Short story for RUPA

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Friday, 20 May 2011 09:54

SHORT STORY IN AN ANTHOLOGY FOR RUPA ON MODERN DAY INDIAN FAMILY LIFE A PAIR OF BANGLES The bangles had been what Mummy called a ‘stick of contention’ for three generations now. Being a strict vegetarian and pacifist, Mummy disliked using words like ‘bone’, declaring every so often that human nature had grown increasingly violent because of its carnivorous habits and language. Which may have been true, except that it did not explain why her family (who were predominantly vegetarian) retained so much latent aggression when it came to the delicate subject of family jewellery. I have personally witnessed arguments and tears and, once, the unforgettable sight of Shiv mama picking up a Kashmiri side table and flinging it down onto the floor as he yelled, ‘I will have those bangles if it’s the last thing I do, you mark my words, all of you!’ I tried to imagine Shiv mama’s hairy wrists sporting a pair of diamond bangles but it made for a startling image. Perhaps, in the heat of the moment, Shiv mama had forgotten to specify that the bangles were not for himself exactly but intended for his future wife, a figure who was, at that point in time, a mystical and rather unlikely figure, given Shiv mama’s extreme hirsuteness and inability to hold down a job. I had never seen these legendary bangles, of course. In fact, few people outside of my grandmother’s generation had. For that, you see, was where the problem had started – sometime at the turn of the last century – when Nanima, my maternal grandmother, had been given a pair of diamond bangles by her mother-in-law on the morning of her wedding. I had only ever known Nanima as a fierce old lady with a cloud of wispy white hair and a stubborn mind all her own. But she certainly had a prior life, evidenced by a few old photographs in a tattered album that showed a demure young woman in sepia, standing one step behind the handsome grandfather I had never known. The story goes that the said bangles were taken off Nanima on the night of her wedding by an elderly female relative who had explained it was for safe-keeping. And it was soon after this that they disappeared from view forever. Nanima had tried to explain how, as a new bride, it would not have looked nice for her to demand that the bangles be returned to her (after all, she had been sent to her new home with plenty of jewellery of her own). But, by the time she finally plucked up the courage to make a tentative enquiry – it was all of five years and two male children later – no one knew where the bangles were. They had simply gone. The relative who had taken the bangles off Nanima later swore she had placed them in the jewellery compartment of the large walnut wood wardrobe in the old homestead and promptly handed the keys over to the older daughter-in-law of the house who – since she had only received a pair of pearl bangles when she had got married ten years before – was naturally the chief suspect behind the loss of the diamond bangles. But, since this sister-in-law was a sharp-tongued shrew of a lady even in her early thirties, nobody had felt able to pursue the matter with her too far. And now, in any event, she was long dead, victim of a premature pulmonary embolism that some in the family said was God’s punishment for having stolen jewellery that did not belong to her. And so the missing bangles had lain there in collective memory, corroding away at relationships down the generations, causing a pair of brothers to stop speaking to each other for years and once, at Ravi mama’s wedding, providing reason for an entire branch of the family to get up in the middle of the banquet and stalk out en-masse, claiming they had been accused of theft. My own immediate family did not discuss the matter very much, mostly because Papa was Gandhian and believed in renunciation, although Mummy had apparently not given up the quest entirely, as was clear from some whispering about bangles that went on when Shiv mama was in India on holiday once. Nevertheless, everyone’s ardour had cooled considerably over the years. Even quick-tempered Shiv mama had not repeated his table-throwing stunt. Having married an American woman in the late eighties and emigrated to New Jersey, his attention had apparently turned to chasing the American dream, where things were measured in houses and cars, rather than jewellery. He and Aunty Brenda worked in real estate, and so the sprawling suburban houses with two long cars in the driveway and basements full of electronic household gadgets had all come thick and fast, a world in which bangles would have seemed a curious aberration indeed. Without a doubt, Shiv mama’s new world was filled with far more covetable things by most people’s standards. It had indeed come as a big relief to the entire family to see Shiv mama settle down and become so sensible about, not just the bangles but all other things as well. Mummy, in particular, had been much reassured by his new sensible persona, having always been protective of her youngest sibling who, partially because of his hairiness, had been bullied by the neighbourhood children throughout his childhood. Even after he had grown up, it had looked for a while as though the unusual furriness of his forearms would become a deterrent to the business of finding him a girl in the arranged marriage market. Good enough reason, as far as Mummy was concerned, to welcome Aunty Brenda with open arms when Shiv mama had met her at an Amway convention and wooed her within minutes (‘It is because their own men are so chikna that white women like hairy men,’ Mummy had explained when I was old enough to be told these things.) And, to do her credit, Aunty Brenda had given the family no cause for complaint on the few occasions on which we had met, despite her extremely loud voice and raucous laughter when she had drunk too many vermouths. (‘Still, a working girl and much better than Indian girls with all their petty kit-pit-kit-pit,’ Mummy had declared.) Consequently, it was Mummy who was most overjoyed when, earlier this year, I received an email from Jasmin, Shiv mama’s older daughter, asking if she could visit us in the autumn. I was more circumspect, remembering the rather sullen, pale-faced child from eight years ago who had vomited all the way to Agra and back. But Jasmin’s tone in the email that had popped up in my in-box was cheery and her Facebook page revealed dozens of friends in all hues and shades. ‘I’m going to start my graduate studies this fall and would like nothing more than to meet my Indian family and re-discover my heritage before starting on a new and exciting phase of my life,’ she wrote. She even had a boyfriend, an Indian boy who lived down the road from her New Jersey home and whose parents were both orthopaedic surgeons. I wrote back to Jasmin, with Mummy breathing down my neck, dictating syrupy interjections. ‘You never know,’ Mummy reasoned, ‘Your Shiv mama is now a rich man and he might sponsor you to go to an American University also if you treat your cousin nicely. That will be much better than trying to get into one of these rubbish Delhi colleges where either the teachers or the students are always on strike.’ When the day of Jasmin’s arrival dawned, we drove out to Delhi airport, a large reception party that included all my cousins and, of course, Nanima, all of packed into Ravi mama’s two Innovas that had been specially buffed and polished that morning in honour of our American cousin’s visit. Jasmin was the first of Shivi mama’s children to visit us on her own and, despite the presence of dozens of local cousins, there was something very touching about a cousin coming from so far off to get to know us and understand her Indian heritage better. We had it all planned, the Indian heritage thing. On Sunday, we were going to drive down to Agra in a convoy of cars and show Jasmin the Taj – which she was not likely to remember very well from her previous visit as she had thrown up violently in the Mughal gardens and then lain on the grass being fanned by Nanima while her parents made a hasty tour of the monument. After the Taj, we would go to Nanima’s ancestral home on the outskirts of Agra for lunch, giving Jasmin the chance to meet even more of her cousins and, after spending the night at an old haveli that had been converted into a heritage hotel (specially recommended by Ravi mama’s travel agent), we would make our way back to Delhi. Jasmin was prettier and more American looking than her pictures on Facebook had indicated. She arrived through the doors at IGI airport, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, tee-shirt and sneakers, her hair, long and brown, tied into a jaunty ponytail. Mummy went all gushy instantly, her normally passable English suddenly lapsing into all kinds of embarrassing errors out of nervousness. ‘Are you hungry, Jasmin beti? We are all eaten, as it is a little bit late but we have kept back some for you.’ Luckily, Jasmin seemed unfazed by all the fussing and chattered away in the car, answering Mummy’s and Nanima’s questions about her younger siblings and Shiv mama and Aunty Brenda politely and cheerfully. ‘See how well-behaved,’ Mummy whispered, watching Jasmin help Daddy carry her rucksack and suitcase into the house. ‘In America they teach their children from a young age to do the house-work and cooking and even painting and plumbing. Not like you all here, so spoilt,’ she said. Jasmin certainly seemed more self-sufficient than the rest of us: getting up to fetch water from the fridge during dinner, rather than hollering for Lakhan like we generally did, and clearing away her own plate afterwards. Instead of automatically turning on the TV after our meal, as was our usual wont, we gathered in the living room for some civilized (and, presumably American style) post-prandial chit-chat. Meetha paan was served on a silver platter to complete what had been a carefully thought out traditional Punjabi meal. Daddy was keen to ask Jasmin exactly what parts of her Indian heritage she was interested in exploring, having already chalked out a guided tour of Old Delhi and insisting that we all observe karva chauth this year so that Jasmin could witness some our more abstemious rituals. ‘Oh, that sounds really awesome,’ Jasmin said in her American drawl, referring to the historical walk around Chandni Chowk. ‘And at some point I’d really like to make a trip to Saharanpur too.’ ‘Saharanpur?’ ‘Haven’t I said it properly? Sah-haran-pur?’ Jasmin repeated, adding with a laugh, ‘I’d practiced long and hard how to pronounce it.’ ‘But why Saharanpur, beti?’ Mummy asked. ‘Oh, isn’t that where Aunty Ira’s family live?’ ‘Yeeesss,’ Mummy responded, uncertain of quite how to explain the delicate situation before she ploughed on. ‘You know Jasmin beti … you may not know this … but our family has not spoken to Ira’s family in many years now …’ ‘Oh yes, I know all that,’ Jasmin cut in cheerily, ‘But there’s a pair of ancestral bangles my dad’s told me about that I want to ask for. They really ought to be mine, you see.’ …………………………………..

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