Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? (19 page)

The older woman eagerly took it from her. “Yes, I sent this. I remember picking it out because I thought your brothers would enjoy the picture of the bear. Inder and Gobind, do those names strike a bell?”

Nimmo shook her head. “Maybe the second name— Gobind. But I can’t say for sure.”

“There was another one I sent with this postcard—a picture of whales. Do you remember that?” Again Nimmo shook her head. Bibi-ji turned the card over and tapped at the faded writing. “And see, it’s me—Sharan. That’s what your mother used to call me, you know.”

Taking the card back, Nimmo turned it round and round, trying hard to remember her family the way that Bibi-ji did, and failing. The older woman had claimed the postcard immediately, but was it truly Nimmo’s? Had the card belonged to her mother, or had it been given to her by a stranger?

Too honest to keep such doubts to herself, she said, “I could be anybody. Where is the proof that I am the Nirmaljeet Kaur that you held in your arms when I was a child, Bibi-ji?”

“You don’t want me as your aunt?” Bibi-ji asked, her face sagging with disappointment. “You don’t like me?”

“I do, I do,” Nimmo said. “It’s just that I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness like this. There must be thousands of women my age, from Punjab, who are called Nirmaljeet. Perhaps one of them is your niece. What if I found this card when I was running from my home to join the kafeela?”

Bibi-ji leaned forward and held Nimmo’s worn hands in her own soft ones. “I am the one who came looking for you, you did not come to me. But I see my sister when I look at you. I am sure. I am forty-five years old. I have no children of my own. I have no family other than my husband. I have lived in guilt for twenty years. I left the village. I did not help my sister. Now I am sure. This is right.”

Nimmo looked at Bibi-ji’s face and gave up. She would be this woman’s niece. She nodded and pressed Bibi-ji’s hands in return. “Tell me more about my mother,” she said. “You knew her longer than I did. Tell me about my grandmother and my brothers. Tell me all that you can about me.”

“No, I have talked enough for today,” said Bibi-ji. “You tell me about your life now. You have children, you said in your letter?”

“Yes, two boys,” Nimmo said, exhausted by the tide of memory and emotion that had flooded so unexpectedly through her small home. “And this one is coming soon.” She touched her belly.

Bibi-ji felt a sharp jealousy knife through her. “Where are your boys?” she asked.

“School,” Nimmo said and looked at the time. She had missed Indira Gandhi’s speech. No matter. “They should
be back soon. The younger one comes home early some days, but today his older brother will be bringing him home. I was supposed to go out …”

Bibi-ji heaved herself to her feet in dismay. “Oh! Because of me … What must you think, I just land up like this … Oh!”

“No, no, it is only a speech by Indira Gandhi. Nothing so important. Sit. Please sit.”

“But I too must go. I am staying with friends in Defence Colony. You know that area?”

Nimmo nodded. Yes, she knew of the area, it was very posh. She had passed it on the bus once or twice and wondered at the cars lined up on the street outside, the servants, the well-dressed people emerging from the houses.

“When did you say the children were coming home? I brought presents for them.”

“In a few minutes. They would like to meet their aunty-ji, I am sure.” Nimmo smiled with pleasure at the sound of that. A relative from her side at last.

“Great-aunty,” Bibi-ji corrected.

As Nimmo had predicted, the door soon flew open and Jasbeer entered, impetuous as ever. “I’m hungry, Mummy,” he called. “What is there to eat?” He stopped when he saw the visitor and suddenly became shy. He stood on one foot and stared. They had never had such a finely dressed person in their home. Not even his father’s oldest sister, Manpreet, who was richer than the rest of them, had such shiny clothes.

“This is Jasbeer, my older boy,” Nimmo said. “And … Jassu, where is your brother?”

Jasbeer looked down at his feet and muttered, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You were supposed to bring him home from school.”

Jasbeer shrugged. “He wasn’t there.”

Nimmo caught his face in her hand and twisted it up so that he was forced to look at her. “What do you mean he wasn’t there?” she demanded, her voice rising. She forgot Bibi-ji sitting there, forgot the hours that had drifted by. “What do you mean? Did you even look for him? You wretched boy! Tell me, tell me the truth!”

Jasbeer burst into tears. “I was only teasing him, I was hiding and then when I came out he had gone somewhere. I didn’t mean to …”

The door banged again, and Pappu entered crying dramatically. “Mummy, Jassu didn’t wait for me. I came with Shaukat and her big brother.” He caught sight of his older brother and increased his bawling, rubbing his eyes hard with plump fists.

“Thank God!” Nimmo exclaimed. She pushed Jasbeer away from her with a fierce whisper: “I’ll deal with you later.” And held out her arms to Pappu. “Come here, putthar, don’t cry now. See who is here? A new aunty-ji.” She turned to Bibi-ji. “I am sorry for all this confusion. Really, this older child of mine, God only knows what is wrong with him these days!”

“Never mind, Ooper-Wallah be praised that they are both okay,” Bibi-ji said. She turned to Jasbeer, who was kicking angrily at the door frame. Vividly aware of his inarticulate hurt, she said, “It’s okay, putthar, come here
and let me see your face. Do you know who I am? No? I am your mother’s aunt, like your grandmother almost.” She sat down again. “Come Jasbeer, don’t you want to tell me about your school? And your friends?”

“And
my
friends?” Pappu demanded, from the circle of Nimmo’s arms. “I have twenty-hundred of them.”

Bibi-ji couldn’t help laughing at his disarming liveliness. “After I talk to your brother, you little imp!”

She reluctantly left them at six that evening, after giving the boys an assortment of colouring pencils, t-shirts and toys and promising to return early the next day. When Satpal came home, exhausted, at nine o’clock, he found Nimmo excited and surrounded by a sudden wealth of belongings spread out on the floor.

“What is all this? You went shopping?” he yelled. “After I told you that money is short? Are you mad?”

“Shhh! The children are sleeping!” Nimmo said, pointing to the inner room. “And why are you shouting at me? I didn’t go anywhere. An amazing thing happened today…”

“Good,” grunted Satpal, his usual good humour entirely absent. “I hope it was a
nice
amazing thing, because I don’t have good news for us. The bank has refused to extend the deadline on the loan repayment. And Girish Jain is willing to give us the money only at an exorbitant rate of interest, and provided we sign this house over to him as surety. But it is already mortgaged twice over to the bank!”

“So what are we to do?” Nimmo asked, her balloon of happiness punctured and forgotten.

Satpal’s dejection was complete. “I don’t know. I have to think. I’ll ask people at the gurudwara on Sunday. Maybe
someone will come up with an idea. Or money.” Then he forced a smile. “But we will worry about all that tomorrow. Now give me some food and tell me about this amazing thing that happened. Was it because of your Indira Gandhi? How was her speech? Some more tain-tain about removing poverty, eh? How about I ask her for a loan?”

Nimmo went into the kitchen to get Satpal his dinner. What were they going to do without money? And with the new baby arriving soon? How little—she thought suddenly—how little her new aunt, Bibi-ji, must worry about such things!

She brought a plate of food to where Satpal sat examining one of the toys lying beside him. “I didn’t go to the speech,” she said. “We had a visitor.”

In a low voice she described the details of Bibi-ji’s arrival, the stories she had told of Nimmo’s mother, the presents she had brought for the boys.

“She sounds like a wealthy woman,” Satpal mused. He grinned mischievously at Nimmo. “Maybe we should ask her to take us all back to Canada with her!”

Nimmo laughed. “I am sure she would if we asked,” she said.

“In that case, maybe you could ask her to save my business for us,” Satpal said.

Nimmo laughed again. “Yes, why not?”

After a brief silence Satpal said, “I was serious. Why not ask your rich and generous relative to lend us some money?”

Nimmo gaped at him. She had never thought she would hear this from Satpal. Ask a stranger for money?

“Well? Will you ask her?” Satpal insisted.

“No. No,” Nimmo said. “It is indecent! We have just met her—what will she think of us taking advantage of her like this?”

“Okay, okay, don’t get angry. It was just a thought.” His voice was tired.

He cleared the rest of his dinner off his plate. Silence again, and then Nimmo asked, “But what will we do? Where will you find the money? Will we have to leave this house?”

“I don’t know, Nimmo. And I am too tired to think now.”

“We will sell my jewellery,” Nimmo offered again. “At least we will get a little money for it—not much, though.”

This time Satpal did not rush to refuse.

Bibi-ji returned early the next day and the next, and in the following months she became a familiar sight in the gully. All Nimmo’s neighbours knew who she was, and some, like Kaushalya next door, rejoiced for Nimmo. Bibi-ji arrived each morning with bags of fruit and other treats for the children. “I am your aunt,” she would say firmly, in response to Nimmo’s protests, dumping the bags on the floor and kissing the boys, who acted as if they had known her all their lives. “If an aunt cannot bring gifts for her family, then who can?”

On Saturdays she insisted on taking the family with her to see Delhi. Nimmo enjoyed these outings. Although she had spent most of her life in the city, she had neither the leisure nor the means to wander around it like the foreign tourists, who with their baggy clothes, beads, wild hair and
dark glasses had taken to arriving in droves recently. Satpal never accompanied Nimmo and Bibi-ji on these trips. Nimmo felt guilty when she found him sprawled in exhaustion on their bed after returning late from one of her excursions with Bibi-ji. The food she had cooked would be untouched, and Satpal morose. She dared not ask him how the business was doing—it was evident from his mood that it was not going well. She filed her worry into a corner of her mind, intent on enjoying the pleasure of having her unexpected aunt spoil her and her boys. Now that the baby was almost due, Bibi-ji assumed the role of mother as well, telling Nimmo what food to eat, arriving early and making meals for her, insisting on buying her tender coconut every day for the vitamins it contained and eggs from Kaushalya for the protein. She forced her to drink large glasses of milk three times a day and made her rest in the afternoons, while she took care of the boys when they returned from school. Accustomed to being the caregiver for so many years, Nimmo felt spoilt and thoroughly content with the small luxuries Bibi-ji had introduced into her life.

Her euphoria ended abruptly one evening when she returned early with Bibi-ji and the children after a day of wandering in Old Delhi to find Satpal already home, lying on the charpoy with a damp towel over his face. When he removed it, Nimmo saw with a shock that his face was bruised and swollen. He had a black eye and his lip was cut.

“What happened?” she asked in alarm as Bibi-ji rushed the boys into the small bedroom.

“The moneylender,” Satpal mumbled. “Bastard sent his thugs to threaten us. Wants his money back.”

“But I thought you said you would not be borrowing from him,” Nimmo said, her voice rising.

“I lied. I didn’t want you to worry. With the baby coming and all …” Satpal dabbed at his lip, which had opened up and was bleeding again.

“How much?” Nimmo whispered. “How much do we owe him?”

“Ten thousand rupees plus interest, which makes it nearly twelve or thirteen thousand.”

“And the bank loan?” Nimmo was feeling sick.

“Six thousand plus interest. That is due in a month.”

“Can’t your sisters help us?” Nimmo asked desperately. From the other room came the sound of Bibi-ji telling Jasbeer to draw her a car like the fancy one they had seen that afternoon. “Manpreet jeeji might be able to help. Have you asked her?”

“Yes,” Satpal said. “Her husband has already lent a lot of money to his brother, and he cannot give me more than two or three thousand just now. Maybe in a few months, but there is no guarantee.”

She did not ask about his other two sisters. One was married to a farmer and herself struggled to make ends meet. The other was not on good terms with Satpal.

They stared silently at each other. In the other room Jasbeer’s voice rose excitedly as he explained some complicated thing he had constructed with building blocks. Bibi-ji made admiring noises.

“I’ll ask her,” Nimmo said to Satpal in a tiny voice. “But I don’t want to. God only knows what she will think of us.”

The next day it was Bibi-ji who brought it up after all. She waited until she and Nimmo were alone in the house and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation yesterday, Nimmo. What is going on? Is Satpal in trouble?”