Kololo Hill Read online

  For

  Nana, Nani

  Ba & Bapuji

  The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.

  I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.

  It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.

  The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

  ‘JOURNEY HOME’

  BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE 1: Asha

  2: Vijay

  3: Asha

  4: Jaya

  5: Asha

  6: Jaya

  7: Vijay

  8: Asha

  9: Vijay

  10: Jaya

  11: Vijay

  12: Jaya

  13: Vijay

  14: Asha

  15: Vijay

  16: Asha

  17: Jaya

  18: Asha

  PART TWO 19: Asha

  20: Jaya

  21: Vijay

  22: Jaya

  23: Asha

  24: Jaya

  25: Jaya

  26: Asha

  27: Vijay

  28: Asha

  29: Vijay

  30: Asha

  31: Jaya

  32: Asha

  33: Jaya

  34: Asha

  35: Vijay

  36: Asha

  37: Asha

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE

  Uganda, 1972

  1

  Asha

  They’d be back before curfew, Asha was sure of it. She got out of the car and looked, far across the water, to where the Nile flowed into Lake Victoria. In the late-afternoon light, the mosquitoes glowed gold, like embers from a fire.

  ‘Be quick, won’t you?’ Jaya called from the car window, pulling her sari chundri tighter over her silver hair. ‘And be careful.’

  ‘Hush, Jaya, she’s not a child,’ said Motichand. ‘Besides, we can see her from here.’ The car swayed like a rowing boat as Asha’s father-in-law hoisted himself into the back seat and lay down for a nap.

  Asha slipped off her two chumpul, blades of grass tickling her toes, the dragonflies dancing at her feet. She shook her hair free from her ponytail, aware that Jaya was probably looking on (loose hair for loose women).

  Jaya had wanted to go straight home, anxious to reach Kampala before the soldiers began their night patrols, but Asha had managed to persuade them to stop off on the way. What harm would it do to get a little fresh air after being cooped up in the car, to steal a few moments in the place she’d visited so many times as a child with her parents? There were more people here in the old days, of course: the sweet, smoky scent of roasting mogo carrying across the breeze, tinny transistor radios buzzing in the distance. Now all Asha could see was a few fishing boats, and the crotchety marabou storks with their black feather cloaks gathered in the shallows.

  She walked towards the vast water, stretching so far that it looked like an ocean. She’d met Pran for the first time by Lake Victoria, down by Entebbe. She bristled as she thought of him now. She was sure that Pran was keeping something from her, he’d dodged her questions before she’d left for Jinja that morning. Asha wandered further along. It was too beautiful a day to waste it thinking about him.

  Something was jutting out at the water’s edge: a strange mass that seemed to grow from the banks, blackened in parts, ashen in others. Asha stepped closer. This wasn’t the root of a plant, but sinewy muscle, twisting tendon. Upstream, there were more.

  Hacked bodies bobbing in the billowing lake.

  A crackle of fear.

  Asha turned fast, hurrying back towards the others. Slow your pace, she told herself. Don’t alarm them.

  ‘What happened, why were you hurrying?’ Jaya got out of the car.

  Motichand sat up, voice full of sleep. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s been a long day.’ Asha glanced back, trying to sound calm. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to spend some time here?’

  ‘I did. I’m just a little tired.’ Asha hovered by the back seat. Why wouldn’t Motichand hurry up and put his shoes on? She looked towards the road – no sign of soldiers, thank God.

  She’d told herself that the rumours must have been embellished, growing as neighbour told friend, told colleague. How could she have been so wrong? The broken limbs flashed through her mind as she climbed into the car. Idi Amin didn’t care that those poor people’s bodies were bobbing in the water, out on show for all to see. Killing anyone who spoke out against him or threatened his power. He might not stop until the whole river ran red.

  *

  ‘Ba mentioned you stopped off at the lake on the way back from Jinja today?’ Pran pulled back the bedcover.

  ‘Mmm.’ Asha smoothed on face cream, cool against her skin. She was in no mood to pretend everything was OK between them. Their earlier argument hung in the air just as the image of the bodies festered in her mind. But she didn’t want to tell him what she’d seen; saying it out loud would only make things worse.

  Pran watched as she combed her hair, which was tangled as usual. ‘I’m sorry Vijay and I couldn’t leave the dukan.’

  Asha climbed into bed and tucked in the last section of mosquito net, taking in Pran’s tobacco-and-soap scent. The short strands of his hair had settled in waves on the pillow. ‘I told you before, I understand,’ she said. It wasn’t the fact that he’d stayed behind at the dukan, their general store, that bothered her, and he knew it. ‘Do you want to turn off the light?’

  The longer they lay side by side in silence, the louder the electric ring of the crickets seemed to get. Eventually she turned towards him, sheets clammy against her skin. ‘I just don’t understand why you can’t tell me.’

  ‘We went over this, Asha.’

  ‘You and Vijay had to stay at the dukan today because it’s so busy. But you’re happy to spare him next week to go to London?’

  ‘That’s different. Papa will help. It’s only for a few days.’

  ‘Your Papa?’ Motichand, model businessman – turning up late and giving out credit to friends and strangers alike. ‘And what were you whispering about with Vijay yesterday?’

  ‘I told you, the dukan. I’m not allowed to talk to my own brother in private now?’ Pran’s voice was taut.

  Asha knew there was more to their conversation than the business. She’d seen the shadow of guilt on Pran’s face, Vijay’s wide eyes staring at the parquet floor.

  Asha turned her back to him, too tired to push him any further tonight. Sleep – she needed sleep to bury the horrible day. But while Pran’s breath grew deep and low, Asha lay awake, the sheets hot beneath her, staring at the sliver of moonlight that cut across the ceiling.

  *

  The next morning, Asha woke first, her body curved into a question mark next to Pran’s as the haze filled the room. Outside, the house had its own rhythm, a secret language that she was still trying to learn: December, their house boy, pounding the washing in the yard; Motichand and his booming sneezes; Jaya humming Gujarati prayer songs as she went about her day.

  Pran opened his eyes. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ he said gently.

  ‘I’d better get up and help with breakfast.’

  ‘Wait.’ He clutched her shoulder. ‘Last night . . .’

  She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t want there to be secrets between us, Pran.’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I just don’
t want to bore you with all that dull dukan talk. All you need to know is that I’m working as hard as I can so that I can give you a better life, that’s it.’

  ‘But it seemed like you and Vijay—’

  Pran moved closer to her. ‘Such an active mind for so early in the morning.’ His lips brushed against her cheek.

  She turned her head aside. This wasn’t something that could be kissed away.

  ‘Everything’s going to get better, you’ll see.’

  She looked into his eyes. Perhaps she had got it wrong? The image of the poor souls in the river flashed through her mind, her heart racing, heat blooming across her neck. So naive, going out to the water like that. Perhaps she was wrong about the dukan. ‘I don’t think the worst of you,’ she said.

  Pran trailed his thumb across her lips. ‘So why don’t we both find something else to think about, instead?’

  His mouth on hers, his light stubble brushed her cheeks. She tried to ignore that strange pull inside her chest, the faintest of lingering doubts.

  2

  Vijay

  Vijay finished the rest of his chai, wondering how late John would be picking him up this time. He looked through the kitchen window, out into the yard. It was framed on either side by the rooms of the house, and on the far side by a wall that adjoined the neighbours’ garden. After a moment, Asha emerged from her bedroom, running her fingers through the jasmine shrub, then hurried up onto the veranda and joined him to pour herself a glass of water. Asha always rushed, long dresses swirling around corners, sari chundris brushing over chair tops and door handles.

  ‘Pran and I are watching a film. Want to come?’ She stood by the table, painted toes peeping out from beneath her bell-bottom jeans.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Bonnie and Clyde.’ She gulped the water down in one go. He looked at the pool of light that shone on her bare shoulder, imagined a finger tracing along the curve.

  Like falling off a cliff.

  ‘Nah.’ He smiled.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I know what happens at the end.’

  Asha rolled her eyes. ‘You off to the bar now?’

  ‘Well, the ladies won’t talk to themselves . . .’

  ‘You sure about that?’ The hint of a smile as she turned towards the door.

  Before he could say anything else, Pran walked in and put his arm around his wife.

  ‘Chaal, Asha,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk later, Vij.’

  *

  Two whiskies and a waragi and Coke with John later, Vijay only just made it back in time for curfew.

  ‘You left it so late! It’s nearly seven o’clock,’ said Jaya, stretching to reach the locks on the window shutters.

  ‘There was an accident on Kampala Road, Ba. John drove as fast as he could.’ Vijay helped his mother lock up. At least there were no soldiers out in their street tonight, waiting to catch latecomers. Social calls were squeezed into daylight hours now, the days of staying out till dawn long gone. Now you had to be home before the sun had even set across Kololo Hill.

  Pran and Asha joined them in the sitting room, followed by Motichand, clutching a glass of whisky. Pran, as usual, was acting the doting husband and son, surprising them all with gifts: a necklace for Asha (even though it was no longer safe to wear jewellery outside the house), silk saris for Jaya, a silk handkerchief for Motichand, and the latest albums, LA Woman and Who’s Next, for Vijay – two copies of each, for when the vinyl inevitably wore out from overplaying. He mustered a look of gratitude, although Pran was too busy basking in everyone else’s attention to notice.

  ‘You spent so much!’ said Asha. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine, you know – with the new space in the dukan, we’ve got more stock, more sales,’ said Pran, throwing words into the air and hoping some of them stuck. A tiny wrinkle had appeared between his eyebrows, so small that only Vijay noticed it. The ease with which he lied to his own wife’s face . . .

  But had Pran noticed the little shadows at the corners of Asha’s mouth, the weariness in her eyes?

  *

  ‘This way,’ said Popatlal, the tailor.

  Vijay followed him inside. The heat of the early morning had already seeped into the shop; the smell of hot cotton and stale sweat had filled the air. Three workers hunched over Singer sewing machines that clattered furiously, while a fourth sat by a pile of tattered cloth scraps, sewing buttons onto a shirt. Vijay had heard some rumours about Popatlal: how he’d arrived in Kampala leaving a teenage bride behind in India, promising that he’d send for her when he’d saved enough money. In the meantime, though, he’d made a new home – and a new space in his bed for his housemaid, Mercy.

  He led Vijay to the back of the shop, to a small dark room with a desk and a creaky electric fan. Popatlal opened a drawer. His gaze travelled down beyond Vijay’s tapered elbow, to the space where his lower left arm should be.

  ‘It’s fine, I can put a coat on with this one.’ Vijay waved his right hand.

  Popatlal looked back at him, confused for a moment, then lowered his eyes. He pulled out a long tan suede coat, showing Vijay the flap of unstitched lining and slotting his hand flat inside it. ‘The money’s sewn into here.’

  ‘And I’d have to wear this the whole way?’ No one wore suede coats in Uganda. Vijay imagined walking down Nile Avenue like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. But with sweat patches.

  ‘No, take it off if you want, but hold it in a way that looks natural. Anyway, the British are more worried about us staying in their country than some money you’ve stuffed up your coat.’ Popatlal picked his ear with his little finger and inspected what he found. ‘And besides, no one has been caught so far.’

  ‘So far?’ How reassuring.

  ‘You’ll get plenty of paisa, neh?’

  ‘How much cash? Enough for one of those James Bond cars?’

  ‘Yes, yes, enough for one of those spy cars,’ Popatlal muttered. ‘A second-hand one, anyway. Perhaps after a few trips.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So, it’s all settled. Give me ten minutes to sew the money inside. Here’s the ticket from the family.’

  Vijay wasn’t told who ‘the family’ was – safer that way, Popatlal said. But he could guess. One of the wealthy ones, who owned plantations or flour mills or silver mines or factories across the country. They piled their money up like mounds of sugar, living in constant paranoia that the government would take it all away from them. Pran had made the same trip himself, as he often liked to remind Vijay, pouring the cash he got paid straight into getting the dukan back on track. But then he worked out that Vijay, with his younger, unassuming face, would attract less attention. Vijay had gone along with it. A chance to go on a plane, see London, get some money together. If Pran had managed it without getting caught, how hard could it be?

  *

  A couple of days later, Pran dropped Vijay off outside the airport with a ‘good luck’ and a pat on the arm, as though he was about to go off and take a maths exam.

  Inside the departures area, the soldiers were busy picking on a short, turbaned man, making him open his suitcase and pull out a pair of bobbly trousers and jumpers with elbow patches. Vijay walked past, clutching the folded coat in his hand. He heard a faint rustle from the wads of shillings inside, but no one seemed interested in him, including the woman at the check-in desk, who barely glanced at Vijay. More soldiers hung around at the gate, rifles hanging off their shoulders. A tiny muscle in Vijay’s neck twitched as one of them turned to look at him, but the soldier soon wandered away to another part of the airport.

  Vijay took in his fellow passengers. Maybe they were hiding secrets too? The blond man in the checked shirt with the gigantic collar – a secret agent, perhaps? A Cold War spy, trying to infiltrate the British government? Probably just a paper pusher with the civil service – but you never really knew, did you?

  On board, Vijay stowed the coat in an overhead locker and took his seat by the window. The aeroplane engi
nes thrummed beneath him, the seat vibrating against his back. He’d made it this far. All this metal in the air. Even the in-flight safety video on the overhead TV screen with all the talk of crash-landing didn’t worry him, and besides, that inflatable slide didn’t look so bad. People flew across the sea all the time. And now, the thrill of taking off, the force of the engines tugging at his belly, leaving the earth behind. He looked out of the window as the plane finished its rickety ascent – though not before a few passengers made use of the paper sick bags in the seat pockets, the sour smell lingering long after the seat belt and no smoking signs were turned off.

  The hostess came round with trolleys of food and drink. What were these strange beige mounds, the creamy mush with the yellow chunks? Had they just emptied out the contents of the sick bags onto the trays? Best to stick with the plain bread roll and the plastic cup of water that tasted of, well, plastic.

  Then the lights were dimmed, and the only sound was the slow drone of the engines. England awaited. Vijay played out the different scenarios that might lie ahead of him at Heathrow. Under his breath, he practised what he’d say if he was questioned, deciding that he’d try to storm the customs officers and run out of the airport if things got tricky. In his head, this happened in slow motion with cinematic music playing.

  *

  When they landed at Heathrow, Vijay stretched his neck from side to side, ignoring the bitter taste on his tongue. He took his bag from the overhead compartment and pulled the suede coat on, the left side hanging empty over his shoulder like a Superman cape.

  The cold air was the first thing to greet him as he walked down the steps off the plane. He tugged the coat tighter around his body, wishing he’d worn the jumper tucked away in his suitcase. He followed the other passengers as Pran had told him to do, trying to blend in as best as he could, taking in the lurid lights, mustard-patterned carpet and huge signs that pointed the way to Customs and Passport Control. What would happen if he was caught? Pran hadn’t gone into details. Was it because he didn’t want to worry Vijay or because he knew he wouldn’t go along with it otherwise? Prison was possible, he knew that much. Years, maybe, locked in a cell in a foreign country. Too late now. With each step, his nerves ratcheted up. Waiting.