A Life Apart (29 page)

In the next ten years, Zulfikar Haq and his uncle cracked export licences, cheap sourcing from Pakistan, ship and land delivery, local transport, warehouse logistics, networks of traders from
India and Pakistan and, above all, the unarticulated need of an immigrant community to create a little home on foreign soil. They set up the first cash and carry shop in East London in 1970, the
year Zulfikar’s uncle died, three months after the inauguration of ‘Manzil Cash and Carry: For Best Products and Cheapest Value’, leaving him in charge of everything. Zulfikar
moved to London, delegating the little empire of shops in Leicester and Birmingham, now all his, to a loosely knit assortment of relatives and friends, and travelled to Pakistan to bring back
Shahid, now thirteen, to England. He had made it here so he was now going to bring his family over from Pakistan – his wife, whom he had seen only four times since they got married, his three
children, Shahid, Salma and Nilufer – and have them ensconced permanently in the good life.

Sitting on his sofa and sipping his wife’s lemonade, Shahid Haq told this rags-to-riches story with evident pride, even with a gentle urge to Ritwik that he should learn from this example
and do something worthwhile with his life. Or maybe Ritwik imagined that.

‘I work for my father. Father says school and university, all useless. Look at him. He didn’t have much learning but he was successful’ – Ritwik noted the
‘was’ and wondered if the entrepreneur father was no longer alive but Mr Haq’s tenses were not conservative – ‘He brought me over to help him in business and then, one
day,
inshallah
, take over from him when he gets old. That is what sons are for, to take care of their parents.’

Ritwik did some quick arithmetic: Mr Haq would be in his early to mid-thirties now, although he looked a good ten years older with his greying hair and the paunch overhanging his belt. Zulfikar
Haq would be about fifty-five.

‘Where is your father now?’ Ritwik asked abruptly.

‘They go back to Pakistan, my parents. They build big house in Lahore. They go back because they say they want to die in their homeland. The house has become quiet since they left. They
want to be with their grandchildren but I tell them, we go back every year to visit them, so they know we’re well with Allah’s blessing.’

Then Mr Haq, with a sudden narrative pirouette, launched into talk about his business: the chain of cash and carry stores, twelve in total, almost all of them delegated to a team of store
managers, all of them Pakistani, trained hands-on in the job; how he had sold off the string of cornershops and larger Asian stores in the Midlands to other businessmen and begun to dedicate
himself totally to his London ventures; how with increasing profits and enormous growth of the business, the responsibilities, the workload, the nitty-gritty of management, everything had become
staggeringly, dauntingly large.

It wasn’t really a hook, but Ritwik decided to use it as one;
now or never
. ‘It seems the business has grown too vast for you to run it all yourself. You must need a
considerable amount of paid help in the less important aspect of things. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, we need people to stock, shelve, do the accounts, sell, deal with transport, all that sort of stuff.’

‘Would it be possible for you to give me a part-time job in one of your shops? Nothing fancy or high-powered, just a few hours a day, three or four days a week.’

Shahid Haq looked both triumphant, as if a minor suspicion he had harboured for some time had been confirmed, and slightly embarrassed, because he would have to wheel out the tired, old excuses
again to turn down this young man, excuses which would doubtless ring false in his ears.

‘We try to hire people from families we know, you see, other Pakistani families who are in England.’ His words came out halting, with pauses and a breath of a stutter, as if he were
making it up as he went along.

Ritwik found this so excruciating that he decided to put Mr Haq out of his misery. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just asking.’

It was Mr Haq’s turn to do the empty politenesses now. ‘No, no, I’ll see what I can do. You see my problem with our Pakistani brothers . . .’

‘That’s absolutely all right. Of course, I see your obligations. Please don’t think about it again, Mr Haq.’

‘Do you have a work permit in the UK? A National Insurance number?’

‘No. I don’t.’ Something flitted across the dark pupils of Shahid Haq. Ritwik briefly entertained the idea of telling him the whole truth but didn’t dare. He lied,
‘I’m on a student visa.’

‘Oh, I see, I see. Let me think about it for some time.’ Then he gave a particularly oleaginous smile, which extended to a grin, and slipped into his man-of-the-world mode.
‘Heh, heh, heh, we have to help each other out, don’t we? In this country, we need to stick to each other and have our own community.’

Ritwik wasn’t sure if that was a hope held out or a discouraging reminder that he stood outside the community.

The Hindi film songs had resumed playing upstairs. There was no sign of Mrs Haq. The voice of one girl was briefly heard over the song and then, silence. The younger of the two girls came into
the living room; there was a large red bindi in the centre of her forehead, a few more bangles on her thin arms, a
dupatta
, presumably her mother’s, wrapped many times around her
child’s body and a hair clip in the shape of a butterfly, pink, spangled and enormous, poised precariously on her head. She went to her father, not walking, but with the stylized movements of
a Hindi film actress in a song-and-dance number, all the while her eyes fixed on Ritwik. There was a loud call – ‘Ameeee-naaa’ – from upstairs and she swiftly hid behind her
father. Ameena was going to be in trouble with her mother for dressing up to the nines. Ritwik left the house with a strange, lonely feeling of unbelonging and perhaps, just perhaps, envy.

Mr Roy Chowdhury comes in during a lesson one day, unannounced and apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your . . .’ he begins, but Miss Gilby interrupts
him, ‘Not at all, not at all, please sit down’, before he has had a chance to finish his sentence.

‘Bimala here was telling me,’ she continues, ‘that in the true spirit of
swadeshi
we should be reading only Bengali books and translating from them as part of our
language exercises rather than reading English-language books. I was just on the point of mentioning to her whether asking you to adjudicate would be a fair move. And you walked in, as if you had
read our thoughts.’ Miss Gilby smiles, but there is a hint of reserve somewhere behind the thin mouth.

The information gently inflects his question to Bimala. ‘Bimala, is this true?’

This is the first time Miss Gilby has heard him use a language other than his mother tongue in conversation with his wife. Bimala remains tongue-tied and her gaze is steadfastly fixed on to
the floor, whether out of the novelty of having to speak to her husband in English or out of the incipient conflict implied in the situation,Miss Gilby cannot ascertain with any degree of
sureness.

Mr Roy Chowdhury speaks again, ‘Well, Bimala, I’m sure Miss Gilby thinks it is a good idea but will you abandon playing the piano, or singing your favourite English songs as
well?’

Before Bimalahas a chance to answer, Mr Roy Chowdhury turns to Miss Gilby andadds, ‘Did you know, Miss Gilby, our Bimala has become a veritable revolutionary.
Swadeshi, swadeshi,
swadeshi
: she doesn’t seem to think of anything else. Even while humming English songs, or asking her
darzee
to design a new blouse from a Dickins and Jones catalogue, she thinks
and speaks of
swadeshi
.’ His voice cracks with good-natured and affectionate laughter.Miss Gilby and Bimala, too, follow suit after a few seconds’ hesitation.

‘So I’ve said to her, by all means, do as much
swadeshi
as you feel like, but you might have a few problems making your lessons with Miss Gilby follow such lines, not
unless you give up your French perfumes, too.’

Bimala pretends mock anger and accuses her husband of exposing her little failures in front of Miss Gilby, but it is all a joke, all playacting, and the little cloud that threatened to settle
overhead passes swiftly.

‘Now, Miss Gilby, I do not know whether Bimala has already mentioned this to you but I wanted to let you know that my friend, Sandip – a childhood friend, we go back a long way
– will be coming to stay here with us for a while. I was wondering if we could talk about it when you have some time to spare?’

‘But of course, Mr Roy Chowdhury. What about teatime this afternoon? Bimala can sing one of her lovely Bengali songs, while I accompany her on the piano. What do you say,
Bimala?’

Bimala nods enthusiastically. Mr Roy Chowdhury is so surprised at Miss Gilby’s sure, swift ease with the Bengali world that he remains speechless for a few moments.