Unravelling, page 3
“Bye, bye,” Leyla repeated.
“Yes, bye, bye, Deep. It is the right thing to do. Anyway, do you know what Rumi would say about Humpty? Who cares if you’re broken, Humpty – ‘The wound is the place where the light enters you’. That’s so true, Leyla, but you have to be ready to feel the wound. I think Nanima applied too much glue when she put herself back together again.”
I put Leyla in the pushchair and took her to Regent’s Park, remembering how I would take my daughter to the park and feed the ducks with her. Anita would scream with laughter and my heart would be full with the love I felt for her. Everything was worth it, every bad decision that I’d made was worth it because I had Anita and then my son. When Hari came along, I thought my heart was unable to expand any further but it did; it made room for him. It was then the three of us feeding the ducks. Afraid of them, Hari would cling to his sister, or hide behind me. Time goes very quickly, love changes, it evolves. Leyla had fallen asleep.
Now, the question was whether to wake her. It wasn’t sleep time but Leyla looked so peaceful. What to do? Tell my daughter that she had fallen asleep or lie as I usually did and face the consequences later? It was then that Helga popped into my head again. Helga wouldn’t care what anyone thought and would let her sleep and then tell her daughter that she had let her sleep. So, I decided not to wake Leyla and tell the truth.
Just as we got to the pond, I got a call from Anita saying that there was a change of plan and Hugh was on his way to collect Leyla, so I headed back to the café where he was waiting for me. The interaction was quick and polite, as if I had handed him the latte that he had requested.
“Thank you very much, Bhanu.”
“No problem. Any time. She fell asleep. I’m sorry.”
“Ah. Slight problem. Can sort out later. Off we go, Leyla.”
He too kissed me like a French person before he left with Leyla.
It’s all very formal with Hugh. Truthfully, he would not have been my first choice for Anita. We never pressured either of our children to get married. I might have set up a few dates for them through our network, but it was totally their choice if they wanted to take it further. Of course, all the applicants we selected were rejected and I have to say when my children reached their thirties, I started to get worried.
“Bring home anyone,” I encouraged. I am generally not very religious, but I might have done a few pujas and fasts to speed things along.
So, when your children hit thirty-five and you have given up all hope, you thank God for whoever they bring home. We met Hugh for the first time at a restaurant. My husband went over the top. I thought he was going to fling himself at Hugh’s feet. Instead, he kissed Hugh’s hand as if he were the Pope and had blessed him and he kept saying, “Thank you, thank you.” He suddenly remembered that I was standing behind him.
“Hugh, this is my wife, Bhanu.”
We are not desperate people and I didn’t want Hugh to think he was getting some second-hand goods. To be honest, I also felt slightly uneasy at his cursory glance at my sari (only worn for special occasions). He didn’t know that I had changed five times for him. I felt as if I had chosen the wrong outfit and needed to show him that I was educated and not just some middle-aged woman in a sari. In fairness to Hugh, his look could have been because he found the electric green and pink combination distasteful.
I held out my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Hugh.” And then I continued, “‘Nature’s first green is gold. Her hardest hue to hold… nothing gold can stay’.”
There was silence. It was difficult to read his reaction. Confused more than impressed, I would say.
“Mummy’s really into poetry,” Anita added quickly.
“How charming,” Hugh responded.
And why I said it, I don’t know. Well, I do. Anyway, it just came flying out of my mouth.
“Anita is gold to us. Do you think you are hard to hold on to, Hugh?”
Anita stared wide-eyed at Hiten. Hiten rescues her from all uncomfortable situations.
“Any plans for the wedding?” Hiten asked.
“Actually, Daddy, we are going to do something very low-key. Just a few friends and family.”
Low-key? Low-key? I wanted to shout. No way low-key. WWOPT (what will other people think)? We have waited years for this marriage. I was upset but I didn’t say anything.
Anita and Hugh got married in a magnificent castle in Tuscany; it was just their close friends and family. They didn’t want us to pay for the wedding so we didn’t get a say in who was coming. Our friends and extended family members were of course very disappointed and Pushpa has never let me forget it. The wedding was the first time we met Hugh’s parents; we generally don’t have much contact with them.
Malcolm, Hugh’s father, is florid due to excessive alcohol consumption. He knows a lot about high-speed trains and his hobby is train-spotting. Hugh knows a lot about trains too. Anita probably still finds this endearing. In a few years, depending on many variable factors (help with childcare, work, hormonal changes, extended family relationships), she will ask him to shut up about the 6.40 from Brighton or 18.13 to Bristol Parkway, or perhaps want to put him on one of those trains and send him off.
Hugh’s mother, Margaret, is inoffensive and very polite and puts up with her husband, Malcolm, who doesn’t really speak to her. The only interaction I have seen between them is when she reaches for a napkin and puts it around his neck when he is about to eat. It is like a bib. There is no reason for this – he has no apparent signs of the onset of dementia or anything like that. It is just a habit. She takes care of his every need and he reads his papers and ignores her.
This is their deal. Every marriage/relationship has a deal – an unspoken code of conduct that keeps the dynamic and status quo held neatly bound together. This part of the deal was left over from the time when Malcolm was a stockbroker bringing home the money and her job was to take care of him, the family, the house and organise his social calendar. He is now retired, the children left a long time ago, the big house is crumbling, and she doesn’t even question whether to renegotiate the deal.
Well, that was until a few weeks ago; while we were on our Caribbean cruise, their daughter, Cynthia, died suddenly after an aneurysm. She was only forty. Unmarried. No children.
We got off the cruise and I wanted to go and see Margaret immediately, but we were told that we could not just turn up. Of course, when someone dies in our culture, we land on their doorstep with food and we just leave our finger on the bell until somebody opens the front door but on this occasion, our visit needed to be planned and just as he left with Leyla, Hugh confirmed it would be okay to see them in the afternoon.
Although I was totally disorientated by the visit to the therapist, I thought it was only right that we pay our respects, so I went back home, collected a few food items for Margaret, and we drove to Cobham.
I extended my arms to hug Malcolm, but he held out his hand. “So very sorry, Malcolm,” I said, shaking it.
“These things happen,” he said, matter-of-fact.
The space between him and Margaret was so vast that you could have got lost and never found your way back.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Margaret,” I said, clinging to her.
“I have shed a tear, Ban-oo,” she replied steadily, disentangling herself. “Let me show you the rhododendrons that have bloomed in the garden.”
I didn’t know if this was some code for loss but if that were my loss, I would have grabbed her, beaten my chest, beaten her, wailed uncontrollably and then fallen to the ground. Instead she showed us around the garden, and we drank tea and ate scones. Malcolm had his bib on. It was all very polite. I noted I felt deeply sad for her, for them, and I had to pinch myself to stop myself from crying yet again.
We navigated around safe subjects like the weather. I imagined her in that big crumbling house on her own, barely making eye contact with her husband except to put on his bib, and I wanted her to know that I was really there for her, that she could express her emotion and I would hold her safely. So, I decided to step directly on the landmine and talk about death. I was about to ask if Cynthia went peacefully but my husband, sensing this, did a course correction and told them about our holiday and how much he had enjoyed the Caribbean cruise and proceeded to go into great detail about it – docking at each port as if he were the captain of the ship.
It was, of course, utter rubbish. He was seasick, and for the entire time he was either in the cabin asleep or throwing up in the toilet, so I made friends with Helga. I don’t have many European friends but, since Brexit, I wanted to show unity.
I met Helga in the sauna. I don’t normally go to the sauna as I have my own – it’s called the ongoing menopause and you can’t control the thermostat. But I read a magazine article that said that the sauna could help with my back pain. I have to say at this point that it was an out-of-character, spontaneous decision to go into the sauna – I just wanted to check it out as I was on my way to the ship’s cocktail party dressed in a sari. I wasn’t sure if I would actually make it there as I really don’t go anywhere on my own, but I was bored of being in the cabin watching my husband throw up, and I thought the likelihood of me actually going to the party would be higher if I got dressed up. I had a peep through the little glass window of the sauna just to double-check nobody was in there and I didn’t see anyone, so I went in.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this figure sitting there on the top bench. Naked. Yes, naked – and she wasn’t small either. She was just letting everything hang out and the hair… you could have knitted a pashmina with all that hair. It was awkward as I wanted to head straight back out but I thought, What will she think if I just leave? She could think I was a pervert, or that I was offended by her body. So I froze for a second before taking a seat on the bench opposite her.
“You must be hot,” she said, in her strong German accent, wiping the sweat off her thighs.
I was in my sari and my cardigan. Of course, I was bloody boiling. I wrapped my cardigan tighter.
“No, I am fine, thank you,” I replied, very worried about what the heat was doing to my Kanchipuram silk sari, but unable to escape.
“Take off your cardigan and sari and breathe. Breathe,” she instructed, inhaling deeply.
No way, German lady, I thought, but I just smiled at her politely.
“I’m Helga.”
“I’m Bhanu. Pleased to meet you.” I was unsure of where to look.
Then she started having a conversation with me. She was waving her arms, moving her legs and at one point, she stood up, planting her feet on the bench beneath her. She just got up and displayed all her naked goods; her post box was right in my eyeline. At first, I was slightly alarmed but then I thought, How brave, not to care what anyone thinks of you. You go for it, German lady! How amazing to feel totally at home and alive in your body. My spirit has always felt that it was an Airbnb guest as opposed to a homeowner, and a respectful guest at that, fearing that it would be rated for its stay – and so it has not always done what it has wanted.
Helga was travelling on her own; she was widowed.
This is what the community would focus on.
Community Member A would look her up and down, distracted momentarily by the size of her thighs and then pronounce, “Hare! Her husband is dead.” Members B and C would make suggestions as to the cause of death.
Member C: “Heart attack?”
Member B: “Brain haemorrhage?”
Back to Member A: “No. It was cancer.”
Post-mortem carried out and cause of death established, they would apportion blame on her.
Member B: “She fed him too much ghee.”
I had a quick glance at all the flaps and folds of her body and had complete admiration for her as I wished I could stand naked. Be free. Really free, and not care what other people think. She commented on the beauty and elegance of the sari – not mine, as it was getting crumpled – but mine had probably triggered her thoughts. Helga had been to Kerala and seen “many beautiful women” wrapped so elegantly. She smiled at the memories this brought back, telling me how she had worn one. I told her that the sari I was wearing was from South India and went into great detail about the silk used to weave the material, at which point I think I lost her.
She had gone to Kerala on her own to an Ayurvedic spa without a care in the world and had spent a month there. I told her that though I had always wanted to go I hadn’t made it further than Mumbai, but it was certainly on my list of places to visit. We hadn’t gone as my husband wasn’t keen due to “too many communists” there. My husband is all about conformity – when it suits him. I told her that if she ever wanted to try a sari on again, that I had packed a few and she would be most welcome to wear one of mine. It was then she looked like she would burst with happiness and told me that she had brought her sari with her, just in case there was an occasion to wear it.
“It’s destiny. Meeting you is destiny.” Helga beamed.
“What you are seeking is also seeking you,” I quoted Rumi.
She appeared to be confused.
“You wanted to wear your sari again, so you brought it with you, and I want to dress you.”
After the sauna, I went back to the cabin, got changed quickly. There was no lasting damage to my sari, and I hung it out to dry. I checked on my husband (who was asleep), took out some of the methi parathas I had packed for the journey and rushed back to her. I gave them to her. She was so grateful.
“What is this?”
“Vegetarian food. No piggy eating for me. No lamb.”
Even though her English was very good, I made the sound of a pig and a lamb.
“And certainly, no beef and no eggs.” I did the chicken motion. “I am a vegetarian.” I wanted to add that I was a vegetarian long before it was fashionable and I took pride in my food, long before what you ate was photographed and put on social media, but she interrupted me with her hearty laugh.
“Ah, yah. No vegetarian food on ship?” she asked, looking at the parathas.
“Yes, but very bad food.” I did the motion of being sick.
She took a bite from the paratha – actually, she ripped it with her carnivorous teeth.
“Wunderbar.”
“Made with methi – I grow herbs in my garden.”
We then had a conversation about gardening, and she suggested we go to the ship’s cocktail party together and from there, we were inseparable, meeting every day for the next ten days.
There was of course a slight language barrier, but this just added to the laughter and we understood each other perfectly. Helga had two grown-up children and grandchildren but was not an active babysitter; instead she pursued her own interests, more so after her husband’s death (heart attack) two years ago. I asked her how it had affected her.
“Happy. I was very happy.”
There was probably some misunderstanding in the translation, so I asked her again.
“He was difficult. Difficult marriage but you know – stay together for children and then because of routine.”
I looked around, seeing if anyone was overhearing this conversation. In the Indian community, no one really spoke of these things. Perhaps in the early years of marriage, you speak of some difficulties with your mother-in-law but when you get to our age, you don’t even allow yourself to think, Am I happy, could I be happier? I mean why would you? Marriage is a lifetime contract. If you are unhappy in your marriage, you maintain an outward focus and pick yourself up with a nice sari and put on some jewellery; perhaps you get a new car and a personalised number plate and you demonstrate to the world how happy you are.
Helga continued, “When he died, I say, ‘Helga, now time for you. Time to enjoy life’. Only one life, nicht wahr?”
Well not really, not if you are a Hindu and believe in reincarnation and that this is your karma. Moksha, or liberation, for us only comes after inhabiting endless homes, or Airbnbs in my case.
By the end of the ten days, Helga had managed to get me into the sauna with just the sari’s petticoat tied around my chest. She even taught me to swim – something that I had resisted for over fifty years.
“Don’t put the slip on over your costume. Take it off,” Helga instructed. She was referring to the sari petticoat I put over my swimming costume. “Come on, Bhanu. Nobody is caring what you look like.”
And it was true. Nobody cared about my deflated breasts, that my upper thighs looked like shrivelled mango skin and that my round stomach was like a sweet ball of gulabjam tucked into my swimming costume, not floating but sinking in the water.
During the week, Helga coaxed me gently into the pool, making me feel confident that I was in control of my body’s movement and breath. After a week, when I got the hang of swimming, I would only remain in the shallow end where I could firmly plant both feet down and feel the safety of the ground.
“Come into the deep end, Bhanu; you have come this far. I will not let anything happen to you. Come on.” I resisted for days and on the last day, I thought, Fuck it, if I die, I haven’t felt so alive in a long time, so I swam the length of the pool where she was waiting for me. I could hear her call out my name like a cheerleader, encouraging me. She didn’t even care that there were other people in the pool. “Just breathe, Bhanu, breathe, good work, sehr schön…” When I got to the other end safely, she held out her arms. I wanted to cry and then she pulled me towards her and hugged me. This is what I wanted to do for Margaret: to hold her and become a container for all the unsafe emotions.
This is how it was with Helga. In her company, I thought momentarily about being free and what I would do. Imagine going on a flight somewhere on your own? In my imagination, I got as far as searching on the internet for destinations – perhaps I could pay her a visit or perhaps go to an Ayurvedic spa in Kerala – but I didn’t get any further than that as the automatic self-correction took hold and I thought about what other people would think if they knew I was thinking such thoughts.
I ran back to the cabin to tell my husband that I had finally learned to swim.
