Kololo Hill Page 26

  As Asha changed out of her work clothes and put on a kameez and jeans, Jaya called her down, asking her to help her set the table. The others joined them when dinner was served.

  ‘So at the moment, you all pay for different things?’ Pran pushed the sorry-looking pile of aubergine stalks from the ringra nu shaak into the corner of his plate and helped himself to a pile of rice, followed by a ladle of daar.

  ‘Yes, like I told you,’ said Vijay. ‘Asha pays the rent, I pay the bills, Ba pays for the shopping when she has a bit of money coming in from her cooking at the temple. Vikash’s lodging money helped when he was here, too.’

  ‘And the money and gold you got out of Uganda?’ said Pran.

  ‘There’s not much of that,’ said Asha, annoyed at the memory of Pran’s own smuggling coming back to her again. ‘Anyway, it’s for an emergency.’

  ‘But have you looked at all your outgoings together?’ Pran took another rotli from the pile, glistening with ghee. ‘Maybe there’s ways you can save some money here and there?’

  ‘We did that already.’ A crackle of annoyance in Vijay’s voice. ‘We’re managing.’

  ‘Your brother is just trying to help, beta,’ said Jaya.

  ‘But he’s not, is he? He’s making things worse. We’ve done the best we can. It’s not as if we’ve had it easy.’

  ‘And you think I’ve had it easy, Vij?’ said Pran.

  ‘Yes, fine. But meddling in our plans isn’t helping anyone. We got on the best we could.’

  ‘Yes, and all I’m saying is—’

  ‘Chup! Let’s just eat now, talk about it later,’ said Jaya, but neither of her sons listened.

  ‘I’m just saying that we might be able to save a few pounds if we’re more careful.’ Pran stared at Vijay. ‘Why don’t I have a quick look?’

  ‘Vijay’s right,’ Asha said. Jaya and Pran both glared at her with the same large brown eyes. She felt her cheeks flush as she sided with Vijay. ‘We’ve got things under control. What we need is more money coming in.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ Pran sighed. ‘You know what the man at the factory said to me today? “Any more of you lot and we’ll have enough to turn this place into England’s biggest corner shop.” ’

  ‘Forget them,’ said Vijay. ‘My friend at the jobcentre might be able to help you.’

  ‘They’re not the right kind of jobs,’ said Pran. What he really meant was that jobs working in a factory or on a building site were beneath him. Why couldn’t he forget his pride for once?

  ‘They’re all temporary, just until we can get back on our feet. And we might be able to get a business loan eventually, it’s what Madhuben’s husband from the barracks did. He’s got his own shop now.’ Asha poured out the chaas into bowls for everyone and then took a sip of the yoghurt drink. ‘Just take a job, any job, that’s all that matters right now.’

  31

  Jaya

  The months passed. Though Jaya loved having Pran home, the bitter days and dark nights of winter felt longer than ever. Power cuts, electricity shortages, the working week squeezed into three days. Vijay talked of petrol coupons used to ration supplies. A strange new world, queues for bread and flour; daar and shaak cooked in the morning and kept in a thermos to eat for dinner; cards played by candlelight, huddling around the gas cooker in the kitchen to keep warm. At first, Jaya had quite liked it, the candles reminding her of the divas they’d lit each Divari, the flames glinting, the orbs of light in the darkness. But as it went on through January and February, through a winter that never seemed to end, it brought back other memories, of Motichand calling to her when he arrived home, December’s laugh ringing out on the early-evening breeze. Thankfully, they were back to normal weeks again now, and somehow, Pran had even managed to hold onto his new job in a factory.

  Jaya opened the front door, marvelling at the fact that no one had stolen the milk money. Every morning, the fat glass bottles sat neatly lined up on the doorstep. She took them into the kitchen, loving the satisfying way that the foil lid gave way underneath her thumb, then added it to the stack of other tiny metal saucers in the corner of the worktop. Mary, the little girl down the street, would come and collect them at the weekend, although how a piece of foil could be valuable enough for a charity collection, Jaya couldn’t understand.

  She boiled the milk, then whisked in the last of the remaining yoghurt. She left it in the sitting room – the warmest part of the house – with the temperamental electric heater on, waiting for it to turn into a new batch of yoghurt. It was a dry day, so Jaya wrapped herself in as many layers as she could and braced herself for the snap of the wind against her face. The garden was tiny but she tried to make the best of it. When they’d first arrived, she’d been annoyed at the weeds that had cheekily pushed themselves through the gaps in the paving, though she couldn’t help but admire their determination to survive. In the borders, she tended to the few bedraggled shrubs that she was doing her best to keep alive. She’d even got Vijay to create a makeshift cover with an old umbrella attached to the fence, to hold off the worst of the heavy rain, but it had collapsed in a corner like a dead crow.

  As she went over to try and fix it, she caught sight of a patch of earth, newly smoothed over with soil. It couldn’t have been an animal; a cat wouldn’t sweep so neatly after doing its business. She reached up to unhook the old pair of garden gloves from the back of the toilet door, then pushed the earth back with a stick. A plastic bag peeked out from the damp soil. She tore it open and found a yellow Tupperware box inside, her Tupperware box, then peeled open the lid to reveal a thin pile of £1 and £5 notes, the silver ink and greying paper like the sky above.

  *

  ‘Sit.’ Jaya gestured towards the kitchen chair, waiting for Asha to take her place. She had had to wait an entire day to speak to her. Now she took her chance while Vijay and Pran were in the sitting room, listening to the Saturday evening news on the radio. Outside, snow had settled in the garden, gleaming ghostly white in the darkness.

  ‘But I’ve just started the paratha,’ said Asha, slapping another one into the frying pan.

  ‘Do it in a minute, Asha, please.’ Judging by the smell of burning, it was too late to save the paratha anyway. She couldn’t help but glance at the steel plates that Asha had forgotten to pick up from the draining board, now watermarked, misty tears trailing down the sides.

  Asha turned off the heat, wiped her hands on her apron and sat down.

  ‘I found some money, buried in the garden in my Tupperware.’ It sounded even more ridiculous saying the words out loud.

  Asha said nothing. Most likely weighing up whether Jaya needed to have a lie-down.

  ‘I already asked Vijay if it was his, and he said he didn’t even know what Tupperware was, let alone where it was kept in the kitchen,’ said Jaya. ‘So I thought it was yours?’ Jaya looked at Asha, hoping she could make sense of it.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Asha, no hint of surprise in her voice.

  ‘But that only leaves Pran.’ Surely it wasn’t his. Out of all of them, he was the most considered, measured, he wouldn’t resort to doing things like this. Besides, he’d only been working a short while, barely earning enough to set aside.

  Asha turned her gaze towards the window, then sighed. ‘He’s done it before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Asha told Jaya about the money Pran had hidden in the yard before they left Uganda. ‘He told me we’d go back and get it one day.’

  ‘But then why is he burying more here?’ said Jaya, running her finger along the edge of her thumbnail.

  ‘Doesn’t trust the banks here, I guess, not after what Amin did,’ said Asha. She hesitated, looking at the kitchen floor. ‘He asked me and Vijay for some, said he’d keep it safe for the family. I didn’t think much of it at that time.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to him. He can’t go around hiding money in the ground,’ said Jaya. And aside from that, how could anyone think about going back to
Uganda after everything that had happened?

  ‘No, wait. I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s—’ She broke off.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s coping.’

  Jaya felt disloyal, agreeing with Asha. She brushed it away instead. ‘But he’s got his job at the factory now.’

  ‘It’s not just work, though.’

  ‘But we’re all here, we’re all together,’ said Jaya. ‘He should be looking forwards now.’

  ‘It’s the whole way of life here, it’s tough for him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ How could it be tougher than the life they’d left behind?

  Asha sighed. ‘We’ve been here for so long without him. We’re settled, and he’s only just found a job. And he’s working for someone else – he hates that.’

  ‘I should have helped him more,’ said Jaya, guilt swelling in her chest. Her poor son, stuck between the only world he’d ever known and a future he didn’t choose for himself. Of course he was trying to take control of his life, of course he was struggling. She should have known.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Asha. ‘Give him some time. Pushing him right now might make it worse. If things don’t get better, I’ll talk to him.’

  Jaya stood up. Asha mustn’t see her tears. She stared out of the window. It had begun to snow again; the fat moon made the snowflakes glow so bright it looked like the stars were falling out of the sky.

  *

  In the coming days, Jaya sought comfort in her faith. She lit incense each morning and placed it on the only shelf in the bedroom that didn’t wobble, next to her wooden murti statuettes of the Hindu gods.

  The colourful, gold-leafed murtis she’d kept in the little shrine at home in Kampala had been far more ornate. Each morning, she’d walked in the pale light of dawn across the yard to the small room that was kept especially for her shrine, slipping her chumpul off outside, the leather sliding against her feet. The wooden structure that housed the shrine had been intricately carved by hand. There was a little nick in the front where December and Pran had knocked it against the wall when moving it into place. She’d sometimes run her finger along that ridge, jagged and rough, surrounded by sleek wood. It reminded Jaya that life wasn’t perfect, that you had to accept the bad as well as the good. Ribbons of sandalwood smoke swirled out from the agarbatti she’d lit. She didn’t particularly like the heavy, suffocating smell but it made her think of her own Ba, who had lit the same incense when Jaya was a small girl, in a little corner of their home, a world away from gilded statuettes or ornate frames.

  Now, in her new home in England, Jaya took out her mara from the bedside table. She loved the smoothness of the beads, solid and firm beneath her fingertips, the sandy wood carved into perfect spheres. The curve of each bead nuzzled against the next on a never-ending loop of fuchsia thread. She held each bead in turn between her finger and thumb, whispering her mantras.

  Faith kept her coming back each day but also habit, familiarity. It was one of the few things that was hers alone, something no one could take from her. Even if the temple was destroyed and the mara pulled apart, beads toppling across the floor, faith kept her coming back. And fear. If she was honest, she was frightened. If she didn’t believe, fate might turn against her and her family, hurt them far worse than it had already. So Jaya believed on behalf of all of them, twirling the mara round and round on her fingers, day after day, to protect them from harm.

  When she’d finished her prayers, she looked at the murtis and thought of her mother. How she’d told her the stories of Brahma, the creator of the universe; Vishnu, the protector; and Shiva, the destroyer. The idea of Shiva had terrified Jaya as a little girl. Even when her mother explained: ‘He has to destroy, otherwise how else can life renew and transform again?’

  ‘But what if he destroys our house, my school?’ Jaya had asked.

  ‘He does everything for a reason, beta. There’s no need to be afraid.’

  Now, she tried to take comfort in her mother’s words: change was good, life could be rebuilt. She clung to those words as tightly as she clung to her mara. The family had to renew and transform; Pran would be all right again.

  32

  Asha

  Asha picked the letter up from the doormat. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the white envelope, but it had a London stamp. She put it on the mantelpiece and waited for Pran to open it that evening.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ said Asha. Most of the letters they opened were either bills or airmail letters from friends and family abroad.

  ‘It’s from Rakesh. He’s here in London with his family,’ Pran looked up at her.

  ‘He’s here?’ Asha read the letter. Pran had lost touch with his old friend in the mess of expulsion. ‘How did he get our address?’

  Pran explained that Rakesh had somehow managed to get it through a mutual friend. When Pran replied, they received an invitation for the whole family to go for Sunday lunch.

  Rakesh lived with his family in a block of flats near Ealing Common. They climbed a concrete staircase that reeked of urine and stale smoke, with walls covered in a mixture of posters telling people where to put the rubbish and handwritten scrawled messages. More graffiti met them as they reached the second floor. Here, the row of flats ran along an open balcony that looked down onto a playground where teenagers hung around, cramming themselves onto a climbing frame that was clearly meant for small children. A few doors along, a little girl with blonde bunches sat on a step, clutching a paper bag. She was picking out cherries, chewing each one and throwing the stones on the ground.

  Laughter and the buzz of a radio came from inside the flat. Rakesh opened the door. ‘Pranbhai! Kemche?’

  Pran hugged him and smiled. He hadn’t looked this happy since Asha saw him in Arrivals at Heathrow.

  Rakesh looked different, as though he’d shrunk; the bulk of his tall frame had disappeared. He’d grown a beard, thick dark hair swirling along his jawline. Asha recalled the last time they’d seen each other and said goodbye, in the bright light of the temple, all praying for the same things, for safety and refuge. ‘Come in, everyone. Jayamasi, it’s so nice to see you.’

  Jaya patted his arm as they went into a narrow hallway. To their left was a kitchen with just enough space for a cooker, two cupboards and a small refrigerator. Every surface was crammed with large bowls and plates covered in tea cloths, and saucepans and frying pans were piled on the hob. Three young women, including Rakesh’s wife Sulekha, bustled about, washing and preparing and tidying, avoiding hips and elbows.

  They all said hello to each other and Jaya found the one tiny space left on the worktop to put down a margarine tub carrying some buteta vara she’d fried that morning, filling the house with the scent of mustard seeds and turmeric. They followed Rakesh to the main room, painted a murky pea-green colour that gave the place a gloomy feel, despite the bright blue sky and haze of sun outside. Two men, one of whom Asha recognized as Rakesh’s father, were nestled on a sofa that had been covered in an old cotton sari, the worn beige-and-brown velvet armrests peeping out from the corners, while two younger men sat on scuffed wooden stools. Rakesh’s mother made herself comfortable on an armchair, hands meeting across her belly as she kept a watchful eye on the young women coming in and out of the kitchen, debating the best place to put this plate or that bowl. Four children ran around; they couldn’t have been more than six or seven, singing nursery rhymes. It was as though everyone in the room was competing to see who could make the most noise. And yet, even though there was little room for Pran, Jaya, Asha and Vijay to stand, let alone sit, despite the fact that the room was hot and stuffy, Asha felt more at home than she had in months. The familiarity made her heart swell, reminding her of the many Sundays she’d visited friends and family, eating coconut sweetcorn, fried kachori and samosa, drinking sugar cane juice in the late-afternoon shade, talking until the crickets joined them in their chatter under the moonlight.

&nb
sp; ‘Challoh, let’s eat,’ said Sulekha, refusing Asha’s offer of help. ‘Please, don’t be shy.’

  The food was unveiled: golden-brown daar na bhajia glistened in a large bowl; another full of muttur bhat, the turmeric-coloured rice studded with peas; fenugreek paratha; a peppery chicken curry; yoghurt spiced with cumin and a kachumber of sliced tomatoes, cucumber, onion and grated carrot. They’d somehow managed to get their hands on halwo; the flat slices of baked milk and sugar scattered with flaked almonds and pistachio were piled on a plate. The joy of doing things that everyone else did bubbled inside Asha. Gathering together with friends, eating delicious food, surrounded by laughter and noise and music: the sounds of an ordinary life.

  They sat down on the carpet in the centre of the room while Rakesh shooed the kids away. He told them all how they’d got out of Uganda.

  ‘And you managed to get a job quite easily?’ said Pran.

  ‘I’m not sure anything’s easy here. But I managed to get a job in a department store. I help with the tailoring, like I used to in Uganda,’ said Rakesh. ‘But it’s still tough, with all of us living here.’

  ‘You live here together?’ said Asha. Many Ugandan Asian families were living in cramped conditions, but there were at least twelve people in the room excluding Asha and her family. Sulekha had already told them there were only two bedrooms in the flat.

  ‘My sister and brother-in-law have moved to another flat with their own family now,’ said Rakesh, glancing at the two youngest children. ‘But we live here with my parents and the kids. Sulekha and I sleep in here, the others take the two bedrooms.’

  ‘And you’ve been here since you arrived?’ Pran leant forward.

  Sulekha served them glasses of water, a strand of curly hair falling loose from her bun. ‘We were up north before, in an army barracks there for a while. Then we came to London, as we had a few friends here already. We would have got in touch sooner, but you know how things go. So much to think about. We’re only just settling in.’ Sulekha glanced at Rakesh with weary eyes. The strain must have taken its toll, the two of them responsible for three generations of their family.