When She Was Queen (25 page)

What else? They were solicitous about each other, spoke (boasted!) about their children, exchanged notes on their medications—but they could not completely break out of that formality. It’s been forty-five years since they last saw each other! Toward the end, though, there was one precious moment of closeness, and I’ll tell you about it. On the last day, when they sat down cross-legged on my kitchen floor to sort out and label my daals, Khati Phupi pointed and said to Mother, “Your right knee always came higher than your left when you sat—and your Bi-ji would scold you.”

Mother broke into a giggle and Khati Phupi smiled. But I could also see the tears in my mother’s eyes, immediately after that; Khati Phupi must have seen them too. She’s a tough woman, Fatima, there’s no telling what she’s been through. She has a dry sense of humour, and she does not easily show her emotion. That afternoon it was time for her to go. Did I detect a tremor in her voice as she bid my mother goodbye? They parted knowing they’ll probably never see each other again.

Mother was depressed after that.

Two weeks later your uncle Kassam came from
Vancouver with his wife and he was a lot of fun. He joked around and made fun of Mother, calling her “Madhu Didi,” and she laughed a lot.

Now Mother is back in Amritsar. She is going to be lonely there, but she insisted. Anyway, she has an open ticket to come here whenever she feels like it.

Let’s stay in touch, Fatima. Do come to SF and bring your family. My husband goes to Montreal on business sometimes—maybe one of these days we’ll all come together. I’ve heard so much about Toronto.

My regards to you and your family.

Yours with affection,

Lakshmi

Amritsar, Punjab

August 1992

You did not recognize that dupatta I wore, it was yours from so many years ago, but how could you have remembered? I felt like a tortoise. And you? How could we come out from under the weight of fifty years of life and be like we were, relate like we used to?

I sensed a hurt in you, dear, I can’t tell where from. But I would have broken through that sternness, Khati, found that soft inside, given time. But now we belong to others, and you to many more than I.

But I will keep your book, I will not return it. How could it have the same value to you as it does to me?

This is from the book—

It’s an old doha you used to sing.

The tree. Yes it always began
with the tree, her memory of that time, that place—a large, knotty jacaranda in bloom, purple bell flowers drooping down from its branches. She was sitting under its shade rather self-consciously one Saturday morning, on a thin carpet of fallen flowers, a diary in her lap, trying to write her thoughts down. She was in her National Service uniform, baggy khaki pants and matching tunic,
and the unwieldy black boots. Dreamy, that’s what she was, her feet partly pulled up, occasionally gazing up at the branches, the blue sky, for inspiration. And alone, away from friends, family, community—and Shamshu—in the wilderness outside the small town of Mbeya in the southern highlands where she had been assigned to teach a school. It was a cool region of the country; fruits were abundant—peaches, plums, and apples—the people were nice; sometimes she was terribly lonely, but she also relished being alone, as at times like these.

There came a soft scratch of feet behind her and then the voice: “Eating the air?—isn’t that what you say?”

She turned her head, threw an eye sideways up at Bill. He was an American: typical, she liked to think, tall and stringy, casual, too friendly. He wore shredded jeans and a blue shirt tucked in, in accordance with an admonition from the principal, who himself always wore the party shirt suit. Bill Songa, a maths teacher from the Peace Corps; such a funny name. She had told him once that in her language to go out for a breath of fresh air became translated as “to go and eat some air.” They were a threesome, she, Bill Songa, and George Kasore, all strangers to these parts. George was a Masai and as tall as Bill. Unlike the American, he always wore clean and pressed printed shirts and dark pants. The two played basketball, always on opposite sides, with teams consisting of a horde of adulatory boys. She envied them their popularity. And they both liked her, this Indian girl a full head shorter than them, shy and reserved.

“Hi!” she said to him. “And what are you up to?”

Nothing, as she well knew, he had come to kill time before the lunch gong.

He smiled. “George and I are going into town today, would you like to come?”

Bill had got himself an ancient German car, a DKW, so he could go and paint the town red, as he jokingly put it. One Friday she had taken a ride with him and George so she could go to mosque in Mbeya; on their way back she realized that they’d had a few beers. She found the smell a little revolting. The next time, they promised, they would simply go with her to a restaurant for chai and sarnosas. There had not yet been a next time.

“No thanks,” she replied.

“You afraid your fiancé will not approve?” he asked. She nodded and giggled. “Are you really engaged, Farida, or are you putting us on?”

“Really. His name is Shamshu, as I’ve told you before. And he’s a teacher in Dar.”

Bill was now leaning back against her tree. It was called “her” tree because practically everyone in the school had come to know that it was her favourite spot. When the gong sounded, they walked to the dining hall together. George joined them at the tables. Lunch was maizemeal and red beans, another reason to go and eat something decent in the town, come weekend. But she had in her room enough supplies of chevdo and gathiya, Indian savouries, to placate taste buds clamouring for spices.

After lunch she agreed to go with the two guys for a walk. The route was a trail through bush and trees and over a brook into a nearby village. On the way they passed folk who, as always, broke into wide but kindly
smiles at seeing an Indian girl in an army uniform. A little boy threw her a salute, then with a few others followed behind in a mock march. At the village was a stall whose owner was always ready to make tea for them, even after he had put his fire out.

As they returned, she sang for the two men some of the National Service songs she had learned at her military camp earlier that year. One of them went,

It then exhorted youth to tighten their belts and serve the nation. Rain fell, brisk and thin as a curtain, and they scampered through the forest back to the school. By the time they arrived the sun was out and beaming through the clouds. The air was humid. The leaves looked new.

A typical Saturday in her life, then, a long time ago. Simple, spare, but in a pure, almost mystical sense. Perhaps that was the way of childhood—pure and mystical—seen from afar. And perhaps, too, it was a composite Saturday she recalled, of similarly wonderful weekend days. But the purity couldn’t last, could it?

On one of their walks, when they had strayed onto a vehicle track running perpendicular to their usual route, an army Land Rover passed them, then stopped abruptly. An officer, sitting next to the driver, shouted, “You, come here!” They all started obediently toward the vehicle. As
they approached, the officer snapped, “You!” at Farida. Trembling she went up to him and saluted, and he asked her, “Where is your belt, soldier?” She was actually wearing a civilian belt and he had noticed that. She mumbled that she had lost it, and he told her to find a replacement.

“I didn’t know there was an army camp here,” she said nervously, watching the Land Rover head off.

“Guerrillas?…” said Bill.

“You mean … training them for Mozambique and South Africa….”

George said, “Hmm.”

A week later an army belt was delivered to the principal’s office. Farida was delighted; she was appreciated.

In the evenings she would read. The school library was good, and Bill had a constant supply of American paperbacks that he lent her. One day he gave her a copy of Jacqueline Susann’s
The Love Machine
with a glint in his eye. She did not proceed further than the description on the back cover, returning it with a meaningful “Thank you.”

Toronto

November 6, 1999

Dear Bill,

I don’t know why I am writing this letter to you … I simply had this overwhelming compulsion to do something unusual, courageous, and … foolish? I felt like grabbing a fistful of my life that’s so rapidly passed away, relive clearly those years … no, not quite like that, but a
compulsion to touch the past again! Do you know what I mean? If you reply to this letter, then I’ll know that yes, those times we spent together at St. Andrew’s were real; and perhaps we can remind ourselves of them!

I have decided to write to you at your parents’ address, which I’ve remembered after all these years (“40 Fairmount Ave, Haverstock, NY 10929,” just like that, pat), hoping that somehow someone, whoever lives there now, will forward the letter to you. I wish I could do the same with George, but I don’t have a clue where to write to him. Do you? Have I lost him completely?

I pray that you at least are there and together we can hunt him down!

Affectionately,

Farida.

Cleveland

11 November 1999

Dear Farida:

Thank you. Ahsante. I’d like to paint that across the sky in mile-high red letters so you could see it from where you are in Toronto. You don’t know what your letter has meant to me. And yes, those times we spent together were real, how often have I recalled them! I have hundreds of slides from back then but nobody to show them to! I live quite alone now. After I returned from Tanzania, I went to grad school for a year, then dropped out, and worked as travel agent, insurance broker, and
finally pharmaceutical salesman. I was married and have two children, both in college now.

I have a confession to make. Ten years ago I did return to Tanzania and met George. He had had quite a career. He had published a novel, not very successful, worked as a headmaster at a school in Arusha, and been a diplomat in Moscow, Stockholm, and Washington DC! He was quite touched to see me. It was the last thing he expected! We both remembered you with affection. He accompanied me and the kids to the game parks but was bored, and I’m sorry to say drank a bit too much. He didn’t seem happy. He had fallen out of favour with the government and was awaiting some assignment overseas. I don’t know where he is now.

I’m sending this to your office as you requested. Is there any chance we could meet? Cleveland is not far away from where you are. Tell me about yourself.

Love,

Bill.

You’re still there! And George, where is he? I can find out, if I wanted to, I’ve got connections that you don’t. We Indians exist in networks, don’t you know that! You didn’t send a photo, but then I didn’t either, did I… are you fatter now, or still as bony and angular as you were then … striding through the bushes, you were quite a walker. We had a theory about you, George and I—did you know that? We
suspected
you!