Losing Touch (16 page)

‘Arjun? Are you all right?' Her voice is shaking.

‘I'm fine.' His heart rate is returning to normal but he cannot project enough force into his voice to send it up to her.

‘Are you there?'

‘Yes, I'm here.' He is frustrated with this upstairs-downstairs business. Must they shout for the whole neighbourhood to hear?

‘Has the robber gone?'

‘He's gone, you deaf old cow.' He is shocked into coughing at his bad language, but there is a small pleasure in the fact that she can't hear him.

‘I called the police.'

The flashing blue lights reflect through the curtains and he knows he will not tell the police that the thief was just a child.

The police enter, check the premises, ask him questions that he is now almost too tired to answer. No, he didn't hear the thief enter. No, he didn't get a look at the thief's face. No, the thief didn't talk much to him, other than make vague threats. No, the thief didn't harm him.

‘You're lucky, sir. You could have been badly injured. It's mainly kids. They're after drug money. You know how it is.' Arjun doesn't know how it is, but he nods anyway.

Sunila is brought downstairs. She can barely walk and when she sees him, she clings to the policewoman and weeps. ‘Arjun… Arjun.'

He suddenly realizes she thought he was dead and was terrified of having to see his body. She continued to call to him because she didn't want to believe he wasn't dead. He imagines her crouched beneath the windowsill, believing she was finally alone.

Her eyes are puffy from crying and she is leaning against the policewoman. He has a moment of sympathy for the officer. Sunila is not a lightweight.

Another policewoman is patting her shoulder. ‘Mrs Kulkani, everything is all right. Your husband is fine.'

But she weeps noisily. ‘I thought he was dead! I thought he'd been killed!'

Really. There is something indelicate, this shouting about his death with such gusto.

One of the officers speaks to him. ‘Mr Kulkani, I'm sorry to take up so much of your time. You must be very tired. I wonder if we could send someone over to talk to you tomorrow?'

‘Yes. That's fine.'

The officer collects the others, but not before someone has brought Sunila a cup of tea. The tea-bearing policewoman looks over at Arjun. ‘Can I get you one?'

‘No, thank you.'

Sunila stands up, in charge again. ‘He must get his rest. He's not well, you know.' The officers pat her as though she is a well-behaved dog. She smiles up at them and sees them to the door.

‘Arjun, are you all right?'

‘I'm tired, Sunila. I want to sleep.'

‘But we must talk about it, isn't it? Did you see the robber? What was he like? I heard all the banging and thumping. I crept to the top of the stairs and saw the light go on and someone in black moving around. I thought he was beating you.' Is there a kind of relish in her voice? ‘Did he steal anything?'

‘He wanted money.'

She sees the open cabinet door. ‘He took our money?'

‘Not all. Just one envelope.'

‘But that was for the poor people in Chad. I was going to send it to the mission. And now it's gone. What am I going to tell them? They'll think I just spent the money on myself.'

‘Sunila, no one will think that.'

She is sorting through her envelopes and stacking them neatly back in the cabinet. How often he has told her not to leave money there, but she won't listen.

‘Of course, he would take the one with the most money. They're like that, you know. And now those poor people in Chad will have to do without.'

She closes the cabinet door and stands up. ‘Well, that's it. Nothing to be done. No good crying over spilt milk. Are you hungry?'

I'm not hungry: I am exhausted from nearly being killed by a foolish child. How can you stand there babbling about money for Chad?

And then he realizes: he is hungry.

‘I've got some of that chicken curry. We can have with pilau, yes?'

She bustles off to heat the food and he feels the anger subsiding. The comfortable noises of plates and silverware, the
thunk
and
ka-thunk
of the microwave door opening and shutting. The hum as it starts heating the food. The water from the tap streams into the sink and she fills the kettle for tea. The fridge is opened and he hears the
tuk
of Tupperware being opened. She must have found the cucumber and tomato salad and his favourite coriander chutney. He imagines her arranging it all on the plate and putting the plate on a tray to bring to him.

Now that it is too late, he has come to love her. Even if he could find some adequate language to tell her, she would dismiss him, would think he was trying to manipulate her, would think he was becoming sentimental as the old often do. She would never understand what it has taken for him to reach this point.

It doesn't matter. He loves her ignorance, her wide-ranging prejudices, her quick judgement of other people, her feelings of inadequacy, her suspicion of those who she feels are somehow ‘better', her inability to follow a simple argument or even clear driving directions, her instinctive dislike of anything artistic, including art. He loves her sad walls of exclusion, including those that shut her out from anything that might demand a little understanding outside of the terrible moral code by which she attempts, and often fails, to live.

In the early mornings, while he is meant to be asleep, she sits in the least comfortable armchair near the gas fire, bent over her Bible. His belief is less regimented. His god, that bumbling, gentle, distracted librarian, is not the fire-breathing, vengeful Old Testament God. He is still amazed at her bottomless belief in all of it. She claims it is her refuge and her strength. Her lips move over the verses that spell out her failure in stark formulaic King James prose with its emphatic italics. Thou shalt
not
.

But she shall, she does, she cannot help herself. And worse than her voice raised against him, the words that ricochet out of her mouth, the fists clamped against her sides, is that sudden recognition,
I've done it again. I've done it again
. And she abruptly turns to the kitchen, to vent her despair on the clanging pans.

It is then he longs to tell her,
I know you're angry. It's all right to be angry.
She would not believe him. It isn't Christian to be angry. Even Christ, famously angry in the temple, got over it. Her anger has lasted all her life.

He can't move from the edge of the bed. He sits, leaning over the walker, his legs unresponsive.

Sunila comes in. ‘I'm making some tea. Oh.' She stops. ‘Let me help.' She puts her arm under his and eases him upright so that he can lean on the walker. Together, they shuffle to the armchair and she helps him sit, plumping the cushions behind him so that he is propped forward.

‘Thank you, Sunila.'

‘I'll bring your food, shall I?'

He smiles at her. ‘Yes, please.' There is gentleness in his smile. He wants her to see that he loves her. He wants her to see that he understands how strong and generous she is. She just gets on with the next thing and the next. After they eat, she will clear away the dishes and wash them. She will help him back into bed. And tomorrow, she will go on, cleaning and washing and cooking and helping him write his letters and reading to him when he is too tired to read for himself.

And after, as he listens to her climbing the stairs, quietly closing the bedroom door, he will pray for her. Please give her the strength she needs so that she can keep on doing the next thing. And the next.

Nothing works any more. His hands, that used to function enough for him to lift a handkerchief to stem the eternal nasal drip, drip, can no longer push back the blanket to find the square of folded cotton. Some days his head feels too heavy to lift up.

He cannot even rock forwards and back to ease his sore back from the pressure of sitting in the same position in the same chair all day. The back of his head constantly itches. The nasal drip has turned into an embarrassing stream. He will not see visitors any more. He wishes to be left alone with his disgusting, defeated body. Is this his body's revenge on his younger, stronger, careless self?

Sunila and Tarani have been talking on the phone to Murad. The three-way phone conversation lasted a long time. They said
hospice
. Well, so be it. There was a time when he would have resisted. But what is the point of resisting? What power does he have, anyway? And does it really matter where he dies?

Perhaps it is better to lie in a bed, to be given mashed-up food, taken to the toilet and emptied, put back into the bed and left alone to lie there, staring at the ceiling. Maybe they will let him look out of a window. Maybe there will be a garden. Maybe the nurses will be kind, unlike the ones who were so cruel to Pavitra.

Pavitra. It has been a long time since he sat in front of her, trying to calm her terrible gasping for breath, unable even to reach forward and touch her poor thin hands. Was it last year? The year before? Anyway, she's gone now.

And he'll be next, after he's tucked away in some hospice where, they say, no one can hear you scream. He has heard the horror stories.
They wait until no one is looking and they twist your arms and pinch you where no one can see. They say that they even touch you on your privates.

He clenches his eyes shut. Sunila will not allow it. She would never put him somewhere like that.

The living-room door squeaks open slowly and a dark-tufted head appears. Seven-year-old Sami. Arjun smiles and tries to articulate a greeting. Sami puts his finger on his lips.

‘Ssh, Grandpa. You're too old for talking.'

Arjun smiles. ‘No – one – is – too – old – for – talking.'

Sami seats himself carefully on a stool next to the chair, as though Arjun might be crushed by any sudden movement. Arjun supposes his grandson sees the decrepit wreck of a human being.

Sami says, ‘I am very strong. You are very weak.'

‘Yes – son.'

‘I wrote a story about me. You can read it. ' He puts a crumpled piece of paper in Arjun's lap.

‘Thank you – Sami.'

‘I learned about the rainforest. There are all kinds of animals that stink. And there's a snake called a strictor that squeezes alligators.'

‘Boa – constrictor.'

‘No. A strictor. And then the snake lets go and the alligator is tired to death. Now I can sing you a song.'

Arjun nods. Sami clears his throat and slowly open his arms, takes a large breath, closes his eyes.

‘Tarara
boom
de-ay. Tarara
boom
de-ay. Tarara
boom
de-ay. Tarara
boom
de-ay.' He lowers his arms and opens his eyes. ‘The end. You can clap now.'

Arjun attempts to move his hands, but they lie like thin, exhausted birds in his lap. Sami reaches across, lifts his grandfather's hands and gently claps them together.

‘Thank – you.'

‘Mum knows the whole song.'

‘Your – mother – is – a – good – singer.' It is something he has never told her. He is suddenly ashamed. He should have encouraged her to sing. Why didn't he? What held him back? Fear that she might be rejected by some snooty English person? Why didn't he insist on singing lessons?

‘Mum's a
great
singer.' Sami rubs his forefinger across his nose. ‘My nose is always scratchy after I sing.' He looks at his grandfather hopefully. ‘I know more songs.'

‘Sing – another.' Arjun is afraid of falling asleep and losing these few rare moments with his grandson.

Sami opens his arms again and closes his eyes and sings in a high-pitched voice, very fast. ‘Singa-songa-sixpence-pocket-fulla-rye-four-an-twenty-blackbirds-baked-ina-pie.' He gasps and hauls in another great bucketful of air. ‘When-the-pie-was-open-the-birds-beganta-sing-wazen-thata-dainty-dishta-set-before-the-king.'

Arjun smiles and nods. ‘Beautiful, Sami.'

‘I know a lot of songs. I can sing a bedtime song to help you sleep.'

He manages a breath. ‘Yes.'

Sami stands with his arms straight by his sides. He tilts his head back, and with barely a breath between lines rattles off, ‘Five little ducks went out one day, over the hill and far away. Mother Duck said quack, quack, quack, quack, but only four little ducks came back.'

Five little ducks. His mother, Jonti, Pavitra and he had come to England. His father had stayed behind, planning to earn money and send it on, but had died of pneumonia during the winter flooding. And now Mum, Jonti and Pavitra were also dead.

He was the eldest. He should have died first. But now he is hanging here on a cartoon thread as he slips from ledge to ledge; from walking, to shuffling, to leaning on a cane, a walker, to assisted walking, to a wheelchair. How long before he makes the last drop into the gulch?

Sami puts his hand on his grandfather's head. Arjun feels the weight and heat of the solid little hand. ‘Now go to sleep.'

The tears slip out and trickle down Arjun's cheeks. He cannot lift his hand to wipe them away. Sami uses his t-shirt to wipe his grandfather's face. Arjun breathes in the little-boy sweat and a clean, young scent that might be laundry detergent. Arjun prefers to think of it as his grandson's special smell.

The living-room door opens again. Tarani comes in. ‘Sami, let Grandpa rest.'

‘I was singing to him.'

‘That's lovely. Grandma has something in the kitchen for you.'

Sami says, ‘But Grandpa is sad.'

Sunila would say,
He's just tired
. But Tarani says, ‘Yes. He is sad.'

‘Why?'

‘Old people remember a lot of things and not all of them are happy.'

‘Oh. When I grow up I'm only going to remember happy things so when I get old I won't be sad.'

‘That's a good plan.'

Sami leaves and Tarani sits on the stool. ‘Shall I plump up your pillows?'

Arjun shakes his head.

He tries. ‘Tarani. I – am – so – sorry – about – your – singing.'

She sounds baffled. ‘My singing?'

‘We – should – have – sent – you – for – lessons.'

She starts to rub cream onto his hand. ‘Well, I don't think I would have been much good. As long as Sami doesn't object to my singing.'

‘He – is – so – proud – of – you. Me – too.'

He wants to tell her he should have listened to her long ago, encouraged her, told her how proud he was of her. He wants to tell her that she will be happy with this new man she's just met, whoever he is, that he will be better than the last one. Better than Arjun's marriage to Sunila. He doesn't have enough breath to say any of it.

‘I know, Dad. It's okay.' She smiles at him. Hesitates. ‘Sometimes I'm impatient with Sami. He is only being his curious little self. But I've got all these other things to do. You know, last week, we were going to Haseena Aunty's house. I had to drop him off and then pick up the dry-cleaning and do some photocopying. He was dawdling around and making me crazy. Then, just as we're finally there and walking up the drive, he looks up and sees the bushes. “Lavender, Mum!” You should have seen him, Dad. He pushed his face right into the bush and inhaled. I though the whole thing was going to disappear up his nose.' She laughs. ‘Then he said, “You smell it, too.” I was about to tell him to hurry up, but I did smell it. And it was like the breath of morning.'

Feels her taking his useless hands and placing them around her waist. Feels his daughter embrace him. There is some pain you cannot breathe through. She picks up the crumpled story. ‘He was so excited to bring this to you.' She places it between Arjun's hands.

‘Thank you, pet.' And closes his eyes, the grip on his grandson's story loosening.

I am seven yeers old. My hare is darkish. I am nice to athre popel. My hobbis are to paint and drwor I like to play baskitball. Oh and also my name is Sami. Reneber all the things that I do. Good by now I am done ritig.

Magnums of champagne or appropriate non-alcoholic beverage to:

Editors: John Reed who first believed in me, Jean Casella who nurtured the novel, Juliet Mabey, Charlotte Van Wijk and Holly Roberts, the amazingly patient and encouraging editors at Oneworld Publications.

Christopher Learned, Jerry Mansfield, Jeff Murphy, David Patnoe and Pamela West, who gave invaluable feedback in the novel's early stages.

The Flamingo Diamond Chix who are my Cheer-Group Ultima.

Ed Hunter for his email to Aliya Hunter.

My family in England.

My cousin Stephen for his joke about the Colosseum.

My dear friends Zena Fairweather, Kim Young and Helen Nathaniel.

My daughter, Aliya, for the gift of herself and the use of her childhood stories and sayings.

My patient and loving husband, Andy.