Family Matters (55 page)

Mummy starts bustling around to hide the fact that she is crying. She tells me it’s my turn to wish my brother, as Jal Uncle steps aside after presenting Murad with an envelope. It contains one hundred and one rupees. I know, because he sent me to the bank yesterday to fetch crisp new notes.

I go up to Murad, to the edge of the chalk fish, and pause, not sure if he will like me hugging him. So I give him my hand: “Happy birthday, Murad.”

He takes my hand, then yanks it towards him. As I lose my balance, he puts out his arm to keep me from falling and hugs me. We both laugh at the trick.

“Come on, everybody,” Mummy hurries us, “the sev is ready, let’s eat it fresh before it sticks to the bottom of the pot.”

Murad shows Jal Uncle the new watch as we go to the dining room. I linger behind, observing Daddy lost in thought on the sofa. Mummy stops beside him. He looks up and smiles sadly.

“Yezdaa? Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head and gives her another small smile.

“And, Yezdaa, the kitchen clock needs winding.”

“Later,” he answers. “Or you can ask Murad.”

T
he afternoon party is over, Murad’s friends have left, but it is not yet time for the dinner.

I sit in the drawing-room, looking beyond the special barricade of furniture, at the prayer cabinet in its protected corner. I imagine it full of toys and knick-knacks as it once was, the sad fragments of Coomy Aunty and Jal Uncle’s unhappy childhood. Now it is filled with Daddy’s holy items. And he is just as unhappy.

Jal Uncle is in his room, getting ready. He has been excited all day because Daisy Aunty is coming to dinner – she accepted the invitation the moment Mummy made it on the telephone.

To my surprise, Mummy is putting out the rose bowl and the porcelain shepherdess in the drawing-room. The dining table is set with the good china that Grandpa gave to her and Daddy on their wedding. She comes in with a vase, strokes the shepherdess, runs her fingers along the scalloped rim of the rose bowl.

“All these things were gifts from Grandpa,” she smiles. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

I nod. It reminds me of the time long ago when Grandpa came to live with us in Pleasant Villa. And how my world suddenly became a much bigger place, much more complicated, and painful. I think of Grandpa sleeping on the settee beside me, holding my hand to comfort me. And later, me holding his when he had bad dreams. I think of the violin music we enjoyed. And the words he taught me, the stories he told, to describe and understand the world.

“Remember what Grandpa said to us one day?” continues my mother. “To take pleasure in these beautiful things, to defeat the sadness and sorrow of life?”

I feel she is seeking approval for her decision to use the good china today. So I nod again. I try to recall an earlier time, before Grandpa arrived, a time when the world was so safe and small and manageable – my parents were in charge of it, and nothing could go wrong.

“Can you help me for a minute in the kitchen, Jehangoo?” she calls on her way out of the drawing-room.

“Yes,” I answer, but stay in my chair. I wonder what lies ahead for our family in this house, my grandfather’s house, in this world that is more confusing than ever. I think of Daddy, who makes me feel that my real father is gone, replaced by this non-stop-praying stranger.

My mother, hurrying as always, brings in more things from the kitchen. My face must have a faraway expression, for she comes closer, her hand reaching out towards my shoulder. She hesitates, leaving the gesture incomplete. I can sense her fingers an inch away.

Then she lets them settle lightly on my arm. “What is it, Jehangoo? Aren’t you happy?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’m happy.”