Losing Touch Read online

  ‘I interfere? I was just talking to her—’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  Arjun turns and slaps Tarani’s face. Her mouth drops open.

  ‘You brought it on yourself. Now go upstairs.’

  Tarani rushes upstairs. He can hear her sobbing. So dramatic at such a young age. It is Sunila’s fault. He had the situation well under control and then she ruined everything.

  ‘She’ll get over it.’ He lifts his chin away from the shirt collar.

  Sunila begins to wash a couple of mugs in the sink. Let her sulk. He has a bus to catch. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon. Give my love to Pavitra.’ He keeps his voice level as he exits the kitchen.

  He buttons up his coat and clears his throat. Discipline is essential for children. Anyway, it was only a tap. She’ll be fine by tonight.

  Outside, the cold air lifts him away from the needlings of stress. His shoulders relax, his walking pace picks up and he breathes into the quiet of the street.

  A neighbourhood of identical semi-detached houses: some of them strain for a sense of separate identity with their shutters painted green, yellow or maroon, the front doors stained pine or teak. A breeze ripples the airy fields of TV antennae as he turns to walk up a tree-lined road. An iron fence runs for about an eighth of a mile, enclosing Heinz Laboratories, the buildings set back in their park and screened by tall stands of trees. They need a lot of privacy for whatever fearful ketchup experiments they conduct.

  The brisk pace calms him and he arrives at the bus stop feeling cheerful. It is a clear October morning. The birches cling on to summer, while beneath the chestnut trees the handspan leaves change colour and the beeches are skirted with red and purple patchwork.

  The bus comes quickly and Arjun settles into a window seat, watching as the road pulls away from lingering fields, gradually gathers small parades of shops, housing estates, a comprehensive school, an eruption of traffic lights and finally narrows its brows as it ploughs into the coriander-mint chutney and achari mutton smells of Little India, Southall, where the shops run their wares right out onto the pavement. Women in saris and shalwars flip dupattas and pallus over determined shoulders to do battle with shopkeepers.

  A young girl in a shalwar khameez slips into the seat in front of him. How sweet she looks in her shalwar, something that Tarani would never wear. The girl settles her dupatta scarf over her head and turns to look out of the window. She softly hums a tune, nodding her head.

  The bus slows to a crawl as the men and their women and their daughters and sons and the perpetually astonished babies, and the pavement-gazing bent-backed old men, one hand behind their backs, the other holding a black cane that stabs at the road in front of them, cross in front and behind until the bus is a small boat carried along through an endlessly parting and closing sea.

  The young girl hums and taps pink-frosted fingernails against the window. A woman sitting in front of the girl turns around and stares. The girl doesn’t notice, and Arjun is pleased. Let the child sing.

  The bus settles into a low gear, drifts along, gentled into a different time, and another tune drifts into Arjun’s mind. He is transported back to India, to the boarding-school Christmas party. Loops of green and red and blue paper chains wreathe the hall, the twenty-foot tree, heavy with tinsel and lights, bending slightly to the right as if listening to the music. He’d been dancing with Anju Padiyar, turning solemnly round and round to this very waltz.

  The soft shuffle of feet across the floorboards, a teacher winding up the gramophone one more time. Anju is a pretty girl. If only she were Lorna.

  Anju jerks his hand. ‘Am I invisible, then?’

  ‘What? Oh. No. I’m sorry.’ He smiles at Anju, as Lorna is swept past him by a tall Marati boy, who drags her about as if she were a mop.

  ‘I suppose you’d rather be dancing with her.’ Anju tosses her dense mass of dark curls. Anju has round eyes, an upturned nose, a perfectly round rosebud mouth. Arjun knows there are at least fifteen boys who would love to be in his place.

  ‘Who else is in the room when you are, er, in the room?’

  Anju rolls her eyes. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s boring. You haven’t said anything about my dress. Or my hair.’ The curl-toss. ‘It took me hours to get ready.’

  She could be wearing a sheet for all he knows. He and Lorna never talk about such trivia. They share secrets: he hates his father, she hates her sister. He hates the captain of the cricket team, she hates that Anglo-Indian Bonnie Deefholts and her long brown hair. They both adore chum-chum, Branston Pickle and library period. She is reading Byron. He is reading Biggles. She scolds him for his juvenile tastes. He mocks her love of the romantic poets. Even so, when she is lost among the cantos, he gazes at her wavy dark hair, far more beautiful than Bonnie Deefholts’. He loves how her right eyebrow twitches slightly when she finds something especially beautiful. It is a signal that he must reimmerse himself in his own book, since she will look up to read him a couplet. For this he must look slightly bored, indicating that he is busy reading.

  Arjun starts. The conductor is calling out, ‘Ealing Broadway’. This is his stop. What nonsense, dreaming over memories. He might have ended up in Shepherd’s Bush. As he steps down onto the pavement, his right leg buckles and he is thrown against the metal bus-stop pole. He grabs at it, managing to stop himself from falling. His right leg won’t straighten properly, won’t respond. People stream past, averting their faces as though he’s done something particularly offensive.

  A man in a cloth cap and gabardine raincoat stops. ‘Are you all right? Had a bit of a tumble there.’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine, thank you. It’s just clumsiness. I was getting off the bus.’ His embarrassed smile pleads for the man to move on, but he stays.

  ‘Nearly fell base over apex off the tube the other day. Whole army of chaps shoving to get off.’ The man has clear blue eyes and a neat salt-and-pepper moustache. ‘Sometimes wonder where common courtesy has gone to, these days. It wouldn’t hurt for people to slow down a bit, get off the bus like civilized human beings instead of a torrent of lemmings.’

  Arjun is momentarily distracted by the image. ‘Yes. We do tend to rush about.’ Almost without realizing it, he’s adopted the man’s speech pattern. ‘No reason for it, really.’

  ‘Absolutely right.’ The man narrows his eyes. ‘What regiment are you?’

  Arjun realizes he’s talking to an old war vet. ‘Not the army. Air Force.’

  ‘Ah. Fly boy, eh?’ The man laughs. ‘My son wants to join up. Told him to keep his feet on the ground.’

  Arjun clears his throat. ‘I was in the medical corps. Nursing.’

  ‘Capital. Yes. Knew you were a services man.’

  Still holding onto the bus stop, his coat rumpled and his leg only just beginning to take its weight again, Arjun knows he cannot possibly look the part.

  The man leans in a little. ‘Shoes. Always know a man by his shoes.’

  Arjun looks down. His highly polished black shoes gleam in the weak mid-morning sun. He glances at the man’s shoes. Brown brogues, perforated with the signature pattern, also highly polished.

  ‘Well, I’d best be on my way. Nice talking to you.’ The man touches his hat.

  Arjun finds his right leg is able to take his weight and he nods. ‘Good day to you.’

  He stops in front of a shop window to check his clothing. Everything is normal. His forehead feels tender from the collision with the pole. He wipes his face with his handkerchief. No blood. Just a bruise, then.

  He walks carefully, but his leg now responds perfectly. How thoughtful of the man to stop and speak to him, to give him enough time to recover, to deflect the curious attention of passers-by. People are so kind.

  He tries a more brisk pace and the leg is perfectly all right, as though nothing just happened to make the left leg have to brace against the sudden loss of the right leg. He f
elt nothing except the lurch of the unexpected. Will it happen again, in front of Haseena?

  He walks along the tree-lined street. The houses are more spacious, the gardens much larger. No children tear up and down on bikes or scooters. There is a sense of peace and dignity, the kind of England he read about while he was in India. He relaxes into his usual stride, enjoying the sheer physical pleasure of walking. The fall was nothing; just a small irregularity. He turns left into the familiar cul-de-sac and rings the doorbell at number twenty-two.

  He hears thumping feet and a high voice. ‘Uncle!’ Haseena opens the door, and seven-year-old Sadiq flings himself at Arjun.

  ‘Let Uncle come in.’ Haseena hugs Arjun. ‘Arjun, so lovely to see you.’

  Arjun lifts Sadiq for a hug. ‘How big you are, Sadiq. You’ll have to carry me.’

  Sadiq struggles to get down. ‘I can do it, Uncle.’ He wraps his arms around Arjun’s legs and struggles to lift. ‘See? I did it.’

  ‘Are you going to be a weightlifter?’

  Sadiq considers. ‘I might.’

  Haseena stares at Arjun. ‘Your forehead − oh, Arjun − what happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just an accident.’

  ‘Did someone hit you, Uncle?’

  ‘Goonda. Your uncle isn’t a prize fighter.’

  ‘I’m going to be a prize fighter. Muhammad Ali. Float like a bee.’ Sadiq flaps his arms and jumps.

  ‘Go and play while I take care of Uncle.’

  ‘Okay.’ Sadiq cheerfully rushes off. ‘Don’t each lunch without me.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Because it’s my favourite chicken.’

  ‘I know. Now go.’

  ‘Fa-vour-ite chi-cken-oo.’ Rapid thudding up the stairs.

  Haseena peers at Arjun’s forehead. She smells of lavender. ‘Look at this thing. It’s the size of an egg. Come, let me put something on it.’

  ‘It’s all right, Haseena. Really. I’m fine.’

  Haseena hesitates. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Now, that’s a good idea.’ He follows her into the kitchen and sits at the round table next to the window looking out onto the garden. ‘I like this view. You’ve done a lovely job with your borders. The lavender looks so healthy.’

  ‘I had to cut it back. It was taking over the lawn. I’ve been making little sachets to put with the towels and sheets in the airing cupboard. I could send some home with you for Sunila.’

  Arjun imagines the smell of lavender perfuming the bedroom. But Sunila would be suspicious of any gift coming from Haseena, especially something as intimate as lavender for sheets.

  ‘Nawal and I thought we might sell these. Just to make a little money. But who would buy?’ Haseena laughs.

  Arjun taps the table with one finger. ‘Show me.’

  While Haseena steps out, Arjun stares out of her window onto the garden. The blooming lavender is an otherworldly mist, and it wouldn’t surprise him to see a fox or a rabbit peering between the bushes. What does surprise him is the sudden throbbing in his head. Perhaps it’s a delayed reaction.

  Haseena returns with a glass of water and hands him two Panadol. ‘These will help.’

  He takes the tablets while she moves around, collecting the tea things.

  She hesitates. ‘Arjun, what happened, really?’

  ‘I was getting off the bus. My right leg. It just gave way.’

  ‘Bhai, please go to the hospital for tests.’ She pours his tea.

  ‘You make such lovely tea, Haseena. Real tea leaves, not like this teabag business.’

  She hands over the lavender sachet, pale green muslin, laced with a lavender ribbon.

  ‘This is beautiful, Haseena. I can see these flying off the shelves.’

  ‘Arjun?’ She sits down. ‘I’ve seen this in Pakistan. The leg goes suddenly and then the person falls. Just now and then, nothing to really worry about. Then it becomes more frequent. Then the child… my small cousin had it. She died. Lots of children do. But it happens to a lot of adults, too.’

  He smooths the sachet’s ribbon. ‘I’m sorry about your cousin.’

  ‘But probably for the best. What kind of life is it for a child to sit in a wheelchair and watch others run about?’

  ‘So sad. Poor little thing.’ He shakes his head.

  Haseena is crumbling her biscuit. Both Haseena and Nawal have the same profile, the same pale skin, the same pretty fingers. Jonti always joked that Nawal had been short-sighted and only agreed to marry him because she couldn’t see him properly. How could she want some blackie like me?

  He clears his throat. ‘So, how is Nawal?’

  Haseena’s hands become still. ‘They always did things together, she and Jonti.’ She laughs. ‘They did this bird-call thing in the house. If they were in different rooms and she wanted him, she’d call “cheep” and he’d reply “cheep-cheep”. Sunila said it drove her mad.’ She smiles. ‘But even if they were a bit crazy, at least they were crazy together.’

  She fills her cup and holds the tiny two-cup teapot. ‘The lavender sachets are the first thing Nawal’s shown an interest in. She comes over. We make sachets and drink tea. So far, it’s nothing stronger than tea!’

  He smiles, then leans forward and gently takes the teapot from her, holds it in both hands. ‘Haseena, you are such a good sister to Nawal.’

  She reaches across the table. He looks down at her open palm as though someone has handed him something precious to hold. He tenderly places the teapot in her hand. For a moment she looks at it, then back at him. Her face opens into a smile, and then she begins laughing. Seeing what he has done, he also begins to laugh.

  ‘Really, Haseena. What a clumsy idiot I am. You give me your hand and I give you a teapot.’

  ‘It is also a gift. God moves in mysterious ways.’ She opens the door and calls Sadiq.

  Sadiq bounces into the kitchen. ‘Mum? You know my school lunch, right? Well, Aysha keeps eating all my biscuits.’

  ‘Aysha is the new girlfriend,’ Haseena explains. ‘The old girlfriend was last week.’

  Sadiq plonks himself on a chair. ‘I mean, I offered her one but she took them all.’ His round eyes are astonished.

  ‘It’s good to share. Come. Eat.’ Haseena serves Sadiq some rice and curried chicken.

  Over lunch, Haseena tells Arjun that she and Nawal are arranging a party for family and friends to sell the sachets and other small handmade things. Nawal, she says, could sell the shah his own jewels.

  Sadiq asks to leave the table and goes off singing, ‘Silence is golden, but my eyes still see’. Haseena and Arjun finish eating and Arjun pushes his chair back.

  ‘Excellent cooking, Haseena. First rate.’

  Haseena pulls a face. ‘You sound like you’re reviewing the troops and I am a kitchen cook.’

  He laughs. ‘But a superior kitchen cook.’ He stands up. ‘You sit. I’ll clear the dishes. I’m an excellent bottle-washer.’ It is an effort to stand. He has eaten much more than he usually does at home.

  Haseena follows him into the kitchen, sits on a stool and watches while he piles the dishes on the counter next to the sink, fills the sink with hot water and adds a squirt of Fairy Liquid. He starts with the plates, washing and rinsing. She picks up a tea towel. It is peaceful: the soft clop of soapy water, the musical jingle as he rinses the spoons and forks, the clean clack of plate to plate, dish to dish, as Haseena dries and stacks.

  ‘Jonti loved washing up. He said his favourite thing was to have his hands in hot soapy water.’ Haseena rubs at a fork with her tea towel. ‘And then you’d come back to find him dreaming out of the window. All the dirty dishes still piled up and Nawal comes in and throws her hands up.’

  Arjun does the Indian head wobble. ‘Okay, okay, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Just this minute I’m doing them, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s exactly like him!’ Haseena, laughing, wipes down the counter.

  He dries his hands and looks at the satisfying arrangement of clean crockery o
n the table. Haseena hangs up the damp towel and moves to put the plates away. Arjun puts out a hand.

  She looks at him, puzzled. ‘Bhai?’

  He can’t explain how he is moved by the neat pile of plates and bowls, the stack of four pans, the gleaming prongs of the whisk, the sheer orderliness, so different from Sunila maniacally slamming everything away as hurriedly as possible. But here, on the kitchen table, is the result of all the work they have done, something lovely and harmonious.

  He picks up the pans. ‘Just tell me where to put these.’

  It is time to go. He’d better not stay longer, even though it would be so comfortable to sit and doze in one of Haseena’s large armchairs.

  Sadiq comes tumbling downstairs to throw himself at Arjun for a goodbye hug. Haseena hugs him, too.

  Arjun tweaks Sadiq’s nose. ‘It was lovely to see you. Now, you take care of your mother, all right?’

  ‘Arjun, please, you’ll follow up with the doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiles at Haseena.

  ‘And let me know?’

  ‘I will.’ He turns at the bottom of the path to wave.

  ‘Can I come to your house, Uncle?’ Sadiq wriggles as Haseena tugs his arm. ‘But Mum, I haven’t seen Murad and Tarani for ages. Please?’

  Arjun calls back, ‘Of course you can come, Sadiq. I’ll check with Aunty and we’ll arrange it.’

  ‘Thank you, Arjun.’ Haseena waves while Sadiq does his jubilation dance.

  Arjun walks back along the streets to the main road. What a sweet, unaffected boy Sadiq is. If only Tarani and Murad could be more natural. Tarani, especially, is so self-conscious. And Murad. What could have made him so uncommunicative, so distant? Arjun sighs.

  Just after Southall, the bus brakes at a request stop. Suddenly the smell of boiled fish overwhelms the memory of Haseena’s chicken curry as a tall woman sits next to him. She stares down at him and sniffs audibly, turning her head away.

  He hadn’t expected the English to be so childish.

  ‘Just ignorance, isn’t it?’ Jonti, shrugging. ‘No more rude than they were in India. Get this, boy. Hurry up, boy. Jaldi, jaldi.’ Jonti’s high-pitched version of a British accent. ‘Anyone who goes around in a pith helmet and shorts with long socks has no right to make fun of anyone else.’