When She Was Queen (8 page)

Sitting by the pool, he thought about the Indian woman he was evicting on Danforth, who had said to him “we are as one.” Her face was familiar, she must be from Dar; she would be his age, he guessed, but looked much older. Years in the new country had done nothing for her looks, her clothes, her demeanour. Where was her husband? Dead, or more likely he had left her. That woman must have been unhappy from day one, as soon as she reached maturity … at home perhaps looking after younger siblings and cooking while parents struggled with their livelihood; given away in a doubtful marriage in the hope of some stroke of luck somewhere; husband was probably a drunkard or a gambler, visited whores on the side … beat her up…. All that, Nazir thought, he had seen on her face … a frantic unhappiness, grasping at mercies.

He brooded over that face for a while, gazing into the amber in his glass that was so much a solace lately. He decided to call up his manager tomorrow and tell him to move the woman into one of the renovated apartments, her family having paid off a year’s rent in advance. She would be his charge from now on.

The man looked sinister, exotic
, as if materialized from some nightmare, some dark reach of the mind. Shirtless and grimy, he was sitting cross-legged on the ground, his back straightened against the cement wall of the station behind him. There was a red caste mark on his forehead, under his red turban. And in front of him in a basket lay a thick snake, coiled, motionless. Nagji looked away and quickly back again, a tingle
creeping down his neck as he met the thin smile, the gleaming black eyes of the man.

It was hot and dusty that day in May; buses were everywhere, docked in the station, or clogging the streets outside, in various stages of departure to or arrival from destinations in Gujarat and beyond. When Nagji arrived from one of the guest houses nearby, where he had spent the night, a gang of children and a couple of emaciated women had come rushing forward to meet him, begging, pushing past each other to be closest to him. He had turned away from beseeching looks, outstretched hands, with a look of impatience, quite aware that his own eyes had betrayed his guilt and pity, which was why he was their target. At that point, quite against his will he was drawn to the snake man. There was another basket beside the snake’s, in which people had dropped coins. Nagji was revolted by the snake, the worship it suggested, yet he couldn’t keep his eyes averted from the dormant reptile, and the repulsive character behind it; and he couldn’t walk away. The man grinned at him. Give to the deva, give to the god and he will bless, he said. Nagji took out a five-rupee note and went and dropped it into the donation basket. His heart was pounding, he intended to get away as soon as he had dropped the money. He had never been this close to a snake before, ordinarily he would be terrified. Something detained him, however, and the man began to utter a blessing. Nagji crouched in order to hear him out.

The snake stirred, sent a lazy ripple through its coiled body.

“The deva is very happy with you,” the man said.

Nagji stared at the snake, the head thinner than the body, the gleaming naked eyes.

“Stroke the deva, he likes it.”

Nagji lifted a hand, leaned forward: hesitantly, fearfully, drawn on. On the snake’s back, up and down, he ran his hand, in small gentle strokes against the muscular brown-grey surface, rough one way, smooth the other, and with a part of his mind ready at any moment to jump up and make his escape.

The man suddenly picked up the snake with both hands, uncoiling it as he did so, his right hand just beneath the head—and Nagji fell backward, caught himself upon his hands.

Here, the man said, hold the deva, after all you are his disciple, na—

And Nagji was holding the snake, one hand under the head, the other supporting its belly, the man slowly letting go of the lower portion which was swishing gently, and the snake slowly moving its body around Nagji’s, caressing his back and arm, though he never could recall later what thoughts went through his mind, or even how much time passed as he held the snake in his hands. He would retain a picture of the snake’s black eyes holding his, and the sound of someone speaking in a raspy voice, as if scolding the snake man, who then gently relieved him of the reptile. As he got up on his feet he was dizzy, most likely from having been in a crouching position so long, and he was aware of the brilliant glare of the sun, and of the dust, and of the noise of people and buses. Someone was holding him up. The beggars had gone away.

He had a drink of ice-cold orange soda at a booth and contemplated the prospect ahead of him that day, aware uneasily that people were staring at him. He was on his way to his ancestral village of Be-raja, the name meaning “two kings,” some twenty-five miles out of Jamnagar, this dusty metropolis at which he had arrived yesterday afternoon. There, in that village, he hoped to find an uncle; and perhaps, too, he would find a bride to his liking.

The snake man covered his charge with a lid and, carrying his two baskets in a sack, started walking. When he passed Nagji at the drink stand he put his load down and joined his hands in a gesture of salutation, without quite turning. Nagji, taken aback, attempted likewise, standing up straight, his hands around the soda bottle.

A man in his twenties, dressed in clean but worn clothes—black pants and white shirt—came over and said, “I understand you’ve been inquiring about Be-raja.”

“Yes,” Nagji said, “I’m taking a bus there.”

“The only bus that goes there leaves early in the morning,” the man said. “But I’m going there myself, you can come with me.” Nagji hesitated, observed that the man was about as tall as he was, which was average, though he looked more stolid and a couple of years older. “Do you have a car?” he asked, before realizing the folly of the question.

“No, but we can take a bus to my village, called Bhola; from there it’s a short distance, and we’ll go on my motorbike.”

Nagji followed.

“I’m a teacher,” the man said, “every Wednesday I go to the villages around Be-raja to teach the kids. There are

so
no schools in the area. I live in Jamnagar now, but I keep my motorbike in the village, it’s easier that way.” His name was Amin.

“I really believe,” Nagji said, while in the midst of telling his story many years later in Toronto, “that my ancestors in India must have been snake worshippers; that man in the bus station, and myself, we must have been related by our previous births. I remember that in Africa my mother always spoke respectfully of snakes; once when a cobra was reported in the vicinity where we lived, for a few days she would put out a bowl of milk under the lemon tree just outside of our house. This story I heard from my older brother and sisters, it happened when I was a mere toddler, when I would go and play under that lemon tree. My mother, as you know”—Nagji said this rather matter-of-factly—“was up to all sorts of strange things.”

He was talking to his real estate agent who was also the mukhi, the head of his mosque, during one of their drives around looking for a suitable house in the Thornhill area of Toronto. He was relating the story of how once he had become a holy man in India. The mukhi recalled Nagji’s mother as an eccentric who used to mutter to herself as she walked, a mannerism attributed sometimes to an advanced spirituality. Nagji’s father on the other hand had been ordinary, neither the silent type nor the overly gregarious, but simply ordinary, a broker of some sorts dealing in clothing merchandise.

“But we don’t believe in snakes,” the mukhi said, looking at Nagji sceptically. “That’s primitive superstition.”

“But before we became Muslims”—Nagji asserted—“if our ancestors believed in snakes, those beliefs must still be true, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” the mukhi said, thinking to himself: What do I know? If you keep faith in a snake or an elephant or a turtle, perhaps that’s all that counts.

A few villagers of Bhola saw the bus’s thick cloud of dust recede with the groan of the engine into the distance, leaving in the wake two figures of men, who then came hurrying down the path from the highway. As they neared the village, a small crowd of men and children had already gathered outside to greet them. When they were close enough to the crowd, Amin hastened forward, ahead of his companion, who took the cue and slowed down, then stopped and watched. Amin had a long chat with the men, some of whom would look up to stare at the visitor. Most of them were barefoot and dressed rather shabbily in dhotis and singlets. They all spoke softly, not a sound escaped to reach Nagji. Amin finally finished and came and said to Nagji, “Why don’t you rest awhile before going on to Be-raja?” “All right,” Nagji said. “They want you to bless their houses,” Amin explained. “All right,” the visitor replied again, nonchalantly, knowing that elders resorted to all manner of formal flattery toward strangers. “Come,” said Amin, and Nagji followed.

As they arrived at the village entrance, which was a gap between two perpendicular rows of dwellings, men and women suddenly came forward and respectfully kissed Nagji’s hands and touched his feet. He was embarrassed
and startled, these were not children bowing to him but men and women as old as his parents. As quickly as he could he disentangled himself, pulling his hands back and stepping forward with resolve. In the company of a few men he toured the village, stopping at the houses, all of them very meagre and dark inside, and sometimes laid out with mats. At one of them he sat outside to rest, and was brought water in a glass, then sweet milk to drink from a saucer. He was mildly surprised that nothing to eat was forthcoming. The men were curious about him, and he told them what he suspected Amin had already spread around. He was from Africa, and one of his grandfathers had emigrated from Be-raja. They informed him that some of their people too had gone to Africa long ago. Before Nagji left, he was brought the village’s children to bless. This he did the only way he knew how, by running a hand over their heads.

On Amin’s motorcycle they raced along a back route, on a path that ran between parched fields. “The rains have failed!”—Amin called out over the bike’s roar—“you’ve come at the right time!” “Yes,” shouted back Nagji, confounded. Why was a drought the right time? Perhaps he had not heard right. They hadn’t seen a soul since they left Bhola. The track brought them to a dry road upon which they blazed a trail of dust, slowing down only when they reached a handful of men and women digging inside a ditch. The diggers looked up with the barest curiosity, returned greetings with a similar enthusiasm. They were covered in dust and looked old, and remarkably there seemed nothing to dig for. “Government assistance,”
Amin explained to Nagji, “the men and women get paid simply for digging!”

Past this weird sight they came upon a sudden burst of greenery—a good-sized fenced area with leafy mango and other trees, outside a large house painted white. “Some fifteen years ago, a relation of these people came visiting from Africa, and since then he has been sending money to them,” Amin explained, having slowed down. “And the others—have their relations also visited?” “No, but they are hopeful.” This oasis lay at the edge of Be-raja, and no sooner had they passed it than they reached a junction from which a cart track headed off for the village. Amin dropped him off here, saying, “I have to go further to where I have to teach today, Be-raja is just up the track ahead.”

Nagji started slowly walking. The sky was blue, the sun blazed down. His handkerchief was wet and ragged, he ran it again around the inside of his collar. His brow dripped like a tap. He was thirsty, and so he stopped, removed his bottle of water from his backpack and took a long drink. The yellow track, powdery under his feet, went up a slow incline between the oasis to one side and sparse scrubland to the other. Finally, beyond the summit and behind a mound of dried shrubbery, he had arrived outside the village. A group of some twenty men, women, and children had gathered, expecting him. They must have heard the motorbike.

A thin garland of wilted flowers was put around his neck by one of the men; he was given a glass of sweet milk. As he moved forward some women greeted him with a shower of rice. Such respect and devotion for a returning native!