Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Essay: Riding the Metro Bus





The 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington, August 24th, 2013

On the 24th of August 2013, my five year old and I plan our trip to the Mall to see the March on Washington. She likes protests. Living in DC, she has been on a few marches and the whole family did a parody on the Occupy Movement for Halloween a couple of years ago. She was a protestor: “Share Share Share!” screamed her sign. My baby was a banker in a black suit and tie. I was Wall Street — I wore a brick wall made of cardboard with a green street sign and we perched the baby on my wall for photographs. My husband was a giant inflated bull.

We are looking at the March on Washington website. I read my daughter excerpts of Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech and then play the audio: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” She runs off to play. I think of the painting by Norman Rockwell: The Problem We All Live With. I want to talk to her about it, ask her if she remembers seeing it at the National Portrait Gallery, along with New Kids in the Neighborhood. Two stunning visuals of a segregated world from a child's perspective. 

We are a biracial family. I am an Indian Parsee Zoroastrian and my husband is a white Catholic American. I am not sure what box to check when I am confronted with most official forms in the U.S., which have a section, albeit non-mandatory, on race. Check all that apply: White, Black, Asian, American Indian, and then a separate question whether you are Hispanic. When I first came to the U.S. and had to fill in the social security application, I was puzzled. How do I classify myself in racial terms? In India I was used to ethnic and religious classifications, but racial classification seemed anachronistic. What was I? I was not white, even though Parsees sometimes refer to themselves as and I say this with some trepidation Aryans, as if the last century never happened and that’s an acceptable label. I was not black. I was Asian, but that was hardly a racial classification — out of all the races I was physically most dissimilar to Far East Asians. And although South Asians consider themselves to be a broad ethnic group, I can’t think of any other group that has every single racial type represented and then some.

After doing a degree in public policy I get it that data on race is very important for formulating policy in America. We are not living in a post-racial America and religion and race are the primary cleavages, if you set aside social class. But times are changing. When I first came here in 2004, I rarely saw a person of color in Georgetown. Not so any more. We have a Black President in the White House, we have restaurants buzzing with diversity on 14th street, and we are all learning to assimilate. Like ink spreading on a sheet of paper, North West DC is getting color in its cheeks.

As an Indian I am well attuned to the subject of color and how it enters into the everyday. When I was growing up, girls and boys were considered more likely to find eligible spouses if they were fair skinned. I had aunts who did not go outside when it was sunny and always wore long sleeves and avoided tea and coffee to keep their skin from darkening. The Indian fairness cream market, led by multinational behemoth Unilever's Fair & Lovely, is estimated at about $400 million in annual revenue and was most recently featured in the online edition of The Atlantic Monthly in an article by Elizabeth Segran. Matrimonial advertisements gloss over darker complexions as ‘wheatish.’ We all know the truth that a person cannot determine the color of his skin. Fairness creams can disfigure and lead to serious health issues, including cancer. And yet, like that elusive elixir of youth, lighter skin continues to be sought after in South Asian, Far Eastern and even some African cultures. Why?

In The Dangers of not Talking to your Children about Race, KJ Dell'Antonia of the New York Times explains that research shows that children become aware of skin color at a very young age. They won’t always manifest this knowledge, avoiding the subject if adults ignore it, which in turn magnifies its importance in their minds. But if adults address it, children reveal interesting observations of their own, often reflecting social biases, making it wiser to address race and color rather than letting it be an elephant in the room. My elder child is white like my husband and she has always been aware of this. When we bathed her when she was very little she would say, “I am the same color as daddy.” For a while she seemed to asking, “Why don’t you and I have the same skin?” I could tell it was something that preoccupied her and still does, particularly since my younger child has a skin tone similar to mine. There is no moral significance given to identifying these colors, just a sense I have that sometimes my daughter would like to be the same as me and at other times just like daddy. She is trying to understand how biology works and if her sister is somehow special because she shares her skin color with me.

I look up to find she’s back, ready for an explanation. “So mum, what is freedom?” I had asked her earlier if she knew what it meant.

“Can you imagine there was a time when kids who looked different from each other couldn’t go to school together?”

As if it’s the most preposterous thing, she rolls her eyes and says, “Oh Mum!" She adds, "I don’t like that.”

“Well,” I say, a little heavy handed, “that’s freedom, you are free to go to school with your friends. Tell your sister we are going on a bus ride today. Do you remember Rosa Parks? We can think of her on the bus.” A couple of weeks ago I had bought stamps with Rosa Parks’ face on them and my daughter and I watched a documentary on YouTube about who she was. Thinking of Rosa Parks always makes me emotional.

So we feed the girls breakfast—fresh local peaches from the Women’s Market in Bethesda, banana oatmeal—and pack our bags to head to the Mall. It takes about an hour of focused energy to get ready to go out with the kids. That hour does not include showers for the parents. We need to get out before nap time.

Checklist: water bottles for each of us; flax and buckwheat banana pancakes and raspberries for the girls; full change of clothes for them, in case they head into a fountain on the Mall; diapers, wipes, sunblock, hats. Big decision: which stroller? The easy to fold one that grandma insisted we would not be able to live without and gave the baby for her birthday—that really just fits one small kid, but allows the two year old to ride on the five year old’s lap for short distances—or the heavy-duty Bob jogging stroller we have on loan from a kind friend, which allows both girls to be pushed uphill without breaking my wrists. (Since our rental apartment burnt down in October 2012, we have had more offers of strollers from our generous community than one family can possibly use).

The girls are very excited to take the bus to Farragut Square, just North of the White House. From there we plan to walk a mile or so South to the Lincoln Memorial to experience the March on Washington, which began at 9am on New Jersey Avenue and will end at the Reflecting Pool at the Lincoln Memorial, where we will greet it. Fifty years ago on the 28th of August 1963, Martin Luther King gave his ‘I have a dream’ speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial after the original March on Washington.

We all tumble into the N6 bus. I am hauling the stroller folded up into its awkward shape, and find the wheels don’t lock in this position. I struggle with it at the back door and realize it is blocking access so I move it into the handicapped section, which is empty. It wobbles and I am afraid that it’s going to brush against someone. I have observed that in America people like their space respected more so than in India, where strangers will just pick up your children to help out and seat them on their laps. Luckily the bus is not full. The kids and my husband find a spot to settle down and my husband keeps a hand on the toddler so she doesn’t topple over with the jolting of the bus. I decide it is safer to open up the stroller and lock the wheels so it doesn’t slide into anyone. It’s not ideal but there is enough space in the gangway to walk by.

A lady from our apartment building who is riding on the bus sympathizes, “It’s a lot to do, isn’t it.

“It’s not so bad,” I say. I am thinking of Rosa Parks. We are riding a bus on a historic anniversary. Fifty years ago we couldn’t have all sat where we liked, mixed into this bus, black, white, me and mine. This is a special day.

But then another voice pipes up, surprising me, “You shouldn’t bring that stroller on the bus.” The tone is offensive.

A stranger starts to berate me. “You are taking up two people’s seats, you could hurt someone if they trip over that thing.” I count at least ten vacant seats around us.

I try to justify myself. We need the stroller for the kids since we have more than three miles of walking ahead of us. She cuts me off, “You are disrespecting everyone by riding the bus. You should have taken a cab.

Sure I could have. I could have even taken my own car. How could I explain to her that on this day, this of all other days, riding the bus was symbolic, our own small, token homage to Ms. Parks. 

People stack bicycles on the front of buses, holding up traffic while they haul them on, we regularly have wheelchairs on the bus that are bigger than the stroller. Bus drivers have to come over to help out all the time. I feel the woman is being unreasonable but she continues to scold me. My eyes begin to smart. The other passengers are embarrassed and look away. The woman is being mean spirited and I feel hurt. When I express that to her she backs off. Later, someone reassures me, “You did the right thing. It is important to stand up to bullies. Maybe next time she won’t be nasty to another mother.” When I remark that other people on the bus seemed to be uncomfortable, he says, “People don’t like conflict. But you could tell they thought you were doing the right thing.”

Every time we are in a public space we have a choice. We can voice our opinions kindly and respectfully, or we can make a person uncomfortable and defensive. This lady was rude. Her opinion could have been voiced differently, but since it was not, I also have the right to push back.

It is interesting how, now that I am a parent, I have become more aware of petty intolerance. Like the time my friend was approached by a resident at our building complex who told her, “You are not welcome here, children were never allowed to use the pool before.” And the man sat and stared threateningly at the family, making them so uncomfortable that they had to leave.

This sort of community policing has to be seen for what it is — it is curtailing the freedom of certain groups in public places. We all need to look out for our communities, but not at the expense of other groups living respectfully in a shared space. Communities that support vigilantes are not necessarily safer, they can be hostile and sometimes even violent. They assume that parents are not doing their job, and at another extreme, that kids like Trayvon Martin do not belong and need to be monitored.

It’s a subtle thing. I am not likening my ride on the bus to Rosa Parks or to Trayvon Martin or to the men and women who cannot get the jobs and opportunities they seek because of their race. The small battles I have fought in my community — for example, disabling the ban on young children using the pool — were supported by laws like the Fair Housing Act, that have been put into place by people like Ms. Parks.

I grew up in a new India struggling to teach its citizens the values of freedom and equality. In my school, J B Petit, differences in ethnicity and social class were played down and hidden behind school uniforms; it was drilled into us as children, “United we stand, divided we fall.”  Which is why I assert, I have not suffered any form of racial discrimination, and I imagine my children will probably not be discriminated against. We are likely more free and entitled than any generation before us. However, I do see the need for more balanced communication in public places and in our communities, so that we can relax and enjoy one another. Negative interactions make one feel small, unwelcome, on edge. They make us wary, petty, cautious, and after many such experiences, a person can become angry and militant.

The bus stops to pick up a handicapped man. I fold up the stroller again so I can move out of the way. My husband gets up and takes it over, putting it on his seat and I sit with the baby. The man who takes my place is in a wheelchair. He looks at the girls and smiles. I smile back at him.

But I know the battle for a safe, just community is not over. Many boys are still especially at risk on our streets in America just like women are especially at risk in both public and private spaces in India. Near the Lincoln Memorial, Trayvon Martin’s story is on many placards along with the same issue that raged fifty years ago: jobs. In every single age group, black men and women have double the unemployment rate of whites in the same category (See the Bureau of Labor Statistics). On the news another woman is gang raped in India. As we walk around the Mall, people have their signs upDream in Color—their faces shine and the spirit of the March washes over me and calms me. Like Martin Luther King, Jr. I too “refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now.”




Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Short Story: Watching the Fifth War

Originally published as 'Writing Home' in The Little Magazine,  
 & in International Gallerie, http://www.gallerie.net/issue10/story1.html



Bombay, October 12, 1999


Dear Feroza and Shehnaaz,

I came home today from Pune. Had to stop there after Kargil and Delhi, before I could get the leave to come home. The kids seem younger since I left, though Rohan is taller and Aditi actually manages to finish her sentences. They say on the mountains, you age decades in a few months.

Somehow I could not make eye contact with the watchman. He was so happy to see me, he asked me if I had been with the same battalion as the young soldier whose wife was on TV saluting his hearse, and the other one who had lost his leg. It was not that he considered them to be heroes. He says rather harshly that battle is for men who have nothing constructive to occupy themselves with. He does not venerate army men, but I can tell he likes me. I said to him, I just need a cup of tea right now, that’s all. He must have known something was wrong but he respects privacy. He’s not one to ramble on if you stay uncommunicative. I wonder if he ever dreams about any other job. He is a good watchman, but I imagine sometimes that he would have made a fine leader. I think it’s that caste business that we Hindus are so caught up in. You know, I married my wife from the same side of the river and the same caste and all that. I happen to be much older than she is but that was not cause for concern – that I was twenty years her senior and away most of the time.

The other day the newspapers carried a story about villagers who killed a man and woman for eloping because they were not of the same caste. I wonder sometimes if it’s worth all the effort, you know, running after people with machetes and sticks when there’s so much to do, so much to learn. I thought I would join the army and experience the world. When I fought at twenty-one against China, in 1962, my white canvas Bata shoes (the one’s school children are made to wear for P.T.) gave way. At one point we were at 18,500 feet. I think you should be appropriately dressed when you travel the world.

You can look at the pictures I have sent you - my wife Aarti and the kids. Rohan is fifteen, Aditi is two and a half. She was a surprise. We always wanted a girl. But I am pretty old now. Never mind, I look forward to my retired life, where I can be a normal father and give Aditi time and energy, something Rohan never did receive from me. He is a sweet child. Likes to paint. I hope he will be an artist. It’s a nice thought.

I try to be gentle and romantic when I am at home but it isn’t easy when you have been apart from a woman for so long, when you have been living off condensed milk cans and wonder why the tea at home is so phikka. I work at shutting out the culture shock. But a civilian’s life hits me every time.

You may say that he’s writing all this to humanize his killings, to come to terms with his sins, to ask for forgiveness. I wish it were that simple. I will be sixty. It’s easy to sentimentalize the wars, but I fought in four of them. While India made her destiny, whatever that destiny was for each of her billion-odd people, I trained to defend it. It was an interesting defense because I think people are so quick to judge, to simplify, to make enemies, to slot. Perhaps they should only allow fifty-year-old academics and ex-servicemen to be politicians and legislators, and this should be a random selection so that in the end even if you are choosing bad apples you haven’t chosen an entire rotten stock. Oh, yes, I was saying, it was an interesting defense. We were fighting off invasions into our territory, we didn’t appear to be the aggressors. But I am not sure if just who we are is aggressor enough, because there is something oddly despicable about us sometimes, the good ones and the bad ones. Sorry, I rambled off… It is interesting because it is especially at the time of war, (when everything should be simple, you know, bad against good, and so forth), that the real gray areas raise their heads and yet, to act, you cannot be in a gray area at all, you have to take a polar position. Then you become a traitor or a patriot, and god forbid one of us decides to be the former and opposes war.

I think that is why I am writing. Because it will be easy for you and your family and your children’s children to see your husband and son as a martyr who died for his country; to hate me as the enemy. Especially since I am alive and have children and there seems so much hope for us in India where life only gets better for many people, where we are ‘progressing’ so to speak, even if it is a material progress that the self appointed spiritualists despise.

But that would be a disservice to your children. I hope that like my child, Rohan, they prefer to be artists. Artists can be so much more compelling than soldiers. Many artists, (some can be horrible people, I hear), live in the gray areas like I do but they never touch the extremes of evil and good like I do, murderer, again and again, patriot too, each time.

You may ask if I am demanding you to forgive me. No, Feroza, it is not forgiveness that I want for killing your son, please don’t misunderstand. I am asking for much more, I am asking that in some small way civil society in Pakistan comes to understand that I really don’t want to go on killing. It is more a plea for mercy. Have mercy on me. I didn’t ask to be the gate-keeper of the Kashmir valley. I’ve never had the feeling Kashmir belonged to anyone but itself. Why are we imposing our nationalisms on a piece of land that is only swaying from one side to the other because it cannot protect itself?

How do I know so much about you, you may ask, how do you seem to be able to talk to us as though you have known us all your life when this is only your first letter to us?

The answer is a memory. The watchman, he’s eighty-two now, used to be the watchman of our little building, Pil Court, from the time he was twenty four. He was born in 1917. He used to talk about the Muslim family that lived in my flat, overlooking the railway tracks, the kindest people he ever knew; they were charitable, spoke to him in their shudh Urdu, making him feel like a courtier. The men were ‘army’ like me but they chose to live in civilian quarters because they had this extended family and each was closer to the other. They left Pil Court during Partition. You know, he told me, I once said to Feroza bai, now I know why people turn to Islam, it is to give everyone equal respect, then no one feels lesser when they are with you. She laughed and told me, “If you are in India, it’s better to be Hindu. Hindus don’t treat everyone as equal, but it’s better to be one step higher in their ladder.” I guess, Feroza, your husband and your family must have had many aspirations for an equal society in Pakistan.

The watchman also told me that Feroza bai had just had her son, Farukh. He was a baby when they left for Karachi. The most beautiful child he had seen, and so happy. He talked so much about Farukh. I think part of him feels he was a god father to that child because he says you allowed him to push the pram and even hold the baby, something that would mortify my wife, Aarti.

When I read Farukh’s name on his dog tag in Kargil I was curious if it was the same child grown up. We sent Farukh’s body back to the Pakistan side and I inquired some more about him from a Pakistani POW, who happened to know Farukh well. I was right about who he was and the POW told me your family’s address. It is a strange thought, you know, that I sleep in your bed, Feroza. And you sleep in my ancestral home in Karachi. You see, Sea Wind, 9-B New Queen’s Road, was where my mother gave birth to me in 1941, in Karachi. Like many Hindu Sindhi families we left everything behind to catch the train to India. And you gave your fully furnished house in Bombay with the sound of the trains going past, a sound I came to find difficult to sleep without, to a man who then sold it to my grandfather.

I heard you were pregnant, Shehnaaz. I wish you luck and every one of God’s blessings. I never saw my father you know, after 1947. He was on the train that followed ours from Pakistan. We were on the last train that came back to India safe. The one that came after, there were only corpses.

I don’t like it that it appeared to be in my blood or my fate or my religion or my country to avenge my father’s death. I don’t like that feeling of being controlled by fate. I have been. I have come full circle. Today, I will go down and tell the watchman about Farukh. I think he should know. I hope he tells his people and they tell theirs. If only the word would spread fast, but that’s the irony of it all, that the good stories always find a way to end quietly and the bad ones, they fly. Too many years of death and propaganda. But how can I take on the whole wide world? I can only act for myself.

I am counting on you.

Brigadier Jeri Mansukhani


The Brigadier’s letter never reached the women. It was intercepted and he was brought before a Court of Inquiry. But his son, Rohan, had read it before he sent it. Rohan vowed that one day he would visit his ancestral home in Karachi in Pakistan and read out the letter his father had written, from his memory. For the moment, all civilian movement between India and Pakistan has been frozen.

-The End-

Notes:
Independent India has had five armed conflicts since 1947: The expulsion of armed intruders in Kashmir, 1948; the Indo China War, 1962; the Indo Pak War, 1965; the Indo Pak War, 1972 over Bangladesh’s secessionism; and the Kargil War between India and Pakistan, May 26, 1999 – July 14, 1999.
phikka - bland or not sweet
P.T. - Physical Training
shudh – pure



Published as 'Writing Home' in The Little Magazine,  
 & in International Gallerie, http://www.gallerie.net/issue10/story1.html

Monday, August 5, 2013

Short Story: The Woman Who Willed Her Son to Die

Published in ‘The Reader’, No. 14. http://www.thereader.org.uk/magazine.aspx                                        



The first time I met Mrs Feroza Jamshed Karkaria I stared quite hard. She had brown hair that sat in perfect static curls on her shoulders and dangerous eyes. I had heard the hair was a wig, like Dev Anand’s. Mummy would have been appalled by my stare. She would have ticked me off, “Don’t be appalling, Lizzy!” I loved big words like that, they made me sound like I was a grand bad sort.
Mrs Scary-face stared back at me. She had beady eyes and well plucked eyebrows which were housed within the weight of her starched wig. She looked like a mean Womble. Wombles were creatures I had read about. They were not given to meanness though. So in a way you can’t be a real mean Womble. There were no stray hairs on her chin. She obviously went to the parlour often. Even mummy who rubs her chin probingly with her fingers and tweezers her hairs has a couple of stray pokies.
We were in the corridor of her family’s apartment that overlooked the railway tracks and it was a dark, sooty space. I was nine, going on ten. I had finished the Famous Five, Nancy Drew and had sneaked a bit of ‘Endless Love’. I had read all of my Pramilla Aunty’s Mills and Boons on the sly on the pot earlier that year while on holiday in Delhi. Mrs-horror was old enough to be my grandmother, about sixty. I asked for her sister-in-law, who I had come to visit. My mother was parking our Herald downstairs and would be at my side to rescue me any minute. I had to be brave. I said, “Feroza Aunty may I go in and see Sheroo Aunty?”
My mother appeared. Feroza Aunty’s plan to swallow me, Bata shoes and JB Petit blue school uniform included, if she was short on time, was foiled. I squeezed past her as mummy said, “Hello Aunty, kem cheo? All well?” Mummy fled too, into an inner room, not waiting for her to speak.
Once in the cool space of Sheroo Aunty’s room I ignored the faint smell of Mrs Feroza Jamshed Karkaria’s shadow as it filtered through the door hinges. As a Parsee I was another generation of gatekeepers of oddball stories and half-demented souls. I knew about weirdoes. We Parsees were small in number and fast depleting. “Soon we’ll be bred in zoos,” says mummy. “Visitors will say, ‘Oh there’s a Parsee next to the emus and giraffes,’ and we will perform our daily rituals behind a glass screen. ‘9am to 10 am – Sadra-kusti hour at the Zoo’, the sign will say. ‘So cute, no!’ the children-visitors will exclaim.”
My mummy doesn’t want to have my Navjote or thread ceremony, like most Parsees have by the age of eleven. “I don’t believe in ritual,” she says, “Rituals give you the chance to be bad and then get away with it by praying and putting sukhar, sandalwood, in the fire. To be a true Parsee all you need is good thoughts, good words and good deeds.” My real dad wants me to be a real Parsee, do my sadra-kusti in the morning, wear my sadra vest and tie the string or kusti the way a good Parsee is supposed to. But my real dad won’t pay for the ceremony and the banquet after. Even for the sake of it mummy can’t do it because she has no money for it.
“Have something cold? Duke’s lemonade?” I am asked. Duke’s lemonade was the ultimate Parsee drink. Some grownups drink Parsee Cinzano. That is Duke’s lemonade with Goan red wine.
I looked at mummy anxiously, she nodded, I said, “Yes, please, can I help myself?”
“No, the fridge is locked. I’ll get it.” Sheroo Aunty said.
The refrigerator was at the door of the room, in the passageway, and it had been locked to keep Lady Feroza, as mummy called her, out of the food. She loved poisoning it. I stood behind Sheroo Aunty as she unlocked the ancient white door which had been fitted with a metal latch from which hung an enormous lock. I knew that the Lady was lurking behind her daisy-printed curtains. Her feet, in English Scholl’s, were visible below the hem. Parsee ladies love wearing Dr Scholl’s. Mummy has a pair too that her Pappa gave her; she looks beautiful in her cotton dresses with her wavy brown hair tied up in a bun and her Scholl’s on her feet. I can’t imagine anyone liking me when I grow up. The minute they see my beautiful mummy, I’ll be forgotten.
We ate lovely chocolate cake and Sheroo Aunty and Framroze Uncle made me feel like their granddaughter and I was allowed to sit on the cot bed and shake my legs. We wished Sheroo Aunty happy birthday and mummy gave her the box of prunes. I wanted to touch the soft smooth skin on her nose. She had knowing eyes, that shone like a teddy bear’s. Her hair was short and she was slightly hunched, though she wore her little sleeveless dress with an air of clean elegance.
The Lady was Sheroo Aunty’s sister in law – her husband’s brother’s wife. She was as different from Sheroo Aunty as a crow is from a pigeon. Pigeons, you see, are the vermin of the air and crows are Parsees reborn as crows. Pigeons are for shot-guns and poison-seed and crows are for choicest titbits of malai-soaked-rotli or bread soaked with cream. The doorbell had rung and we could hear voices in the Lady’s room. Her only son, Ratan, ‘dayo, obedient, good Ratan’ had returned from a flight. He was a purser.
Aré muo! You are back again! You son of a devil. Why didn’t you die on the aeroplane?”
“Mama, aren’t you happy to see me? Look I brought you cheese and chocolates from Switzerland.”
The packet must have been handed over, because there was a moment’s silence, when she must have looked into her bag of goodies.
Then suddenly “Chal, ja ja,” she said, screaming, “Shoo! GO away! Next time I hope your plane crashes.”
Mummy was embarrassed for Sheroo Aunty because of this bad fight between the Lady and her son and she said we were to go home. I said thank you and jumped off the cot and made my way past the daisy curtains. I tried hard not to look inside. In the kitchen, a meal was being prepared on a kerosene stove. Smoked chicken livers in onion sauce, fried gharab or fish eggs. Sheroo Aunty was a cook. My grandfather said of her, “She is no ordinary stirrer of vegetables and broiler of chickens but a sensual keeper of culinary magic – a chef!” I could taste the liver, fresh and succulent. It made me drool just like a packet of tomato Chipnick wafers or a Marmite sandwich did. The only others who drooled like this were dogs and Kalu or Blackie, the crow who visited our kitchen every day. “Greed, my dear, greed,” that was what mummy said.
But we had to go and that was that. Sheroo Aunty would send us food on my birthday, or anytime she felt like, she was a doer of good deeds, a keeper of gracious ways and kindnesses, a giver, a pickler of mangoes. Those who pickle know the soul of food, and if you know that, well, you know a lot. Mummy didn’t say that, but I read it in granny’s recipe book. I’ll ask granny if she made it up. Granny writes poetry and paints. She has a great rhyme about monkeys:
As mamma fries purees
Fat and round
From the coconut tree
The monkey jumps down –
In from the window
Out through the gate
He snatches the purees,
Empty plate!

The monkey sits
On a Gulmohar tree
And strips off the flowers
So wicked is he!
Into his mouth he pops them
One by one,
Till the mali shouts
And makes him run!*

            Sheroo Aunty was saying to us as we waited for the lift, “Sorry, ah, really sorry. She does that every time he visits. I don’t know why he comes. She should be put away, but her husband loves her so much, he won’t allow it. He worships her. Su kariye, what can we do? This is their house also. Sorry darling, sorry.”
We went on to Lohar Chawl to buy panties – you got them on the pavement, three for twenty-five rupees. Nice soft cotton panties. We also bought a small blue bucket to soak socks in.
On our way home we decided to buy two little spring chickens for dinner. I think we were inspired by Sheroo Aunty. It was a rare treat, a break from mummy’s cabbage and chappati. It was five in the evening. Fortunately Francois Maison, the butcher’s place, opened after his afternoon siesta at four. He weighed two chickens and it came to seven hundred and fifty grams for both of them.
We roasted the chickens and ate one each, listening to a cassette of ‘Camelot’ on the stereo. It was my favourite tape and I sang along.
Three days later, I returned from school at one o’clock as usual in my carpool and decided to play a practical joke on mummy. The front door was open. I wrote a ransom note and stuck it on the floor and hid in the toilet. Time passed, I think maybe about five minutes. There was no sound of panic. I waited and waited, maybe five more minutes and finally, hungry, I was too impatient to wait any more. I emerged to find mummy making my daily lunch of cabbage and chappati.
“Mummy!” I said, “Look I was kidnapped, see, here’s the ransom note. I escaped just in time.”
She laughed and hugged me. Then I sat in her lap and she cuddled me. “Would you like mushrooms for dinner?” she asked, “To celebrate your escape?”
“Yes, please,” I said, mushrooms were my favourite, made with white-sauce and pepper.
I ate my lunch. I washed up the dishes and went and played with my Lego. I built a house, for the hundredth time. Mummy was sleeping and I kept it aside to show her. Then I took out my small blue uniform for ironing. The ironing board was in a cupboard built by Bachubhai, the best carpenter in the world. He was six foot five inches tall and very gentle. When mummy fell off a stool and broke her jaw he was so upset by the blood that he fainted. I ironed my uniform and sat on my cane chair at my desk and did my homework. I was glad that we had five days to ourselves. Mummy and me.
The phone rang and I ran to it, barefoot. When daddy, my stepdad, was at home I was not allowed to run to the phone, I was not allowed to walk barefoot, he would come home from the office and examine the top of the fridge for dust and scold mummy if there was any to be seen, he would check if anyone else had used his bathroom. His bathroom always smelt of anti-dandruff shampoo, Selsun.
“Mummy,” I shouted, “It’s Sheroo Aunty.”
Mummy didn’t like being woken up from her nap. It gave her a headache. She came into the hall and sat down with the phone in her hand.
She was silent after the phonecall. She didn’t say, “Oh how inconsiderate people are to call at three in the afternoon. Such bad manners.”
I went into my room, and finished illustrating my composition book. We had been asked to write about aliens and draw our own alien. Mine was purple with many arms. Mummy says, “You are what you eat.” They ate only brinjals on the alien’s planet.
Mummy came in after making a few phonecalls. She sat down on my bed and said, “Sometimes it’s good to have a TV. We could see what was happening on the news. There was an Air India plane crash. Ratan, Feroza Aunty’s son, was on the plane.”

-The End-

Note:
*From the unpublished poems of A.S. Shroff, the author’s grandmother.

Published in ‘The Reader’, No. 14. http://www.thereader.org.uk/magazine.aspx