Monsoon Memories (37 page)

‘We’re sorry, Reena, so sorry.’ Deepak’s voice was gentle.

Preeti cupped Reena’s face in her palm and looked deep into her eyes. ‘She wanted what was best for you. It must have been so hard, to give you away. I couldn’t do it… but she did. Because she loved you. So very much. Her sacrifice. Our gain.’ And then, softly, ‘It’s okay to be angry with us, with her. To hate us even. We’ll understand. She will too.’

‘How do you know?’ Reena sniffed.

‘I know.’

‘We love you very much, Rinu...’

‘Um... I’d like to sit here for a while. You go on in...’

Preeti and Deepak exchanged glances, undecided.

‘Are you sure?’ Deepak asked, finally.

She nodded.

‘Rinu. It’s a lot to take in. If you have any questions, ask—okay?’ Deepak said.

Preeti knelt down on the grass and looked into Reena’s eyes. ‘And we’ll answer to the best of our knowledge. No more secrets. That’s a promise.’

Fat chance. I’ll never believe anything you say ever again.
Reena watched her parents make their way back to the house. They walked side by side, slowly, and it was as if she was looking into the future—a sudden dizzying glimpse—where the people she’d believed to be her parents were old and bent, weary with the burden that was life.

Perspiration beaded her neck, ran down her back in rivulets—like monsoon rain gushing down pipes at the sides of the house—and collected in the waist of her shorts. She felt tired. So very tired. She thought about Shirin, getting closer and closer to home, landing around now. It sent a shaft of pain right down her middle. She clutched her stomach, doubled over. Gypsy leapt up, made to lick her tears. ‘Shoo, Gypsy.’

From the house, her mum—
mum?
—What else could she call her? ‘Rinu, you okay?’

‘Yes.’ She must have been peeping through the window, keeping an eye on her.

‘Shall I sit with you?’

‘No.’

Preeti turning away to hide her face crumpling.

Oh, go away and leave me alone. I cannot deal with your hurt right now. I am hurting enough.

Loud shouts. Commotion. Surely Shirin couldn’t be here already?
What do I say to her? What do I call her?

It was Nagappa’s grandson, dancing down the path, wearing nothing but a pair of dirty shorts too small for him. ‘The riots have stopped,’ he announced breathlessly.

Madhu, who had come running out of the kitchen, her apron awry, looked disappointed that it was not Shirin. She turned to Reena and her expression softened. She came up, ‘Shoo, Gypsy,’ put her arms around Reena, held her close. ‘There, there. Have a good cry.’

‘What happened, Naresh? How do you know the riots have ended?’ Reena heard Deepak ask of Nagappa’s grandson.

‘The Bishop had talks with the Hindu and Muslim leaders. They have agreed to end the riots. They apologised… said they did not know that there were people inside the hall; they thought they were burning down an empty building.’ Naresh paused to catch his breath after the long speech.

‘As if...’ Madhu began.

‘The Bishop has asked them to apologise personally to the affected families, so they might be arriving here sometime,’ Naresh finished.

‘When they come here, I will give them a piece of my mind. I am a Hindu myself and know many good Muslims. It is despicable behaviour and cannot be excused,’ Madhu announced, her arms still firmly encircling Reena. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now. You go inside, Naresh. You deserve freshly cooked samosas after that piece of good news. I’ll be along in a minute.’

With her apron, Madhu wiped away the last of Reena’s tears. ‘Do you want some samosas, Rinu? I have made tamarind chutney to go with them. Or if you want something cool, I’ve made Dahi Vadais.’

‘No thanks, Madhu. I’m not hungry.’ And then, at the look on Madhu’s face, ‘I’ll eat a lot at lunch, once um... Aunt...’ The word rolled around on her tongue, suddenly alien. What should she call Shirin? ‘Shirin is here...’

Madhu bent low, whispered in Reena’s ear, ‘She loves you. Very much. It will be okay. I promise.’ She squeezed Reena’s hand. ‘Come in for a snack soon.’

Madhu hobbled in but Deepak hovered. ‘Thank God for that. Taipur can try to get some semblance of normality back now,’ he said, voice falsely cheery. And then, softly, kneeling beside her, ‘And you? It will take you a while to get some semblance of normality back, no?’

She didn’t reply.

He stretched his hand out and tentatively patted her shoulder, ‘Lot to take in, isn’t it?’

She shrugged his arm off. ‘I am going in for a drink.’

She went to the fridge, shying away from her mum’s open arms, mumbling yes to Aunt Anita’s solicitous, ‘Are you okay?’—
No, I’m not actually. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I do know that it’s not ‘Okay’
—got a bottle of ice-cold water and, armed with a chair, her casebook and an old novel she had found in one of the wardrobes (it had the words ‘Taipur Circulating Library’ stamped on its yellowing pages in faded blue ink), went back to her chosen spot by the well. Madhu had told her once that this was Grandpa Walter’s favourite spot. He used to sit there, in the shade of the guava and cashew trees, Madhu said, with his ever-present Bible, sweat dripping down his bare chest, collecting around his ample waist and soaking into his lungi.

Gypsy came, tail wagging, nose sniffing, and plonked herself on Reena’s feet. ‘Move, Gypsy. You’re making my legs hot.’ Reena pulled her legs out from under Gypsy’s warm belly and folded them beneath her. Gypsy whined a complaint and flopped back on Reena’s sandals, her paws stretched out in front of her. She was hot too. Her tongue was hanging out and she seemed to be eyeing Reena’s bottle of water. She made as if to lick the drops of condensation off it. Reena moved it out of her reach.

A tiny breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees every once in a while, and the shade afforded solace from the relentless heat. The air was heavy and humid. Bees droned lazily. Butterflies flitted. The empty fields baked in the sun, the mud cracked. It felt like the whole world was waiting. Waiting for Shirin.

This detective was right. Prem did have something to do with the rift. He… He… Her hands shook. She could not do it. She looked at her previous entry. ‘This detective has reached the conclusion that she is destined for greatness.’ And for the first time in what felt like ages, she smiled.

Prem is this detective’s father and Shirin is her mother. She wrote.

Case resolved successfully.

THE END.

When she was feeling up to it, she would write everything out in detail, the whole gory tale, warts and all. Not now. Not today. She tucked her casebook beneath her bottom where it would stay safe and hidden, and opened the novel—
The Thorn Birds—
knowing she couldn’t read, but wanting to try, desperately wanting to escape, at least for a bit, her own story. She did manage to read, however, instantly identifying both with Meggy Cleary’s laments for her mutilated doll and with the doll itself, realising that that was how she felt: mutilated, used, betrayed. She did not hear the taxi pull up, or the sound of footsteps coming up the path. It was only when a shadow teased grey patterns on the yellow pages of her book that she turned and found herself looking at what could only be described as a vision.

The woman who stood before her was stunning—not in a film-star sort of way like Aunt Anita—but in a different, more real way. She had glowing olive skin, long black hair which cascaded in silky waves down her back and framed her oval face, huge expressive eyes which tilted upward slightly at the corners, full lips and a mouth that was designed to smile.

She carried a suitcase, which she set down beside Reena’s chair. Gypsy stirred, looked up at the stranger and growled. It was not her usual throaty bark. It seemed that Gypsy, too, like Reena, had misplaced her voice.

‘Hi,’ smiled the stranger, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Shirin. That’s one of my favourite books you’re reading. Like it so far?’

In the shy smile, Reena recognised the girl from the picture she had found all those weeks ago. In the shy smile, Reena recognised herself.

And, as if by magic, she found her voice again. She took Shirin’s hand in hers.

Madhu was right. It was going to be all right. ‘I’m Reena. And, yes, I think I’m going to like the book very much.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Swaddled Bundle

‘R
eena
,’ sang Shirin’s heart. And in the next beat, ‘
Does she know?’

‘Hello, I’m Reena.’ She extended her hand. Perfect. Delicate. Beautiful.

Shirin took her daughter’s palm in both of hers as if in prayer. And on this, her tears fell, unchecked. She looked down at her daughter’s perfect face and found her tears mirrored in those beautiful eyes.

She knows.

Her baby. After the labour, after she woke from her sedated state, she had held the swaddled bundle that was her daughter, and Reena had snuggled up to her and buried her tiny head in the space between her breasts, her body a question mark on her chest, while rain drummed on the tiles above. Shirin had looked at her in wonder: this beautiful thing created out of something so ugly. Scrunched-up face, wiggly arms. Toes like inverted commas. As she watched in awe, Reena had opened her eyes and stared right at her. And for one brief, blessed moment, lost in the fathomless dark eyes of her newborn daughter, Shirin had been free of the other pair of Eyes that haunted her constantly.

She opened her arms: an invitation, a plea. And Reena walked right into them. She held her daughter close; felt her heart beat a rhythm against her chest. She was tall. Her head fit snugly under Shirin’s chin. Her hair smelt of sandalwood. The sun beat down on Shirin’s closed lids, warming the tears still squeezing out of them. The dog, a replica of Madhu’s strays, licked her sandals. Bees droned, birds chattered and water gushed over the stones in the stream below: a musical tinkle. Somewhere, someone laughed. The air smelt like a fruit orchard; the sharp tang of mango leaves mixing with the pungent tamarind and the milder cashew and guava. Smells of frying spices floated up to her nostrils. Home. Her daughter in her arms. She was home.

‘Reena, come eat something.’ A familiar voice, a voice she had heard so often in her dreams. And then louder, joy dancing in each syllable, ‘Shirin. My Shirin.’

And then, Shirin was cocooned in the familiar warmth of Madhu’s arms. Madhu smelt as she had always done, of coconut oil and spices: the scent of her childhood, of love, of refuge. Shirin took a deep, steadying breath and gave in to the exquisite, much-longed-for comfort of being mothered again, not heeding the tears that squeezed out from behind grateful eyelids and wet the front of Madhu’s apron.

‘You came, Shirin,’ Madhu said, her voice a smile. ‘Finally, you are here.’

After a long moment, Madhu held her at arm’s length and examined her.

Madhu had gotten old in her absence, Shirin realised with a pang. Her hair was completely grey and as untidy as usual. It still resisted the confines of her bun. Her face was lined. But she was still the Madhu she remembered and had ached for. She was still the Madhu she loved.

‘See, didn’t I tell you that you would blossom into a beauty? Wasn’t I right?’ Madhu cupped a palm on Shirin’s cheek, ‘My Shirin.’ Her voice was thick with pride. Her face beamed through the tears.

‘Shirin...’

It was Deepak. His hair was greying prematurely. And was that a bald patch on his crown? God, what had the years done to her dashing big brother? He enclosed her in a bear hug. ‘Welcome home,’ he said.

She stepped back, eyed her big brother, ‘Really?’

He met her gaze; his steady, ‘Yes. Really.’

‘I couldn’t stay away any longer, Deepu,’ she whispered in his ear.

And, ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered back. ‘I was, still am, a fool. Took everything Ma said as gospel. Should have known better.’ Shirin nodded briefly. And, ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you. She’s an absolute angel. Our pride and joy.’
And mine
, thought Shirin, sneaking a glance at Reena, unable to tear her eyes from her daughter’s face.

Preeti came up: a slight woman with a sweet face and kind eyes. She looked just the same as she had done that fateful night all those years ago. ‘She knows,’ Preeti whispered in her ear. ‘We had to tell her this morning. Something Ma said. She’s taken it well.’

‘My turn,’ Anita said loudly, and they all laughed. She pulled Shirin into her arms for a hug. ‘Shirin, how I’ve missed you...’

Even in the stifling heat, her sister looked and smelt delicious. As always.

‘I’ve missed you too,’ Shirin whispered into her sister’s ear. And then, ‘Where’s Da?’

Anita’s eyes dimmed and Shirin knew. It was too late.

‘Come and see Ma,’ Anita said, and Shirin choked on the bile that rose in her throat.

‘She’s been asking for you constantly.’ It was Reena. She slid her hand in Shirin’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world and led her inside.

The house was just as Shirin remembered. Nostalgia and memory merging into reality. The cement floor cool under her feet. The front room with its wooden bench and grandfather clock. The windowless dining room: Godrej safe, wooden wardrobe which housed the tablecloth and plates reserved for guests, the altar with the constantly burning red bulb which cast an eerie glow in the dark, cool room. Jacinta was in the tiny room off the dining room, the room which they had used for studying. This room had a window: a little hole in the wall with two wooden bars in the shape of a cross. Shirin remembered spending hours in this room ostensibly studying but in reality spying on the neighbours.

It housed a bed now and in it laid Jacinta. Shirin drew in a quick, shocked breath. A sigh. Her ma was smaller than Shirin remembered. Feeble. Her hair, which had always been pulled back into a tightly oiled bun, lay loose around her head. It was completely white. Her face was bruised and swollen.

Without warning, Shirin’s mind flashed back to that terrible day when her mother had renounced her. That time, she had been the one with the bruised and swollen face...