Kololo Hill Page 3

  ‘Yeah, remember that ridiculous business conference?’ said Vijay. The year before, Idi Amin had made a speech to leading Asian businessmen, under the pretence of supporting commerce.

  ‘Oh, don’t talk to me about that,’ said Naseem. ‘Hours standing there while Amin Dada lectured us for scheming and hoarding all our money, talking all sorts of nonsense. I still thank God I wasn’t sitting near the front, those people ended up drenched in his spit!’

  ‘Naseem, you boring everyone with your business talk again?’ Razia tottered over.

  ‘Who, me?’ Naseem winked at them. ‘Never.’

  Although their talk turned to new films and cricket scores, the alarm in the streets outside somehow crept back into the conversation. More than once, Asha noticed Razia steering them away, back to lighter matters.

  Later, as Asha half listened to Razia’s talk about the latest saris she’d brought back from India, she watched Pran and Vijay huddled once again in a corner. Pran tried to grab onto Vijay’s arm but he flicked his hand away.

  Asha told herself that they were just behaving like siblings. She thought of her own petty squabbles with her brothers back in Jinja and tried to put it out of her mind.

  *

  The next day, Asha finished helping Jaya in the kitchen and walked out onto the veranda. The shade had retreated to the farthest corners of the yard. As she passed the sitting room, she paused. Pran and Vijay were talking, but the younger brother sounded agitated.

  ‘I had my holiday. A once-in-a-lifetime experience, thank you very much.’ His words were terse.

  ‘Come on, Vij. We only need a bit more money for the dukan.’

  ‘You said that last time. Made it sound so easy.’

  ‘But it was easy, wasn’t it?’ The armchair creaked as Pran shifted in his seat.

  ‘Easy for who?’ An unfamiliar note of anger in Vijay’s words.

  ‘What’s the issue?’ said her husband.

  ‘What if I’d been caught?’

  The breeze in the yard picked up. She couldn’t hear what Pran said next, but she didn’t need to. She’d been sure something was going on and here was the proof. Asha knew she should walk away or otherwise let them know she was there, but she couldn’t move. She had to know the truth.

  Vijay’s voice was curt. ‘We both got paid, but I did all the hard work. Me. All those questions at the airport. I could have ended up in prison.’

  ‘Shhh, Vij. They have better things to worry about than you. Anyway, I thought you wanted to see a bit of England?’

  ‘Not like this.’ A shuffling sound. ‘Lying to everyone.’

  ‘We’re doing this for them.’

  ‘You tell yourself that.’

  ‘Seriously, Vij—’

  ‘Seriously. I’m done.’ Her brother-in-law’s footsteps got louder; he was coming towards the door.

  Asha stepped back. Too late. He paused and stared at her. Vijay looked as though he was about to say something, but instead, he turned away and headed for his bedroom.

  Before she could do anything, Jaya called out to her from her bedroom. ‘Asha, can you come here and help me with my sari? We’re going to be late for temple.’

  Asha looked towards the sitting-room door. ‘Coming.’

  After she’d finished helping Jaya, Asha hurried back to the bedroom, pulling out a brand-new sari, embroidered birds of paradise soaring through the emerald-green silk. She couldn’t pin it in place, her fingers clammy against the metal. How could Pran have kept all this from her?

  Heat crept up her neck. She’d find out exactly what Pran had been up to. All the lies he’d told. The gaps between his words.

  Her breath ragged, she tried to calm herself as she put on the sari. It had been a part of her bridal trousseau and she couldn’t help but think back to her wedding day. They’d come back to Pran’s house after the ceremony, along with the groom’s guests. The wedding songs were sung in whispers, to avoid drawing the army’s attention to the gold hidden under sari blouses. It made the guests’ singing sound a little eerie, ghostly even, in the fading light of the day, as though they were trying to cast a spell. Asha, weighed down by the gold thread in her red-and-green gharchora sari, and all the earrings, bangles, necklaces, weighed down from the sheer exhaustion of being awake since dawn, anxious about tripping over her hem as she walked slowly into the sitting room.

  The wedding games began. There was a steel bowl filled with water, coloured red with food dye, on the table. She sat opposite Pran, face lit up by the little diva flames.

  ‘Off you go!’ said Vijay.

  Pran and Asha had plunged their hands into the red water, cheered on with subdued cries from the onlookers. How strange, after being careful for so long to hide their relationship from prying family members or neighbours, to be able to touch each other in public. The thrill of her skin against his, under the water. The bottom of the steel sani slipped and slid beneath her fingertips as she searched for the wedding ring. Pran’s brows furrowed in concentration, hunting for the tiny circle of gold in the pool of water.

  Too late. Asha felt the cool metal against her fingertip. ‘Found it!’ she shouted, holding the ring up in triumph.

  Pran’s eyes narrowed in mock dismay.

  ‘You know what this means?’ Asha whispered.

  ‘Looks like Asha will be the one running the marriage, Pranbhai!’ said Vijay, slapping his brother on the back.

  Pran returned Asha’s smile. ‘We’ll see.’

  Luckily, the guests hadn’t lingered, wanting to hurry back before it got too late. The rest of the family were tired and they quickly said their goodnights too.

  Later, Pran led Asha to the bedroom – now their bedroom – for the first time. She stepped inside and he closed the door behind him.

  Unsure what to do next, she fiddled nervously with the rows of thin bangles; the gold glinted, the green and red glass opaque in the light. ‘It’s going to take me most of the night to get all this off.’

  Pran walked towards her and took her wrist in his hands.

  Asha looked up, heat blooming on her cheeks.

  ‘Well, we’d better get started then.’ He smiled, and brought the inside of her wrist to his lips, his mouth brushing her skin. He slipped off a bangri and let it drop onto the bed. He moved his lips further up her wrist and slid another bangri off. Now, her palm on his cheek, her fingertips on his neck, the warmth of him, the softness of his skin.

  The surprise of him after months of urgent, stolen kisses. The delicious burn of his skin on hers. The tip of his tongue along her stomach. After all their secret meetings, the thrill of the illicit replaced by the joy of never again having to hide her love for him.

  Why did that night feel like a lifetime ago?

  She had to focus. They were already running late for the temple. Luckily it didn’t take as long as usual; there was no need to put on heavy gold necklaces and earrings as it was no longer safe to wear them anymore. With her finger, she pressed a round green chandlo between her eyebrows, then pulled on a few simple green bangri over her wrists, the plastic dragging against hands that were swollen from the heat. Asha tugged at her waves with a comb, brushing her hair into a thick, low bun and spraying it with hairspray. She smoothed on some lipstick, the waxy taste escaping onto her tongue.

  She had to speak to Pran, she needed to know everything. But it would have to wait.

  *

  Long ago, on the land that became Kololo Hill, an Acholi tribal chief was captured by the British. ‘Kololo, kololo,’ he’d cried out, ‘I’m alone, I’m alone.’ His cry echoed through the decades: Kololo Hill. The hill still looked out across the great city of Kampala where, years before, long-limbed impala bounded over the land, surrounded by the other great hills, from Namirembe to Kibuli, Mengo to Kasubi.

  Down below, the city centre had sprawled, spurred on by colonial rule. Two broad streets, lined with dukans, bars, restaurants and banks, a vast taxi park, plus the busy markets: Owino, Bwaise and Nakaser
o, while taller office buildings dotted the skyline. And there, in the middle of it all, the Hindu temple stood proud against the bustle of the city. People went about their daily business, touting their wares at the market or hurrying to and from work, while soldiers looked on from an army truck on the street corner. Asha thought of her own childhood growing up in Jinja, when people went to temple swathed in their finest gold, without a care. Her local mandir in Jinja was small but it was always filled with gossip and laughter. She’d join the other children as they stole sweet barfi and jelebi before running off outside to eat it. But now, people hurried inside as fast as they could.

  Jaya led the family into the mandir. Here, the smooth beige walls were dotted with black-and-white photographs of the temple exterior. Bright colours were saved for the front, where the metal and carved stone murtis were painted turquoise, scarlet and fuscia to bring out the clothes and the kind eyes of the deities who watched over the worshippers. In front of them, offerings were lined up: fresh fruit and marigold flowers; little pots of milk; pink and mint-green sweetmeats bathed in the glow of the diva.

  Asha stayed with Jaya, smiling politely as they spoke to her mother-in-law’s many friends. The heat from the mass of bodies swelled around her. She turned towards the back of the temple. Pran greeted his friends before taking his place on the floor next to Motichand and Vijay.

  ‘You newlyweds still can’t keep your eyes off each other, heh?’ said Ramamasi, one of Jaya’s friends, nudging her with her elbow. Asha blushed.

  Jaya looked equally embarrassed. ‘Let’s find a place over here, shall we?’

  The singing began, the sound bouncing off the marble floor and walls, followed by the chime of the finger cymbals, the clang of the temple bell. Asha’s voice joined Jaya’s, a ribbon of gentle notes, while others around them half shouted, half squawked the words. Asha admired those who weren’t self-conscious in front of God, who sang every word out of tune but sang anyway. It was the ones who had to sing louder than anyone else that she was suspicious of, as though it was a contest: the more forceful the singing, the stronger their faith in God.

  The singing was paused for prayers. She stole a glance behind her. Vijay, sitting peacefully; Motichand, legs crossed, head slanted, body swaying as though he might topple over at any minute, softly snoring. Pran’s eyes shut tight, flat palms together, the model worshipper. Behaving as though he never lied, had never been dishonest. Behaving that way in front of her, in front of God.

  The singing began again, bells ringing, hands clapping, voices louder. The scent of warm ghee and the rose and sandalwood agarbatti swirling in the hot air.

  Om Jai Jagdish Hare

  She had to cling on to the words, to find comfort in them.

  Swami Jaya Jagadeesha Hareh

  Her husband kept secrets from her.

  Bhakta janonke sankat

  Told her that he had nothing to hide.

  Kshana mei door kareh

  Lying to her face.

  Om Jaya Jagadeesha Hareh

  What now?

  4

  Jaya

  Outside the dukan, a man rode his bicycle along the long street, balancing a piece of papaya in one hand and manoeuvring the bike with the other. Hitched to the handlebar was a bundle of fabrics so big he had to stretch his neck to see over the top.

  Jaya stepped inside. The dust swirled in the low light from the small window guarded by metal rods. Pran had suggested making a quick stop here on the way back from the temple, while Motichand and Vijay stayed behind to help clear up. Nowadays, Jaya made the most of those visits to the temple, one of the few times they could catch up with their friends. For years the family had enjoyed entertaining guests, cooking vast meals of shaak rotli and daar bhaat, samosa and bhajia, languishing for hours in the sitting room or out on the veranda, gossiping and laughing into the long night. But now everyone was eager to get back to their homes in time for curfew.

  Jaya took it all in as Pran showed her and Asha around. He had certainly improved it, expanding into the space at the back. New shelves lined the freshly painted walls, filled with tins of Bird’s custard powder and ENO fruit salts, stacks of Carnation condensed milk and Ovaltine, jars of gobstoppers, bottles of whisky and gin.

  Pran was nothing like his father. Motichand had flitted from business to business the whole time he’d been married to Jaya. In the early days, he ran a small concrete block of a dukan outside the city, where the rain used to rattle like pebbles on the tin roof and the stale air smelt of the spices they kept at the back: cloves and fenugreek and cardamom; not even the many piles of Lux soap could hide the scent. Motichand passed the hours playing cards outside with the neighbouring shopkeepers, until the day stretched into night and the only way he could tell the difference between a heart and a diamond was by waving his cards under the light of the kerosene lamp, the flame flickering as though it too was exhausted by the day’s heat. Later he’d owned the auto garage at the bottom of William Street, which he said could service all cars, BMWs to Renaults, Rolls-Royces to Citroens. He painted a sign on a long piece of thick cotton: ‘Motichandlal’s Motors’, but after a few weeks in the sun and a few afternoon showers it was a tattered wreck, leaving only the word ‘Moti’, which meant ‘fat’ in Gujarati, flapping in the wind. The trouble was that Motichand would give his ‘customers’ – mainly his friends – their own accounts and let them run up tabs as long as the Nile itself. People like Cyrus Mody, who’d been a regular customer since the beginning. Like others, he’d rarely paid his account. Eventually he stopped coming to the dukan at all, and even after Pran cornered him at weddings or outside the temple, Cyrus managed to wriggle out of paying them back, promising to do it very soon, very soon. And of course, the benefit of taking advantage of others was that you had plenty of money for yourself: Cyrus Mody had a huge house looking down on everyone from the top of Kololo Hill, and two sparkling Mercedes-Benzes sitting in the driveway.

  No, Motichand had always been too relaxed with the customers. ‘Of course, you can pay next week,’ he’d tell them, never wanting to disappoint, always wanting to show how generous he was. But a week became a month, a month became two months. Little was written down or recorded and money came and went as often as the customers. The only thing that stopped Motichand going bankrupt was telling everyone he was selling up, which gave him a reason to call in the debts before he sweet-talked someone else into buying whatever business he was trying to flog that time.

  For every shilling that slipped through Motichand’s fingers, Jaya found a way to catch hold of it again. She’d sewn shirts, made day dresses or an occasional miniskirt (this she wasn’t happy about, but they were popular with the girls and at least they were quick to make with so little fabric). Even now that things were better, the habits wouldn’t leave her. Asking December to find the cheapest produce at the market, hiding away money in corners of the house where Motichand would never look, just in case, just in case.

  ‘We want to get a fridge, for the Coca-Cola.’ Pran pointed to an empty corner at the far end of the shop. Asha didn’t bother to turn and carried on looking out of the window.

  ‘It looks very nice, beta,’ said Jaya, trailing her hand along the wooden counter, tracing the ridges and dents beneath her fingertips. She sat down on an old chair in the corner to rest her legs.

  ‘And these are all new.’ He moved over to the shelves at the back, yet Asha stayed where she was.

  Perhaps she couldn’t appreciate how much the dukan had changed, how hard Pran and Vijay had worked, but she could at least show some interest. ‘What do you think, Asha?’ said Jaya.

  Asha looked up at Pran, her voice flat. ‘It must have cost a lot.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the money,’ Pran said with a light laugh, as he fiddled with a button on his shirt. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘People might talk, all this money being spent,’ said Asha. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back now?’

  In some ways, Jaya was in awe of Asha, the way s
he’d arrived at her new marital home, bold as anything. Jaya, on the other hand, in marriage, as with everything else in her life, had made herself fluid. She’d accepted others talking about her while she was still in the same room, as she’d been taught to do since she was a child. Never saying anything out of turn, though she often thought it, of course, screaming thoughts inside her mind, never doing anything to anger her in-laws. Shifting, moulding into new spaces, tucking herself into corners, never getting in the way. Surviving. Which was why it was all the more astonishing for Jaya to see Asha talk to her husband in this way.

  ‘We’re doing well, let them talk,’ said Pran. ‘We’ve done nothing—’

  ‘Nothing wrong?’ Asha said in a brittle tone.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ said Jaya. Why was she being so rude? ‘Pran and Vijay have gone to a lot of trouble to do this.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Tell us how you did it exactly, Pran?’ Asha wandered around the dukan, looking along the shelves. ‘How you managed to make it such a success.’

  ‘Asha—’ Pran’s eyes flashed towards his wife.

  ‘It’ll bring more money in, I suppose.’ Asha shrugged her shoulders. ‘And that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Let’s go home, shall we?’ said Pran, before Jaya had a chance to speak.

  *

  Dusk wrapped itself around the city. The road stretched before them as they drove out of the centre and back up along Kololo Hill. The music on the radio and the rumble of the car through the streets kept conversation at bay.

  Up ahead, two army trucks were parked along the road. Four soldiers were standing around, two slouched against the trucks, the others swinging their legs out of the passenger doors, rifles propped against the huge wheels.

  Jaya gripped the top of the car seat; the soldiers hadn’t been here on the way to the dukan. It used to be police cars in the road dealing with traffic issues. Idi Amin’s military police had taken over the official responsibilities now, although the way they hung around never looked official.