A Sister's Promise (9 page)

Dearest Ma,

When I think back to my childhood, this is what I remember:

The dark hut, which Da had to bend to enter, with its soot-etched kitchen and the one room where we lived and ate and slept, the mud walls which cracked in summer and leaked during the monsoons, the hay which dripped in the rains, and we had to keep pans throughout the house to catch the drips, the tangy odour of disintegrating manure, the rotting stink of the woodlouse-ridden beams barely holding the thatch up. We would eat our meals to the music of the rain tangoing on the roof and drumming onto the pans. The smell of wet hay tickled my dreams.

The toilet and the cramped cubicle where we washed were in a lean-to outside—that coconut frond topped and walled shed—where the dog slept and where the coconut husks and twigs were stored. If I close my eyes now, I can almost inhale the smell of hot water and soap and dog and kindling and contentment as you lobbed warm mugfuls of water onto my wriggly body and scrubbed it clean of the adventures of the day.

Every once in a fortnight or so, we would have fish, when Da had saved up enough to negotiate for the rejects from the boats—fish too small and too plagued with bones to sell. I remember being shaken awake at the crack of dawn and taken to the fish market, the soft air, saturated with the drowsy dream-infused aroma of night, whispering lullabies as I dozed on Da’s shoulders.

I hear the tantrums of the waves, the crashes and the rumbles as they collide with the rocks, long before the coconut fronds part, a swaying curtain, to reveal the rush of greenish turquoise depositing select gifts onto the moist, cream beach. Boats bob black on froth-capped blue. Yellow nets flash as they get closer to shore. The scales of thrashing fish glint in the sun. Seagulls swoop and crabs scurry into sandy shelters.

Da sets me down and I try to grab a crab with both hands, but it scoots into a hole and disappears, too fast for my clumsy efforts. The boats anchor in a rush of noise and smell, salt and ammonia. Fisherwomen are ready with baskets, haggling for fish.

Afterwards, Da and I would swan home with a bagful of rejects, a bargain for less than five rupees. I can almost taste the fish curry and fried fish we would eat later that evening; I see myself carefully prying the last sliver of flesh clinging stubbornly to the multitude of bones, a rare treat.

I remember long days steeped in joy spent at the little stall, Ma, that you and Da used to man in the patch of earth beside the highway that bisected our village, and which the villagers had appropriated for market in the hope that the buses that shuddered past would stop once in a while, affording business. I would place the vegetables you had coaxed out of our sorry-looking patch of land into their waiting bags, and carefully count out the change, and you would grin at me, pat my head, and mouth, ‘My wonderful girl’.

We would eat red rice and pickle most days. We would only eat the vegetables you grew if we did not manage to sell them and they started to go bad. The milk we got was so watered down that we couldn’t even make curd from it. But, despite all this, I was completely, incredibly content.

And then came the day which would mark the end of my life as I had known it, the day everything would change forever . . .

You haven’t been yourself for some time, Ma. You have been sleeping a lot and when you wake, your face is the greenish yellow shade of the underside of banana leaves. I often hear you retching in the lean-to.

‘Are you not well, Ma?’ I query many times.

And you smile a smile that is a tad weary at the edges and assure me that you are fine.

One day, you sit me on your lap, cup my face in your palms and say, ‘Since you’re growing up so quickly, Sharda, into such a wonderful little girl, it is time you learnt a bit of cooking.’

I jump off your lap, skipping with delight at being treated like a grown up.

‘We’ll cook the okra we couldn’t sell yesterday, what do you say?’

We squat together on the kitchen floor and you show me how to handle a knife. You give me a blunt one so I don’t cut my fingers and patiently, you teach me to chop onions, garlic and ginger.

‘The holy trinity of our cuisine,’ you say smiling and I smile along, although I do not quite understand.

You heat the oil and add the mustard seeds and the curry leaves. I love the heady scent of frying curry leaves and put my face too close and one of the popping seeds nicks me in the face. I cry out, Ma, and you gently rub my cheek with your magic fingers.

You ask me to add the onions and I notice, as you thrust them at me that you have gone green again. I hear you heaving as I add the onions and watch them go from pinkish white to translucent gold, the piquant, tart reek of raw onion replaced by the heady aroma of comfort.

By the time you come back, I have added the garlic and ginger as well and am in the process of stirring everything together.

‘Well done, my darling, you’re a natural cook,’ you beam and I preen as delight floods my being.

You ruffle my hair and together we add the okra, and you show me how to keep stirring it until the sticky gooey strands disappear. You add just a smidgen of water, put the lid on and leave it to cook.

‘Now, since you’re being such a star, shall we make kheer,’ you say, ‘just for today, as a treat? I feel like something sweet.’

I am beside myself. We are only able to afford one cup of watery milk a day and there is never enough for kheer, which is my favourite sweet in all the world.

‘I’ve been saving milk for the past few days,’ you say, smiling, ‘for you, for this. Because today is a special day.’

‘Why? Is it a feast day?’ I go through the list of feasts in my head, wondering which one it is that I have missed. We did not get the day off at school, so it cannot be a major celebration, definitely nothing to do with any of the gods.

‘No sweetie,’ you say softly. ‘It is a special day because I have to tell you something very important.’

‘Okay,’ I say, itching to get on with the making of the kheer, breathing in the spicy smell of the okra, pleased that I am good at cooking like you, Ma.

I am given the very important job of opening the cardamom pods and crushing the seeds. The dog pokes his nose in the kitchen doorway, drawn by all the smells wafting into the courtyard. Outside, the coconut tree fronds romp in the sudden wind that has started up, heralding rain; dust swirls marigold in the sunshine and the dog sneezes, his expression one of great surprise and I laugh and you say, ‘What’s so funny then?’

Your sari is dusted with flour from kneading chapathi dough to go with the okra. Our little hut smells of roasted cloves and cinnamon, of caramelising sugar and sweetening milk as it thickens into kheer.

‘What did you want to tell me, Ma?’ I ask unable to wait any longer.

Caressing your stomach, you look at me and smile, and your smile is radiant, even though your face is tired. ‘You are going to have a little sister or brother soon, Sharda. A baby is growing in my tummy like you did not so long ago.’

I am going to be a big sister!

‘Your da and I,’ you say, ‘will need your help in looking after the baby. Big sisters have big responsibilities, you know. They need to set a good example.’

I nod solemnly, excited and pleased. I touch your stomach and then kiss it, whispering, ‘Hello, baby. I am your Big Sister and I promise to look after you, always.’

You laugh, Ma and tell me how lucky this baby is to be blessed with such a wonderful big sister. ‘And are the cardamom seeds ready?’ you ask.

I rush to finish the task assigned to me and in my haste, bring the pestle down hard on my hand instead of the cardamom seeds I am supposed to be crushing and scream with the agony of it and the dog barks and thunder growls and there is mayhem.

You take me in your arms, Ma, so I am settled in your lap right beside the growing baby and I wish, how I wish, that I was the one curled up within you, safe and free from the pain that has claimed my hand and will not ease no matter how hard you blow on it and ply it with cold water and rub it with your magic hands.

Recipe for a Happy Family:

A man

A woman

A little girl

Grow the little girl in the woman’s belly until she’s ready. Bring her into a world where she’s the sun, the brightest star lighting up the stormy sky, the full stop that completes the man and woman’s world, the angel who is their greatest wish granted, the laughter in their life, the word that makes up their sentence, the meaning to their existence, the sugar in their kheer, the spice in their curry.

No garnish necessary. No seasoning needed.

How is the little girl to know that she is not the full stop, the ending that makes their story complete? That there is more to come. A brighter sun, a shinier star, a more delightful angel, a better word, a zestier condiment, a more potent spice . . .

After the day you tell me I am going to be a big sister, Ma, the life I have become accustomed to disappears; drastic changes render our cosy household unrecognisable. As the baby grows in your stomach, it seems to take you away from me. When I wake up to go to school, you do not wake with me. I learn to heat up last night’s rice with water to make conjee, which I eat with pickle for breakfast. You say I am a brilliant girl, a godsend, but you don’t beam at me like you used to; you smile with great effort and then close your eyes and go to sleep again.

You do not accompany Da to the market like before so he is always rushing, continually busy and does not have time for me. A worried frown permanently creases his forehead. You are always lying down. Your face pale, your eyes heavy, one hand cradling your stomach.

I worry that the baby is hurting you, that it is taking you over. I worry that this is the ma I will have for always, that the laughing, active Ma I have known and adored will become a distant memory.

I try very hard to put a smile on your face, to turn you back into the ma you were before. I bring you food I have carefully prepared myself, and I try gently to get you to sit up. But your face goes green when you see the food and you say, sighing, ‘This looks wonderful but I can’t today, sweetie.’

‘Were you like this when I was growing in your stomach, Ma?’ I ask.

Perhaps all babies do this and when the baby comes out, the ma I remember and greatly yearn for will be back.

You smile and pat your stomach fondly, and I wish it was my face you were touching. ‘No, you were such an easy child, both inside my womb and when you came into this world. This one is giving me so much trouble.’

I beam at the thought that I was good even in the womb and then I am puzzled, Ma, that you are not upset with the baby for troubling you. But
I
am. I try not to be, but I am so mad with it at times. At school, I cannot concentrate, although I enjoy learning. I am thinking of how this baby is stealing you and the carefree da I knew away from me. I cannot remember the last time I heard Da laugh or even saw him smile. I cannot remember the last time you were up and about.

I do not know if I can like this baby who is already changing so much around our house, making me feel invisible sometimes, even though I try so very hard to be noticed, to be good, to help. I feel like I am fading away into the background, with this baby hogging the limelight and your affections, which until now had been focused brightly and solely on me.