Kololo Hill Page 15

  ‘What do you mean? December?’ Jaya stood up.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do, Ba.’ Pran closed his eyes, holding the tears back.

  Asha ran, the door to the storeroom obscured by darkness. The door was wide open.

  December. Did she call out or did she merely think it? She said it again, but her voice faded along with her hope. Even as she said it once more, Asha knew there’d be no answer.

  She stared at the room, willing December to appear, to jump out, even though it was ridiculous. Impossible.

  Jaya came up behind her and stopped. Hand clinging to the door frame as she took in the empty space.

  *

  Asha climbed into bed next to Pran. His eyes were closed.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Asha whispered, turning to him.

  ‘No, I can’t sleep.’ He opened his eyes. There was a whisky tang on his breath.

  ‘Your Ba, I think she’s in shock.’ Asha had helped Jaya to bed; she’d lain there, looking up at the ceiling. After Motichand, after everything, this was the last thing she needed.

  ‘The rest will do her good.’

  ‘That’s if she can sleep,’ said Asha. If any of them could sleep. ‘At least Vijay seems to be OK now. All that blood when we came into the kitchen . . .’

  ‘I’ll take him to the doctor in the morning.’

  ‘And then you’ll go to the station, see if you can find out what’s happened to December?’

  He sighed. ‘We’ll go. But I don’t think it’s going to help.’

  ‘We have to try. For your Ba’s sake if nothing else.’ She blinked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, I was the lucky one apparently,’ he said. At least he wasn’t hurt, she was so grateful that they hadn’t touched him.

  She put her hand on his chest, felt the tiny hairs tickling her fingers, the rise and fall of his breath. ‘I don’t understand what happened, Pran.’

  ‘What do you mean? I told you.’ The pillow rustled beneath Pran’s head as he turned.

  ‘When I came outside, you were just standing there, even though Vijay was lying on the kitchen floor.’

  Pran sighed. ‘It was probably shock, just like Ba. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  Asha stared into the darkness. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for Pran and Vijay. Facing the soldiers in their own house, knowing how much was at stake.

  ‘You saw them take December?’

  ‘I – I guess so. It’s all a bit of a blur.’

  She heard the high-pitched buzz of a mosquito near her ear and flicked it away. ‘And they didn’t get angry with you, for hiding December?’

  ‘I told you, Asha, they were drunk.’ His voice louder now. ‘They didn’t know what they were doing.’

  Silence. She knew she should let him sleep. Ask him again when things were calmer. Whenever that might be.

  Pran edged closer, his warm breath on her face, his tears falling onto her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. You must have been terrified.’ She put her hand on his jaw, light stubble prickling against her skin.

  ‘I should have done something. I’m sorry, Asha. I’m sorry.’ He said it over and over again, long after she’d pulled him close to her.

  17

  Jaya

  Jaya woke up surrounded by a cloud of mosquito net. She looked at the alarm clock. Ten o’clock. She jolted upright. Maybe Pran and Vijay had come back from the doctor or from the police station with December, they might be sitting in the kitchen right now? No. They would have rushed straight in to wake her. She’d lain awake for hours last night. Why hadn’t she done something, tried to stop it all somehow?

  What might have happened to December? There were hundreds, maybe thousands, who’d been murdered across the country. They still didn’t know if December’s family were amongst them.

  And then there were those who had come back. People like Grace. She’d returned, but the damage was done. And those who’d been tortured by the army, like Naseem. They were all supposed to be grateful when their loved ones returned, no matter how many scars, seen and unseen, they might have to carry for the rest of their lives.

  And then there was the third option, the in-between world of not knowing what had happened to someone. Disappeared, that was how people described it, when somebody vanished, as though it was some kind of magic rather than brutal murderers that had taken them away. At least when Motichand had died she could take comfort in knowing that he’d escaped life’s hardships. But not knowing what had happened to December, whether he was alive or dead, what they were doing to him. That was worse.

  She’d spoken to him the morning before, when she’d taken him a cup of pomegranate juice. His mood low, he gave her a weak smile, barely looking up at her to take the cup from the tray. It should have cheered them all, knowing that Pran had made the final plans to get December out, that he would leave in a few days, but it also meant that the family would never see him again. Jaya had felt a little sorry for herself: how shameful, looking back on it, how selfish. If they’d only been ready a couple of days earlier, December might have been safe now.

  She’d tried to raise his spirits with stories about Vijay and Pran when they were little, reminding him how tofani they’d been, how naughty. ‘Remember that time Vijay mixed up all the guests’ shoes?’ They’d had one of their many gatherings one Sunday, somehow squeezing dozens of adults and children into the house, roasting chicken and corn on the cob on the sigri in the yard. There’d been thirty pairs of shoes laid outside the hallway and Vijay had spent the afternoon muddling them all up, hiding half of them around the house. ‘Do you remember how long it took us to find them because Vijay had forgotten where he’d put them?’

  December stayed silent.

  ‘Look, I know it must be hard for you,’ Jaya whispered. ‘But you’ll be safe very soon.’

  And that was one of the last things they’d said to each other. Jaya thought that she had more time. After everything that had happened in Uganda, how foolish she was to believe that there would always be another chance.

  She heard the familiar clang of the outer gate, the thunk of the front door. No voices.

  Jaya hurried, battling to push the layers of mosquito net aside, opening the bedroom door and slipping her leather chumpul back on her feet. As she moved from the veranda to the hallway she realized she was still wearing the sari she’d slept in, but it was too late to pull on a saal, she needed to know if December was all right. She strained to hear his voice, anyone’s voice. Three figures stood in front of her. Pran and Vijay by the door. Asha across the hall.

  No December.

  ‘Well?’ Jaya asked, unable to hide the impatience in her voice.

  They looked at each other, but would not meet her gaze, as though they’d betray what she knew already. She needed to hear it for herself, out loud.

  ‘We tried—’ Vijay’s eyes were bloodshot. A bandage covered the cut on his head.

  ‘They won’t tell us anything, Ba,’ Pran said, voice so quiet she had to watch his lips to be sure of what he said.

  ‘So there is a chance?’ Jaya looked from one son to the other. A fragment of hope.

  ‘They told us not to bother coming back,’ said Vijay.

  ‘We tried, Ba, but they were getting angry with us. Told us not to waste their time.’ Pran clutched the back of his neck, then looked down at the floor.

  Jaya’s cheeks flushed. ‘They can’t. They have made a mistake. They must have.’

  ‘We could try again tomorrow,’ Asha said, glancing from Pran to Jaya.

  ‘Yes, might be someone else on duty tomorrow,’ said Vijay. Jaya had seen that look before, full of anguish, when he’d told her Motichand was dead.

  Silence. The boys had already put themselves in danger by going anywhere near the army, taking huge risks with their own lives. But what about December? She had to do something, there must be something left. ‘Who can we speak to? Who is still here
in Uganda, with contacts in government?’ Jaya walked towards the kitchen, palm flat against the wall, guiding her way.

  ‘Ba—’

  ‘What about that boy you were friends with at school, Pran?’

  ‘Ba, this won’t help—’

  She ignored Pran. ‘Come here.’ She kept her voice steady, ignoring the fear pulsing through her body. Thank God Motichand had doled out so much credit all over Kampala. She could call in favours from those people now, at least those that were still in the country. ‘Let’s make a list. Vijay, get a pen and paper.’

  Vijay didn’t move, nor did Pran, staring at Jaya as though they were scared of her. Asha opened her mouth, then closed it, thinking better of it. Instead, she took a step forward and put her hand on Jaya’s shoulder. But she didn’t need special treatment, least of all from Asha; she certainly didn’t need to be treated like a child. December was all that mattered right now.

  She clutched the sides of the table as she sat down, trying to steady her shaking hands. ‘Vijay, I told you to get me a pen and paper.’

  Asha sat down next to her.

  ‘There’s no one left to help us, Ba,’ Vijay said. ‘And even if there is, they won’t take the risk. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ba.’

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do,’ said Pran, casting a shadow across the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry.’

  December might be alive, they might have beaten him up, but he could still be alive. Yet all the while, in her heart she knew: he was Acholi. It didn’t matter, he was Acholi and they could kill him for no other reason than that. She looked around the room. She wanted to pull out saucepans and throw them, shove the chairs and watch them fall onto the floor, to shout and scream.

  But she wasn’t that person.

  She got up, walked out of the kitchen and pulled her chundri over her shoulders, so that no one would see her tears.

  *

  Sleep hadn’t dulled the pain of December’s disappearance. Exhausted, despite spending all day and night in bed, Jaya walked into the kitchen the following morning. The smell of paratha made her stomach churn.

  ‘Here, I’ll get you some chai.’ Asha’s voice was kinder than she’d ever known it to be.

  Vijay briefly rested his hand on his mother’s shoulder as she sat down next to him.

  She’d had time to think about how close the family came to danger. Vijay was lucky to escape with his injuries. She and Asha, especially Asha, were lucky to have escaped the soldiers’ attention. Jaya had risked all their lives to try and save December and now she had to live with the consequences.

  ‘About December—’ Pran began.

  Jaya put up her hand. ‘Let’s stop talking about things we cannot change.’

  The family watched her sip her tea. She couldn’t face eating.

  ‘I can help you pack later, if you like?’ said Asha.

  ‘I will be fine, there’s not much to pack anyway,’ Jaya replied.

  ‘It’s probably best, the checkpoints are getting worse.’ Vijay tore a piece of paratha with his right hand and scooped up some katki keri, the tiny cubes of green mango glistening in the thick chutney syrup.

  ‘You’ll have to look after everyone, you know.’ Pran looked at Vijay. Pran would stay behind at the house and finish the last of the paperwork before he went to stay with Jaya’s brother in India. It was too dangerous for him to take the family to Entebbe airport and come back on his own.

  ‘And what will Vijay do that I can’t?’ Asha turned from the stove and faced Pran. ‘In front of a soldier with a gun, we’re all equal.’

  ‘You all need to be careful. And I still think you should take the knife.’

  ‘You honestly want me to keep that in my handbag?’ Asha shook her head. Jaya agreed; even if it didn’t provoke the army, it was more than likely that Asha would forget it was there and cut herself on it.

  ‘And what about at the airport, in England? When they ask if there’s anything to declare?’ said Vijay. ‘Yes, sir, just this gold watch and, oh yes, I nearly forgot, this huge knife!’

  Pran’s eyes darkened. ‘Stop it. This is serious. You could throw it away when you get to the airport.’

  ‘It might make things worse, beta,’ said Jaya. She could see how much it bothered Pran not to be able to keep them safe, although he’d forgotten that Jaya had made a similar journey, while the world was at war. Anyway, the thing that she was most worried about was Pran staying in Uganda, even if it was just a few more days, with the mood growing ever darker. The more Asians that left Uganda, the worse the feeling grew towards those who remained. A cold and cruel goodbye.

  *

  After breakfast, Jaya packed her belongings into Motichand’s battered leather suitcase, covered in travel stickers for places that neither of them had ever been to: Japan, Spain, Brazil, stickers from a friend of Motichand’s, none from Uganda or India.

  Motichand had always talked about saving just enough money to return to India and live comfortably. He said it so many times that Jaya had started to believe it too, making plans to see her family again, thinking of all the stories she’d be able to tell them, truly believing that one day they’d be reunited. But after his many business ventures started on a whim and ended with a whimper, going back to India was always out of their reach. And just as Jaya had made her peace with the idea of never going back, Pran and Vijay had begun to put money back into the dukan and her hope returned. The chance to see her brothers and their families after thirty-five years apart, too late to see her father, whose death she’d mourned from afar years ago. After all that, here she was, moving even further away from India, doing it all over again, leaving Uganda for England. She wondered what her next life would be, what would happen to her soul after they’d burnt her body on a funeral pyre. Didn’t she deserve a rest, after so many lives lived already? She knew she should be grateful, count herself lucky to be able to leave Uganda for a country that was safe, if not familiar or welcoming. But she’d wanted to see how this life, right here, was going to carry on, surrounded by her loved ones and her memories of Motichand and December, to see it out to the end in her own home.

  Home. How could she have ever called Uganda that? She should have learnt after she got married, home didn’t exist for her. Other people decided where she could stay, where her home would be.

  How could they tell you? Home wasn’t something you had to think about. You didn’t think about it as you strolled around Kololo Hill, waving at Mrs Walji, whose children had played with yours for years, the same children you’d told off when they’d found your fresh talpindi cooling in the storeroom and gorged on it until they’d thrown up; you didn’t think about it when you avoided the khadoh, the little pothole at the bottom of your road, out of habit. You didn’t think about any of it. As soon as you had to be told, or it had to be written down, or you were forced out of the country where you’d lived most of your life, that’s when you thought about home.

  ‘Here you go.’ Asha came into the bedroom and handed Jaya a thick black cardigan, one of the few items of warm clothing they’d managed to buy in town before they had been snapped up by others leaving for the colder climes of Europe, Canada and the United States. Asha checked the suitcase, putting her hand against the false lining that Pran’s tailor friend had helped sew into place, feeling the thin layers of Ugandan shillings slotted inside. Idi Amin had decided that they could only take a small amount of money with them, claiming that the sneaky Asians had spent years stashing their wealth in Europe. As though most of them had those kinds of riches to spare.

  They had to invent clever ways to smuggle out whatever they could now. Mrs Goswami had shipped pots and pans out of the country, rolling up notes and sliding them into hollowed-out handles. That was still a gamble; there was no telling whether the pots would arrive in Canada at all, let alone with the money stuffed inside. Later that day, Jaya and Asha would spend a couple of hours frying bhajia with gold stud earrings inside, packed away in containers as a ‘snack’
for the plane.

  Asha looked at Jaya’s belongings, laid out on the bed. ‘You’re taking all those things?’

  What was it Motichand used to say, when she tried to urge him to spend less? ‘You can’t take it into the next life.’ Unlike him, Jaya didn’t have many belongings. Why shouldn’t she take the few things she had? They were all gifts: a small figurine carved out of soapstone from a trip her husband took to Mombasa years ago; from Pran, a set of small notecards with bonded paper envelopes, the fronts decorated with watercolour flowers, hibiscus, jasmine, poinsettia, still in its original cellophane packaging and kept for a special occasion that never came. There were a few ornate saris, silks and brocades, baranasi and bandhni in sea green, royal blue and scarlet. She’d never had a chance to wear most of them and now she never would, resigned to the simple pale cotton saris of widowhood.

  Asha tapped a piece of yellow Tupperware, a treasured gift from her friend Sonaben after a trip to Europe. ‘They must have these in England?’

  Jaya peeled open the lid and showed her the Lux soaps inside. ‘Look, I’m making use of all the space.’ Jaya couldn’t stand the waste, all the things they’d worked for.

  ‘I think they have soap in England.’ Asha patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  *

  The last day arrived. The sun still high, thin shadows slicing across the yard. Jaya had fought the urge to pack the housewares away, not bothering to fold bedsheets, nor wrap glasses in newspaper so that they were all protected and cared for. What was the point? Those things were no longer hers to protect; why look after them when they’d be in someone else’s hands soon enough? Now the sideboard stood empty in the sitting room, the storeroom bare, the picture frames in the bedroom taken down. She stared at the crack in the window, a lightning bolt that Motichand had promised to get fixed for years, but the day never came.

  She couldn’t imagine someone else walking around the house – her house – pulling open drawers, banging cupboard doors, gathering as a family around the kitchen table for breakfast, entertaining friends with chai and ginger biscuits in the sitting room, shelling peas out on the veranda. She walked through the bedrooms, where Vijay and Pran had pretended to be ghosts, draping the mosquito nets over their heads, through to the sitting room, where years before she’d often found Motichand dozing in front of the rickety gramophone, the rippling crackles on the records and the soft, echoing songs of Lata Mangeshkar a long-distance call home to India.