The House of Hidden Mothers (38 page)

But Toby sahib seemed to find everything she said fascinating. And
chalo
, maybe it was – his face lit up like a firefly as she described the journey of the warm milk straight from a teat to the earthenware pots, where it would be mixed with a few spoonfuls of old yoghurt and left overnight, wrapped in faded cloths, to form new yoghurt, clotting and creaming all by itself. And the rest of the milk was for the churn, which she would turn and turn, her arms burning like smouldering ropes, until finally it separated into two layers. On top – and her mouth watered at the memory – was that double-thick layer of white creamy curd which would be pat-patted into pure milky butter. Not like here,
hena
, she cautioned Toby – your butter is too yellow, too heavy in the gut. Ours is the lightest, on a hot roti it melts away to nothing, but you taste everything – even the grass the buffalo ate that morning. And underneath this crust is the water, tangy and full of clouds. You call it way? Oh, w-h-e-y. Not that way, this whey, yes? Hang it in a cloth, a very fine and light cloth … Muslim? Oh, mus-lin. Yes, only water can go through it. You hang it up with a bowl underneath. The next morning, in the cloth is cheese to make paneer – you know what that is, you have it here in your shops, but not like ours, not spongey-fresh, and in the bowl is a first-class health drink, see, nothing wasted! You just mix with salt and pepper and keep it cold as possible, no fridge, no ice, just somewhere dark inside. My father drank it every lunchtime,
gut-gut
in one go, and then he would pat his thin belly and say, ‘Drink of kings!'

And here Mala paused, remembering her father, with his hard wiry arms and soft eyes and his smell, fresh sweat and soil and Brylcreem, how he used to look at her, as if she was something, as if she would be something. No one else had looked at her that way until now. There had not been a single man who had talked to her like this, as an equal, as if what she said was interesting and important. She knew these men existed. Obviously they were there in the movies and on TV, making cow eyes at their wives and lovers, breaking into song whenever their feelings of devotion got too much to bear, those moments when only a song and dance would do. But everyone knew they were only words: a script written on a page, lyrics that had to be learned, dance routines you had to practise until you could do every thrust and
balle!
with a smile. Everyone knew those men weren't real. But there were others, real-life good men, she had seen glimpses of them, like a woman in purdah through a trellis screen. Her papa. The couple she had seen on the train so long ago now, on her way to the clinic. After the husband had rubbed his wife's swollen feet, they shared a packet of peanuts. She fed him. They had a pretend argument – she wouldn't allow the hands that had touched her feet to touch the peanuts, so she placed each chillied salted nut on the tip of his tongue, he opening his mouth like a baby bird. They had talked in whispers and smiled together, whilst Mala had sat in tense silence with Ram. And then there was her sister's husband. Her own baby sister, whose marriage had been arranged just as hastily as hers had been, when she reached sixteen in turn. He was the son of a farm labourer; they worked less land than her family but were willing to accept less dowry from her mama, the unfortunate widow with two daughters burdening her. Her sister met the boy on the day of the marriage ceremony – their first view of each other was when they lifted the tinsel strands off his turban, which had been covering his face, and she raised her eyes from the floor. They had stared at each other with growing delight, like children given an unexpected present. They were children, after all. All the horrors they must have imagined about what kind of face the unveiling might reveal: frog-faced, squinty, toothless, half-witted, cruel. So they liked what they saw; good. But it was no guarantee, that's what Mala had thought grimly. Mr Filmi Face may have a nice moustache, but wait till you see it flecked with spittle when he's shouting at you, or drenched in sweat when he's grunting on top of you. Not so handsome then,
hena
?

But six months later, when the sisters met up again on a rare visit to see their ailing mother, Mala had seen it again. The same delight in each other, but this time shamelessly in front of everyone. All the neighbours noticed it, how the not-so-newlyweds would talk to each other as if no one else was in the room waiting to be respected, how they would swap little looks and smiles behind their elders' backs. Mala even caught them trying to sneak an embrace in the courtyard when her sister should have been serving tea. And her brother-in-law did not even have the decency to look ashamed, he thought it was funny! They giggled as he scuttled away, her eyes still on the space he had left, whilst Mala tried to shake some sense into her.

‘Hasn't the novelty worn off yet,
oolloo
?' Mala had snapped, eighteen months into her own marriage and still feeling she was joined to a stranger who shared her bed.

‘Oh,
didi
,' her sister had sighed. ‘You never told me a husband can be like a friend. Like my best friend, he wants to talk about everything. And he asks me,
didi
, he wants to know what I think. He even tells his mother: God and you chose me the best wife ever. He's clever, you see? That way she feels special also, and then she is
sooo
nice to me. And he respects me sooo much … except at night, when I don't want him to!'

Mala had not been able to join in with the dirty talk that was allowed since they had become proper married
bwotis
. Who could laugh and do nudge-nudge when all she felt was jealousy, acid green and thorny, constricting her throat?
Chalo
, maybe I am cursed, she had thought on her way back in the overcrowded bus, or perhaps my sister is just blessed.

But now, talking with Toby sahib felt like some kind of blessing. Or a door opening, and beyond it, another land which she knew had been there all along but hadn't known how to reach. He asked her about the crops she had seen grow, the ploughs, the fertilizers. She told him how many farmer suicides there had been, those poor men offered money to use imported chemicals which brought bumper crops one year but killed the land off the next; no one had explained to them that, once poisoned, the soil would never return. So they poisoned or hanged themselves, knowing that their families might get some compensation for their early deaths. Toby sahib said the same thing was happening here, but much less, more hidden, no compensation. Living off the land was the hardest thing, they both agreed. She told him her ideas for Shyama Madam's salon, all the beauty treatments from the village if she could re-create them. Toby sahib told her you could find anything nowadays with a computer, and then showed her so many things on it. Then suddenly, they both heard the key in the lock downstairs. How late was it? Mala hauled herself to her feet, almost toppling in her haste to leave the room. Toby caught her by the wrist. Hai, his grip was strong.

‘Mala,' he whispered, and downstairs they could both hear Shyama and Tara switching on the lights in the kitchen. ‘This whole thing about the house … in the country … the one I showed you?'

Mala nodded, not daring to speak. She did not want to be found in here, but she did not want to leave either.

‘Don't say anything to Shyama yet … it's a secret. Yes?'

‘A secret,' Mala repeated. And then Toby sahib did something so surprising that she had no time to even stop him. He held her fast with one hand and placed his other, gently-gently, on her stomach. Mala could barely breathe; she felt her skin ripple beneath his touch, responding to its heat.

They both felt it at the same time, a fish tumble of a kick.

‘
Theklo
. Your child knows you, Toby sahib.'

She couldn't help but say it. She had been repaying the kindness he had shown her, and it was true. Even when she lay in bed later, willing the baby to move again and it didn't, she was still convinced she had done the right thing. Now they had two secrets. And she would guard them as tightly as the child itself.

Her window was open, as it was most nights; she felt claustrophobic not being able to hear the night sounds, so different here, before she slept. At times the wailing of sirens could almost be mistaken for the ululations of distant peacocks, the gruff catcalls of beery youths on the pavement below were not so different from the drunken singing of the village men weaving their way back across the fields from their illicit moonshine hideouts. Hai, the moon! I don't miss much, Mala sighed to herself, but how could I ever have taken that for granted? No need even to put the lamps on when
chanda mama
was full and ripe, her light so thick it was like wading through silver water which drenched every pore. And then when she hid her face all the stars came out to play, the sparks in the eyes of the gods, and us below looking back up, always reminded that everything is connected.

That's what is broken here, Mala realized – the embrace between Nature and God and a person. My face looks the same as it did back home, maybe plumper, maybe a bit lighter, both good things,
hena
? But I know the connection is slowly going, I know what I will become soon. Don't I see it every day in the faces of the
desis
who shop in the Pakistani supermarket around the corner? All the people who come to a place where they are allowed to pinch and prod their vegetables, who look like me, until I ask how much is this aubergine, where is the channa daal kept? The look in their eyes, like a blank wall or a locked door or sometimes, yes, pity – poor freshie off the boat, feeling the cold and getting lost all the time, that was me once, long ago. Then the shutters come back down, closed for business, come again soon. But they have good clothes, nice houses, their children will do and see things they will never do. I understand, I'm not stupid – this is the price you pay for a better life. You forget the moon and you eat.

Even so, Mala remembered to place some sunflower seeds on her window-sill before she finally turned off her light. She thought she had seen a flock of green parrots swooping across the nearby park. Probably her imagination, but just the possibility had made her almost weep with longing. She wept a little more often these days, but always alone, and it passed quickly.
Chalo
, she had thought as she scattered a handful of stripy kernels across the ledge, if they are real, they will come.

IT WAS SURPRISING
how quickly Mala settled into the routine at Surya Beauty Salon. Shyama was glad to be back at work, even more grateful that no one seemed to question the new employee she had recruited from India whose job was to do light assistant duties on the shop floor and work with Gita on testing out some natural ayurvedic treatments. She was lying about the ayurvedic bit but she knew it impressed the clients – better than telling them they were going to chuck some leftovers together from a village pantry and hope some of them worked.

Walking back into the buzz of the salon, a balmy September sun turning every window to beaten gold, Shyama felt that familiar tingle of pride. The place was still busy, still filled with multilingual chatter and the ever-present background soundtrack of the local Asian radio station, with its mash-up of old classics, new rap-fusion hits and truly terrible ads for nearby businesses, all voiced by the same hammy actor, who clearly wished he was doing blockbuster-movie trailers but had to make do with extolling the merits of the Lahore Carpet Emporium and Beena's Astrological Consultations: ‘All marital, financial and exam troubles welcome!'

None of her staff knew anything about the surrogacy situation and Shyama wanted to keep it that way. Mala had already been primed about what her back story was – ‘Just say you are the daughter of one of my uncle's employees, if anyone asks' – and other than ensure that she was kept away from any heavy lifting or exposure to chemical fumes, Shyama left them to work out the rest of the routine together.

By the end of the first week, Mala had produced her first batches of facial scrub and body lotion. They had sent the staff off with samples and tested some themselves at home, much to Toby's amusement. Even Shyama's parents had joined in. There they all were, sitting at the table, Shyama and Sita's faces covered in bright-yellow paste, Prem dabbing uncertain fingers into the lotion like a man confronted with an alien artefact, and Toby taking photos on his phone, when Tara walked in. There was an intake of breath in the room. Why was it they all seemed to be scared of her lately? The ice was broken by Mala coming forward and dabbing a smear of turmeric goo on Tara's nose. Tara said nothing. She dabbed a finger across the paste and licked it. ‘Needs more salt,' she said.

Mala pulled Tara on to a chair, her excitement so infectious that soon Tara was giving her detailed feedback, which Mala scribbled down in her new executive-style notebook, muttering to herself, repeating the new words in English, paraphrasing the meaning in Hindi. Shyama had more or less said everything Tara was saying now, but she didn't dare break this moment of connection between them.