. Inside the gates, Om spotted a dozen dinner-plate hibiscus flowers in bloom. The petals of the enormous red flowers reminded him of ruffles on a lady’s dress—nothing, of course, that Chandani would wear. They fluttered in the wind, doubling over and falling out again with grace.

“Whey! Watch them hibiscus, Om. One of them flowers could hold a nip of Johnny Walker.” He craned his neck to get a better view. “Remind me to pick one when I leaving. I go try it when I get home.”

“Puncheon, don’t you touch the seer man’s garden, you
hear? Next thing you know, we wake up tomorrow with flowers blooming out we ass!” Rajesh said. He was sitting in the back seat, sweaty palms pressed against his knees. He’d barely said a word from Chance to Jaipur Village, and now that they were parked in front of the seer man’s house, he looked ill.

“He coming there,” Om said. The seer man appeared from under the house wearing a kurtha and a pair of beige pants. His hair was plastered to the sides of his head; under the sun the white part down the middle shone with Brylcreem. He raised his arm in greeting then drew open the gates.

In the rear-view mirror, Om saw Rajesh close his eyes and mutter a prayer. He chuckled and manoeuvred the car into the dirt next to the seer man’s bicycle and turned off the ignition.

Puncheon bounded from the car and clasped the seer man in a hug. The seer man smiled at Puncheon’s boyish display of affection. Om looked for a hint of wickedness in that smile, but there was none. “Glad to see you, Parmeshwar,” the seer man said.

Puncheon seemed to humble under the man’s touch. His grin softened into a reverent smile and some of the mischief melted from his eyes. Om took note. Perhaps the magic was in the name. The next time Puncheon went wild, Om would call him Parmeshwar and hope for this same transformation.

The seer man nodded at Om. When he smiled, his cheeks kissed the pockets of flesh beneath his eyes. “
Bhai
, brother, your friend sick?”

Om followed the seer man’s gaze. Rajesh had opened the car door, but he remained in the back seat. Despite the shade, Rajesh’s whole face shone with sweat and seemed to grow
shinier by the second. His eyes shifted back and forth from the seer man to his surroundings, no doubt looking for signs of evil.

The seer man bowed to Rajesh, his palms pressed together at his heart. Then he murmured to Puncheon, “I go wait in the room. Bring your friends when they ready.” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

He disappeared into a room behind a curtain of beads and took Puncheon’s good behaviour with him. Puncheon marched to the car and reached in for Rajesh’s shirt collar. “What happen to you? You wasting the man time.”

Rajesh wiped his hand down the front of his face from his forehead to his chin and droplets fell onto Puncheon’s hand. “Let we go home, nuh, man. I change my mind,” he said.

Puncheon tugged at Rajesh’s shirt collar. “Too late for that. We done reach.”

Om could see where this was going, and as much as he relished a showdown between Rajesh and Puncheon, he didn’t think the seer man’s home was the appropriate place. He pushed Puncheon out of the way and stuck his head in the car. “Raj, we done drive all this way. Let we stay for ten minutes and hear what the man have to say.”

Puncheon jammed his head in under Om’s arm. “You forget we come here for
you
?”

The room was a cramped square, with lattice windows that invited plenty of sunshine but not nearly enough air for four men. The windows cast an intricate labyrinth pattern on the opposite wall. Om, Rajesh and Puncheon passed in
front of it, caught momentarily in the design, before they lowered themselves into the upholstered chairs. A pungent odour drifted from the unlabelled jars of dried herbs and other indistinguishable powders stacked on a shelf behind the seer man. The smell permeated the rug, the chairs, the pores of their skin.

The seer man crooked one knee over the other and rested his palms on top. “So, Rajesh,” he finally said, fingering the fat beads around his neck. “Tell me how I could help you.”

Puncheon leaned forward in his chair so he could see Rajesh around Om. They all waited for him to answer. He opened his mouth, but instead of words, air whistled through his lips. He seemed to be entranced by the man’s beads. Om nudged him, but that only startled Rajesh and tongue-tied him further. Rajesh leaned back into his chair and sweated.

The seer man tucked his beads inside his shirt and tried again. “I think, Rajesh Gopalsingh, your wife giving you trouble.” He said it as casually as if he were commenting on the price of flour.

Puncheon clucked his tongue like a woman in the market. The seer man touched his shoulder without looking and he stopped.

Rajesh avoided the seer man’s deep-set eyes, but Om could tell he was studying the other peculiarities of the man’s face: his sparse eyebrows, the uneven line of his lips, the black stubble at his chin that profoundly contrasted with the white stripe in his hair.

“What kind of trouble it is?” the seer man asked, probing yet patient.