Monsoon Memories (36 page)

They were driving past Kapu now and, despite the air conditioning, she opened her window to breathe in the salty, sharp scent of the sea. If she concentrated, she could even hear the gentle ebb and flow of the waves in the distance.

‘Shall I switch off the air conditioning, ma’am? Do you want to leave the window open?’ the driver asked.

‘No, it’s okay.’ Shirin closed the window, wincing as the Dommur Mangalore buses sped past, dangerously close, horns blaring, in constant competition with the lorries packed with hay bales, which careened at breakneck speeds, their cargoes wobbling precariously.

And then they were driving past the jasmine hawkers, peddling their wares in little hand-woven cane baskets at the base of the bridge, past the teetering old billboard set in an empty field that declared boldly, ‘Welcome to Dommur, Garden Town’ (‘Garden? What garden?’ Shirin always thought whenever she saw this sign), and then through Dommur, past new Maruti and Hyundai showrooms displaying flashy cars that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the UK, past the timber factory in Donegilu and the theatre in Mirakatte, sporting posters for the latest Shivaraj Kumar blockbuster. Fancy new buildings, each outdoing the other in extravagance, had cropped up in Mirakatte, Shirin noticed. Yet, though much of it was different, the essence of her hometown was there. Everything was so familiar, just as it had been in her dreams, her memories.

When they passed the marketplace, Shirin saw the burnt embers of the bus and her heart stilled. She noted the absence of people, the deserted feel of the place. It was a shame, a travesty.

Then they were driving past the ‘Medical Store’. The driver turned left and drove down the mud path, past the haunted house and the Hindu cemetery, before stopping by the lake, alongside the clearing which opened into the path that led to the house of her childhood...

She paid the taxi driver, adding a hefty tip, for which he thanked her profusely, offering her his mobile number if she ever needed a taxi again. India really had changed for the better, mused Shirin, if taxi drivers could afford mobile phones now. She stood there, long after he had turned and driven off with a jaunty wave, remembering Deepak’s promise to Jacinta one dark night, aeons ago. They were returning home after attending a wedding and Jacinta had been standing at the clearing, lighting up the path for them with a torch, asking them to watch their step. ‘I don’t want you falling in the stream,’ she had warned.

‘When I’m older, Ma, and have lots of money, I will buy you a car and build you a proper road so you can drive up to the house and show off to the neighbours,’ Deepak had announced, turning back to look at Jacinta. He’d lost his footing and would have fallen into the stream had Shirin not screamed and managed to hold on to his shirt.

‘Thank you, Deepak. But from now on, watch where you’re going, okay?’ Jacinta had said, and even though Shirin couldn’t see her face, she knew Jacinta was smiling. She remembered wishing she was the one who had said those words, that she was the one who had made her aloof mother smile.

Slowly, Shirin made her way down the path toward her childhood home. In the clearing by the well sat a girl in a chair with her back to Shirin.
Reena?
The girl seemed immersed in a book.
She likes reading. Like me.
Heart thudding, Shirin leant over. Wispy tendrils, escaped from the ponytail of chaotic curls, danced on a slender neck beaded with droplets of sweat that gleamed like tears in the sunshine. The girl turned. Oval face. A pert little nose. Full cheeks dusted with golden down. Film-star lips—like Anita’s. Chocolate eyes. Red-rimmed, wide with dawning recognition.
Reena
, sang her heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Grandpa Walter’s Favourite Spot

‘W
hy did Mai say that? What did she mean?’ Reena asked, finally finding the courage that had evaded her ever since she read Shirin’s last letter.

Mai was sleeping, her little chat having exhausted her, small moans escaping from between parched, swollen, slightly open lips. None of the other adults huddled around the tiny room would meet her eye, not even Madhu.

A nun bustled in, shooed them all out: ‘The doctor is coming.’ She straightened the bed sheets, placed a chipped jug of water on the table and, with a, ‘Wait outside for a couple of minutes,’ shut the door on them. They heard her falsely cheery voice through the thin wood of the door, ‘Now, Jacinta, wakey-wakey; the doctor’s coming to see if you are okay.’

The adults
still
wouldn’t look at her. Was it true what Mai had said?
No. No! No! No! No!

She had to know.

‘Mum,’
(Mum?)
Reena went up to Preeti, put one hand on each of her mother’s cheeks, pulled her head down gently, insistently, ‘is it true, what she said?’

Preeti’s guilty gaze shied away from hers.

Look at me, Mum. Please.

Preeti’s eyes met Reena’s, held. A gentle, tender gaze filled with all the love her mother had for her.
Her mother? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Her mother walking her up to the mirror: ‘You are our special miracle.’

The doctor walked past self-importantly, shoes clicking on the mosaic floor, an entourage of nurses and a peon holding files in his wake. He entered Jacinta’s room without knocking. Murmurs wafted from behind the closed door. The doctor: clipped, masculine. The nurses: high-pitched, servile. Jacinta’s hoarse whisper: Shirin.

Preeti opened her arms wide, pulled Reena in. She wanted to pull away, to run as fast as her legs could carry her, away from this building smelling of the bitter medicine forced down her throat when she was ill, away from this life she found herself in, surrounded by adults who would not meet her eyes, who had lied to her all her life. But then she breathed in the familiar smell of her mother’s sweat, the crushed, rustling feel of her sari, the warmth of her mother’s body, and despite herself, despite her anger at her for not having answered her question, Reena relaxed in her mother’s embrace, snuggled into it. The exhaustion of the previous night’s journey, the excitement of contacting Shirin, the emotion of seeing a desperately unwell Mai and hearing what she had to say caught up with her in a rush. Her eyelids felt heavy, started to close.

The girl from the photograph floated before her eyes.
Are you my mother, Shirin? If so, then why, why did you give me away? Was I not good enough for you? And to think I championed you, wanted to reunite you with your family… I hate you, hate you, hate you. I hate you all. Liars. Traitors.

She heard the door open, a swish of feet, the doctor’s voice: ‘I’m discharging her. There’s nothing more we can do for her here. Sister Smitha will give you the list of medicines and ointments. You can buy them from here; I don’t think any of the medical stores are open. If there is any change for the worse, let me know...’

‘Is she...?’ Her dad seemed to have finally found his voice.

‘It depends. We have to wait and see. She should get better. But if a patient doesn’t have the will to live, there’s not much we can do. Who is this Shirin she keeps asking about?’

Reena felt her mother still. A heartbeat later, her father’s voice, rusty as if it needed clearing: ‘My... our sister. She’s in London. Arriving tomorrow.’

‘Good. Good. That might perk her up.’ Footsteps receding. Silence. And then feet shuffling. Her father clearing his throat, ‘Right, I’d better get this medicine, then.’

Aunt Anita: ‘Is Reena...?’

Her mother’s cheek against hers, eyelashes fluttering: ‘Asleep.’

Madhu: ‘We’d better get them both home. Ma’am and Reena.’

Then, she was floating in her father’s strong arms, like she used to when she was a child. As if from afar, she heard the car door swing open, emitting that annoying whine it was prone to. She was propped up gently in the seat by her father, her body cushioned by her mother’s soft shoulder, her head fitting nicely in the nook of her mother’s neck. Bliss. From behind closed lids, a blurry Jacinta smiled at her and whispered, ‘Shirin’s daughter.’
No. No! No! No!

When she woke, she was on the mat in the living room in Taipur, her mother snoring fitfully beside her. Her clothes clung to her body, wet from perspiration, despite the ceiling fan half-heartedly circulating hot air directly above. Mosquitoes feasted on city flesh. Outside, the nightly cricket orchestra reached a crescendo. Slowly, recollection dawned. Mai’s delirious words. Her parents refusing to meet her gaze. Questions buzzed in her head like Kannada verbs. Was she, Reena, the reason Shirin had been ostracized, shunned? Murli’s words: ‘Perhaps they are protecting you.’ Had she been conceived in disgrace?
No.

Preeti’s quiet snores beside her, the smell of the sandalwood talcum powder she applied liberally at night after her bath. There was a time—before she discovered the photograph—when she had believed unequivocally that her parents would never lie to her. How naïve she had been!

She woke again to golden light dancing on her eyelids, to voices trying to whisper, but not quite managing.

‘Shh... She might wake.’ Her mother’s voice.
Her mother?

‘We have to tell her, Preeti,’ her father’s voice. Soft. Desperate.

‘But Deepak... my baby...’ Her mother’s voice. A wail.

‘I had hoped… she didn’t have to know.’

I know. I am not stupid.

‘There was no way you could have kept it from her forever.’ Aunt Anita.

Rage. Hot. Like eating raw chillies.

‘She’s sensible. She’ll understand...’ Aunt Anita again.

Oh, stop taking me for a fool, you…bastards. No, I am the bastard. Me.

Her mother’s quiet sobs.

‘Here, have some tea...’ Madhu.

Lying on the mat, pretending to be asleep, Reena cried softly, tears squeezing out from behind warm eyelids. She got up after her mother’s sobs had died down. She brushed her hair, washed her face and went to find them. They were all clustered in the kitchen, sipping tea and talking while Madhu cooked.

‘Rinu! Looks like your body needed that nice, long sleep you’ve had. What do you want to eat? Samosas with tamarind chutney? Raw banana curry? Conjee with buttermilk and fried salted jackfruit with coconut? Koilolis? Mutlis?’

Reena managed a smile. ‘Have you been up all night cooking, Madhu? What are you celebrating?’

‘Shirin’s arrival of course. I can’t believe she’s coming. After all these years.’ With her pallu, Madhu wiped away the tears of anticipation, of joy from her eyes.

‘Come, sit down,’ her mother beckoned.

Reena took in her swollen face, the stark need in her eyes. ‘No.’ And her voice breaking on a sob as she watched her mother’s face crumple, ‘You lied to me. All of you. I hate you, hate you, hate you and her, Shirin, most of all.’

Everyone started talking at once.

‘Rinu…’

‘Reena, what…’

‘My whole life is a lie. When were you planning to tell me? Liars!’ Reena yelled. ‘Don’t tell me I’m not old enough. Don’t tell me I won’t understand. Don’t patronise me.’

‘Shirin...’ Jacinta called from inside.

‘Rinu...’ Preeti began.

‘Stop fobbing me off with some half-baked lie. I understand things. I. Am. Not. A. Child.’

‘You are to us...’ Deepak began.

Reena turned and stomped out of the house, fuming, stepping on Gypsy’s tail and causing her to yelp in protest and run around in circles, trying to lick it better. Breathless from the rage that engulfed her, Reena plonked herself down on the grass in the shade of the guava and cashew trees, angrily pulling out clumps with both fists. Gypsy stopped running and stood with her tail between her legs looking at Reena with huge betrayed mournful eyes. Reena burst into tears.

‘I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say.’

Deepak had followed her out of the house. She buried her face in her hands and refused to look at him. Gypsy flopped on Reena’s sandals, which she’d tossed aside when she squatted down.

‘I know you are growing up, Reena. But as a parent that’s hard to accept…’

‘
You are not my parent. Why don’t you just come out and say it? It worked out fine, didn’t it? You could not have children. That bitch didn’t want me. And the family name was intact
…’

SLAP. Reena cupped her smarting cheek and stared at Deepak, hurt welling up in tears she thought she’d exhausted in her eyes. Gypsy howled.

Preeti put her arms round Reena. She shrugged them off.

‘I am still your father and there are still some rules, no swearing being one of them.’ Deepak said, his voice sounding desperate.

‘Rules for me, but none for you,’ Reena whispered.

Preeti put her arms around her again and this time she sank into her mother’s embrace.

Deepak took a deep breath, held out his hand, meaning to stroke her face. Reena shrank away. ‘I am sorry. Yes, we lied to you. We were protecting you, Reena.’

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She hated them, all of them, even her mother whose arms were wrapped around her. She hated her body for the comfort it derived from those arms, she hated herself for not being stronger, for not pulling away.

‘Some truths are best hidden. Buried.’

Under a mountain of lies? My life is built on a foundation of lies and now I am teetering. Falling.
She looked up, met Deepak’s gaze, found her voice. ‘Who am I? I want to know.’

Deepak took a deep breath, ‘Well, here goes. The truth.’

And there, in the shade of the trees, with Preeti’s arms around her, her father on the grass beside her and Gypsy fast asleep at his feet, Deepak told her the story of her parentage, of her birth and Shirin’s exile, of secrets and loss and heartache. She sat there for a long time after he had stopped speaking, barely aware of the tears falling down her cheeks, not knowing if they were for Shirin or for herself, grateful of Preeti’s arms around her silently offering the comfort she so desperately needed and angry at herself for wanting it.

Absently, she noted the orange anthill at the base of the jackfruit tree, and wondered if, as the Hindus believed, there was a cobra nestling inside, about to spring its venom on unsuspecting victims. She watched a saffron dragonfly land on the maroon hibiscus flowers blossoming by the well, and she imagined it a yellow pin pricking a bright-red heart.