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Authors: Tishani Doshi
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crack of a jhill mill smile. ‘It’s a deal.’
Prem Kumar would have the last word that night, though. Not spoken words, as he still wasn’t speaking to his son, but written words, pious words, copied out from the Bible no less, to prove that he was a fair and open-minded man:
IN THE LAST DAYS, MEN WILL BE LOVERS OF THEMSELVES, LOVERS OF MONEY, PROUD, DISOBEDIENT TO PARENTS, UNTHANKFUL, UNHOLY LOVERS OF PLEASURE RATHER THAN LOVERS OF GOD.
This, he copied out in terse, black capitals and slipped under Babo’s bedroom door on the night of his second departure.
In the house of Prem Kumar’s birth in Ganga Bazaar, Anjar, the doors were always open. It was a house without furniture, without clocks, where instead of chairs, wooden swings hung from the ceiling, and instead of tables, meals were eaten cross-legged under the shade of the jamun tree on the veranda. In the evenings, when visitors came to see Ba, jute mats were spread on the black stone floors in the room of swings to accommodate them all, and at night, after they left, Ba would lay her cotton mattress down either inside or out, depending on the time of year. Red garoli lizards lived and died on the walls of this house, chewing plaster, plop plopping softly, while peacocks howled on the tin roof above. It was a child’s paradise, and at one point early in the century, fifteen people had lived in this house, but for some years now, Ba had lived here all alone.
Ba had been able to smell Babo all the way from Amroli. It was a special talent that had come to her in her fifty-third year when she lost her husband to tuberculosis and her knee-length hair turned white overnight. She discovered then that she could smell human defilements and devotions from over the hills and far away, which was a good thing, because she was an old woman now, severely diabetic, and her once bright, black eyes were slowly going blind. Ba believed it was life’s way of compensating: to take with one hand and give with the other. This was the law of the universe – to remain in constant balance; which is why, no matter how many hardships she’d had to face, and there had been many, Ba had remained a true seeker, believing that no matter how bad the situation got, around the corner, salvation would appear.
‘Tell me,’ she called from her place on the front steps, ‘About this English girl that has made a tyre puncture in your heart. Is she beautiful?’
Babo walked up to his grandmother and touched her feet to ask for her blessings. It amazed him, as it always did, how she had not changed since he’d last seen her. Ever since he could remember, his grandmother had looked exactly the same. ‘She’s not English, Ba, she’s WELSH.’
‘Welsh,’ Ba repeated softly, savouring the foreign word on her tongue. ‘Welsh. It sounds like a kind of wind – a wind that rushes through the forests and shakes all the leaves off the trees.’
Now that Babo was close to her and she could see him better, Ba touched his head and said, ‘What’s this? Is this the new fashion in England? To walk around like a jungli with uncombed hair? And this?’ she said, tugging his beard, ‘Is this the fashion too? Or is this what WELSH girls like?’
‘It’s my sign of protest,’ said Babo proudly. ‘I’ve taken a vow for six months that I won’t cut my hair or shave until I see Siân again.’
‘Oh! So you’re on strike. Very good. But why do we have to suffer just because you are suffering?’
‘Because I’m your favourite grandchild?’
‘Oh yes, there is that. There is that indeed. Well, tell me. Tell me from the beginning. I want to know everything.’
Babo, on the first night of his self-imposed exile in Ganga Bazaar, told his grandmother the story of his last nine months in England. He told her about the meeting in the canteen and the gap between Siân’s teeth which he’d wanted to disappear into for ever; about how his life in London, which had been quite
Prem Kumar would have the last word that night, though. Not spoken words, as he still wasn’t speaking to his son, but written words, pious words, copied out from the Bible no less, to prove that he was a fair and open-minded man:
IN THE LAST DAYS, MEN WILL BE LOVERS OF THEMSELVES, LOVERS OF MONEY, PROUD, DISOBEDIENT TO PARENTS, UNTHANKFUL, UNHOLY LOVERS OF PLEASURE RATHER THAN LOVERS OF GOD.
This, he copied out in terse, black capitals and slipped under Babo’s bedroom door on the night of his second departure.
In the house of Prem Kumar’s birth in Ganga Bazaar, Anjar, the doors were always open. It was a house without furniture, without clocks, where instead of chairs, wooden swings hung from the ceiling, and instead of tables, meals were eaten cross-legged under the shade of the jamun tree on the veranda. In the evenings, when visitors came to see Ba, jute mats were spread on the black stone floors in the room of swings to accommodate them all, and at night, after they left, Ba would lay her cotton mattress down either inside or out, depending on the time of year. Red garoli lizards lived and died on the walls of this house, chewing plaster, plop plopping softly, while peacocks howled on the tin roof above. It was a child’s paradise, and at one point early in the century, fifteen people had lived in this house, but for some years now, Ba had lived here all alone.
Ba had been able to smell Babo all the way from Amroli. It was a special talent that had come to her in her fifty-third year when she lost her husband to tuberculosis and her knee-length hair turned white overnight. She discovered then that she could smell human defilements and devotions from over the hills and far away, which was a good thing, because she was an old woman now, severely diabetic, and her once bright, black eyes were slowly going blind. Ba believed it was life’s way of compensating: to take with one hand and give with the other. This was the law of the universe – to remain in constant balance; which is why, no matter how many hardships she’d had to face, and there had been many, Ba had remained a true seeker, believing that no matter how bad the situation got, around the corner, salvation would appear.
‘Tell me,’ she called from her place on the front steps, ‘About this English girl that has made a tyre puncture in your heart. Is she beautiful?’
Babo walked up to his grandmother and touched her feet to ask for her blessings. It amazed him, as it always did, how she had not changed since he’d last seen her. Ever since he could remember, his grandmother had looked exactly the same. ‘She’s not English, Ba, she’s WELSH.’
‘Welsh,’ Ba repeated softly, savouring the foreign word on her tongue. ‘Welsh. It sounds like a kind of wind – a wind that rushes through the forests and shakes all the leaves off the trees.’
Now that Babo was close to her and she could see him better, Ba touched his head and said, ‘What’s this? Is this the new fashion in England? To walk around like a jungli with uncombed hair? And this?’ she said, tugging his beard, ‘Is this the fashion too? Or is this what WELSH girls like?’
‘It’s my sign of protest,’ said Babo proudly. ‘I’ve taken a vow for six months that I won’t cut my hair or shave until I see Siân again.’
‘Oh! So you’re on strike. Very good. But why do we have to suffer just because you are suffering?’
‘Because I’m your favourite grandchild?’
‘Oh yes, there is that. There is that indeed. Well, tell me. Tell me from the beginning. I want to know everything.’
Babo, on the first night of his self-imposed exile in Ganga Bazaar, told his grandmother the story of his last nine months in England. He told her about the meeting in the canteen and the gap between Siân’s teeth which he’d wanted to disappear into for ever; about how his life in London, which had been quite
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