The wedding party lasted a week and was so opulent that nobody in Piphit could doubt but the family lived a life awash in ghee and gold, so when Bomanbhai bent over with a namaste and begged his guests to eat and drink, they knew his modesty was false – and of the best kind, therefore. The bride was a polished light-reflecting hillock of jewels, barely able to walk under the gem and metal weight she carried. The dowry included cash, gold, emeralds from Venezuela, rubies from Burma, uncut kundun diamonds, a watch on a watch chain, lengths of woolen cloth for her new husband to make into suits in which to travel to England, and in a crisp envelope, a ticket for passage on the SS Strathnaver from Bombay to Liverpool.
When she married, her name was changed into the one chosen by Jemubhai’s family, and in a few hours, Bela became Nimi Patel.
Jemubhai, made brave by alcohol and the thought of his ticket, attempted to pull off his wife’s sari, as much gold as silk, as she sat on the edge of the bed, just as his younger uncles had advised him, smacking him on the back.
He was almost surprised to discover a face beneath the gilded lump. It was strung with baubles, but even they could not entirely disguise the fourteen-year-old crying in terror: "Save me," she wept.
He himself was immediately terrified, frightened by her fright. The spell of arrogance broken, he retreated to his meek self. "Don’t cry," he said in a panic, trying to undo the damage. "Listen, I’m not looking, I’m not even looking at you." He returned the heavy fabric to her, bundled it back over her head, but she continued to sob.
Next morning, the uncles laughed. "What happened? Nothing?" They gestured at the bed.
More laughter the next day.
The third day, worry.
"Force her," the uncles urged him. "Insist. Don’t let her behave badly."
"Other families would not be so patient," they warned Nimi.
"Chase her and pin her down," the uncles ordered Jemubhai.
Though he felt provoked, and sometimes recognized a focused and defined urge in himself, in front of his wife, the desire vanished.
"Spoiled," they said to Nimi. "Putting on airs."
How could she not be happy with their brainy Jemu, the first boy from their community to go to England?
But Jemubhai began to feel sorry for her, as well as for himself, as they shared this ordeal of inaction through one night and another.
While the family was out selling the jewels for extra money, he offered her a ride on his father’s Hercules cycle. She shook her head, but when he rode up, a child’s curiosity conquered her commitment to tears and she climbed on sideways. "Stick your legs out," he instructed and worked away at the pedals. They went faster and faster, between the trees and cows, whizzing through the cow pats.
Jemubhai turned, caught quick sight of her eyes – oh, no man had eyes like these or looked out on the world this way…
He pedaled harder. The ground sloped, and as they flew down the incline, their hearts were left behind for an instant, levitating amid green leaves, blue sky.
The judge looked up from his chess. Sai had climbed up a tree at the garden’s edge. From its branches you could look onto the road curving down below and she would be able to catch Gyan’s approach.
Each succeeding week of mathematics tutoring, the suspense was growing until they could barely sit in the same room without desiring to flee. She had a headache. He had to leave early. They made excuses, but the minute they left each other’s company, they were restless and curiously angry, and they waited again for the following Tuesday, anticipation rising unbearably.
The judge walked over.
"Get down."
"Why?"
"It’s making Mutt nervous to see you up there."
Mutt looked up at Sai, wagged, not a shadow crossed her eyes.
"Really?" said Sai.
"I hope that tutor of yours doesn’t get any funny ideas," said the judge, then.
"What funny ideas?"
"Get down at once."
Sai got down and went indoors and shut herself up in her room. One day she would leave this place.
"Time should move," Noni had told her. "Don’t go in for a life where time doesn’t pass, the way I did. That is the single biggest bit of advice I can give you."
Seventeen
Saeed Saeed caught a mouse at the Queen of Tarts, kicked it up with his shoe, dribbled it, tried to exchange it with Biju, who ran away, tossed it up, and as it came down, kicked it squeaking up again, laughing, "So it is you who has been eating eating the bread, eh, it is you eating the sugar?" It went hysterically up until it came down dead. Fun over. Back to work.
In Kalimpong, the cook was writing on an airmail form. He wrote in Hindi and then copied out the address in awkward English letters.
He was being besieged by requests for help. The more they asked the more they came the more they asked – Lamsang, Mr. Lobsang Phuntsok, Oni, Mr. Shezoon of the Lepcha Quarterly, Kesang, the hospital cleaner, the lab technician responsible for the tapeworm in formaldehyde, the man who plugged the holes in rusting pots, everyone with sons in the queue ready to be sent. They brought him chickens as gifts, little packets of nuts or raisins, offered him a drink at Ex-Army Thapa’s Canteen, and he was beginning to feel as if he were a politician, a bestower of favors, a receiver of thanks.
The more pampered you are the more pampered you will be the more presents you receive the more presents you will get the more presents you receive the more you are admired the more you will be admired the more you are admired the more presents you will get the more pampered you will be -
"Bhai, dekko, aesa hai… "he would begin to lecture them. "Look, you have to have some luck, it is almost impossible to get a visa…" It was superhumanly difficult, but he would write to his son. "Let’s see, let’s see, perhaps you will get lucky…"
"Biju beta," he wrote, "you have been fortunate enough to get there, please do something for the others…"
Then he applied a homemade mucilage of flour and water to glue down the sides of the airmail forms, sent them finning their way over the Atlantic, a whole shoal of letters…
They would never know how many of them went astray in all the rickety connections made along the way, between the temperamental postman in the pouring rain, the temperamental van across the landslides on the way to Siliguri, the lightning and thunder, the befogged airport, the journey from Calcutta all the way to the post office on 125th street in Harlem that was barricaded like an Israeli army outpost in Gaza. The mailman abandoned the letters atop the boxes of legal residents, and sometimes the letters fell, were trampled, and tracked back outdoors.
But enough came through that Biju felt he might drown.
"Very bright boy, family very poor, please look after him, he already has a visa, will be arriving… Please find a job for Poresh. In fact, even his brother is ready to go. Help them. Sanjeeb Thorn Karma Ponchu, and remember Budhoo, watchman at Mon Ami, his son…"
"I know, man, I know how you feel," Saeed said.
Saeed Saeed’s mother was dispensing his phone number and address freely to half of Stone Town. They arrived at the airport with one dollar in their pocket and his phone number, seeking admittance to an apartment that was bursting with men already, every scrap rented out: Rashid Ahmed Jaffer Abdullah Hassan Musa Lutfi Ali and a whole lot of others sharing beds in shifts.