Of Marriageable Age Page 2

  '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.'

  2

  Chapter Two

  Saroj

  Georgetown, British Guiana, South America, 1956

  Ma 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 ru
de. There were lots of palaces in Main Street.

  If 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.

  The caterpillars pulled their houses around on their backs. The caterpillars' houses were mud-brown ugly things made of twigs and pieces of dried leaves and sticky threads. If you touched the caterpillar it pulled its house over its head and disappeared inside it. Some caterpillars never came back out again. They turned into nothing. The ugly twig houses hung deserted from the leaves. If you squeezed them they were full of air. But they weren't nothing. The caterpillars had turned into butterflies inside, Ma said, and pointed to the kaleidoscope butterflies fluttering through the garden. 'Ugly things can be beautiful inside,' Ma told Saroj. 'The outside doesn't count. It's the inside that's real.'

  Saroj chased the butterflies all through the back garden. 'Don't chase them,' Ma said. 'Just stand still, and if you're lucky one might alight on your shoulder. See…’

  And she stood as still as a statue, holding up one hand, and a big blue beautiful butterfly landed on her finger. Ma lowered her hand and leaned over to show Saroj the butterfly. Saroj held out her finger but the butterfly flew away. Saroj stood stock still so the butterfly would land on her but it didn't.

  'You want it too much,' Ma said smiling. 'You have to be still inside as well as outside. Your thoughts are still chasing him and he's scared of you. But if you melt away he will come.'

  At the centre of that house, at the centre of Saroj's life, was Ma. Ma filled the world and made it good. The house smelled good when Ma was inside it. You felt good. Nobody else could make you feel good like Ma. Indrani was silly because she wouldn't play with Saroj. Ganesh was loud and Baba said he was bumptious. Bumptious came from bum. Ganesh slid down the banisters on his bum. Sometimes when Baba's back was turned Ganesh pulled down his pants and pointed his bum at Baba, and made Saroj giggle. Bum was a dirty word. If you showed your bum you were bumptious. Saroj wanted to be bumptious too, but Baba would be cross. Baba was cross at most everything. When Baba came home from work you had to be quiet. Saroj didn't like Baba too much, because he was rude to Parvati. Ma said you shouldn't be rude but Baba was rude, even to nice people like Parvati.

  Parvati always left before Baba came home but one day he was early and said, 'What's that woman doing here? I told you I don't want her around any more. Saroj is too old for a nanny.'

  Baba didn't like Parvati because he said she spoiled Saroj. Saroj felt terrible when he said that. Spoiled things were terrible. Spoiled rice on the compost heap had blue mould on it. Spoiled eggs stank. Spoiled mangoes were slimy and disgusting. She looked at her face in the mirror and there was no blue mould and nothing slimy and disgusting. She sniffed at her armpits but they smelled of Johnson's baby powder and that smelled good. She made an ugly face at the mirror. And then she showed her bum to the mirror, pretending it was Baba. Saroj liked most everything except Baba.

  Parvati had long black silky hair and took Saroj to the Sea Wall where you could gaze into For-Ever and think about things that had no end. Parvati took Saroj wading in the sea water. She showed her the crabs edging sideways out of their holes, and rushing in again. She showed Saroj how to fly a kite.

  Next to Ma, Saroj loved Parvati best in the world. Indrani always teased Saroj about Parvati. 'Baby, baby,' sang Indrani. 'Baby has a nanny!' She stuck her nose in the air. 'I never had a nanny, nor Ganesh. Only babies have nannies. You always had a nanny, so you're a silly little baby!'

  Balwant Uncle came to take Saroj's photo. It was her fifth birthday. Every time Indrani, Ganesh or Saroj had a birthday Balwant Uncle came to take a photo of the whole family. Saroj wanted Parvati to be in the photo too, but Ma said Parvati couldn't come to her party or be in the photo because Baba wouldn't like it. Baba was cross with Ganesh because he stuck out his tongue just when Balwant Uncle took the photo. So he didn't get any cake. The photos were all stuck in an album, and sometimes Ma sat Saroj on her lap and showed her the photos. She wasn't in any of the first photos, because Ma said she hadn't been born yet. Some of the pictures were taken at the beach. Ma said that beach was in Trinidad, because Ganesh used to have his birthday in Trinidad. Saroj was born in Trinidad, said Ma. But they never went to Trinidad any more, which wasn't fair. The beach looked nice, because the sea was blue, not like the ocean, which was brown. 'Why don't we go to the beach any more, Ma?' asked Saroj. But Ma only shook her head.

  When Saroj was six Jagan became King. Several uncles had come to dinner. There was Basdeo Uncle and Rajpaul Uncle, Basdeo Uncle waving a pamphlet at Rajpaul Uncle and jabbing the air with his forefinger. Three more uncles, Vijay Uncle, Arjun Uncle and Bolanauth Uncle, sat on the shiny red sofa, laughing at some joke Balwant Uncle had just told, opposite Baba in the armchair. Baba was glowering. He didn't like the uncles to tell jokes, but Balwant Uncle was full of jokes, so Saroj liked him best of all the uncles.

  Saroj was helping Ma and Indrani clear away the table. All the uncles and aunties had come for dinner, but the aunties had returned home early, leaving the uncles to an evening among themselves, because this was an important day. Saroj had felt Importance swelling in the house all day, all prickly and exciting.

  The drone of the radio announcer's voice crackled. Suddenly, Baba said, 'Sssh! Now it's coming!' and all the uncles jumped to their feet if they were sitting, stopped their talk in mid-sentence, and huddled around the radio, Bolanauth Uncle fiddling with the knob and the radio voice growing louder. And then they all gave a shout of triumph, the uncles and Baba crying out, 'Jai! Jai! Jai!’, waving their fists, hugging each other, slapping each other on the back.

  'What happened?' Saroj asked Ma, but Ma just shrugged her shoulders and disappeared into the kitchen. Saroj pulled at Ganesh's sleeve. 'What happened?' she begged. Ganesh was two years older than Saroj and already a young man. Ganesh knew the secrets of the uncles.

  'We won the election!' cried Ganesh. His eyes were burning with a fire that Saroj didn't understand. What was an election? And how come we won it? Would there be some sort of a prize, like when you did something good at school or at the May Day fair, whe
n somebody won the raffle?

  'No, no prize, Sarojinibalojini,' said Ganesh patiently. Ganesh always took time to explain things. He bent over and talked to her as if they were the same size, the same age. He stroked the hair from her face and said, 'It just means we Indians were running against the Africans, and we won.'

  'Oh, you mean a race…Why didn't we go and watch it then, instead of listening on the radio? It's much more fun…'

  'Yes, Saroj, a bit like a race, only the Africans weren't really running against the Indians, they just wanted to get voted, and —'

  'What are you telling that child, Ganesh?' Saroj looked up into Baba's frowning face, the cross face he'd been wearing more and more these days. Ganesh jumped to his feet. Though for Saroj he was tall he still hardly reached Baba's waist and they both stood looking up as if to a high white tower. Saroj knew they had done something wrong but she didn't know what.

  'I'm telling her about the election, Baba,' Ganesh looked down at his feet as he spoke, twisting the end of his kurta.

  'And what do you know about the elections, heh? What do you know? Do you know anything? Anything at all?'

  'Baba, you said if Jagan wins the election then Indians are going to rule!'

  'Yes! And you know what that means! That means this is a big day for us Indians! A big day! It's the dawn of a whole new era, what have I been telling you all along, Balwant, it's a matter of pure arithmetic... Indians outnumber Africans and as long as Hindus and Muslims stick together and vote together as one we will rule and keep those uppity Africans in their place — the country is going to the dogs I tell you, but God is on our side and I'm telling you…'