THE IMMIGRANT (9 page)

As time passed, Ananda allowed himself to grow more intimate. If she were to ever see his clinic on the corner of Durant and Leslie she would love it. It was a big wooden house and he was half owner of it. Gary lived upstairs, and the rent he gave helped with the mortgage. An architect had redesigned it, but he and Gary had done a lot of the woodwork and all the painting. This was a do-it-yourself culture.

Then there was an India Club, he didn’t know if she would like that sort of thing, it was not quite his style. They celebrated Holi and Diwali in the basement of a hotel, and many of the four hundred Indian families in town came. He didn’t see why being an immigrant should make him socialise with other immigrants. What did Nina think about such situations, he asked in a roundabout way.

Nina’s replies were equally circumspect. They had had a lot of Indian friends at the embassies, but that was the diplomatic life, something she had experienced when young, she couldn’t tell how she would feel now. But what Ananda said seemed to make sense.

Nina’s mother watched the flow of letters with hope in her heart. She prayed every morning that they would result in a home and happiness for her daughter. To see her well settled was her only remaining wish.

‘Canada seems like a nice place,’ Nina remarked after two months had passed.

‘Many people go abroad for a better life.’

‘You had the best of both worlds, Ma. Living abroad, without having to leave home for ever.’

‘What is there in this country now? Nothing. You know that as well as I do.’

Nina was silent.

She was walking down a street in Brussels with her mother. The sky was overcast, a few snow flurries had begun to fall. Snow was so magical. She lifted her palm and watched the flakes melt on the red woollen mitten. Her mother laughed, took her hand, and they walked home brimming with the warmth of happiness and material security.

Now Nina longed to put her burden down and escape into a life similar to the one she had known years ago. Daily this longing grew more intense, and each time a letter came it fed into it, until she began to think she was no longer fit for this city.

‘I wish Canada were not so far away, Ma,’ Nina said after three months.

‘How often could we meet if you lived in Bangalore or Assam?’

‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Nina vaguely. The ramifications of psychological distance were yet in the future.

Mr Batra pinched her cheek and laughed. She knew going abroad would suit her daughter: decent, comfortable, easy living, fine food and wine, holidays, access to books, music, theatre, concerts, she would have all the things that had once made their lives privileged.

Came the day when Nina related self-consciously that Ananda was coming to India. It would be a short visit over Christmas, he could only be away two weeks.

vi

In the weeks before Ananda came anxiety reduced Nina to a wreck. She knew they would try their best to like each other, they would not have reached this point if they were not serious. What was it like to experience love within the security of marriage? How did he look? This question at least would soon be answered.

Another small detail. Zenobia did not know that she, Nina, was being courted, that marriage was peeping shyly over the horizon. Though the minutiae of their lives had formed the substance of many thousands of words between them, Nina continued the silence established from the first letter. Nevertheless uneasy lies the head that is used to confiding everything and is now hiding something. A man was coming between them, and that too before she had set eyes upon him. How to justify this?

One afternoon in November.

‘You look different these days,’ mused Zenobia. ‘That Rahul is not back in your life, is he?’

‘Does it have to be someone in my life?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘It’s nothing really.’

The friend realised the betrayal and gave her a long stare. They were sitting in the canteen eating Mr Seth’s bad chowmein, so full of grease and green chillies that even such devotees as themselves could not finish it. ‘What’s happening? Why haven’t you told me?’

‘Nothing was certain.’

‘So?’

‘Zen, I am sorry.’

Zenobia directed her attention to her slippery noodles while Nina awkwardly explained that there had been no point in making a big deal out of nothing. That nothing comprised the astrologer, the sister, the letters and the forthcoming visit around Christmas.

It was a situation in which Zenobia was bound to feel excluded. At forty one, any chance that her single status would change was remote enough to colour the discussion, though neither of them meant it to.

December 23rd. College closes and Nina can focus on his arrival. His plane is landing that night. How soon would he call? Was he careful and cautious, or impetuous like her father, who had been the very centre of gaiety, expeditions, plans and fun. Any resemblance and she would be Ananda’s for life.

‘What are you thinking?’ called the mother, hearing the daughter’s restless tossing on the moaning, groaning string bed.

‘Nothing, don’t worry about me, go to sleep.’

Though this was not possible, the mother said no more.

The next morning Nina was called to the phone by the landlady. The accent was Canadian, which came as a shock. You can get used to it, she tells herself quickly, as she concentrates on sounding attractive, warm and confident. The voice was male, it was aeons since a male voice had spoken to her on the telephone.

‘Hi there, how’re you doin’?’

‘Fine. How was your journey?’

‘Oh, not too bad. Long, but not too bad.’

‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘You are obviously a seasoned traveller.’

He laughed. ‘Not really. I’m coming for the first time in seven years.’

‘That’s too long a gap, don’t you think?’

So arch, so coy in her nervousness, not knowing how else to be. But he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was nervous too. ‘I got you some perfume,’ he confided. ‘And some chocolate. I hope you like them.’

‘I will I’m sure, but you shouldn’t have.’

‘Not at all. I know how hard these things are to get in India.’

And how expensive.

Now she wanted their meeting over. It was like waiting for the result of an exam—the day before being the very worst. She couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t think. Any outcome, pass—fail, disappointment—success, would be preferable to this tension.

Ananda should go back to Canada and leave her to her lonely life. But he had got her presents. The last time she had got presents from abroad was when her father had been alive. He would spoil her with boxes of French perfume. She still treasured them, the tiny empty vials of Dior, Chanel, Paco Rabanne, Givenchy, Yves St Laurent.

Here was another man, with a bottle of perfume for her in his suitcase. Was it cheap or expensive? And the chocolates, her mouth watered at the thought of them. Surely the fact that he had got them revealed much. She would not say anything to her mother, the poor woman would start drawing up lists of wedding guests.

Later in the day the mother is called to the phone.

‘You are getting a lot of calls,’ insinuated the landlady, venality oozing from every jerk of her flesh laden hips. ‘Are we going to get some good news?’

‘It is nothing, ji,’ whispered Mr Batra. Nina should not hear, Nina should not mind, Nina should not get in a bad mood, Nina should get married.

‘Arre, we are family, what are these secrets for?’

By now the phone had been reached, Mr Singh need not be answered right away, and yes, she and Nina could come for tea tomorrow.

December 25th. A beautiful winter’s day. Nina was dressed in a pale gold Assam kosa silk sari, with a woven black and red border. The silk blouse was a matching gold, the shawl thrown across her shoulders was her mother’s black pashmina. Around her neck was a thin black velvet ribbon on which hung a little ceramic Ganesh medallion, on one wrist was her watch, on the other were thick black and red glass bangles. Mr Batra thought her delicate pearl and ruby set would go down well with the sister, who would influence the brother.

‘Sorry, I will not look as though I am dressed for my own wedding—he has come from abroad, he does not expect this—if he doesn’t like it, I don’t want anything to do with him—will you please calm down—I think it’s disgraceful to want to marry me off so much—I really wish this visit was over.’

They took a taxi. The windows were rolled up, Nina didn’t want her hair blown about. In the closed atmosphere of the cab the silence seemed more oppressive. No talk was small enough for the occasion.

Ananda was dressed in blue jeans, a grey sweatshirt and Reebok sneakers. Standard casual wear in the parts he hailed from.

‘At least put on a proper shirt,’ said his sister disapprovingly.

‘Why should I? It’s just an informal meeting. Don’t get so uptight, for heaven’s sake.’

‘It doesn’t look nice. Though they are in such a needy position I suppose it doesn’t matter,’ said the sister patronisingly.

‘Why did you encourage me to write to her if you think they are so pathetic?’

‘O-ho, there is no pleasing you. Why don’t you arrange your marriage yourself?’

Ananda clenched his teeth. There she was throwing his inadequacies in his face. Who asked her to do anything, anyway? She was the one who kept on and on, and once he agreed, she reduced the whole thing to an economic exchange.

His brother-in-law was wearing a suit, looking smug, pretentious and insufferable. Since Ananda had last met Ramesh, the man had changed. On the way back from the airport in the official chauffeur driven car, Alka had hinted that her husband was at last being rewarded. The present regime was proving beneficial for him. If things went right he might be posted abroad.

‘Posted abroad? Where?’

‘It’s still hush-hush. London. Washington.’

‘London? Washington? Good for you, Didi. I had no idea Jijaji was so important.’

Alka smiled mysteriously. ‘He has helped with many of the new programmes. You know like removing slums, bringing about some order. All that.’

Nina’s letter flashed into Ananda’s mind—the collection, the widow, the murder, the anguish. He kept silent. He did not want to be involved. These were the reasons people left this country. Nothing here was clean, all was messy and complicated.

It was when Ananda saw his brother-in-law’s house that his full importance struck him. Double storied on Shahjahan Road—how had Ramesh risen in so short a time? Was the school connection so valuable, merit so negligible? He, who had nothing, no advantages of birth or connection, had had to go out into the world to prove himself.

Mentally he kept on proving himself with every fresh interaction. Far from the dazzling older man of his youth, he now found Ramesh pompous, behaving as though only he had the keys to life. But no matter, it was for a few days. He would be dutiful for Alka’s sake.

Soon the girl would arrive. He imagined her smiling as he showered her with perfume and chocolate. It was a simple picture, based on some airport shopping; he didn’t have nerve enough for more exact visualization.

A taxi drove up. Ananda peered at the two sari clad figures from the window. What should he do about his presents, would giving them at once seem too eager? His sister would probably disapprove. Let her disapprove. He picked up the perfume and chocolate, put them down, picked them up, put them down. First he would see her face, but before he could do that the tension in his stomach drove him to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, outside, seated in a wicker chair under a peach tree, Nina was saying, ‘What a nice garden,’ and Alka was replying, ‘Yes, we were lucky to get this house, it is very central, yet so green. Right next to Lutyens Delhi, you know.’

‘Has Ananda got over his jet lag?’ asked the mother. ‘It used to affect my husband greatly.’

Nina glowered at the grass. Why did her mother have to show that she too was once associated with international travel? Those days were history.

‘These things do not affect him much,’ said the sister dryly. She wondered what was taking Ananda so long. Really, the boy was behaving like a bashful bride. She hoped he liked Nina, then the whole thing would be settled soon. The girl was looking well enough. In the mild light of the winter afternoon her colour glowed, the black velvet of her necklace set off the pinkness of her skin; it was obvious she managed well with little. Her sari had some perceptible water stains, evidently an old one of her mother’s.

‘He is still tired, his luggage took one hour to arrive, two hours we were waiting at the airport,’ explained the sister when fifteen minutes had passed.

Nina’s mother just had time to say it happens with international travel, though we of course had diplomatic passports, when the vision in casual wear stepped out. He settled down in a wicker chair, smiled and said, ‘Hi there.’

The girl smiled back, her lips firmly closed over the slightly protruding teeth she was self-conscious about. Ananda’s heart turned. She looked so young, as if she were in her early twenties, how come she wasn’t taken? She had had a hard life, he would make up for that—she would not know a day’s suffering with him.

Small talk flowed as tea was poured, biscuits nibbled, sweets offered and refused. They have not bothered to cook anything, noted the mother, they think that being the boy’s side it is not necessary. Thank goodness Nina won’t have to deal with many in-laws. But the girl was so stubborn, she would refuse to realise how lucky that was.

Right now she was not saying much. To cover up, her mother asked Ananda at least five times how his flight was.

The last cup drunk, and ‘Come inside a minute, I have something I want to show you.’

‘Bring whatever it is, out here,’ said Alka sharply.

‘We’ll be out in a second, Didi,’ said Ananda holding out his hand to Nina.

Can’t wait to touch her, thought the sister. At this rate they will get a very inflated notion of themselves.

He likes my daughter, gem that she is, thought the mother as she watched the two them climb the three steps into the house, and they look so handsome together.