Kololo Hill Page 12

  The doctor asked for space and told people to leave.

  Vijay stepped back, clinging to the counter. Helplessly watching the medic loosen Motichand’s shirt. He willed him to get up; one of his silly jokes, it had to be, yes, just a joke, that must be it. Please, Papa, get up. Get up now.

  12

  Jaya

  Jaya heard the front door close, footsteps across the floor.

  She called out from her room. ‘You’re back early?’ She hurried to tuck her sari into place, bangri tinkling against each other on her wrist. Vijay was standing in the kitchen. ‘You shut the dukan for the day already, beta?’

  Vijay stared at the floor. Body still.

  ‘Where’s Papa?’

  He didn’t move. Usually by now, the space around him would be filled with Motichand bounding around the kitchen, crunching his teeth into a chakri or glugging a glass of water or asking what was for dinner.

  ‘Vijay?’

  ‘Papa . . .’ Vijay’s face showed his distress.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jaya hurried over to him, grabbing his hand. ‘Was it the soldiers? Vijay, tell me what’s happened.’

  He stared at her. ‘Papa – he’s gone. I’m sorry, I tried to help him, the doctor tried to save him, but he’s . . .’ His voice fractured before he could finish his sentence.

  Jaya grasped a chair. She must have started crying because he gave her a handkerchief, she must have sat down because she could feel the wood beneath her. It must have grown dark because someone turned the light on.

  *

  They brought Motichand home from the embalmers the following day. The room was filled with the scent of the mourners’ white cotton and the burning divas. There were only a few guests, Mrs Goswami plus the few neighbours who hadn’t yet left the country. The many friends Motichand had made during his life were already scattered across the world like ashes. Others had called with condolences over the phone, the same repeated exclamations: ‘so sudden’, ‘so young’, ‘what a burden for you’, all mingling into one until the words lost their meaning. Jaya had stood by the sideboard for hours, holding the telephone a little away from her ear, still not used to the tinny sounds that came from it, until finally Pran fetched her a chair and she sat with her legs hovering above the floor until the calls stopped.

  Vijay and Pran brought the coffin into the sitting room with help from Mrs Goswami’s sons, but there was such a difference in height between them that it swayed and tilted like a ship in a stormy sea.

  Jaya wanted to hurry through the ceremony, knowing that December was hidden away in the stuffy storeroom. At least people wouldn’t want to linger, too busy making their preparations to leave and wanting to get back before curfew.

  The coffin was opened to reveal Motichand’s body. A thick pain spread across Jaya’s chest, the tears in her eyes blurring the image before her. She looked up at Vijay, his white kameez now grey near the collar where she’d hugged him, wet with her tears. His eyes seemed to say, ‘That’s not my father.’ And it was true, he didn’t look like Motichand in a way: he wore a cream cotton kameez which he’d once tried on briefly, a gift from a distant relative that he’d never worn in public.

  ‘I look so plain, Jaya,’ he’d said, glumly. No matter the weather, he preferred a tweed jacket that made clouds of sweat bloom on the shirt beneath. In the muddle of her grief she hadn’t had time to think about what he should wear for the very last time.

  Now, his skin was yellow and waxy like cold ghee; the life had seeped out of his cheeks; the laughter lines smothered away by death; thick lashes, once fluttering moth wings, now still.

  Vijay was flanked by Pran, still and calm, gaze steady, but then he’d always tended to hold things in. Sadness swept across her body as she realized she’d never see Motichand’s face again, that he’d never be able to cheer up their sons with his silly jokes. Anger swelled in her chest; she was on her own now, she’d have to look after them all. She watched Pran perform the rituals, applying sandalwood paste to Motichand’s skin and circling the body with Vijay and Asha following behind. Even in his death, she was left on the sidelines.

  Later that evening, after they’d taken Motichand’s body to the temple and the guests had gone, she went to check on December, taking a fresh newspaper and a plate of leftover food. In the candlelit room, he looked even more exhausted; the hours of sitting in the storeroom with only a tiny vent for fresh air had taken their toll.

  He looked up at her. ‘It’s all finished?’ He asked the question as if, even now, there might still be a hope that somehow it had been a mistake, that Motichand was still alive.

  Jaya nodded.

  ‘I still . . .’ December looked down at the floor. ‘I know it was hard for him, for all of you. But he was never the sort to let the stress get to him.’

  ‘I thought so too.’ Jaya took a big gulp of air. She looked back, thinking of that evening she and Motichand had last spoken about leaving, the unfamiliar worry in his eyes. If only she’d known how much he worried, perhaps she might have been able to help him. She put her hand over her mouth, trying to bury the grief. ‘I was so busy with everything else, I didn’t realize.’

  December pulled at the corner of his pillow. ‘There’s nothing you could have done. You have to keep your strength up now.’

  They fell silent. Though Jaya knew she should get back to the family, something kept her there.

  ‘I’ll ask Pran about the plans again,’ she said. ‘He’s been distracted these past few days, but we haven’t forgotten.’

  December shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be here, adding to your problems.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Jaya stepped a little closer. She needed something good to happen after all this hurt. ‘We’re all going to get out of this country, you too.’

  ‘I just wish I knew what happened to Aber,’ he said, in a hushed tone.

  There were no comforting words. Who knew where December’s daughter was, or any of the hundreds of people who’d not been heard from in months? At least, with Motichand, there was some comfort. At least he was at peace now. There was no peace for those who remained.

  ‘Try not to think about that now. You need to get yourself to safety, then you can find a way to help her.’ Her voice light, though she didn’t feel it. ‘Are you scared?’

  In the gloom of the storeroom, December’s face looked haunted. ‘Are you?’

  Jaya thought about the best way to answer. ‘We’re all together. There’s no reason to be scared.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this.’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Not today. You must be tired, why don’t you go and rest?’

  As he said the words, a wave of fatigue swept through her bones. She should check on the children. She told December she’d come back in the morning, as he lay down on the bed and blew out the candle.

  Jaya was glad to see that the others were still in the sitting room, their white clothes beacons in the dim light. She wasn’t ready to be alone yet. Vijay was resting his head against the back of the armchair and he opened his eyes as Jaya came into the room. Pran and Asha sat opposite, staring into space, empty cups and saucers on the table in front of them.

  ‘Shall I get you some chai?’ Asha looked up at Jaya.

  ‘No, you rest.’ Jaya sat down on a chair. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘There were a lot of people today, considering,’ said Asha. Jaya was grateful for her attempt at making conversation, keeping the silence at bay.

  ‘Yes, it was good of them to come.’ Jaya pulled her chundri off her head, smoothing her hair with her hand. They talked about the day, the stories people told about Motichand. Whatever his faults, people liked him: his energy, his enthusiasm for life, a whirlwind that rushed in and out of their lives, brightening their days.

  ‘He’d still be here if it hadn’t been for the expulsion.’ Pran shook his head, hard, as though he was trying to shake the anger away. ‘This country keeps taking and taking from us.�
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  ‘Don’t talk like that, beta,’ said Jaya. What was the use of letting it eat them up inside?

  ‘It’s true, though.’ Pran sat up. ‘Don’t you think he’d still be here?’

  ‘Shh, Pran, it’s late.’ Asha put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Whisper, please,’ said Jaya. Soldiers might be prowling the streets outside and they wouldn’t take pity on a house in mourning.

  ‘He’s been taken from us because those people thought it was OK to bully old men. And they’re led by a madman who is stealing everything we ever had. You think that’s right?’

  ‘Leave it, Pran,’ said Vijay.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother any of you? They’ve taken our father and you just accept it!’

  Jaya clutched the armrest and leant towards him. ‘It was your Papa’s funeral today and you are flaunting your anger in our faces? He’s gone, think about that, not about how you’re going to get back at the world. Not today. Stop now.’ As soon as she’d finished, she regretted it. She saw his distress, felt his torment as deeply as her own as he sank back into his chair. Harsh words wouldn’t bring Motichand back.

  Later, after the others had gone to sleep, Jaya sat at the kitchen table in the darkness, mustering the courage to go to bed. There had been so much pain lately that the grief she felt for Motichand and the sadness she felt for her home and friends were all mixed up inside her. She understood Pran’s anger, but it seemed to be growing, black roots twining around his heart. She couldn’t think about any of it tonight, eyes blurry, the hours of crying and her tiredness wearing her down.

  Night shrouded Kololo Hill in darkness. Jaya walked through the house, turning off the remaining lights one by one. In the bedroom, she took off her sari, a white pool in the middle of the floor, and climbed into Motichand’s bed, the familiar tang of tobacco and betel nut still lingering on his pillow. In the early days of their marriage, he’d talked in his sleep. She used to pretend that he whispered to her all the things he never said when he was awake, too busy impressing the rest of the world and worrying about what they thought. He’d died like he’d lived, no warning, no plan. Now she reached out, fingertips on cold sheets, her hand on his body.

  No, in the space where he’d once been and would never be again.

  *

  They brought Motichand’s ashes back from the temple the following day. She thought of the musky charcoal smoke of the funeral pyres back in India, burning fiercely all day and fading away into the black night, the ashes later scattered in the Ganga river. The Nile, once a substitute in their adopted home, could no longer be used, polluted as it was now with so many murdered bodies. She scattered his ashes in the yard by the magnolia tree. Later, she watched them wash away in the heavy afternoon rain, no trace left behind.

  *

  The raindrops fell thick and heavy, pelting the windscreen. From the refuge of the car, Jaya watched people making their way through the city, caught short without umbrellas, hurrying along the streets. As they wound their way a boy ran past, sheltering his head with a hollow green coconut shell, while other people huddled under corrugated-iron awnings, twisting their bodies to avoid the leaks that found their way between the cracks. The rivers of rain weaved across the road, gathering red soil along the way, copper rivulets breaking off here and there.

  Jaya peered over the front seat at Pran. He clutched the steering wheel tight, staring ahead intensely. He’d been so quiet since the night of the funeral, she had become concerned. At least Vijay seemed better; he’d taken to his bed the day after the funeral, but he was up and about again, trying to make gentle jokes and take everyone’s minds off what had happened. She had Motichand to thank for that side of him. In a way, Jaya was glad that the expulsion had given her something to focus on. There was too much to do for her to dwell on her grief right now.

  ‘What do you have planned for today, beta?’ said Jaya.

  ‘A few things,’ said Pran.

  ‘Pran and Vijay are preparing to hand the keys for the dukan over in a couple of days, aren’t you?’ Asha had also been trying to coax him back to his old self.

  ‘I know it’s difficult, but it will be one less thing to worry about,’ said Jaya.

  ‘One less thing to worry about?’ Pran glanced back at her. ‘How can I not worry?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, beta.’

  ‘Watch the road, Pran,’ said Asha, pointing out a pothole so wide it almost stretched from one side of the road to the other.

  ‘We have other things to think about, that’s all. Like December.’ But as soon as she said the words aloud, Jaya knew it was a mistake.

  ‘I can’t think about that right now!’ He slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

  ‘Calm down, Pran, please,’ said Asha.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to this bakwas today. I owe it to Papa to fight. That’s all I’m going to think about.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jaya said, lowering her voice in the hope that it would calm him, ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up.’ As they continued on their way up Kololo Hill, the only sound in the car was the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers, back and forth.

  *

  The rain had cleared up by the time they arrived at Mrs Goswami’s. Jaya and Asha said goodbye to Pran, watching the car drive away from the gates. Jaya gathered up her sari and slowly made her way towards the house, but Asha was too late to save her grey bell-bottoms; a dirty terracotta trim ran along the hems.

  ‘Come, coooome in,’ Mrs Goswami greeted them, sari pleats swaying in front of her as she led them inside the house. The walls were bare, the carved Masai statues had been packed away and boxes were piled in the corners of the hallway.

  ‘Can you believe these gandas have driven us to this, Jayaben?’ Mrs Goswami led them into the sitting room, the ornaments that had once adorned every wall and shelf now gone.

  ‘Sit down. It is a mess, I know, there’s still so much to do. We’ve sent some things on to my cousin in Canada already, but who knows if they’ll arrive? And we have given other items to the temple too, for the people who are staying behind.’

  ‘Do you think they will be safe there?’ Jaya sat down in the chair next to Mrs Goswami.

  ‘Well, they’ll get a bit of wear and tear, I suppose, some scratches on the wood.’

  ‘Not the furniture, I meant the people who are staying behind, at the temple?’ Jaya said, ignoring Asha’s raised eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Goswami pursed her lips. ‘But I do know that if it was me, I would not stay even if they paid me.’

  ‘But the people staying behind are getting paid,’ said Asha. ‘Now that the government’s finally realized they need Asian civil servants to keep the country going.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Mrs Goswami, flicking a hand in dismissal.

  ‘I don’t understand why they’d stay?’ said Jaya. Whatever lay ahead in another country, could it be worse than what they’d already been through in their own home?

  ‘Do they have a choice? Would Idi Amin have given them an option? I suppose they aren’t seen as a threat any more, there’s only a few hundred of them,’ said Asha. ‘I hear most are going to live together at the temple and the gurudwara. At least they’ll be able to look out for each other that way.’

  ‘But not everyone?’ said Jaya.

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps the others will find a way to lie low in their homes,’ Asha shrugged.

  ‘What do you expect from a jungloh like him?’ said Mrs Goswami.

  She called for Grace, who was in the kitchen. But today, there was no singing or humming; instead her walk was slow, stiff and her eyes downcast. When she came closer Jaya saw the swollen bruise across the side of her face. Surely Mrs Goswami hadn’t done that?

  ‘What?’ Grace glared at Jaya.

  ‘I—’ Jaya didn’t know what to say, surprised by Grace’s response.

  Mrs Goswami’s voice mellowed. ‘Gres, can you bring us some chai nasto?’ She even finished with
a ‘thank you’.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jaya whispered when Grace had shuffled out of the room. She’d never heard Mrs Goswami talk so kindly to her servants before.

  ‘They took her. She was walking in the street and the soldiers took Gres, drove her somewhere, four men, imagine. What was she supposed to do?’ Mrs Goswami shook her head, clutching the armrest as she spoke. ‘They dumped her in the street the next morning.’

  ‘They just grabbed her?’ Asha’s eyes widened. ‘When?’

  ‘Last week. She was kept in hospital overnight. I told her to stay home. But she wanted to come here, she’s sleeping in the servants’ quarters. And you know what she said to me? I feel safer here.’ Mrs Goswami gave a bitter laugh. ‘Think about that. Safer with us, who are being thrown out of the country.’

  ‘How could they do that to her?’ said Jaya. There’d been rumours of other girls, servants and shop workers, as well as the young Asian women who travelled with their families to the airport. They were considered lucky if they came out of it alive.

  ‘Poor girl. And the house is so quiet. You know, I even miss her ridiculous humming!’

  They fell silent as Grace came in with a tray of food and cups of chai. Mrs Goswami twisted her gold bangri around her wrist, round and round as she served them.

  Grace began to leave but stopped at the doorway. She turned to stare at them. ‘You can carry on gossiping about me now.’

  Mrs Goswami’s mouth dropped open. It took her a moment to compose herself. ‘Gres—’

  ‘I know you were talking about me,’ said Grace. ‘I can see it on your faces.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Asha said gently.

  ‘Perhaps if you’d all spent a little more time worrying about other people before, they wouldn’t hate you so much that they want you gone.’ Her voice was sharp.

  ‘No, Gres, it—’

  ‘Enjoy your tea!’ she said, and left before they could say anything else.