spilt from him almost involuntarily, under the weight of a headache that seemed to him to be caused by the thumping echoes of all his mother’s words trapped inside his brain.
The old lady seemed not to notice the irony that he had pointed out.
“That’s different,” she said, as though the difference were so obvious she need never explain it.
It was not in her son to ask her how it was different, or to stand up to his mother for any more than the two seconds it had taken him to utter that sentence, so he merely watched and listened as his mother outlined her plan for Amina. The boy she had in mind was the son of the Ali family. The father had been her husband’s friend back in India, before they had emigrated to South Africa fifteen years ago.
“They are in Pretoria, and the mother came to see me last week. We will have them to dinner,” stated the old lady.
The idea of people coming for dinner seemed to throw both her son and daughter-in-law off balance. Mrs Harjan had no idea how to cope with people for dinner - it had been so long since they had invited anyone. What to cook, what to wear, what to talk about? Mr Harjan was simply unhappy at the thought of strange people in his house, especially people who were coming expressly to weigh himself and his wife up as prospective in-laws, and his daughter as a prospective wife. This last thought jolted him into speech.
“Amina will never come,” he said.
His mother stared as though he had suggested that the world might stop turning.
“It is not up to Amina,” she explained with impatience. “She is your daughter, and my granddaughter. It is her duty to be where we tell her. She will come,” she added, and sat back with a satisfied air, her plump hands folded on her lap. Mrs Harjan rose to clear the dishes. Her maid, Rosemary, gathered them from her in unenthusiastic silence and began to wash them at the sink.
Mr Harjan did not argue the point regarding his daughter any further. He knew she would not attend a dinner in order to be introduced to a suitable boy. He also knew that she did not seem to be in a hurry to get married, and if he was completely honest with himself, this suited him very well. He was a man of routine, who disliked noise and disruption, and people outside his immediate family. That was one of the main reasons he had moved to Springs, rather than staying in Pretoria. Here there was no extended family, no helpful community of friends and neighbours always ready to drop in at the slightest excuse. There were other Indian families, but they were widely scattered, and they did not live on top of each other. He disliked anyone with whom he was uncomfortable, and he was comfortable with no one except his wife. Amina’s marriage to anyone, however suitable, would mean an endless stream of visits from his son-in-law and his family. They would probably have several children, too, who would run riot through his house. No, he disliked the idea of his daughter’s marriage much more than he disliked his community’s disapproval, and Amina in her turn had long been grateful for her father’s introverted habits and hatred of change, for it gave her an easier route to a freedom she would otherwise never have had.
Amina was surprised to get a telephone call at the café from her mother a few weeks later, and had immediately assumed that some emergency was at hand. The black telephone stood on a table in her parent’s house like a squat little god, whose workings they could not begin to comprehend, and which they disturbed only on rare occasions. Amina listened carefully to her mother as she asked her to come to the house for dinner the following Sunday night.
“What is happening on Sunday?” she asked, puzzled.
There was a silence at the other end.
“Mum?”
“Nothing is happening, Amina,” her mother said. Amina held the receiver a small distance away from her ear, because her mother had a
The old lady seemed not to notice the irony that he had pointed out.
“That’s different,” she said, as though the difference were so obvious she need never explain it.
It was not in her son to ask her how it was different, or to stand up to his mother for any more than the two seconds it had taken him to utter that sentence, so he merely watched and listened as his mother outlined her plan for Amina. The boy she had in mind was the son of the Ali family. The father had been her husband’s friend back in India, before they had emigrated to South Africa fifteen years ago.
“They are in Pretoria, and the mother came to see me last week. We will have them to dinner,” stated the old lady.
The idea of people coming for dinner seemed to throw both her son and daughter-in-law off balance. Mrs Harjan had no idea how to cope with people for dinner - it had been so long since they had invited anyone. What to cook, what to wear, what to talk about? Mr Harjan was simply unhappy at the thought of strange people in his house, especially people who were coming expressly to weigh himself and his wife up as prospective in-laws, and his daughter as a prospective wife. This last thought jolted him into speech.
“Amina will never come,” he said.
His mother stared as though he had suggested that the world might stop turning.
“It is not up to Amina,” she explained with impatience. “She is your daughter, and my granddaughter. It is her duty to be where we tell her. She will come,” she added, and sat back with a satisfied air, her plump hands folded on her lap. Mrs Harjan rose to clear the dishes. Her maid, Rosemary, gathered them from her in unenthusiastic silence and began to wash them at the sink.
Mr Harjan did not argue the point regarding his daughter any further. He knew she would not attend a dinner in order to be introduced to a suitable boy. He also knew that she did not seem to be in a hurry to get married, and if he was completely honest with himself, this suited him very well. He was a man of routine, who disliked noise and disruption, and people outside his immediate family. That was one of the main reasons he had moved to Springs, rather than staying in Pretoria. Here there was no extended family, no helpful community of friends and neighbours always ready to drop in at the slightest excuse. There were other Indian families, but they were widely scattered, and they did not live on top of each other. He disliked anyone with whom he was uncomfortable, and he was comfortable with no one except his wife. Amina’s marriage to anyone, however suitable, would mean an endless stream of visits from his son-in-law and his family. They would probably have several children, too, who would run riot through his house. No, he disliked the idea of his daughter’s marriage much more than he disliked his community’s disapproval, and Amina in her turn had long been grateful for her father’s introverted habits and hatred of change, for it gave her an easier route to a freedom she would otherwise never have had.
Amina was surprised to get a telephone call at the café from her mother a few weeks later, and had immediately assumed that some emergency was at hand. The black telephone stood on a table in her parent’s house like a squat little god, whose workings they could not begin to comprehend, and which they disturbed only on rare occasions. Amina listened carefully to her mother as she asked her to come to the house for dinner the following Sunday night.
“What is happening on Sunday?” she asked, puzzled.
There was a silence at the other end.
“Mum?”
“Nothing is happening, Amina,” her mother said. Amina held the receiver a small distance away from her ear, because her mother had a
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