A House Called Askival (11 page)

SEVENTEEN

Ruth leaned against the door and folded her arms. Iqbal still had a hand on the tap, face half hidden.

‘Dad's family and their cook, you mean?'

‘Yes.' He turned the tap off.

‘Dad wouldn't talk about it, but Grandma did. It was her best story. Used to tell it in a half whisper with these wild eyes and her head shaking. But said we mustn't mention it to Dad, cause it made him upset. He adored that guy.'

‘What did she tell?'

‘Seemingly the cook got caught up in the troubles after independence and was chased by a mob of Sikhs all the way up here.'

‘
Accha
.'

‘The cook ended up shooting one of them, here on the front veranda. Grandma saw the whole thing.'

Iqbal was silent. Behind him, the rain was softening, trickling down a beam that hung like a broken bone from the veranda roof.

‘And then?' he asked.

‘They killed him.'

Iqbal's mouth puckered slowly. He nodded, then looked out the window, searching the horizon.

‘Has stopped raining,' he said at last and pushed open the door onto the veranda. The screen mesh was long gone. Ruth followed him and, squatting with her back to the house, lit up a cigarette and drew deeply. Iqbal leaned against a pillar, polished his glasses on his shalwar and held them up to the light.

‘He was my father,' he said and put the glasses back on.

She froze. He turned to her with a bitter-sweet smile.

‘Oh god,' she whispered, smoke curling out on her breath. Her throat felt dry. ‘I never knew.'

He gave the slightest nod.

‘Dad never talked about it. He's never even explained who you are.'

‘Is painful for him.'

‘My god! It's much worse for you. Don't you feel angry?'

‘For what?'

‘Well – goddam all of it! Angry at the thugs who killed your father? Angry at religion for causing all this violence? Angry at Dad's family that they didn't protect yours?'

He lifted his hands in submission. ‘The thugs, well they sinned, but they were also having sin against them. They lost everything, refugees, you know, such violence to their people. God be their judge.'

‘God's the problem. None of the violence would have happened if it wasn't for religion.'

‘No, I'm not thinking this. God and religion is not the same. Sometimes opposite. And religion is not making people good or bad. People are making good or bad religion.'

Ruth sucked on her cigarette and blew out hard. ‘And good people can make very bad religion, believe you me.'

‘How can good people make such mistakes?'

Ruth paused. ‘Hell if I know.' She stubbed her cigarette fiercely on the concrete floor and stood up. ‘What about Dad's family? Surely they could have done better to protect your father?'

‘They tried. Sheltered him that night placing themselves in danger. Your grandmother tried to make peace – so brave! And your father… he tried to help, also. A brave boy. And then they helped my mother and
me flee to Pakistan. They arranged work with the missionaries that side and gave pension till death. They are also paying my education – more than my father could have dreamed – and your father is now giving me home. I am blessed.'

Ruth gazed at him. ‘God, you sound like the Dalai Lama,' she snorted and turned towards her daypack against the wall. ‘Wish I could be that chilled.'

‘Is not chilling you need, Rani Ruthie, is warming.'

She felt a sudden crawling of her flesh and shot him a narrow look. Was he hitting on her, the sleazy bastard? No. His face was sincere, hands folded together. It startled her. She had spent most of her life stirring male desire, usually on purpose. From as early as kindergarten, boys had giggled around her, left notes on her chair and teased each other in her presence. She soon learned the effect she had on them and loved the power of it. She could change things, make things happen, turn heads and hearts. The older she got the more she employed it, until it became something not of her own bidding but a force quite out of her control, that she was powerless to stop. Perversely, it had begun to control her, to change her, to turn
her
head and heart till she no longer knew what dark god she served.

But it had no effect on Iqbal. He looked at her with frank interest, but as though he saw right through her body to the being within; like the tired sexual aura that hung about her was invisible to him. In his gaze she was a child, and Ruth was surprised at the relief it brought. After years of fighting off anyone's attempts to look after her, she found herself suddenly grateful for the sense of shelter in this man's presence. She was not expecting it – this being disarmed – and felt strangely vulnerable and safe at the same time.

Warming, he had said. You need warming.

‘Yeah, well good luck,' she grunted.

‘No luck, no fate,' he replied, smiling. ‘Just the mercy of God.'

Part way down the road towards the bazaar, Iqbal stopped and placed his hand over his breast.

‘Are you all right?' asked Ruth.

He nodded, pressed his hands together and touched his fingertips to his forehead.

‘This is the spot where my father gave his life, may he rest in peace.'

Ruth stared. There was nothing but the rough-cast concrete road, a stone wall and the steep drop beyond. Rhododendron trees grew up from the
khud
, their hairy trunks heavy with moss and fern.

‘He is buried in the Muslim graveyard down by the stream, below the school servants,' Iqbal said.

‘Do you visit?'

‘Once. But he is not there.'

At the top of Mullingar Hill Ruth paused outside Farooqi Tailors and ran her fingers over an embroidered shalwar kameez hanging at the front.

‘I had so many clothes made by these guys.'

‘Then I am following your steps,' beamed Iqbal. ‘I too patronise this
darzi
. They are good at flattering one large paunch.' He seized his stomach with both hands and wobbled it up and down.

Inside the tiny shop, a young man was bent over a treadle machine in the corner, as an older man sat cross-legged on a platform, marking fabric with blue chalk. They nodded and gave salaam to Iqbal, but their eyes slid to Ruth. Suddenly the older man's face creased into a wide, gap-toothed smile and he stood up, pressing his chalky hands together and shaking his head in wonder.

‘Welcome home, Ruth,' he said, his voice thin and cracked as his skin.

She gave a salaam and a smile.

‘I make you something? ' He waved his hand to the shop as if to a vast emporium. ‘Jacket? Pant? Ball gown?'

‘No thank you,' Ruth said. ‘
Nahi chahiye
.' More Hindi. That phrase with which she had fended off hordes of market traders and railway vendors.
Not needed. Not needed
.

Dancing costume?' And he grinned again, performing a small, grotesque caricature of a dance move.

‘
Nahi, nahi, nahi
,' she said, struggling to keep up her smile. ‘I have
plenty. Salaam!' And she turned quickly and kept walking down the hill. She could hear Iqbal say something and the men chuckling, then he caught her at the bend.

‘Doctor-ji says you are dancing with top company in Scotland.'

‘Was,' said Ruth, and stopped at a
churiwalli
squeezed into a corner of a crumbling building. She ran her fingers over the tightly packed bangles, their bright colours and gilt trim brazen in the shabby street. ‘It's not a top company. It's an experimental dance theatre group with a reputation for breaking boundaries. But I don't dance anymore.'

‘Why not?'

‘Oh, I got tired of it and left.' She didn't tell him she had become pregnant and this time chosen to keep the child, even though the father did not want it. She'd had a scan and seen the baby's moon head and his waving fists and her life opening. But at six months, when her belly and her heart were swelling around him like ripening fruit, he had died.

The funeral was small and desolate and she had named him David. Beloved.

She had not told James or Hannah.

The bangle seller was a thin woman with a toddler at her breast. She pushed him off and leaned forward to Ruth, her wet nipple pointing like a finger.

‘You like?'

The toddler squealed and clutched at the breast. Ruth withdrew her hand.

‘Come now!' cried Iqbal. ‘The Rani Ruthie must have bangles! I will purchase for you.'

‘Don't be silly,' she muttered, but saw his disappointment. ‘Look, I'll get them myself, but you can help me choose.'

‘To match your eyes,' he said, tapping a set that were parrot green and speckled with gold.

‘Shit, they're not that colour!' she laughed but stuck out her arm, already circled by a steel band. The
churiwalli
took hold of her wrist and tried pushing on a set of bangles, but they jammed just above the knuckles. The woman clicked her tongue and began kneading and
crushing Ruth's hand as she squeezed the bangles forward. The flesh on either side bulged white and red and three bangles snapped. More bone-bending, more bangles, more breaks. The child started screaming and kicking his mother; Ruth yanked her hand back, pulled money from her bag and thrust it at the woman.

‘
Nahi chahiye
,' she said, turning swiftly to go, her hand throbbing, skin hatched with tiny red scratches. The last time she'd worn glass bangles she'd smashed them all in one go and the cuts had gone up her arms.

‘Doctor-ji said you did Indian dance at school.'

‘Yes. Did he also tell you he didn't approve?'

‘He said you were very gifted. Beautiful dancer.'

Ruth was silent for a moment. ‘Well, he never told me that,' she muttered. She had always felt the bitter irony that the one thing she'd excelled at was the very thing they would not celebrate. ‘He and Mom tried to stop me.'

‘No, no. He is telling me they were in the two minds, but good Reverend Verghese is persuading them to permit.'

‘Yes, but reluctantly, and they hardly ever saw me perform.'

‘Such shame,' Iqbal sighed. ‘You must join the dancing at Oaklands.'

She nearly choked on her harsh laugh. ‘I'm telling you, I don't dance anymore. Ever.'

The dancing at Oaklands. At one time she'd been at the heart of it, spinning in her Garwhali skirts, feet slapping the floor with Kathak rhythms as ankle bells rang, her lithe body tipping and balancing like a long-legged bird in the rigour of Bharatnatyam. She could still feel the pulse of it, still hear the tabla and her teacher's
dha dhin dhin dha
and still remember the steps. But she did not speak of it.

They passed the gurudwara where a handful of Sikhs were removing their shoes as a repetitive singing spilled from the temple door. At Mr Bhasin's shop just beyond, Iqbal inspected the vegetables, squeezing, sniffing and running his fingers over the skins. He chatted with the dignified Sikh grocer, exclaiming over the size of the paw paw and the price of tomatoes, all the while expounding for Ruth his planned menu for the week and his dismay at James' diminishing appetite.

‘Tell me, Ruthie,' he said. ‘What were his favourite things? We have to tempt him!'

Ruth scrunched her eyes, summoning memories of childhood dining tables. She saw her father eating, often with his hands, though it was a custom Ellen only adopted when cutlery was unavailable. Their main meal had been Indian food at lunch time, prepared by the ayah or
khansamma
, and in the evening it was plain fare: bread, eggs, maybe soup. Ellen delighted in cooking but because James insisted on a frugal table, her art was in bringing richness to the simple: the fluffiest scrambled eggs, broths that warmed the heart, bread of heaven. Whatever was put before him, James ate with quiet appreciation. Ruth had never known him to complain about food or to refuse it. He received it as a gift, whether stale crackers or a wedding feast, always thanking God at the start of the meal and the cook at the end. But had there been any dish that he particularly favoured? Anything that made his face light up?

‘Mangoes!' she said, at last. ‘He adored them.'

‘Ah yes. This I am knowing! We are both beloved of the kingly fruit. Are you a lover also?'

Ruth smiled. ‘I haven't had a really good mango in years.'

‘Then mountains of mangoes for us!' Iqbal declared. ‘Three kg, Bhasin-ji.' With a tilt of his lavender turban, the Sikh piled the fruit onto his metal scales and Iqbal beamed at Ruth. ‘We will have fresh and cooked, mixed up and alone. We are finding every variation on mango theme and setting before the Doctor-ji!'

‘Good,' she said, and felt the prickling of tears.

In Shangri-La Handicrafts Haven, she twisted a scarf around her neck and looked into the mirror. There were shadows under her eyes, grey half-moons that told more than she wished. Next to them, the stud in her nose and the row of silver hoops up her ears were jarring.

‘Beautiful madam,' the shopkeeper declared. ‘This is silk-wool mix, madam, from Kashmir.'

Iqbal nodded keenly. ‘But you must try pretty colours! This grey is not for you.'

‘Neither is that pink,' said Ruth, warding off the wildly patterned fuchsia that Iqbal proffered. She could imagine it somewhere in his vivid bedroom, but not on her. He sighed and stroked the other shawls unfurled across the counter. Ruth drew out a black one.

‘You will take one for your boyfriend?' he asked.

‘Haven't got one.' Ruth draped the black shawl over her head.

‘Doctor-ji is thinking.'

‘He's got no idea.'

‘Then you should tell him.'

‘Why?'

She could feel him looking at her, but kept her gaze on the mirror.

His voice was soft. ‘Because no-one is loving you more.'

Her eyes fell to the tasselled ends of the shawl in her scratched hand.