Losing Touch Page 3

  They were brothers. Surely some of that magic has rubbed off on Arjun? Surely it’s possible to love Sunila the way Jonti loved Nawal, to come home with real anticipation? She is wearing a simple but attractive shalwar, her face softens and she looks like the pretty young girl he’d courted in Bombay. She’s happy to see him. The scenario grates to a halt since it’s impossible to imagine Sunila either in a shalwar or looking happy to see him.

  He listens to his body as he gets off the bus, but his leg is fine. On an impulse, he takes the path through the Big Field, breathing in the afternoon cocktail of cold leaves, wet grass, smoke from a bonfire. Four small boys bundle across the grass, frantically aiming kicks at a fast-flying football. The ball bounces off a tree and rolls nearby. Without thinking, Arjun steps off the path, fields the ball and shoots it back. The scrimmage is soon rushing in the opposite direction, the ball leading the struggle of muddy knees and elbows. He watches them go, imagining the excitement of this moment, being in the middle of the pack, the fast breathing, the fleeting second when foot connects with ball.

  He wonders when this moment deserted him. From one Arjun, always urging his little brother to come on, catch up, he grew into another Arjun who led his family overseas to England, to another who developed a respected medical expertise. He substituted accounting for RAF nursing so that the children’s schooling wouldn’t be interrupted. Now he is yet another Arjun who nervously monitors his own walking. When did the forward rush change into the hesitant step?

  He knows what Haseena was talking about. He, too, saw it in India: the leg collapsing underneath the walker, the pitching forward, the look of absolute surprise. It is hard to see that this may be him. I have a condition. I have an illness. I am dying from… One thing is certain: if he mentions his self-diagnosis of spinal muscular atrophy to the doctor, it will be dismissed. You heard of this where? Oh. India. Well. We don’t need to worry about that.

  He will go to the hospital. He will submit to their tests, their secrecy, their whispering. The most important thing is not to worry Sunila or the children. They mustn’t know. He must stay calm. Suddenly he feels his breath quicken. Will he be like Jonti? Will it be fast? Nawal took care of Jonti so lovingly. Arjun cannot expect that of Sunila. Would she put him in a nursing home? He can’t imagine what it would be like to sit in a wheelchair: never to be able to kick a football, run for the bus, play squash. What kind of a life would that be?

  There’s no point in dwelling on the negative. His step is easy, strong. All the muscles are sending the right messages to his brain. He breathes in deeply, walks quickly and rehearses the scene with the little football boys. It will entertain Sunila.

  ‌3

  ‌Messages Mislaid

  November 1968

  In the neighbour’s garden, a winter thrush huddles high up in a bare sycamore tree. Short, blunt grass. Cold morning air. Outside, the weather fluctuates, the garden changes, but, in her kitchen, Sunila’s feet are planted on well-scrubbed linoleum. The dishes are washed, dried and put away. The refrigerator is organized. The cupboards have food and cooking equipment in neat rows and stacks. Everything is in its place. This is England.

  Today, England is chilly. Winter is dreadful, but there is something fascinating about the stillness, the pitiless weight of the cold. It is one of those grey-and-white days where your breath puffs ahead of you. A few days of this, and then the temperature will drop another ten degrees. November in Middlesex.

  The phone rings. Pavitra talks so rapidly that it is difficult to make out the words. ‘He – he—’ She is sobbing. She tries again and Sunila, at first sympathetic, has to bite the inside of her cheek. If only Pavi could hear herself, she would laugh too.

  ‘Suni, he—’ She gives up and weeps.

  Sunila shakes as she tries to contain herself. Finally she gasps.

  Pavitra manages a full sentence. ‘Suni, are you all right?’

  ‘If only you could hear yourself, Pavi. He – he – he—’ Sunila laughs aloud.

  A nervous giggle, then her sister-in-law says, ‘I sound like a monkey!’

  ‘Or one of those comedians on television.’

  They laugh together, neither able to speak for some moments. The laughter dwindles, they sigh and Pavitra says, ‘I like Morecambe and Wise.’

  ‘Me too. Remember that sketch? The one where he puts his foot out from behind the curtain and keeps putting and putting—’

  ‘And the leg is ten feet long!’

  They scream again and Sunila sinks onto the stool so she can laugh more comfortably. She wipes her eyes. ‘So funny.’

  ‘And clean, Suni.’

  ‘I only like clean comedy.’

  This isn’t true. Some of Sunila’s happiest memories are from parties with her cousins back in Bombay where the men told naughty stories while the women egged them on.

  The Morecambe and Wise joke has reminded her of Arjun’s failing leg. He never knows when it will happen. But she does. Her right cheek tingles as she sees him walking, the right leg swinging forward just before it stops. If only the tingling began earlier she could warn Arjun, but it’s too quick. Anyway, he would think her a fool, telling him that his leg was about to go. Better not to say anything. At least she can make sure she’s there so he doesn’t fall.

  He doesn’t want to hear about this, or almost anything else she has to say. He doesn’t want to hear about her day at the office, her frustrations with the kids, her ideas about the shelving space in the kitchen, the food mixer that would allow her to make bread. Sometimes he gets angry. You’re just a low-class woman from a low-class background. You’ll never change. She struggles to be a better-class person, like Arjun wants. Jesus has helped her: He is the answer to all the sadness, the disappointment. Even so, sometimes she goes to stand at the bottom of the garden, pretending to tidy up the compost heap, and allows the forbidden thought to come: divorce.

  She can only whisper it. It’s a bad word. Bad people do it. But in the Woman’s Own magazine at the doctor’s office, she read that Elizabeth Taylor had done it. She’d done it so many times that it was just part of her normal routine. Get up, put on face cream, divorce Richard. How daring it sounds, so chic. Sunila practises. Get up, put on Johnson’s Baby Lotion, divorce Arjun. I’ll just divorce him and he can take his disapproving face and jump in the lake. She laughs.

  Pavi says, ‘What is it, Suni? Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Just thinking about that Morecambe and Wise.’

  ‘Funny fellas.’ Pavitra sighs. ‘Thank you for listening. I always feel better after talking to you.’

  But Sunila has given no advice, offered no help. ‘Pavi, how about having lunch? We can go to that Chinese place you were telling me about. The one in Hounslow.’

  ‘King Chow’s? Oh, you’ll love it, Suni.’

  ‘Let’s go on Sunday. How would that be?’

  ‘Are you sure? How about Arjun?’

  ‘He can take care of the children.’ Let him do something around the house.

  Pavi continues, ‘The boys are going on a church outing, so I won’t have them on Sunday. Thank you, Suni. How sweet you are.’

  ‘No, no. Don’t thank me. I’ll be so glad to get out of this place.’ Sunila hears the words jump out of her mouth. ‘You know, just for a change.’

  There’s a second’s hesitation before Pavitra says, ‘Yes, a change is always nice.’

  ‘And then you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sunila hears the hesitation. ‘It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. If you’d like. I don’t want to press you.’

  ‘You’re right, Suni. It’s better to talk about these things.’

  Sunila will wriggle the truth out of her sister-in-law one way or another. She loves Pavitra, but information is power. If she learns one thing about Pavitra, then it is all right that she has said that she’s ‘glad to get out of this place’.

  Does everyone know the truth about the endless arguments and t
he times Arjun has hit her? But surely everyone has troubles from time to time. She’s seen the bruises on Pavitra’s arms and neck. At least her own bruises are easily camouflaged, as though Arjun instinctively knows what long sleeves and skirts can cover.

  He says nothing about the plan to meet Pavitra. It is a big favour, even though she spoke so airily about it on the phone. Tarani and Murad are getting together with their cousins, and despite the fact that Arjun will go on about Haseena and Nawal’s superior cooking, Sunila feels better about taking a whole day off for herself.

  Until six months ago, Arjun always had an excuse to visit Haseena. And then it was have-you-tasted-Haseena’s-fish-and-coconut-curry, or why-don’t-you-wear-a-shalwar, or Haseena-is-so-elegant-in-a-sari. But in May, just after he’d taken Haseena and Sadiq to Richmond Park, he suddenly went off the boil. When Sunila innocently suggested a family visit to Haseena and Sadiq, Arjun quickly changed the subject. Which meant that he’d had his knuckles rapped. Good. At least the woman has some moral standards and keeps her meddling hands off other people’s husbands.

  The sick feeling in the stomach starts and Sunila sends up a quick prayer. Please make Arjun be a good husband. That is, please make him not like Haseena better than me. She feels ashamed. How childish. She shouldn’t be bothering the Lord with these petty concerns.

  Sunila gets off the bus and finds Pavitra already waiting outside King Chow’s. As they hug, Sunila feels her sister-in-law shivering.

  ‘Cold, Pavi?’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘You need a new coat.’

  ‘I’m fine. I should have put on a warmer woolly. Let’s go inside.’

  It is just noon but the restaurant is already filling up. The two women are led to one of the last window tables. The manager moves between tables, greeting customers. He stops at their table to speak to Pavitra.

  ‘Mrs Owen, so nice to see you again.’

  ‘Mr Chow, this is my sister-in-law, Mrs Kulkani.’

  Mr Chow gives a little bow and Sunila nods back at him.

  ‘So, Mrs Owen, you bring me new customer. I give you special surprise.’ He smiles and wags a finger at her.

  ‘Please don’t go to any trouble.’ Pavitra laughs nervously.

  ‘No trouble, Mrs Owen. My pleasure. You choose any dessert you like. On the house.’ He beams at both of them and moves on to greet the next customers.

  ‘Such a nice man.’ Pavitra tucks her thin coat over the back of her chair.

  ‘I must say, he’s a very friendly person.’ Sunila carefully folds her coat and puts it on the chair next to her.

  ‘He’s like that with all his customers.’

  ‘No wonder it’s so popular here. And free dessert, too. What a treat!’ Sunila looks out of the window. A real window table. She and Arjun have gone to dinner a few times, but only to Indian restaurants and never at a window table. She is impressed with how clean the Chinese keep their restaurant. No debris on the floor. Tables nicely set. Some of those Indian places could certainly pick up a few tips on hygiene and presentation.

  Two of the waiters are Chinese and she watches their smooth, swift movements, their shiny hair, their clean hands. Do they think Hounslow is better than China? She’s seen pictures of the watery paddy fields and how they have to work, bent over, for hours. Surely working in a restaurant must be easy after that. And in the evenings, do they pull out their photograph albums and touch the pictures of family members who are left behind? Home is England, she repeats to herself. You can choose your home these days. It’s the modern thing to do.

  The long menu has many choices. Sunila leans forward to whisper across the table. ‘Pavi, what should we order?’

  ‘I’ll find something nice for us. We’ll get a couple of things and we can share.’

  Pavi orders chow mein and Kung Pao chicken. Sunila is nervous about eating noodles. What if they fall off her spoon? Will she look a complete idiot in front of everyone?

  Pavitra leans forward. ‘Suni, the chow mein is very easy to eat. You’ll see.’ They wait for their tea and Pavitra smiles. ‘So nice to get away, isn’t it?’

  Suni waggles her head, not yes, not no. ‘So, Pavi. How are you?’

  Pavitra looks down. ‘I’m all right, really. I was just feeling a bit run down.’

  ‘Come on, Pavi. You must talk. I mean, we must talk.’ Sunila laughs a little.

  If nothing is said, the things that often lie like dead flowers under their scarves, their nice English blouses, their neat English skirts, do not exist. A few tables away, an English couple are having lunch. Does the woman have flowers beneath her sleeves, too? But English couples are so polite and respectful. It isn’t possible to imagine slaps ricocheting across those perfectly pink English cheeks. And the woman’s voice, so gentle and sweet-sounding, could never be raised in a screech even if her husband threw a dinner plate at her head. And he wouldn’t, because he’s English.

  Pavitra’s napkin, folded and refolded, becomes a hesitant, wavering sculpture. ‘It’s not all his fault, Suni. I try to manage, but he says I waste money.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him? You never waste anything!’

  Pavi glances around. ‘Hush, Suni. We mustn’t speak too loud.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just get so mad at these men. What do they think we do with the money? Spend it on ourselves?’ Sunila firmly ignores the memory of buying the cream blouse with the lace jabot that she hid at the back of the wardrobe. It was on sale, after all, and anyway, Arjun had been unpleasant again. At least this time it was just shouting.

  ‘I invited Haseena over. I wanted to make something nice for her. So I made lamb vindaloo. Mike said it was a waste of good meat.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a little curried minced meat or vegetables? So selfish of her.’

  Pavi smiles and shakes her head. ‘Don’t be angry with her. It was me who decided to give her lamb. Haseena didn’t know, poor thing.’

  ‘Poor Haseena, indeed. She’s just taking advantage.’ Sunila stares at the happy English couple laughing at each other’s attempts to control the slippery noodles.

  ‘He – Mike got angry.’

  Sunila looks closely at her sister-in-law. ‘Pavi, did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, no.’ Pavitra straightens her spoon.

  Men and money. It was always men and money. Sunila’s father gambled all the family’s money away and then died of brain fever. Her mother was stuck bringing up eight children, five of whom died. They could have used some of that money.

  ‘Listen, come to us for a few days. It’ll give you a break.’

  Pavitra shakes her head. ‘It’s all right, Suni. I can’t really leave the kids with Mike.’

  Who could have predicted the way things would go? When Sunila first stepped off the ship at Tilbury Docks, she was uncertain. But the train journey to St Pancras to meet Arjun convinced her that this was the Promised Land. She gazed out of the window, delighted with the fat happy-looking cows. Not like those emaciated creatures roaming around the Bombay streets, defecating everywhere. In England, the cows stood in soft clean grass up to their ankles.

  But in Hayes the women looked tired and old. They wore long, beige, ravelling cardigans, smoked cigarettes and some even wore slippers to go to the shops. The children had runny noses and shouted dirty words at her. Some of the men looked straight past her, or if they did look, it was sly. She had arrived in heaven but had been dumped in the wrong part.

  A delicate cup and saucer arrives in front of her. The waiter pours the golden tea into each cup and places the tiny silver jug of milk and china bowl of sugar between them.

  ‘Come. Let me serve you some milk.’ Sunila lifts the jug and adds a little milk into Pavitra’s cup. Into her own cup she adds two lumps of sugar, listening to the soft tinkle of the tiny spoon against the side of the cup.

  ‘Never mind, Pavi. It’ll all blow over. Cook something nice for him. Men like that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pavitra rubs her shoulder distractedly
. ‘I’ll make him a good English breakfast. Bacon and eggs. That might do the trick.’

  Sunila wrinkles her nose. ‘Bay-kin?’ Seventh-day Adventists don’t eat pork, and somehow the idea of bacon is even worse than pork chops. Surely it is sinful to prepare bacon, even if you don’t eat any. Now Pavi has to cook pig and her soul is in danger. All because of the stupid lamb vindaloo. If only Haseena hadn’t been so thoughtless.

  ‘I know. But Mike and the boys love it. I don’t mind, really.’

  ‘It’s so unfair. We do so much for them. And we don’t get anything in return. Nothing turns out the way we want. We just have to face it.’

  Pavitra asks, ‘Suni? Are you all right?’

  Sunila looks down and realizes she has been stirring her tea too vigorously. Some has slopped out into the saucer. ‘Oh, how clumsy of me.’ She uses a paper napkin to mop up the mess. ‘I should have been more careful. Such dainty cups. Not like the big, hulking mugs we have at home.’

  Pavitra leans across. ‘Any news about, you know, Arjun’s tests?’

  Sunila breathes in and out. Here it is, out in the open: the trembling reason why she can do no more than whisper the word ‘divorce’, why she must swallow the insults, endure the slaps, wait out the humiliation of his flirtations. This man, who looked so healthy, is sick. Even if he plays squash three times a week and goes gallivanting after Haseena. He thinks he is so good at hiding his feelings but she, who learned from an early age to stand back and watch, has seen him holding that traitor leg after it buckled once again. She tries to imagine what it is to feel your leg go numb, go missing. She has not been brought up to run away from hardship. In sickness and in health. No one is going to help them out in this green and pleasant land where people send their parents off to retirement homes. No one else will take care of Arjun when he can no longer work, when the rest of his body begins to…

  ‘He – well, we don’t know—’

  Pavitra leans closer and Sunila realizes she and her stupid tears are being shielded from the rest of the customers. She quickly wipes her eyes on the napkin. Takes a sip of tea. Sits up a little.