Uhuru Street (2 page)

Baby loves vitumbua and she could eat two at a time. I would watch as Zarina brought them out one by one, and Amin would get the first lot to take away and sell. When he was gone I would await my share. Roshan would bring tea, and the two women would start to kid me. ‘You left Baby’s side early today!’ Once Roshan caught my eye at the door as I was leaving and said: ‘You know, if you find it difficult at home, you can always come here!’ There was suggestion in those eyes and a wickedness in that smile that could give your heart a flutter. At the far end of the corridor the flames glowed yellow and blue, the little tummies sizzled, and Zarina watched us, one hand on a skewer. Without a word I stepped outside into the brilliant morning sunshine.

German’s suspicions were aroused perhaps when he saw me give a shilling to the boy.

‘Eh, Amin!’ I called out one afternoon as he emerged with a few others from behind the store. He came in and stood in front of me, eyes shining and mouth open. ‘What were you doing back there?’

‘Why? Playing.’

‘Don’t take me for a fool! I too was your age once – shall I report to your mother?’

He knew I had him, but gave one more try. ‘Tell me, then, what was I doing?’

‘Smoking! And shall I also tell you what? Why, look at you – all bones you are and you want to burn your insides smoking cigarettes! Play cricket, play football –’

‘We don’t have a ball!’

I still don’t know what exactly it was that made me do it. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘take this – buy one and stay out of mischief.’ I gave him a shilling.

It was at this point that German shuffled in.

‘You know, bapa,’ I told him, a little guiltily, ‘it’s a pity there is no playing ground around here. The school is too far and at the Khalsa ground the caretaker chases them away. Boys need room to play.’

‘They are pigs, all of them.’ He made for the bench and picked up the measuring rod.

I thought this was too much. ‘Why, what have they done to you?’ I asked, a little sharply.

But the man refused the challenge. ‘I said they are all pigs,’ he said simply, and with that we stared silently in front of us. Good Kulsum was out and at the back we could hear Baby commanding the servant in her thick husky voice. It was dull and hot outside, few customers came in, and you wondered how long the lull would last. A little later, towards evening, things picked up. Baby puffed in and Good Kulsum stepped in exhausted from her rounds. German stood up and went out for a stroll and I was glad to see the back of him. Customer traffic picked up. Kulsum sang hymns in her grating toneless voice, counting beads from the bench, Baby served the customers and I gave out change and helped with wrapping. Baby is good with customers. She walks them in from the door, chatting amiably with them, and sees that they walk out with at least a good feeling if not something more.

That night she was angry and hurt.

‘One whole shilling to someone we hardly know!’ She looked at me reproachfully as she applied a generous layer of butter on a thick slice of bread, spread jam over it and handed it to me. Good Kulsum looked mournfully at me as she poured me my tea, and
German smirked, slurping over his bread over which he had poured his tea.

‘We should be charitable to our neighbours,’ I said in defence. ‘We should do things for each other.’ At which Baby and Kulsum remained silent, and the old man let out a series of muffled grunts through his skull, until I was forced to murmur, ‘Watch it, bapa, the bread does not get into your brain.’ And Kulsum looked more mournful than ever.

One morning he shuffled in as I sat kidding with the two women, sipping tea and watching the vitumbua frying in their woks.

‘Indeed,’ he muttered, ‘one also gets tea while one waits!’

‘Oh yes, bapa,’ I said, ‘have a seat, have a seat. Roshan, bring my father-in-law a chair!’ You would have thought I owned the place.

‘I have no intention of sitting,’ said the man testily. ‘I have a home. If it takes this long to cook vitumbua here, we can go elsewhere.’

The two women eyed each other. ‘Go,’ Zarina then said. The old man stood watching the fire.

‘You are the daughter of Jamal Meghji,’ he said at length.

‘Yes,’ said Zarina.

German loudly cleared his throat as if he were about to spit on the floor, then shuffled off to the door, stuck his head out and spat.

‘I knew your father,’ he said when he returned. ‘What town was he from?’

‘Mbinga,’ she answered.

‘I know that! Where in India?’

‘I don’t know. In Cutch or Gujarat somewhere.’

‘Mudra,’ he said, nodding at me. ‘I remember when he came to Africa.’

She said nothing.

‘Third class family,’ he told me, as we came out with our basket of vitumbua. ‘You know how he made his money?’

‘They were rich, then?’

‘He bought stolen goods. Flour and sugar. Then he sold it back. To the Germans. In one year, when the Great War in Europe began, he made all his money. And at the end of the war he lost it.’

‘How?’

‘Ah!’ His mood changed as we approached the shop, and he waved away my question. ‘But remember,’ he said, ‘third class family.’

That night after supper he told the story. The table lay uncleared and we all sat around, waiting for someone to start something. First he burped, and then he asked his question, which is his way of starting a story.

‘How did Jamal Meghji lose his wealth, Kulsa?’

‘I don’t know, it was all so long ago,’ Good Kulsum murmured.

‘Listen, then.’ He looked at me. ‘In the year 1916 a rumour went around that the Germans were losing the Great War, in Europe and even here. And with that rumour went another little rumour that the German soldiers were going around looting the businesses. People started hiding their cash and their jewellery, burying it and stuffing mattresses. Some other time I’ll tell you what I did. This is what Jamal Meghji did. He had a lot of cash, ten thousand rupees, it was said. Even for Europeans that was a lot of money.

‘Outside his house was a large tree, from which hung six, seven beehives. In those days this was the custom among Africans. People kept beehives. And according to the custom, you did not go near other people’s beehives. You could not touch them, no. So Jamal Meghji hid his money in beehives. And there it was as safe as it could be. He could go to sleep in peace.

‘The Germans were losing the war. Some months later some
German troops camped about five, six miles from the village. One day early in the morning a few German soldiers set out in search of food. And when they saw the beehives hanging from the trees, they pointed their rifles at them and shot them down. Jamal Meghji’s beehives came down with all his wealth in them. In this way the woman’s father died a pauper.’

On Sunday evenings we walk to the seashore. Always in the same order, Good Kulsum in the lead, then Baby talking loudly over her shoulder at me just behind her, and German bringing up the rear. And when the girls in pretty new dresses we pass on the road pull aside and giggle at our procession Baby gives them a good piece of her mind.

‘What are you laughing at? – Khi-khi-khi …! They think they are so beautiful. Look at the teeth of that one! She scares me, she does!’

At the seashore we drink coconut water, the old man buys peanuts, and we stroll for a while watching kids playing in the sand, boats bobbing up and down on the water, steamers coming into or leaving the harbour. We wave at the passengers when they wave at us and we wonder from what world beyond they could be coming, what country the ship’s flag represents. The Goan church starts to fill up and we troop slowly home.

In that same order I was brought home after the wedding, a prize. The taxi we took from the railway station deposited us on the road outside the shop. Kulsum got out of the front seat, and Baby beside me on one side and German on the other opened their doors. Already a small group of bystanders had gathered and people came to stand at the doors of their shops pretending to be casual. The old man was haggling with the driver and Kulsum was at the door when Baby and I walked in. The servant brought the trunks behind us. Good Kulsum never misses such a chance. A shower of rice fell upon us at the doorstep as she greeted us in
the traditional way, cracked her knuckles against our heads for luck, and pushed sweets into our mouths. The African girls who had gathered to watch smiled with pleasure and shyness, saying ‘Mr Bridegroom!’ ‘May this union be blessed with long life and many children,’ Kulsum crooned with pleasure, as the bride and groom stepped on and cracked the clay saucers for more good luck. ‘God give you a long and contented life together.’ Then she sobbed. By this time German had arrived and angrily shooed the girls away.

I was an orphan half-caste when I married, mother black. I was brought up by an Indian family, half servant and half son, and the night following the arrival of Good Kulsum and German with their proposal, I was told to take it.

The other day Amin walked into the store.

‘Uncle, Roshan says she wants to talk to you.’

‘What, now? What is it?’ I asked a little anxiously. This Roshan is a little disconcerting.

‘She says now, if possible.’

‘Alright. Go. Tell her I’m coming.’

I told Baby to come and wait in the shop, and I crossed the road to find out what Roshan wanted. A most unusual request, this, but for her perhaps not so. I entered the dark corridor. The first room on my left was her sitting room and parlour. At the end of the corridor the fires were cold, but the broken-backed chair on which I sometimes sat was there. Inside the room, I sat on an old sofa with faded embroidered flower patterns, whose legs had been cut. A cup of tea duly came my way and Amin was dispatched to buy something. Roshan sat across from me at her dressing table and I realised that I was sitting there like one of her customers.

‘You wanted to discuss something?’ I began.

‘Yes, I have something to tell you. You must have heard that Zarina is going to live with her brother in Mbinga.’

‘No, I haven’t heard. What happened? Can’t she make it here?’

‘No, it is difficult. And the boy is giving her a hard time. He needs a father. A man he can fear and respect.’