Read Online Nothing Like Love by Sabrina Ramnanan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sabrina Ramnanan
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grief. “Bullshit,” he slurred.
Puncheon opened his eyes. “Yes, man, real bullshit. Fatty-Om, you want me to go and beat Chandani for you?” He slipped off his stool and staggered to the door. “But allyuh don’t wait for me.” He looked over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Because when I done deal with Chandani, I going to visit my sweet little Julie mango, Sangita.” Puncheon laced his fingers behind his head and thrust his pelvis back and forth.
He made it to the main road before he collapsed in the heat and had to be carried back into the shop.
Chandani’s Strike
Thursday August 8, 1974
CHANCE, TRINIDAD
C handani’s strike stretched on for days. She stopped greeting the sun in the mornings; she no longer offered flowers to her little brass murtis. She refused to wash the wares or tend to her fowl, neglected the laundry and her coconut broom. She spoke to no one except herself, and even then her words were mumbled and indecipherable to Om, who eavesdropped from the other side of the bedroom door.
Om coped with Chandani’s neglect the only way he knew how: he delegated her tasks to Vimla. But on the third evening Chandani shut herself up in their bedroom, Om roused her gently from beneath the coverlet. “Chand, I working real hard all day, and three days I come home to Vimla’s burn-up roti. Get up, nuh, Chand, and cook something nice for me.” He rubbed his massive belly with a callused hand.
Chandani had drawn the curtains, but the relentless tropicalsun shone through in faint beams of watercolour yellow, a spotlight for dancing dust particles and buzzing flies. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands folded neatly over her stomach. Her long hair, usually oiled and shining, spread across Om’s pillow in dry, lifeless tangles. She looked like she was waiting to be lowered into the earth and this worried Om. He hovered over her, waiting for a response, pressing the weight of his belly into her small frame. Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling beams until Om retreated down the stairs, miserably massaging his rumbling belly.
The following day Om found Chandani sitting on the only chair in their bedroom, staring out the window onto their acres of cane. He moved beside her and laid his large hand on a sagging shoulder. “Chand, you cooking today? I tired eating doubles. I wasting away here.”
Chandani eyed Om’s gut and then turned away again. He stood there for a while, waiting for her to say something, to move more than an inch this way or that, to scowl, even to sigh. She did nothing. This was not the woman he had married.
The next day Om lumbered up the stairs and found Chandani standing in the middle of the room, studying a photograph on the wall: Vimla as a baby. Chandani was dressed in black and this time her hair was knotted into a severe bun at her nape. Today she looked like she was attending someone else’s funeral. Om groaned loudly to announce his presence and then flopped onto the bed. It creaked under his weight, and continued to whimper as he sprawled his giant limbs into a starfish position across it.
Chandani studied Vimla’s laughing eyes in the picture.
“Chand, I wouldn’t ask you to cook anything today.” He rubbed his stomach luxuriously. “My belly full.”
Chandani traced Vimla’s lopsided smile with a finger.
“In fact,” he went on, “you don’t have to cook for me ever again. You could just sit up here and rest forever.”
Chandani didn’t move, but Om knew she was listening now.
“I went over to Sangita and Rajesh Gopalsinghs’ house for lunch and dinner. Sangita invite me when she see me buying doubles at the doubles stand today. It was a good thing—”
Chandani whirled on him then, her eyes ablaze.
Relief zipped through Om, but he wanted more. “A real good thing she see me buying street food and invite me over. I was getting tired of eating oily doubles every day.” He paused for a moment, just before the climax. “She send
Puncheon opened his eyes. “Yes, man, real bullshit. Fatty-Om, you want me to go and beat Chandani for you?” He slipped off his stool and staggered to the door. “But allyuh don’t wait for me.” He looked over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Because when I done deal with Chandani, I going to visit my sweet little Julie mango, Sangita.” Puncheon laced his fingers behind his head and thrust his pelvis back and forth.
He made it to the main road before he collapsed in the heat and had to be carried back into the shop.
Chandani’s Strike
Thursday August 8, 1974
CHANCE, TRINIDAD
C handani’s strike stretched on for days. She stopped greeting the sun in the mornings; she no longer offered flowers to her little brass murtis. She refused to wash the wares or tend to her fowl, neglected the laundry and her coconut broom. She spoke to no one except herself, and even then her words were mumbled and indecipherable to Om, who eavesdropped from the other side of the bedroom door.
Om coped with Chandani’s neglect the only way he knew how: he delegated her tasks to Vimla. But on the third evening Chandani shut herself up in their bedroom, Om roused her gently from beneath the coverlet. “Chand, I working real hard all day, and three days I come home to Vimla’s burn-up roti. Get up, nuh, Chand, and cook something nice for me.” He rubbed his massive belly with a callused hand.
Chandani had drawn the curtains, but the relentless tropicalsun shone through in faint beams of watercolour yellow, a spotlight for dancing dust particles and buzzing flies. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her hands folded neatly over her stomach. Her long hair, usually oiled and shining, spread across Om’s pillow in dry, lifeless tangles. She looked like she was waiting to be lowered into the earth and this worried Om. He hovered over her, waiting for a response, pressing the weight of his belly into her small frame. Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling beams until Om retreated down the stairs, miserably massaging his rumbling belly.
The following day Om found Chandani sitting on the only chair in their bedroom, staring out the window onto their acres of cane. He moved beside her and laid his large hand on a sagging shoulder. “Chand, you cooking today? I tired eating doubles. I wasting away here.”
Chandani eyed Om’s gut and then turned away again. He stood there for a while, waiting for her to say something, to move more than an inch this way or that, to scowl, even to sigh. She did nothing. This was not the woman he had married.
The next day Om lumbered up the stairs and found Chandani standing in the middle of the room, studying a photograph on the wall: Vimla as a baby. Chandani was dressed in black and this time her hair was knotted into a severe bun at her nape. Today she looked like she was attending someone else’s funeral. Om groaned loudly to announce his presence and then flopped onto the bed. It creaked under his weight, and continued to whimper as he sprawled his giant limbs into a starfish position across it.
Chandani studied Vimla’s laughing eyes in the picture.
“Chand, I wouldn’t ask you to cook anything today.” He rubbed his stomach luxuriously. “My belly full.”
Chandani traced Vimla’s lopsided smile with a finger.
“In fact,” he went on, “you don’t have to cook for me ever again. You could just sit up here and rest forever.”
Chandani didn’t move, but Om knew she was listening now.
“I went over to Sangita and Rajesh Gopalsinghs’ house for lunch and dinner. Sangita invite me when she see me buying doubles at the doubles stand today. It was a good thing—”
Chandani whirled on him then, her eyes ablaze.
Relief zipped through Om, but he wanted more. “A real good thing she see me buying street food and invite me over. I was getting tired of eating oily doubles every day.” He paused for a moment, just before the climax. “She send
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