The Cambridge Curry Club (16 page)

‘Do something!’ he ordered sharply, aware of the smirks and stares of the other passengers.

‘You mean do something about the suitcase first, or you?’

Before he could respond, a man approached. ‘Atul Patwardhan? I thought it was you! We met at the New Hall dinner two months ago. Richard Cartwright, obstetrics.’

The two men shook hands and Richard Cartwright’s gaze travelled downward.

‘He’s in a bit of pickle, can you help?’ asked Durga. ‘These suitcases are rather heavy, and I need to open one to get some wet tissues.’

Richard Cartwright obliged and as Durga dabbed Atul’s trousers a passing passenger quipped, ‘Mind the Crown Jewels there, luv!’ Richard began to chuckle, but Atul looked thunderous. ‘I’d say your best bet is to find another pair of trousers,’ commiserated Richard as he left, but they discovered that the mango pickle had spread in spurts over the entire contents of the suitcase zealously fingerprinted on the outside by Atul’s father with two large, handwritten, heavily gummed labels PROPERTY OF DR
PATWARDHAN
. The Cambridge address was prominently displayed. It was as legible as an optician’s
sight-testing
chart.

Durga rummaged through the clothing and beheld the stained portrait. The eyes of the Patwardhan family were red blobs of sorrow. The packet of his mother’s home-made sweets was coated in oil. Durga suggested disposal, but Atul was reluctant. ‘We can’t throw
anything
away. My mother has made everything herself. But I don’t understand, how could you pack edible things with my clothes? You should have had some sense at least.’

‘Who said
I
packed them?’

‘Then who?’

‘Mommy dearest? Sister dearest?’

He was about to protest when she waved a pile of baby clothes in indignation under his nose. They were all postmarked in mango red.

‘Yours, I presume?’ she asked coldly.

He stared sheepishly at the accompanying envelope addressed to Mrs Aparna Achrekar of Milton Keynes. ‘That’s my cousin Shreya’s sister-in-law. She’s
expecting
a baby. Maybe she asked
Aai
to send the baby clothes through us,’ he mumbled, as she continued to display several packages at random.

‘And who is Kishori Chavate in London? Lucky, lucky girl! A kilo of laadu for her sweet tooth. And who is Mr Mystery-Man Madhav Mhatre? Life will be one long party for him once he receives your mother’s eight-cassette pack of Marathi devotional songs mailed direct by us to the American address attached here,’ declared Durga with increasing flourish.

Durga would have been surprised to hear that she had begun to sound like her mother.

‘All right, stop it now. I get your point. We are late for the coach. If we miss it, we have a long wait, so just put it all back and we’ll have to sort this out later,’ he said irritably.

It was a morose journey on the airport coach to
Cambridge’s
Drummer Street. The driver had asked, ‘What happened, mate?’ in horror, for the trousers now appeared to be covered with dried blood, pointing untruthfully to the dismemberment of a vital organ. The other passengers politely averted their eyes, but a man walking quickly past had sniggered, ‘Lost your lunchbox, did yer?’ Atul scowled. His gaze returned repeatedly and hypnotically to the stains during the journey. ‘They were my best chinos,’ he complained. ‘I bought them in New York when I went there for a conference. Dry cleaning costs such a bomb here, I’ll have to wait and see if I can send them back with
someone. Actually, Nikhil is going to Delhi soon.’ He brightened.

‘You mean send them all the way to India?’ she asked in disbelief.

‘Why not? What did I tell you, every damn thing is so expensive in this country. Why do you think my mother was so keen for you to learn to cook? Who can afford to eat out at these prices? Listen, I really hope you brought everything you need, because we won’t be running around in the shops as soon as we arrive.’ He softened. ‘See, it’s not that there is no money, but it is not to be wasted on frivolous things. It is important to count every penny while we are here, and then we will have something to take back when we return.’

He had omitted to tell her that anything saved would be invested in Patwardhan’s Maternity Clinic. Despite the future purchase of gleaming new machines, women would still have to push as they had through the ages.

Durga looked at the rain-streaked landscape and grey skies of her London childhood with increasing
excitement
. She was back in England, going to Cambridge and that was all that mattered. She would roam the colleges, see the fan-vaulted ceiling of King’s
College
Chapel, the Fellows’ Garden of Clare and Christ’s, the Grecian buildings of Downing, the Wren Library, Trinity’s Great Court. She was living a student’s dream after years of crammed after-school coaching classes in rat-infested dank buildings, and nights of endless study leading to a single magical word: Oxbridge.

Atul shared none of the excitement she felt. He had not spoken to her on the flight or introduced her to Richard Cartwright, nor had he commented on her
return to England after the long absence. He did not ask if this was home because it was the country of her birth and childhood, if home was what she had left behind in India, or was home wherever she was with him? On her first day back in England, Durga’s
suspicions
were being speedily confirmed. It was about a boy, not a man.

As the taxi sped towards Hills Road from the coach station, Atul leaned over and asked the driver about the woody smell inside. ‘I thought it was you, mate,’ replied the driver sanguinely. ‘Smells like an old lady with a cold in the back.’

Atul sniffed his way to the source of the odour and scrabbled frantically in his rucksack until his fingers made startled contact with a cracked bottle of Olesan eucalyptus oil and a hastily wrapped packet of incense sticks. As he searched further afield, he found a hot water bottle, herbal back-rub ointment and three pairs of thick hand-knitted men’s socks.

‘What have you been putting in here?’ he asked in anger.

‘Not
mea culpa
.’

‘Then who?’

Durga thought it prudent not to point a finger in the same direction more than once, and did not reply.

As they entered the tiny flat, he snapped peevishly, ‘What a bloody mess!’

It was not the welcome to Cambridge she had fondly imagined, but Durga could only concur.

CHAPTER TEN

All good things come to those who wait

S
WARNAKUMARI HAD DISCOVERED
something far more important missing in her life than a mere dozen roses. ‘Any of you have seen my Guru Ma’s prayer book lying anywhere?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I had it with me when I came in this morning. I must find my prayer book, must find it. It has her photo on it. She has long black hair, and she is sitting in a white robe in lotus pose, with one hand up.’

‘What’s she doing with the other, I’d like to know?’ said Durga.

‘Durga!’ warned Heera.

‘Where did I leave it, where could it be? Girls, help me! What if it has gone?’ Swarnakumari wandered
distractedly
into the Staff Area.

‘Did you hear about the book by that woman who hadn’t had you-know-what for thirty-five years, and suddenly she was having lots of it, so she wrote about it?’ asked Heera, standing by the shop window. ‘She was American, I think. Anyway, she was sixty-five or something and she put an advert in the papers,
saying
all she wanted was you-know-what, and can you believe it, a lot of people answered.’

Eileen gave a disbelieving snort.

Durga turned to Swarnakumari as she returned through the curtains. ‘Did you hear that, Swarna? This woman could be a role model for all those who think life’s over at fifty.’

‘Keep looking for the book,’ urged Swarnakumari absently.

‘Imagine, the youngest bloke to do you-know-what with her was thirty-two,’ marvelled Heera.

‘What?’ mumbled Swarnakumari, barely listening.

‘Why beat around the bush? Swarna, what would you say if a woman of sixty-five wanted sex? What would your Guru Ma say?’ asked Durga.

‘
Baba
, now you are teasing me again. What is there to say? At that age a woman should be thinking of nothing but spirituality,
na
. She should lead a simple, pure life. She must lose her attachment to all worldly things – all possessions, wealth, family, children. That is all,’ concluded Swarnakumari firmly.

‘Why not have fun in the years there are left?’
suggested
Durga.

‘Is this the time to ask me such things?’ barked Swarnakumari. ‘Where could my prayer book be?’

‘People do strange things at that age,’ mused Heera. ‘I know a woman called Sudha Barjotia. A little older than me, of course, she has a daughter-in-law now – they don’t get along at all, in fact, they hardly talk to each other – but do you know what she puts on her face? That cream you get in India called Fair and Fine. As if it is going to make any difference to her now, after the age of forty-five. Both she and her daughter-
in-law
use it, so at least they have something in common.’

Swarnakumari looked up with interest. ‘What is this cream?’

‘A cream called Fair and Fine to make the skin fair and fine. Honestly, Swarna, what else could it be?’

‘If you are fair, you are fine,’ observed Durga. ‘Unless you mean the groom.’

‘Does it work?’ asked Swarnakumari, thinking of Mallika.

‘Why don’t you ask the men who use it?’ countered Durga.

‘You shouldn’t make so much fun of her,’ whispered Heera. ‘Just help her find the book. She really believes in this Guru Ma, you know. These gurus are powerful people, and they can be quite inspiring.’

‘That reminds me – when I was visiting Pune, I heard an amazing story,’ Durga told her. ‘There is a holy man, a baba, somewhere, who meditated in a pond for years. When he decided to emerge, his followers apparently discovered the fish in the pond had devoured his legs, so they carried him off on their shoulders. According to some reports, he’s gung-ho about going back in again. I would fear for his arms this time, but then that’s the power of faith for you.’ She continued, ‘And there’s another baba who changes anything his followers offer him into something that tastes sweet. So let’s say I give him a bitter veggie, it turns as sweet as honey.’

‘What else does he do?’ asked Eileen.

Durga looked puzzled.

‘I mean, what’s the point in trying to make other people’s lives
taste
good?’ Eileen persevered. ‘The world needs other miracles.’

‘Do you know, I heard a TV presenter the other day, who described Indian skin as mahogany,’ interrupted Heera indignantly, still reflecting on creams and complexions.

‘Are you sure he wasn’t talking about furniture?’ asked Durga.

Heera rushed to answer her mobile phone. ‘Yes, Bob, it’s me … I’m fine. Really … No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m going out tonight. Can’t we talk another time?’ She silently returned to the counter, unnerved by the call. There was an unhappy edge to Bob’s voice. He had been so insistent; was it about Adam?

No one spoke. Such moments were rare at
IndiaNeed
, and did not last long. The shop bell soon tinkled, and a strapping young man entered, carrying a bulky shoulder bag.

‘Hiya, Assistant Photographer,
Cambridge Evening News
,’ he trumpeted. ‘Which one of you is Diana Wallington-er-Smith?’

Durga mocked, ‘Do you think any of us could be Diana Wellington-Smythe? Such a deliberate
transposing
of the postcolonial subject would not only be
aesthetically
unappealing but necessitate an inapposite dismantling of notions of self, ethnicity, race and class, thus bringing it into hybrid discontinuity.’

A faint smile hovered over Eileen’s lips.

‘Er …’ responded the photographer.

‘The director of the charity is out riding and won’t be disturbed. And she won’t like you messing with her name, by the way. It’s Wellington-Smythe. Why do you want to know where she is?’ asked Heera sharply.

The photographer turned to Heera, relieved at her
intervention. ‘Well, she wanted to pose for the shop photo tomorrow afternoon with a toff, Lady something or other. It’s some sort of Charities Special, but I’ve got to rush and do it now, or it won’t get into the Saturday paper. Can’t you ring her?’

Heera was emphatic in her refusal.

‘Oh, all right then, why don’t you lovely ladies line up there under the shop sign? Right there, yeah.
Brilliant
. Tell you what, display something from this shop, will yer?’

Swarnakumari and Heera both jostled for a central position, looking on in dismay as Durga mischievously slipped between the two. Swarnakumari held a teapot aloft, Heera a scarf and Durga a clock, and Eileen hovered uncertainly, displaying a child’s mathematical set.

‘C’mon loves, you can do better than that! Give us a smile, will yer?’

Durga murmured, ‘Imagine Lady Di’s face when she sees her little “Cambridge Curry Club” in the papers!’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Perfecto,’ grinned the photographer.

As Swarnakumari coyly adjusted her sari over her shoulder, she spotted her prayer book nestling among a set of wine glasses in the shop window and leaned across the others, screaming, ‘
Who
put my Guru Ma prayer book for sale in the window?’

The photographer clicked. ‘Lovely. Now ladies, if you’ll excuse me, gotta rush, gotta get back to work. You’ll tell Mrs er … Willington-Smith, won’t yer? Any problems, ask her to contact me, she’s got my number. Cheers, take care now, bye!’

Swarnakumari retrieved her prayer book, pressed it gratefully to her bosom, looked heavenward and mumbled reverently, ‘How my prayer book landed up
in the window God only knows, but I have got it back now, that is the main thing.’

‘I thought the jolly Germans had nicked it,’ said Durga. ‘Come to think of it, we had so many odd characters in the shop today, it could have been anyone. Anyway, I’m off to get myself something to drink. I’ll get the milk, too.’

‘But Heera, what if Mrs Wellington-Smythe gets angry because we did not ring to tell her the
photographer
had come early?’ asked Swarnakumari as the door swung shut behind Durga.

Heera inspected a lime-green cardigan lying on a chair. ‘Let’s have lunch first. She could still be riding that stallion of hers in a mucky field. I don’t want her telling me off again. I’ll ring later.’

Swarnakumari hastily discarded the prayer book. ‘Let me see that cardigan. Oh, Laura Ashley. Good quality. My Mallika does not like that colour, otherwise I would have bought it. Give it to me, I will put a price tag and hanger. Oh, it’s size eight, it would never have fitted her. We only have size sixteen and size eighteen hangers left. Never mind, who is going to notice in the
window
? Heera, you must tell Mrs Wellington-Smythe we must have correct size hangers. We are facing such a big shortage. It was so embarrassing last week,
na
?’

The previous Thursday had passed uneventfully except for an incident at closing time. A tall,
broad-shouldered
woman had approached Swarnakumari while the others were at the back of the shop.

‘It says size fourteen on the hanger, but it’s not a fourteen.’

‘Yes, madam,’ agreed Swarnakumari.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Do you think I’m lying?’

‘No, madam.’

The customer had raised her voice, and Heera ran out. Noticing the green stubble marks on the upper lip and chin, the broomstick eyebrows, and hearing a manly voice, Heera was flustered.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she said.

‘You may call me madam, or I am leaving this minute.’

‘Yes, madam.’

The confusion over the customer’s gender was never satisfactorily resolved, and Swarnakumari blamed it on the hangers. As she scribbled a price on a label and placed the lime-green cardigan in the window display, she continued, ‘You know, my Mallika is very choosy about her clothes. She’s put on a lot of weight,
na
. But what to do? She tells me, “Ma, I feel very hungry when I study.” I think she is not happy about the way she looks, but she does not talk to me about it, so how to help her?’

Heera moved to the small table and chairs in the Staff Area as Swarnakumari followed. ‘If you want
Mallika
to stop looking like a rosogulla, don’t feed her rosogulla!’ she said plainly. ‘Stop feeding her so much food. Simple. Look, there’s a story about Kabir – you know the famous poet, right? A woman asked him how she could stop her child eating too much sugar. He asked her to return after a few days for the answer. When she came back, he simply told her that she should tell her child to stop eating sugar because it was no good for her. The woman agreed, but was
surprised
, and asked Kabir why he hadn’t said so in the
first place. He told her he had to go away and stop eating sugar himself to see what it felt like before he could advise.
Arre
, what I’m saying is: practise what you preach. If you yourself are eating too much – of course, I’m not saying you are – but if you are, then how will Mallika stop?’

Mallika was battling more than the bathroom scales; she was breaking out, and not just in spots. Her parents had been indulgent, for Mallika had been prematurely born. Swarnakumari had desperately wanted a son, but once she had suffered two miscarriages after Mallika’s birth, she had submitted to a humble acceptance of God’s plan and turned to prayer. In the meanwhile, her culinary efforts had harvested happy results: the frail baby had become a plump, dimpled girl with stubby legs bursting out of her frocks. At school, Mallika was teased and bullied, and during PE lessons it was
evident
that forward and backward rolls would pose a grave challenge.

Coupled with the excess weight was the problem of hirsutism, leading to concealment of more than one kind. The hair on her head tumbled thick around her shoulders, her eyebrows met above her nose, the thick downy hair on her arms, back, stomach and legs
triggered
school nightmares. She squeezed her underarms together during gym lessons, tugged the swimsuit
desperately
over her thighs, but Swarnakumari appeared not to notice the severity of her ordeal. Her response was to buy Mallika a pumice stone, put chickpea flour mixed with turmeric in a bath bottle for application as a body paste, and instruct her to rub her skin harder. Fluffy English towels were discarded, and special thin white towels available only at the Khadi Gram Udyog
emporium were sent for the purpose by an aunt from India. As time went by, Mallika developed a hairy upper lip and sideburns, too. She was eventually left to her own devices; experiments with the pumice stone left her in a dotted rash like a Madhubani painting, and she reached for her father’s blunt razor instead.

Growing up on Newton Square, Mallika, like her father, had stared furtively at the covers of magazines. She longed to have the pale, translucent skin, pinched, aquiline noses, light eyes and long, fair legs, not only of the models but of her own classmates. Mallika stopped looking in the mirror; she was convinced it would crack. Black, black hair and skin, she wept as she
contemplated
a life of unremitting ugliness.

An English friend had once stayed the night when Mallika was eight. Swarnakumari had run the bath, and the two girls had splashed happily with their Barbie dolls. As Emma rose to dry herself, Mallika had stared at her friend’s hairless, pale body and the velvet sheen of her skin, the golden curls of her shoulder-length hair clinging damply to her flushed neck.