Of Marriageable Age (3 page)

Paul had prayed that
he
would be chosen, and in fact it had seemed he
would
be chosen, because the lady, who had sad eyes and wore a purple sari and lots of golden bangles, had stopped and looked at him and smiled. 'He has a lovely wheatish complexion,' Paul heard her say, in English. 'Is he from the north?' Paul had prayed with all his might and even began to hope, because he just knew the lady wanted him.

But Mother Immaculata shook her head firmly. She took the lady by her elbow and led her away, her head leaning in towards the lady as she told her something awful about Paul which he wasn't supposed to know, something which made the lady nod in comprehension and choose another child, a very small one, one too young to go to school.

Paul was one of the eldest children. When he was five he would go to the Good Shepherd, which was an awful place in Madras for big children who would never ever get chosen. Mother Immaculata said the children in the Good Shepherd were Jesus's own little lambs. But Paul didn't want to be a lamb, because he was a boy.
Oh dear Baby Jesus, please let the
sahib
choose me! Oh, please let him choose me, dear Baby Jesus!
prayed Paul silently, and then he fell asleep. Baby Jesus had not answered his prayers the last time, and he wouldn't this time either.

He woke up because someone was shaking his shoulders and calling, 'Paul! Paul!' Paul rubbed his eyes and looked up; it was Teacher, and she was smiling. Behind her stood the
sahib
and Mother Immaculata, and they were talking together and the man was watching him, Paul. Paul didn't dare hope; he knew Mother Immaculata would soon tell the
sahib
the awful secret about him and then the
sahib
would turn away in disgust. But no; now Mother Immaculata was stepping forward and holding out her hand to him, and when Paul didn't react right away she flapped her fingers upwards impatiently and said, 'Come, come, Paul, get up, get up!' So Paul scrambled to his feet. And stood there gazing up at the
sahib
towering over him, who had kind dark grey-blue eyes and a huge hand which he now placed on Paul's head; it felt like a nice cool hat, a cool white hat like the
sahib
in the pictures wore, but this
sahib
was hatless, as if he didn't mind the sun.

They were speaking English; Paul could understand a little of it. Mother Immaculata called the man
daktah
, which surprised Paul, because he knew he wasn't sick, so why had the
daktah
come to see him? Or had he come to poke Paul with a needle in his arm, because
daktahs
did that sometimes? And why wasn't he wearing that tube hanging from his ears, like the other
daktah
who came? Paul hoped he wasn't a
daktah,
because then he'd go away again. He hoped he'd come to choose a child, and that the child would be him, Paul.

The
sahib
was saying something Paul didn’t understand, and Mother Immaculata was praising Paul because of his light skin.

'He's a clever boy,' Paul heard her say. 'A very clever boy.' And the
sahib
was nodding and looking down at him, pleased.

'Paul, count to a hundred!' Mother Immaculata said, and right away Paul reeled off his numbers, hardly pausing to breathe, and the man just kept smiling down at him with those warm grey-blue eyes that made Paul feel all cosy, like a puppy curled up to a mother dog.

Paul's heart was thumping so loud he could hear it. He rubbed the spot behind his ear and cried inside,
Please Baby Jesus, oh please, Baby Jesus, please please, Baby Jesus,
over and over again. He was terrified Mother Immaculata would tell the sahib the awful secret and then he wouldn't be chosen after all.

'. . . a tiny baby, just a few days old, wrapped in a dirty old sari . . . outside the gate,' Mother Immaculata was saying. Was she talking about him? Was that how he got here? 'A note, with his name —
Paul
, it said. And then she said something else using big English words Teacher hadn’t taught him yet, and her eyes looked worried, disapproving.

Paul wanted to cry. She'd told him! Told the
sahib
the awful thing! What did
insanity
mean? Was it worse than
awful?
Mother Immaculata was frowning so it must be much worse than
awful
. Now the
sahib
would… but the man had taken hold of his hand, was looking at it and stroking Paul's fingers while he listened to what Mother Immaculata was saying, now and then looking down at Paul and smiling, as if Mother Immaculata was only saying nice things about Paul.
She'll tell him about the day I did pee-pee in the classroom because I couldn't wait,
thought Paul. He wondered if the awful secret about him was worse than that, and thought it couldn't be much worse. Mother Immaculata had told him that time that Jesus was very, very sad about him doing that, and he had to kneel on rice grains for a whole afternoon reciting 'Hail Mary' to make Baby Jesus happy again.
Please please Baby Jesus
thumped his heart, and now the
sahib
was tugging gently at him, leading him down the verandah between the bodies of the sleeping children, to Mother Immaculata's office. Paul took hold of the
sahib's
forefinger and clutched it with all his might, so the
sahib
wouldn't leave him behind. They entered the office, and Mother Immaculata clapped her hands and when Sister Maria bustled up told her to bring two cups of tea.

The
sahib
sat at Mother Immaculata's desk, reading some papers, and Paul's heart thumped louder than ever because it seemed the
sahib
had forgotten all about him. At one point they seemed to be arguing. The
sahib
was waving a sheet of paper, and frowning, and his voice was so loud Paul grew scared and squeezed the
sahib’s
finger tightly, terrified that now the
sahib
knew the terrible secret, because Mother Immaculata was arguing back and pointing at him, Paul, as if accusing him of something. But then the
sahib
looked down at Paul and smiled. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘it’s not important,’ and then he sighed and everything was calm again. The
sahib
raised his right hand and chuckled, because Paul was still gripping his finger with all his might.

'I'll just have to sign with my left hand,' said the
sahib,
still smiling, and then he wrote with his other hand on the papers, and Mother Immaculata put some of them in a big cardboard folder and the
sahib
clumsily folded one other paper with his left hand and slipped it into his shirt pocket, and then he was leading Paul into the sunny courtyard, towards the motorcycle.

'Have you ever been on a motorbike before?' he asked Paul, who shook his head. 'Well, you'll have to let go of my finger so you can climb on,' said the
sahib,
peeling Paul's fingers away one by one and laughing. 'You can hold on to my wrists when we go . . . look, you sit in front; just slide forward so there's room for me behind you.'

The
sahib
pushed the motorcycle off its stand. 'Have you ever been to Madras, Paul?' he asked, in Tamil this time, while he untied a corner of his
lungi
in which he'd wrapped a key.

'Ille,
sahib
, sah,'
said Paul.

'Well, then, off we go!' said the
sahib,
in English, and he tied the hem of his
lungi
up above his knees and swung one leg over the motorcycle, the leg which ended in a foot made of wood, although Paul only saw the wooden foot later, after they got to Madras and the
sahib
took off the grey sock.

The
sahib
leaned forward.

'Listen,' he said, 'I don't like to be called sir. From now on you can call me Daddy. And I shall call you Nataraj. Nat.'

CHAPTER TWO

SAROJ

Georgetown, British Guiana, South America, 1956

M
A POINTED
into the gloom at the back of Mr Gupta's market stall. 'Can you show me that?' Saroj heard her say. 'No… no, not the vase, what's that behind it? THAT… Yes.'

Saroj was too small to see over the counter so she didn't know what Mr Gupta was bringing, and even standing on tiptoe all she could see were brown bony hands wiping something long with a cloth. The thing was heavy and made a thumping noise when he laid it on the counter. Saroj strained higher and managed to peek over the countertop, but it was only when Ma lifted the object that she saw it was a sword. Ma held it up, smiling, turning it around, running her finger along the sheath. She took it out of the sheath and tested the blade carefully with her finger to see if it was sharp, before pushing it back in. She bent over holding it in both hands, and showed it to Saroj, and Saroj touched it. It was hard and cold and had curly letters engraved in the metal.

'It's from Rajasthan,' said Mr Gupta, but Ma shook her head and said, 'Probably not. But it's beautiful.' And then they talked about the price and Ma took her purse out of the basket and gave Mr Gupta some red paper money. Mr Gupta asked if he should wrap it up, and Ma said yes. Mr Gupta gave the sword to Ma wrapped all in newspaper. Then he leaned over the counter and smiled at Saroj.

'So, little girl, what's your name?'

He knew her name, of course, because she had told him many times, but Saroj told him again because he must have forgotten.

'Sarojini-Balojini-Sapodilla-Mango-ROY!' the words reeled off her tongue in a rhythmic chant, knowing themselves by heart. Mr Gupta chuckled and held out two tins, one with curly bits of
mitthai
and one with pink-and-white sugarcake. Saroj took two pieces of
mitthai
and a sugarcake and said thank-you-very-much.

People were always asking for her name and laughing when she answered: Sarojini because she was Sarojini, Saroj for short. Balojini to rhyme with Sarojini, which Ganesh always called her: SarojiniBalojini. Sapodilla because she was brown like a sapodilla (and just as sweet, Ma said), mango because that was her favourite — exquisite golden Julie mangoes, soft-yellow-squishy, sucking the seed, or green and grated with salt and pepper. And Roy because she was Roy. If your name was Roy you belonged together and you were family and family was the backbone of society. Baba said.

The sword was awkward to carry because Ma had other things as well, a full basket and a parasol. So she tucked it under her arm, hiding it in the folds of her sari, and they walked to the bus stop and took a bus home. Saroj said nothing all the way home because she was thinking about the sword. Warriors used swords to kill people. Who was Ma going to kill?

When they got home Ma didn't kill anybody. She polished the sword until it shone like gold, and then she hung it on the wall in the
puja
room.

They didn't usually take the bus, not on market day, which was Monday. On Mondays Ma walked to Stabroek, open parasol in one hand, basket in the other, Saroj trotting at her side. Because there was no hand free for Saroj, Ma always said,
hook me, my dear,
and Saroj — almost five now and quite tall for her age — reached up for the crook of Ma's elbow. Ma held the parasol above their heads as they cut through the Promenade Garden between Waterloo and Carmichael Streets, and crossed over into Main Street.

Saroj liked the Stabroek Market, which was teeming with people and noise and exciting smells, vegetables and fruit and fat black market ladies calling out, and slippery dying fish slapping their tails on the ground, and pink living crabs in baskets that would snap at you if you stuck your finger at them. You could buy swords there and everything else you needed, hairpins and pointer brooms, Johnson's baby powder and Benadryl Expectorant and Mercurochrome and Eno’s Liver Salts. Saroj liked the walk down Main Street, too, and the big white palaces where you might see white people if you were lucky but Ma said you shouldn't stare, it was rude. There were lots of palaces in Main Street.

I
F YOU CLOSED YOUR EYES
, it seemed to Saroj, Georgetown would reach out and fold you into soft wide arms and let you snuggle in. If you opened your eyes and skipped, alongside Ma, down its wide green avenues shaded by spreading flamboyant trees, all covered in scarlet blossoms, Georgetown watched fondly, nodded indulgently at you and smiled, and you felt good inside, full of light and colour. You could jump over the little ditches on the grass verges and catch the little fishes in the gutters or collect tadpoles. You could hide behind the flamboyants and peek behind the hibiscus hedges at the houses, in case you saw the white people who lived in them.

Those pristine white wooden Main Street houses seemed to whisper to you as you passed by, bidding you come in. They were fairy-tale palaces, with towers and turrets, pillars below and fretwork panels above, bows and bays and Demerara windows, stairs inside and out, porches, porticos and palisades, built by the Dutch on vast plots because there was so much space on this flat land by the ocean, bathed in sunshine and swept by breezes. The houses nestled, half-hidden, among leafy mango or tamarind trees and luxurious shrubs, and wide emerald lawns surrounded them. Their graceful elegance contrasted with the green abundance that framed them, gardens overflowing with colour and saturated with fragrance, hibiscus and oleander spilling over white picket fences, giant bougainvillea bushes climbing up the white walls and curving up against the brilliant blue sky in a riot of pink and purple clusters.

The houses in Waterloo Street were miniature versions of those Main Street palaces. Their own house, too. Ma had made a paradise of the garden: bougainvilleas in the back, so huge you could hide within them, croton and fern to offset the roses. Oleander and frangipani flourished in the front yard, their fragrances mingling. Shoulder-high poinsettia and long sleek canna lilies lined the gravel path to the front door in the tower, yellow and pink hibiscus grew along the white palings, and some long leafy nameless things where caterpillars crawled reached all the way up to the gallery windows.