Of Marriageable Age (35 page)

'Why did you break off your studies?'

'Well, I just decided I don't want to be a doctor.'

'And what
are
you doing? Why don't you ever write? Why don't you say a word about what's going on? Every Christmas a card: Dear Dad, I've got a new job, I'm doing fine, love Nat. What kind of...’

'Look, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Did anyone ever ask me if I
wanted
to be a doctor? All my life I've been maneuvered into a profession that has nothing whatsoever to do with me... I...'

'Don't talk rubbish. You know as well as I do that back home it was what you wanted. You're a born doctor and you know it.'

Nat rubbed behind his ear. 'Anyway, what's the point? It's over, I'm doing well. I've got myself a life. I'm not going to be a doctor. Finished.'

'It would have been nice if you'd at least dropped by to discuss things with your father, before making a decision.'

'Look, Henry: I was a grown man when I made the decision. Can you give me one good reason to discuss things with my father?'

'Merely as a matter of courtesy, which I shouldn't have to explain to you, for goodness' sake, Nat. Since he was the one financing you…after all he’s done…'

'Look, d'you mind getting off my back? If there's one thing I can't stand it's parents laying a guilt trip on their children… "After all I've done for you…" '

Nat’s voice was mocking, sneering.

'It's not your dad saying that, it's me. Because he has done more for you than you can ever imagine and it would have just been nice, Nat, if you could have come and explained things to him yourself. I shouldn't have to spell this out for you. Your father's the last one to reproach you but he does love you and thinks about you and wonders what's going on. And it breaks my heart to see him working himself almost to death, longing for a word from you, and then to see how callous you've become. And that's the reason, the
only
reason, I've booked this flight. Nat, do I have to beg you? Come home! Just for a while! Just talk to him! He'd have come himself but he can't, he's up to his ears in work and he can't leave his patients. He needs you, Nat!'

'Yes, exactly, that's it! He needs me! All his life he's been raising me just for himself, to help
him
with
his
work, what
he
wants for me. You know what I call that? That's selfishness; it's just plain egoism! What about
me?
What about what
I
want?'

But even as he said the words he felt a pain like the twisting of a knife inside him, and a picture of his father's eyes rose in his mind's eye, eyes that carried no reproach but only understanding. Nat shook his head to rid himself of that vision, and his hand rose to the back of his neck where he rubbed the spot that calmed him.

'Would you talk that way if he were a Harley Street doctor with a brass plate on his door, giving you the opportunity to be his partner?'

'Well, that's different!'

'What's so different about it?'

'Well, I'd have had the
choice!'

'And, Nat, given your natural talent, you would have done it. That's not the problem, Nat. The problem is inside you. That's why you look such a mess. Why you
are
a mess.'

'If you came here to moralise . . .'

'I'm not moralising at all. I'm just stating a fact that's open for all to see. Look at yourself in the mirror. That's not the same chap I said goodbye to eight years ago, not even allowing for age. What's become of you?'

'Come off it, Henry. Get off my back. I've got to live my own life and I'll live it the way I want to. I'm not your little lad any more and I don't need your approval for what I do, thank you very much.'

'Nat, you're sulking. How old are you now? Twenty-seven? You act more like a sixteen-year-old in the throes of an adolescent rebellion. Well, I suppose it had to come sooner or later. Throwing you into deep water probably wasn't the best way, and if your dad had known how much times have changed since he was a student in England he wouldn't have done it. But somehow I never thought of you as a young rebel.'

'If there's one thing I can't stand it's moralizing and preaching.'

'Yes, you told me already. And if there's one thing I can't stand it's bratty know-it-alls, so I'll just bow out gently. By the way: Sheila, Adam and the twins send their love and say you should drop by again. Seems you made a lasting impression on the twins, since you were there last — what, three years ago? — they've jumped on this India bandwagon and it's been Harekrishna and Yoga and God knows what all; doesn't help that their father grew up in India himself, kind of a status symbol. Right now they're into Buddhism. Anyway, they asked me to give you this, and hope you haven't read it yet.'

Henry picked up a cloth bag from the floor and just seeing it gave Nat a little stab in his heart, for he recognised it, it was one of those cloth bags they gave you when you made a purchase at the dry-goods stores in Town, to put your cloth in, covered all over with a Tamil inscription.
Poompookar,
said the bag, in the curlicues of the Tamil alphabet which Nat found he could, miraculously, still read.
Special sari show room, artificial-silk saris, best quality. Polyester shirts and suitings.

A memory rose involuntarily in his mind: he and his father standing at the counter chatting with Mr Poompookar while an attendant measured out a length of cotton, ripping it expertly, folding it and scribbling the price in biro on the wad of cloth, a habit the dry-goods salesmen religiously indulged in no matter what you told them. Doctor collecting the bill at the cashier's booth and counting out the limp little rupee bills and paying; having another attendant putting the cloth into a bag like this and stepping down into the pandemonium of the street, into the swirling traffic, the medley of rickshaws and cyclists and pedestrians zig-zagging through each other as in a mad dance to the music of honking rickshaw horns and bicycle bells and screeching brakes.

Henry threw a slender, blue-wrapped slab on to the bed. 'A present. With love from Nina and Jule.' He stood up, slinging the straps of the cloth bag across his arm, so that the bag, almost empty now, swung limp from the crook of his elbow as he placed the palms of his hands together.
Poompookar. Best quality goods.
At the door he stopped, turned, and did
namaste.

'Namaste, Nat. Give me a call if you change your mind.'

Without thinking Nat found the palms of his own hands joining, returning Henry's greeting. Then Henry was gone, and Nat was alone with the stab of pain in his chest and the ghost of Mr Poompookar's smile still hovering in his mind and the unmistakable sweet fragrance of India permeating the room, left behind by Henry and his bag.

Tears gathered in Nat's eyes. He covered his face. A wave of shame and guilt and regret shuddered through him, and silent tears gushed forth. He picked up the book Nina and Jule had given him; read the title. He’d read it already, of course.

That's me, he said to himself. Siddhartha is me. Siddhartha, who lost the bird of happiness in the arms of the prostitute Kamala, who lost himself and all that was most precious…

'
H
ENRY
?'

'Oh, hello, Nat, how are you?'

'I'm all right . . .' He paused; Henry waited.

'Henry, did you keep that plane reservation?'

'Of course. Have you had second thoughts?'

'Yes. Henry, I — I've decided to go home.'

28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SAROJ

Georgetown, 1968

A
GANG
of African hooligans threw a bomb into the Purushottama-Temple. Indians ran screaming from the premises and into the street, their clothes on fire. They flung themselves into the grass verges beside the street and rolled out the flames. Before the fire engine could arrive the building was an inferno, the two neighbouring wooden houses were also alight. The inhabitants of those houses fled in time, but six Indians were killed in the temple, which was completely razed.

Workers came to measure the Roy house for a fire escape. Baba received anonymous threats. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘Animals!’

S
AROJ LOOKED
at her watch for the third time. Trixie was late. She had had to stay at school in detention for an extra period, so Saroj had gone to the library in the meantime and now was waiting for her at Booker's Snack Bar. She had finished her milkshake and the girl behind the counter had thrown her the second vicious glance — they liked you to go when you'd finished, but Saroj suspected that it was more because the girl was black and these days living in an Indian skin drew those kinds of glances from blacks. She squirmed on her seat, uncrossed her legs, swivelled half around to watch for Trixie.

She loosened her school tie and considered ordering a second milkshake, but there wasn't much time. This was to have been just a quick meeting, a cold drink and then a visit to Bata to help Trixie choose her latest shoes, after which they'd return to school for hockey. The man next to her paid for his sandwich and vacated his stool. Three black girls in Central High School uniforms edged themselves into the space next to Saroj. One of them slid herself on to the empty stool, and the other two glared at her.

'You finish? You not going?' said a tall lanky girl with an angry face, glowering at her.

Saroj looked at her watch once more. Trixie was twenty minutes late; she couldn't possibly wait any longer. She swivelled her stool around and was about to slip off when the second of the two standing girls gave her a shove from behind and she landed on all fours on the ground. The three girls cackled with laughter, and Saroj stood up, furious, brushing the dust from her uniform.

'Why'd you do that? I was leaving anyway!'

The girl wiggled her hips, pursed her lips, and said, imitating Saroj's accent, 'Why'd you do that? Oh my dear, listen to Miss Prim and Proper Cooly talking white!'

'I was leaving anyway!' said another girl, in an exaggerated BBC accent.

'Well, what about a nice cup of
tea?'
said the other in a stylised falsetto, carrying on the charade.

Tears stung Saroj's eyes. The way she spoke was a fact of life — after all, Ma spoke that way too, and she had never made the effort to speak Creolese. Now and then she had been teased about her English accent, but always the teasing had been friendly. This was downright mean.

The girls encircled her now — worse, they were joined by a group of boys, also in Central uniforms.

'That cooly-gal givin' ya'll trouble?' A boy with a six-inch Afro, the tallest, probably eldest of the group, pushed himself to the front of the group and stood directly before Saroj, staring down at her, almost touching her. She tried to step backwards but a girl behind her pushed her forwards so that she actually found herself in the boy's embrace — for he closed his arms around her and gripped her tightly.

'Hey, Errol, leave she alone, I jealous!' cried one of the girls.

'Give she it good, boy!' called someone else.

The boy holding her was pushing his face into her cheek, trying to nibble her ear. His hand was in her hair, kneading her back. She squirmed, grunting and protesting, to free herself, but he only held her tighter and laughed: 'Look how she winin' up! I like dem movements, girl!'

'Hey boy, you tekin' all de sweetness! Is me turn now! I never had a cooly-gal yet!' A second boy tried to push the first away and grab Saroj, but the other swung her around, clasping her to his chest.

'Oh, she sweet, man, too sweet!' He ground his hips against her. She tried to cry out but his mouth was on hers, and all the others were cheering, clapping him on.

'Go on boy, tek she! Tek she right now!'

Out of the corner of her eye Saroj saw an Indian woman, probably a housewife out shopping, peer into the group to see what was going on. Fright passed across the woman's face and she turned away and was gone. Behind the counter the girl stood smiling superciliously. Several of the customers had left; at least seven of the stools were now empty. No-one, it seemed, whether African or Indian, wanted to get involved.

What happened next happened so quickly that before she knew it, it was all over, and all she remembered was the loud thump as a thick French dictionary landed on the boy's head. Then a kicking, flailing-fisted, flashing-eyed Trixie pushed herself between Saroj and the stunned boy and in the next moment Saroj's molesters, boys and girls alike, had flown. Trixie dusted off her hands and gave Saroj her most wicked grin. She bent to pick up the schoolbooks lying scattered on the ground. She grabbed Saroj's hand, held it with intertwined fingers.

'Come, girl, we got to go. No time for a drink. Sorry I'm late; Miss Dewer came by and gave me an impromptu lecture about politeness to teachers. What a bloody bore!'

I
T WAS TOO
much to hope that Baba would completely forget the Ghosh boy. He didn't. As was his wont, he made the announcement at the breakfast table only two weeks after the razing of the Purushottama Temple.

'The Ghosh family is coming to tea on Saturday afternoon. I am expecting you to be on your best behaviour, Sarojini.'

Ma, Ganesh and Saroj exchanged glances. No one said a word. Baba, basking in his regained authority, continued.

'That I am permitting you to meet the boy before the wedding is a concession to modern times. I am expecting you to be most polite and hospitable.'

'But Baba . . .' Saroj finally found her courage and her voice, but numbed with shock she could get no further then this mild protest.

'No buts, Sarojini. We made this contract several years ago if you remember correctly, and the Ghosh family has been very patient. The boy is ready to enter the family business and support a wife and a family of his own. Luckily the family does not know of your caprices. We have managed to keep your worst transgressions within the family otherwise I am sure they would have backed out by now.'