Kololo Hill Read online

  *

  Vikash moved out of the house a week later, saying a cheerful goodbye and a thank you for Jaya’s cooking – though he kept quiet when it came to Asha’s. He’d taken down the posters of Arsenal football team – Vikash had decided to support them mostly out of convenience as the stadium was nearby, even though he couldn’t afford to buy a ticket – and removed the bottles of Brut and containers of Brylcreem. Jaya replaced them with her jar of coconut oil and a photograph of Motichand, staring into the distance, a long mara of dried flowers draped around the simple frame. Pran would join Asha in the main bedroom and Vijay would continue to sleep downstairs in the sitting room, pulling out bedding each night from a cardboard box that was kept in the corner.

  When Asha and Pran had still slept in separate rooms, she had listened out for his footsteps walking across the hallway, slower than Vijay or Vikash’s, or the creaky floorboard that only Pran seemed to walk over, or the running of water and the clank of the boiler as it kicked in when he was in the bathroom. She would wait in her own room until he’d gone and she could go downstairs to take off her make-up.

  Now, she got into bed before he came up. Asha pretended to be asleep, wanting more time to get used to having him close by again. Pran climbed into bed, the mattress giving way under his weight. To her surprise, he stayed still, didn’t try to move towards her. The darkness, the heft of his body, everything took her back to the checkpoint in Kampala, back to the soldier as he’d gripped her body and torn her clothes.

  Asha edged to the farthest point of the bed until she was almost falling off, her breath shallow, heart fast. Pran turned and moved towards her.

  ‘Don’t, please, Pran.’

  He paused, then whispered, ‘I know it’s been a long time. Let’s—’

  ‘Let’s just lie here,’ said Asha. ‘Please.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pran turned onto his back, the insistent tick of the alarm clock the only sound in the room.

  *

  Asha looked forward to going to work more than ever, a chance to escape. She’d leave as early as she could and often got off the Tube a stop early, taking in the blue plaques that marked the historical landmarks around the city. She’d taken different routes to work so that she could collect them like a set of stamps. And all the while, she marvelled at living in a city that had not only the time but also the money to look back at the past, to commemorate it, to keep the past alive. She walked by the grand building where Dickens had his private apartments on Wellington Street, transported back to Sunday afternoons in Jinja reading Oliver Twist. She carried on, taking a walk through her education: Rudyard Kipling, Joseph Conrad and Sir Isaac Newton.

  She took in the quiet, almost ghostly feel of London at this time of the morning, the stench of rotting rubbish, alcohol and urine, all the echoes of the night before mingling with the smell of baking bread and frying bacon in the little cafes along the street.

  There was time to think on her walk to the office. The space in her head that had for so long been taken up with memories of gunfire or their many money worries gave way to thoughts of Pran. The longer they’d spent apart, the more difficult it had been to picture him in her mind. She remembered an old photograph one of her friends had shown her when they were teenagers. A pretty picture of the view from Kololo Hill, milky sunshine softening the magnolia trees, the white houses and terracotta rooftops. But years later, just before the expulsion was announced, she’d stood on that same hill herself and seen the truth: how the Asians’ houses looked down at the Ugandans’ houses below, and beyond them to the huge grey mound at the bottom, the landfill dump full of rubbish.

  She knew then that the Kololo Hill in the photograph didn’t really exist. And it was the same with Pran. In the short time she’d known him before they’d married, she’d captured a small glimpse of her husband as she thought he was. But it was only after all those months apart that a thought rose in her mind: would she have made the same decisions today?

  She cast her mind back, remembering how she’d returned to her home in Jinja one afternoon after work to the sound of her father shouting in the sitting room. Papa shouted often, about anything and everything, that it was too hot or too windy or the way a customer had spoken to him that day. It was as though if he didn’t shout every so often he might burst open. He sometimes shouted until he exhausted himself, sinking into a chair to catch his breath. But he yelled so often that it had lost all effect. And besides, Papa’s loud voice came from a round face, his kind eyes filled with love.

  Asha didn’t hurry to the sitting room. She stood by the front door, waiting for her father to bark the story to her mother. The problem was, her Ba’s calm manner only made her father shout even louder.

  ‘Is this how things are now, Jayshri? How can she do this to us, heh?’

  Even though it became apparent Papa had no intention of stopping, Asha decided to join them. He looked up at her from his armchair, opening his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He turned to Asha’s mother, sitting in a chair opposite him.

  Her Ba looked up. ‘Asha, Papa was at the dukan today.’ So it was some story about an annoying customer. Why was he so angry he couldn’t even speak?

  ‘Mr Prasad, you know, the one with the too-wide eyes?’ said Ba, waving her hands in front of her own face. ‘He came to the dukan today. And he said—’

  ‘He said,’ her father had found his voice again, clutching the armrests on his chair as he yelled, ‘how nice it was to see my daughter out with her “special friend”. The way he said it. So gleeful.’

  Asha blinked at her father. She knew what was coming, but wanted to wait until it was confirmed.

  ‘I told you we gave her too much freedom, Jayshri.’ Her father rose to his feet, his voice rising with it. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  Her Ba ignored him. ‘Mr Prasad said you were seen with a boy. Just the two of you.’

  ‘We set up all those introductions for you,’ said Papa. ‘We could have found you a nice boy. Why have you done this? Who is this boy?’ He said the word ‘boy’ as though he’d smelt something bad on his shoes.

  ‘He’s just a friend, Papa. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about? You were seen, Asha, a customer came and told me what my own daughter was up to behind my back, running around town with a boy and you say it’s not bad?’

  ‘Who is he, Asha?’ said her Ba. Asha marvelled at how serene she seemed.

  ‘His name’s Pran,’ she said.

  ‘Pran?’ said Papa, his brows unfurrowed. A Hindu first name: something to allay Papa’s worries. His shoulders relaxed further when Asha told them Pran’s last name, yes, he was a suitable caste. And finally, her father sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief when Asha confirmed that yes, he and his family were dukanwara just like them.

  Asha endured a short lecture about how this wasn’t how things were usually done and that they were only thinking of her reputation and how lucky for her they were liberal people, and that if they moved fast with a wedding it could all be explained away and there would be little for the community to gossip about.

  She was carried along with all the plans, no time to think about whether any of it was what she wanted. Always assuming there’d be more time with Pran, to decide what she did want, get to know each other away from the prying eyes of parents and the community, time to think about all the little things she knew about him that she’d gathered together like trinkets, creating a version of him she was not sure existed. Was this all she had to base the rest of her life on?

  It didn’t matter, it was too late now.

  Less than a week later, Pran and his family came to Jinja. Her mother gave her clear instructions: after a brief hello, Asha was to stay in the kitchen until the tea was served and then she could make her appearance. Even though the relationship hadn’t started in the proper way, things would be done in the traditional manner now. And so Asha listened to the others’ small talk and polite laughter in the sitt
ing room until she was eventually summoned. She edged into the room holding a tray lined with teacups and a pile of saucers. All eyes on her. The teacups clattered as she walked; she kept watch over them to make sure they didn’t spill. Downcast eyes, ridiculously playing the role of the timid bride. She held the tray out in front of each guest, finally coming to Pran. He looked up at her. As he reached out for the chai, he pressed down with the lightest touch, settling the jittery teacups.

  The elders started making plans for a formal engagement and a wedding soon after, things decided without her. Forced to stay quiet, she fixed her gaze on a tiny thread along the hem of her mother’s sari that had come loose, a bead hanging precariously from the cotton. She’d watched it tumble to the floor.

  What would she have done if she had her time again? She’d have tried to stand up to Papa and her Ba, not let herself be swept up in it all, asked her Papa to give her more time, to wait, at least. It was easy to say now, of course. But how could she not think about all the things she’d do differently, now that she’d learnt that life was so fragile it could be taken away from you in a matter of days, how could she not wonder if the choices she’d made were the right ones?

  *

  Asha opened the old wooden door under the stairs, the smell of damp bricks seeping out into the air. ‘You put the coins here.’ She showed Pran the slot in the electricity meter. But today, instead of putting more money in, she emptied out a handful of large silver coins from it. ‘We can use these for the shopping.’

  Pran frowned. ‘But won’t we run out of electricity?’

  ‘It’s fine, plenty in there already. The meter’s the safest place in the house to store money.’ Asha stood up, pulled on her coat and grabbed the long black umbrella propped up in the corner.

  She went outside and said hello to Mr Theodorou who was tending his flowers, hopped over puddles, ducked to avoid umbrellas, dodged a woman with a pram who rushed along the street with such determination she looked like she was trying to win a race, while Pran trailed along behind.

  In Uganda, the rain was like a brief lovers’ tiff: quick and swiftly forgotten, soaked up by the sun’s rays in no time. English rain, on the other hand, lingered long after it had fallen, sulking on the pavement for hours on end.

  Asha didn’t turn towards the kids on the other side of the street as they called out as usual, ‘Go back to your own country.’

  She didn’t bother looking at them; instead, she muttered, ‘I can’t,’ under her breath and carried on walking. This was the quickest route to the shops, it wasn’t as though she was going to take a different way just to avoid idiots like them. Pran turned his astonished gaze from the children to Asha as she carried on.

  At the grocer’s, Asha hurried, barely looking at the familiar cans, packages and cartons before she picked them up, while Pran tried to keep up, stepping out of the way of other customers, his brows furrowing as he tried to find a space to stand. He leant against a shelf stacked with Kellogg’s Cornflakes and sent a couple of boxes tumbling to the ground; when he turned to pick them up, he nearly tripped up an elderly woman, her lips frozen into the shape of an ‘O’.

  He followed Asha outside. While the cars raced along the high street, she inspected and squeezed the vegetables that were piled up in little containers. Next, she grabbed a handful of little green globes that looked like tiny cabbages, puckered and wrinkled. ‘What are they?’

  ‘These taste good in shaak,’ said Asha. She could tell from Pran’s bemused face that he was wondering, just as she and Jaya had when they’d first seen Brussels sprouts, how anything so ugly could taste good, and how it was possible that there’d be anything left of them after they’d withered and wilted in a hot curry.

  She knew that Pran would struggle to get used to all this, after the markets in Uganda, where the vendors laid out their wares on brightly coloured fabrics, the piles of pink marbled beans and ndizi freshly picked at dawn in the countryside, the rice and grains piled up in gunny sacks, the stench from the beef and goat and vegetables slowly turning in the heat, the hammering metal of the shoemakers, the choking smoke of the sigris, the sweet smell of peanut paste, the women sitting in a row as they pulled the wings off grasshoppers as though they were shelling peas, ready for frying. Asha remembered how once, when she was a little girl, she’d been waiting while her mother haggled over tomatoes and onions and seen something wriggling amongst the fresh produce, shades of pastel blue amongst the bright layers of greens: a small baby nestled in a cloth amongst the leafy vegetables.

  On the way home from the grocer’s, the rain started up again.

  ‘Let’s wait a few minutes, it might stop soon,’ said Asha. They sought shelter under a shop awning. She tensed her shoulders as a raindrop that had managed to find a gap between her neck and collar trickled down her back. Next to them, an old woman huddled in the corner with her tartan shopping trolley, waiting for the clouds to clear.

  When they got home, Asha shuffled the post that had arrived while they were out.

  ‘Here, let me see,’ Pran said, reaching towards her.

  ‘They’re just bills,’ she said.

  Pran took the letters and scanned the numbers. ‘So much for rent?’

  ‘We were lucky to get it for so little,’ said Asha, more sharply than she’d intended. She walked into the kitchen and put the shopping down.

  Pran paused at the kitchen door. ‘I’m glad you were all together at least and Vijay could look after you.’

  A mix of annoyance and guilt shot up Asha’s spine. ‘I can look after myself. So can your Ba.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pran quietly, watching her put the things away. He paused, then said, ‘Do you like it here?’

  Asha shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s better than where we were.’

  ‘But does it make sense to you, the life here?’

  Asha stopped what she was doing and looked at him in confusion.

  ‘At least Uganda made sense to me,’ said Pran.

  ‘Sense?’ Asha laughed. ‘The madness and the murder made sense to you?’

  ‘I mean, I understood it, how to get by and make a living.’ Pran sat down at the table, head bowed.

  ‘But they took your living away from you,’ said Asha.

  ‘You think we’re safer here just because the people in power have white faces?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it, Pran. It is safer here.’

  ‘But they could send us back any time they wanted.’

  Asha sat down at the table opposite Pran and sighed. ‘So the best solution is to go back to Uganda before the English tell us to leave too?’

  ‘They don’t want us here.’

  She thought back to the help they’d received at the airport, Mrs Boswell at the barracks, Sinead at work. She looked at him, his face in despair. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘What, Asha, you didn’t notice those children? Telling us to get out of their country.’

  ‘I noticed. The same way I noticed in Uganda when they shouted at us to go home too. “Wahindi rudi India”, remember?’

  Pran shook his head. ‘But that’s different. We were born there, they had no right to say those things in Uganda.’

  ‘Really? The way so many of us carried on building our nice dukans and homes, treating servants like they were nothing? We should all admit it. We didn’t really care, we never thought the problems of that country were anything to do with us. No wonder so many of them wanted us to go.’ Asha leant forward. ‘Anyway, at least here, we’re not looking over our shoulder all the time.’

  Pran peered at her. ‘Nothing’s ours.’

  ‘Was it ever?’

  ‘But in Uganda—’

  ‘We’re not in your precious Uganda now.’ Asha stood up, chair scuttling across the lino floor. She opened the window, freezing air filling the kitchen. ‘You hear that?’

  Pran stared at her.

  ‘Can you hear gunshots or screams? Can you smell the smoke from the rifles? We�
��re not in your beautiful Uganda.’ Asha laughed mockingly. ‘Yes, things are strange and some people don’t want us here, but at least we’re safe. No chance of passing a dead body on the way to the airport. Or have you forgotten all those things when you think of your beloved Uganda?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. You know that.’ Pran looked down at his hands.

  ‘Why won’t you let it go? Do you have to keep reminding me of everything we’ve lost?’

  ‘But I don’t belong here. I’m still Ugandan,’ said Pran, his voice fraught. ‘There’s no space for me here.’

  ‘I know the house is cramped, Pran, but—’

  ‘I don’t mean that. There’s no space for me. I don’t fit!’

  ‘You have to make a space for yourself.’ For the first time in ages, Asha felt an urge to walk over to him, ruffle his hair as she used to in the early days of their marriage, take his hand.

  But Pran wasn’t completely wrong. How would they deal with the growing space between them?

  *

  Asha came home from work, slipping off her shoes by the front door, keys clinking onto the hook in the hallway.

  ‘How was work?’ Pran came out from the sitting room, eager as a puppy dog.

  ‘Oh, fine.’ The bland exchange, now an everyday occurrence, began again, questions met with vague responses. Formality replaced intimacy.

  She escaped to the bathroom to change out of her work clothes. Their day revolved around Asha’s routine. Pran woke up when she rose for work, they ate dinner after she came home, and at the weekend they’d go to the launderette or the cinema together. In Kampala, life had revolved around others: the many social engagements at the temple, gurudwara or mosque for weddings and festivals, friends and families’ homes. They’d longed for, they’d fought to carve out time to be together on their own.

  But here in England, she spent her time trying to put distance between them. When Pran went into the sitting room, she went into the kitchen. If he went downstairs, she went upstairs. In bed, the awkward game continued, as she tried to sense the position of his body, deep in slumber, contorting herself into an ‘S’ shape to dodge his careless limbs. They’d played the opposite game in Kampala, seeking each other out in the dark, searching for bare skin, lips brushing lips.