THE IMMIGRANT (41 page)

‘What choice did I have? It could have happened to anyone, anywhere.’

‘But not so easily.’

‘Please—do you mind—I don’t want to talk about it.’

He looked injured. How could he console her if she refused to talk?

‘But it must have been quite traumatic,’ he encouraged.

‘It was.’

She seemed so remote. He had instinctively felt—and how right he had been—that this trip was bad news. Every day the papers told of violent crime in the States. Nina couldn’t take care of herself the way these Western women could. He doubted Mandy would ever find herself in such a situation.

‘Even a child knows better than to go out alone in New York at night,’ he said, his annoyance increasing by the minute.

The face she turned towards him was blank. He wanted to comfort her, but she had to protect herself against him. What would he say if he knew what had really happened?

The days dragged on. This was her third winter, harsh, never-ending cold, snow and icy wind. As she walked home, her shawl wrapped tightly around her head, her hands in their gloves, her feet in fur lined boots, her long down jacket keeping her warm till her knees, she wished she could escape into the purity of the landscape and be separated from her thoughts forever.

Snow fell, her feet marked out boot prints in the fresh soft whiteness, the sky was pale and grey, damp flakes speckled her dark hair, her coat, shoulders, shawl, everything quiet and pristine, except for the polluting storms inside her. She passed the Citadel, where she had gone with Ananda to celebrate Canada Day. This is our country, he had said, a new country, a clean country. That was also true.

x

The weather turned warmer, the piles of snow began to dwindle, a few daring green shoots appeared next to protective houses. Storm windows were removed, on sunny days glass shutters slid slightly open. Come May she would be qualified to look for a job anywhere. Any change would be welcome. She was tired of the life she was living.

The phone rang one evening after dinner, dishes, channel surfing and conversation. Nina could tell from Ananda’s tone that he was talking to his sister. A minute into the conversation she felt something was wrong. Her mouth became dry, her heart beat heavily.

‘What is it?’ she asked as he put the receiver down and said nothing.

‘Nothing.’

‘Why was she calling? What is it? Is it Ma?’

‘No—I mean, not really.’

And then she knew, of course she knew. ‘Is she dead?’

‘Why do you say things like that?’

It was the link that bound mother and daughter together as well as her own expectations from life. ‘Just tell me.’

He tried to hold her, but she wouldn’t let him. So he had to tell her, with no softening touch, that her mother had died that morning in what appeared to be a heart attack. The landlady had discovered her in bed, she had phoned Alka and now Alka wanted to know whether they should keep the body or not. He was going to phone her back as soon as he talked to Nina.

Nothing he said made any sense to her. Her face was wet with tears, her mouth was open, she sounded like an animal.

‘Well, she was old, and you always said she was ill,’ he tried to reason with her. ‘This was to be expected.’

The animal sounds increased. Ananda made her lie down on the bed, then got on the phone to consult with Alka. Should Nina decide to go it would take her at least thirty six hours in flight and transit, let alone the time difference. No, they decided, that was too long. The body had to be burned.

He set about phoning his uncle, Gary, the travel agent, and then Gayatri. Gayatri, whom he had never met, but with whom Nina had spent so much time. The number was there in the phone book. As he dialled he considered calling Sue as well, but no, maybe an Indian would be better at such a moment.

Meanwhile Nina sobbed and sobbed, while her husband circled uneasily around her.

Half an hour later the bell rang. Uncle is here, said Ananda, but Nina pushed her head into the pillow and refused to see anyone. After what seemed hours, Ananda came to say that when somebody was making an effort, the least she could do was make one too, people were concerned, uncle had offered every kind of help, maybe if she had met him she might have felt better.

She heard his voice from so far away, he could have been in another country. Her knees were scrunched up, she was lying on the bed with the pillow against her face, her whole body trembling. He stared at her for a moment, then rubbed her shoulder, but she did not respond.

Still later in the night Gayatri arrived and moved fearlessly into Nina’s anguish. Arms around her, she murmured, ‘Oh poor poor Neen, poor Neen, never mind, she has attained moksha, she will not be born again in this world full of pain and sorrow, she is free. She left no debts unsettled, no duty undone. Don’t be sad, Neen, she died in her sleep, only great souls do that. Everybody has to become an orphan one day, what can we do?’

The stream of familiar sounding words continued, words that accompanied any death Nina had ever known. Grief for her father added to the loss. She sobbed and sobbed, pulled tissue after flowered tissue from the box thrust under her hand.

Finally Gayatri asked, ‘When is the funeral?’

‘Over by now.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Day after. Tomorrow was all booked.’

‘We live so far away,’ murmured Gayatri.

At such times the price they paid was heavy.

The next day Gayatri put some things together in a suitcase, not helped at all by Nina. Her mother was dead, why should she think of clothes, toiletries and footwear? Her Delhi stuff would do.

As Gayatri left she hugged Nina—if you suffer, she will not be able to rest. It was a way of thinking that had its uses. Nina struggled to control herself. Ananda was returning soon, he had gone to pick up her ticket, she would be leaving early next morning.

And so began the long, stiff journey home. Four hours of waiting in Toronto, six in London. At the Heathrow duty free she bought Scotch and chocolate for her in-laws; the funeral arrangements had fallen on them, it was the least she could do. She bought her stuff and sat in the departure lounge, staring mindlessly outside the window at the big silver jets slowly wheeling around on the runway. She could not bring herself to open the book between her hands.

Eventually, the last leg of the journey. They were flying over the Middle East; she was just a few hours away from home. Her chest grew tight with pain. She should have somehow insisted that her mother immediately come and live with them. But there had been reluctance on all sides, and no apparent need for hurry.

She was sure her mother’s last thoughts had been of her. Had she felt alone, frightened? She had been found dead by her old friend, the landlady. How right her mother had been to value her.

Delhi. A wave of April heat struck as soon as they emerged from the hole of the plane. She looked up at the windows of the terminal and an hour and a half later emerged to Alka and Ramesh.

As soon as she saw them she began to cry. They in turn clutched her sympathetically. She cried while they took over her trolley, cried on the way to the car and all the way home.

‘Bas, bas,’ they murmured. ‘You must be brave. She finished her earthly duties and left.’

In the car Nina was forced to hear how the landlady had called them, how they had immediately gone over. They found her lying in bed, legs dangling from the side. Shards of broken glass glittered on the floor, a stainless steel jug lay on its side, the mattress was dark with water.

Around and around her heart these images circled, that hand reaching for a glass of water, those feet groping for their slippers, the glass slipping and breaking, the arm brushing against the jug as the body sank back on the bed.

Nina spent the night dozing intermittently. Dawn awoke the birds, then her. Alka and Ramesh were drinking tea in the still cool garden; she joined them, they discussed the chauth. A small notice in the newspapers would do, as small as her mother’s life.

Now it was time for Nina to get ready for Jangpura. She wanted to go alone.

There it was, that narrow rutted bend in the road, down which she had travelled for ten years. She unlocked the padlock on the front door with the keys Alka had given her. There the little verandah, there the one room.

Everywhere was dust and emptiness. She sat on the bed where the body had last rested. How pathetic and futile it seemed. How could these miserable one and a half rooms contain a life? When she herself had been living there it hadn’t seemed so wretched, maybe because she was young and was always going to leave. Her mother had made sure she did leave, even if it meant sending her ten thousand miles away and her own certain loneliness.

The bed strings moaned as she shifted. She had come prepared to touch, to connect, to go into the past, yet all she could sense was the sadness of her mother’s life. Except for bank and medical papers, there was hardly anything to go through. Slowly, over the years, her possessions had eroded, with no replacements.

She pulled the suitcase wrapped in plastic from under the bed, then opened the cupboard to reveal the pitiful little store of clothes. Not a single new item purchased since the daughter left. Had her pension really been enough?

Nina’s hands moved among the covered, carefully wrapped things. In a corner were two framed photographs. One of her father, the other of her and Ananda. Next to them the daughter’s letters arranged date wise in a cloth bag with a drawstring, a notebook with lists of wedding presents and estimated values, lists of the things they had given to Ananda’s family and the price of each one. Now these lists were hers forever. She emptied the cupboard, filled the single suitcase and tied a bedcover around everything else.

These were the personal effects, but what about the bed, desk, dishes, bedding, bits of linen? Give them all to Mr Singh—the true inheritor. Mr Singh, here, you deserve them more than me. I have this suitcase, which contains my mother’s life, the rest is yours.

This done, she closed the front door and left the place that had been so resistant to her mother’s impress.

Nina wondered how many people would come for the chauth, to be held the next day, four days after the funeral. Her mother’s life had been thinly populated. The daughter was its centre and when she left, the centre could not hold. Hollowed out, she died.

A small shamiana was spread in the lawn for the evening hour-long function and fans put up in four corners. A table nearby held glasses of water. A portrait of Nina’s mother stood on a small covered stool, garlanded with jasmine and roses. Ila, who was learning classical singing, sang two bhajans along with her music teacher. This took twenty minutes. Then the pundit gave a small talk about death. The tropes were familiar, people nodded. And finally those who wanted to say a few words about Mr Batra were invited to do so. Mr Singh, Zenobia, and Alka shared some polite praise.

Then the few mourners lined up to condole. There were some who had known Nina’s father. They introduced themselves. Shanti, lovely lady, so brave after your father’s death. Where had these friends been all this time, thought Nina but said nothing. They had come. They didn’t have to. Everybody had their own lives to live.

Her mother had been bitter about them. Once he died, your father’s friends vanished, while he, poor man, imagined that those who ate at his table would be true to him. People save money and build houses, but not your father, oh no. He wanted the good life, he wanted to entertain, time enough to settle down when we are old, he said so often, so often, but the only one old is me.

And the only one left is me, thought Nina.

The next day Nina was to go to Rishikesh to immerse the ashes in the Ganga. Her mother’s last remains would flow in their final journey across India into the sea. Another two days and she would leave for Canada. Her round the world trip, as Ananda put it.

In the morning she got up early to catch the train to Haridwar. As she followed Ramesh’s office peon through the crowds at New Delhi station, Nina clutched the matka which contained what was left of her mother. It was bound with red and gold cloth. People, recognising its contents, edged away.

Though she was wearing a sari with her head covered, many taxi drivers in Haridwar accosted her in English. Madam, I will take you best place for immersing, madam, madam, whole day taxi five hundred rupees only, madam, guest house nearby? She chose an older taxi driver. Whole day four hundred, she said in Hindi, to indicate that he couldn’t take advantage of her; four hundred, she repeated, and jumped in.

The road towards Rishikesh was slightly winding. In the distance Nina could see the hazy outline of hills. The green fields were dotted with small white temples flying saffron flags. Barefoot sadhus trod the road, sadhus in orange, ash-smeared sadhus of all ages. The river glittered in the distance.

In Rishikesh, the taxi driver took her to all the sacred spots of the city, the banks of the bigger temples, places replete with holy men, devotees, piety. Nina hated every place she saw. No, not here, not here, she kept repeating to the taxi driver. At Laxman Jhoola the driver swore that, if she were to walk down the winding lane to the banks of the river, she would find a very good spot. Head covered against the beating sun, she picked her way around dirt and debris, past places smelling of piss and shit, and nothing of that changed as she reached the water’s edge. Back she climbed, take me out of this town, take me into the mountains.

‘Madam, how will you reach the river from the mountains? The road is too high.’

‘You just take me.’

‘Hundred rupees more.’

‘All right. Now go.’

She slumped in the back of the taxi, her arms around the urn. She had to find a place before it was time for the evening train. How many thousand million ashes and bones had the Ganga swept away? Did it matter where exactly you immersed them? This was no burial; they would end up in the sea as they were meant to.

Higher they climbed, the river winding beneath them, then down again, then up. It was four o’clock, she couldn’t search much longer, she would miss her train. Her anxious gaze swept the dense trees, looking for a path. Finally she saw a woman emerge from the wilderness, a pot of water on her head. There, stop there, she said.