Sugarbread Page 16

  “You’re shivering, Pin. You should take a shower and get into some dry clothes. We’ll need to go to the temple this evening. There will be prayers tomorrow morning, then the funeral…”

  There was a low buzzing in my ears, like the sound of the flying ants flicking against the fluorescent lights. It grew louder and absorbed Daddy’s words. Nani-ji was dead. Nani-ji was gone. There were nights when she had slept that I noticed how stiffly her fingers were curled like the edges of dry leaves. I imagined her in a hospital bed now with her eyes closed, her fingers flat on the mattress, her legs stretched out ahead of her. Then I saw Ma sitting by Nani-ji’s side, smoothing out her hair, speaking to her for the last time. She was whispering something but I couldn’t hear it—the buzzing noise in my ears blocked out everything else. Ma’s face was drained of colour and her skin was covered in fiery red patches.

  Daddy put his arms around me when I began to cry. “Oh Pin. I know. I know, Pin.” But he didn’t. He didn’t know anything. I was relieved to be sad, finally, and a part of me was crying for Nani-ji. When I thought hard enough, when I recalled the few moments we had when Nani-ji wasn’t meddling in Ma’s business or giving me her disapproving scowls, I felt a short, sudden jolt reminding me that I would never see her again. But I was crying because I almost drowned that afternoon, because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life eating sugarbread for lunch and dinner, because I didn’t think Daddy would ever win the lottery, because Fat Auntie had taken Ma’s jewellery. I was crying because I felt stupid for thinking that things would go back to normal in our flat. Things had never been normal.

  “I know you’re sad. But it was your grandmother’s time,” Daddy whispered into my dirty hair.

  I didn’t say anything. I was tired and fed-up, not sad. The only person who could see into my mind and know the difference was God, but He was strangely silent.

  7

  THE FUNERAL STARTED and ended at the temple, with the crematorium in between so we could see Nani-ji one last time. I had expected a brown lacquered coffin, but she was in a white container that looked rather flimsy. She was dressed in white, as always, and there were flowers strewn all over her. It looked like she had just fallen asleep in a garden. All day, my head rang with prayers, mournful songs and chants. At the crematorium, there were more prayers, and that was when the crying got even louder. Fat Auntie was the loudest crier. She wailed and shrieked. At one point, she even clutched Mama-ji’s shirt collar and sobbed so loudly into his chest, the priest stopped and stared. Ma was calmer. Daddy explained that she had done most of her crying when she was letting Nani-ji go and now there was very little left. She shut her eyes for long periods of time and blinked rapidly when she opened them, looking out of the narrow doorway of her eyelids.

  I noticed Mama-ji looking at Ma as they followed Nani-ji’s coffin into the crematorium. Even when Fat Auntie grabbed his shirt and leant against him, he distractedly patted her on the back and continued to look at Ma. She only looked back at him once and when she did, his eyes quickly darted away and fell on me, then it was my turn to look away.

  It was odd to see the sun shining on such a sombre day. All around me, the corners of people’s lips were turned down. Daddy stared at his hands during the entire funeral. When I got tired of looking at Nani-ji for the last time (it wasn’t really Nani-ji anyway, just the shell of her), I stared at the people gathered around the white box, trying to figure out who they were. I recognised some of them from the temple—the lady who always wore polka dots, the woman with the full head of silver hair, the tall man with the mole on his cheek so flat and round it looked like a ten-cent coin. If Nani-ji were alive, she probably wouldn’t want all of these people crowding around her, taking up space and making so much noise. I almost expected her to sit up and tell everybody to stop moaning and go home, since they were causing a disturbance.

  God was not at the funeral. His name was mentioned several times in the prayers and He was praised and pleaded with to take good care of Nani-ji’s spirit, but I did not see Him among the mourners.

  After the crematorium, there were more prayers in the temple and food—simple food because mourning meant blandness, food that tasted like the emptiness the deceased had left behind. Daddy had plain water with his roti instead of the steaming hot milky tea he loved. Ma just ate a bowl of sour yoghurt. “I’m still not hungry,” she said. I took the rice and covered it with dhal, but left out the yoghurt and the desserts to show God how much I was grieving. Every spoonful was dry, like eating mashed-up paper.

  When we got home in the evening, Ma instructed me to take a shower because I had been in the crematorium and God-knows-what was in the air there. I scrubbed my arms and legs and the back of my neck very hard in the shower, thinking about the invisible particles of dead strangers clinging to my skin. I spent so much time in the bathroom that the sky had turned dark by the time I stepped out. Wrapped in a towel, I tiptoed past God, avoiding His gaze. My room had been empty for a week now but it suddenly felt bigger. It finally belonged to me again. I changed into my pyjamas and lay down on the bed. The sheets were warm from the day’s heat. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the potted plants outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance but the air was still thick with heat.

  Ma did not step into my room. She stood in the doorway and looked in as if she needed permission to enter. “It looks different now,” she said softly. She attempted a smile but it came out crooked. I was afraid she would start crying but after taking in a shaky breath, she looked fine. “What shall we eat for dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m not hungry,” I told her and I was being honest. The funeral had taken away my appetite. “I’ll just toast some bread later.”

  “Okay,” Ma said. She turned like she was about to leave the room, then she turned back. “Did you greet your Mama-ji today? Did you say ‘Sat sri akal’ to him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “In the morning, when he and Fat Auntie came in.” Not greeting an elder with “sat sri akal” was very rude, so I said it automatically to any Punjabi adult I encountered, whether I knew them or not. It saved me from getting into trouble.

  “I saw him looking at you during the funeral.”

  “He was looking at you first,” I told Ma. “And then me.”

  “He was probably thinking that we looked alike. A few people mentioned it today, you know,” Ma said. She walked into my room and sat down on my bed. “They said that you were starting to look just like me.”

  Immediately, I stretched out my arms and looked to see if my skin had suddenly changed. But it was still clear. Maybe it was possible that I could look like Ma but not have her skin condition. Maybe then it was also possible that I could be some things that Ma was—beautiful, confident, elegant, funny and bold—and not be all of the bad things that Nani-ji had tried to warn me about.

  Ma narrowed her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. All of the questions that were forming in my mind quickly dived into corners where Ma would not find them. We sat in silence for a long time. I let my mind drift off to other things. I thought about school and how much I dreaded being in Primary Five next year. I hoped for a good teacher, somebody like Miss Yoon, who smiled even when she was scolding us.

  “Last time,” Ma began. She paused. With those two words, she had my full attention. People in Singapore said “last time” when they referred to the old days in Singapore. “Last time, the river was clogged with dirt.” “Last time, we used to buy ice kacang from the street vendor.” “Last time, you could buy a plate of noodles for just ten cents.” I had heard Daddy and my teachers and Mrs D’Cruz say these things. They always seemed to be comparing now to another time. As I watched Ma come closer to telling me the truth, I realised that this was exactly what she was doing.

  8

  1970

  PAK-PAK-PAK-pak-pak.

  The flat soles of Jini’s worn sandals thunder against the concrete as she weaves through parked cars and bicycles lying on their sides, which l
ook as if they are taking a nap in the afternoon heat. She is racing faster than ever before but nobody is watching. For the first time, she prefers it this way. She usually likes an audience. She enjoys the gazes and the breaths of awe from the children in the neighbourhood as she dashes by. She’s so fast for a girl! some say. Others say she runs faster than any boy they’ve ever seen. When they say this, they sound slightly suspicious.

  Jini started running three years ago, when she found out her father had left them for good. Anger flooded her heart and coursed through her veins. She had many evil thoughts about her father then and the more they entered her mind, the worse her skin became. Rashes appeared on her stomach and disappeared just as suddenly. Small bumps spotted her ankles. Luckily, her mother makes her wear long pants because she thinks shorts are indecent. “Running around half-naked is what you’re doing. I don’t want people talking and saying, ‘Look at Harjinder Singh’s daughter, becoming loose because he’s not around.’” Her mother was happy this morning to see her putting on a loose cotton blouse with long sleeves. She doesn’t know about the rashes; even Sarjit hasn’t commented on them in weeks, but that’s not unusual. He doesn’t say much to her these days.

  She is not supposed to be running outside but her mother is at the temple and she will not come home until evening. She cleans houses for a living now, taking the bus out of the kampong and away from their gossiping neighbours to the homes of the British officers on the naval base. They pay her little because she does not speak English and sometimes she doesn’t understand their instructions. But when she speaks of them at home, she always emphasises how kind they are. “Such creamy skin they have,” she tells Jini as they cook. “Their houses have three or four levels, and large bookcases.” She brought home a few picture books for Jini once, but Jini thought they were too babyish. Her mother raised an eyebrow and told her not to complain. “At least I’m bringing you books,” she said. “You’re lucky I’m keeping you in school. The money for fees and books could be used on food and clothes. After your O-Levels, you’re going to have to start working.”

  This is why Jini runs. Because there are things she will not and cannot accept. Running makes her feel like she can escape her mother’s instructions, her thoughts about her father, the growing itching feeling she has all over her body from the inexplicable rashes.

  “Oi, Jini!” a voice calls out. She slows down and glances behind her shoulder. Don’t stop, don’t stop. That is her rule—to never stop for anybody or anything while she is running. Unless of course it is Bilu, then she has to slow down and take him home. He still has a habit of chasing her when she leaves for school in the morning and when she comes outside for her afternoon runs. He doesn’t cling to Sarjit any more because Sarjit ignores him.

  “What?” Jini asks, slowing down; she is genuinely tired and her calf muscles are burning. The voice is from a familiar neighbourhood boy. He walks towards her with quick strides, a football tucked under his arm. He is not wearing a shirt and sweat is trickling down his bony chest, pooling in his navel. She looks away.

  “You run very fast.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you running from?” A few more boys join him. She looks around nervously. Although she can’t see anybody in the neighbourhood, she is sure there are pairs of eyes on her, observing, waiting.

  “You,” she says nonchalantly, spinning back around on her heels. She can run a little more if it means getting away from them.

  “Or are you running to somebody?” one of them calls out. The rest burst out laughing and scatter away as a white car trundles down the bumpy road, the horn blaring loudly.

  “Shut up!” she yells at the boys. The car slows down and the driver honks his horn again. She doesn’t bother to look; it can’t be anyone she knows. She continues to run until she is tired again, then she walks home, panting all the way. As she unlatches the house gate, she feels light, as if she has stomped out every bit of misery that her heart has collected. She pulls up her sleeves and the cuffs of her pants and scans her arms and legs quickly. It looks as though the rashes have gone away and the swelling has also gone down. She smiles with relief and enters her house.

  • • •

  “I saw you running,” her sister-in-law says accusingly. “The neighbours are talking about you.”

  “Is it a crime?” Jini asks with mock innocence.

  “Don’t be rude to me,” Bhabi-ji says, wagging a finger. “I am older than you.”

  Jini shrugs her indifference and reaches to tickle Bilu, who is in a good mood. He giggles. Drool spills down his chin and collects in his collarbone. “Slimy-slimy-boy,” she sings into his ear. He opens his mouth to receive her words like a baby bird. She makes farting noises with her hands and he shrieks with laughter.

  “Quiet!” Bhabi-ji shouts. “Jini, don’t get him excited.”

  “I’m just making him happy,” she protests. “He’s stuck in the house all day.” With you, the poor thing, she thinks.

  “What do you want me to do? Parade him around for everyone to see? You know, he tried to follow you out today. He saw you dashing past the house when you were running and he tried to follow after you.”

  “He hasn’t done that in years,” Jini says. “He was probably just excited today.”

  “Regardless, I want you staying at home after school from now on. No more running around. Your mother is not going to like it when people hear about it. Then she’ll blame me.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong!” Jini protests loudly. This excites Bilu. “Wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong,” he repeats like a siren, until the word has lost its meaning. This is what she loves about him. He can take the seriousness out of anything. “Wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong—”

  “Enough!” They all freeze. It is Sarjit, standing in the kitchen entrance, glowering at Jini and Bilu. He does not dare give the same look to his wife because she is bigger and more powerful than he is. Ever since he married her, he’s been colder towards Jini and more stern with Bilu, treating him like a guest who has overstayed his welcome. This is why Bilu shies away from him; he may not know how to behave like the rest of them but he knows when people don’t want him around.

  Jini fights back words of anger because she is not allowed to show disrespect for her sister-in-law, who is ten years older than she. She is even older than Sarjit, who married her as soon as he was discharged from the army. The wedding happened quickly. Jini’s mother did not want to attract too much attention to their family because of her missing husband. She was also partly embarrassed because Pra-ji had been right about this girl from Ipoh. She was not good-looking. She was rather overweight and she always looked like she was about to complain about something. She was unfriendly and sighed a lot during the wedding, as if she couldn’t wait for the whole ceremony to be over so she could go home and take a nap. She was bossy with Jini and often tried to discipline her because Mother was gone all the time. She was uncomfortable around Bilu—in the first few months, she spoke to him without ever making direct eye contact. Now she just lets Jini handle him but she takes credit whenever Mother comments that he is behaving well, which annoys Jini. Bilu is only calm because Jini sings and reads to him, and secretly lets him follow her out to the shop sometimes after making him promise to behave himself and hold her hand the entire time.

  Her mother returns from the temple with more roti, dhal and yoghurt wrapped in plastic bags tied up by their ends so that they look like fat bulbs. She places them in the kitchen and asks Bhabi-ji to please serve the food. “Help her, Jini,” she says before retreating to her bedroom.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Jini calls out.

  “I ate at the temple,” her mother replies. She eats at the temple every evening now after praying.

  They eat dinner quietly. Sarjit reads the newspaper and doesn’t pay attention to anyone. Jini makes faces at Bilu, who giggles, then sprays his food across the table.

  “Stop it,” Bhabi-ji says to Bil
u. “I’m warning you now.” It is her job to feed him during dinner because he makes such a mess with his own fingers. He still cannot break the bread and scoop up the dhal without spilling everything onto the table. Sometimes when he eats, he keeps his jaw slack and refuses to chew so the food just dribbles down his chin. If he’s giggling, there’s a chance he might be distracted enough to allow Bhabi-ji to feed him. But she doesn’t see it that way. Now she notices Jini making faces and she pushes herself away from the table. “That’s it,” she says. “I’ve had enough of your disrespect.” She storms into Mother’s room. Jini hears her talking in a low, angry voice and a feeling of dread settles in the pit of her stomach.

  Her mother comes out of her room, rubbing her hair away from her eyes. She looks strangely alert. She raises a hand and slaps Jini across the cheek. “Did I hear from your sister-in-law that you’ve been running around outside talking to neighbourhood boys? Playing with them? What kind of daughter am I raising?”

  “I wasn’t playing with them!” Jini shouts at her Bhabi. She receives another slap for the volume of her voice. Sarjit sighs, folds up his newspaper and storms into his room. “I was running.” Jini says quietly.

  “Running? Running for what?”

  “For exercise.” Tears are gushing down her cheeks now.

  “Exercise? Rubbish. I don’t want you going outside like that any more. No wonder Auntie Lakhbeer was giving me looks at the temple. I had no idea that my daughter was the cause of so much trouble. Isn’t it bad enough that your bastard of a father has left us?”

  Jini and Bhabi-ji both stare at her, shocked. She has never used such a word to describe her husband. Even she looks mildly startled, as if somebody else said it.

  That evening, Jini helps wash the dishes silently, without looking at the smug expression on her sister-in-law’s face. She can’t stand her. She wishes her brother had married somebody nicer. She knows that her mother wishes for the same thing, but Bhabi-ji is family now and it has never been up to them to choose who is in their family. Pra-ji had said so quietly to her mother when he introduced Sarjit to his future wife at a small matchmaking ceremony. He was nice enough to hold part of the ceremony at his house. He wouldn’t even accept any money from Jini’s mother, but she insisted on paying him, so he took the money and told her he would give it to the temple. Jini remembers the look on her mother’s face when she saw Bhabi-ji’s flat nose, the shadow over her upper lip, her wide hips and chunky arms. “She’s a nice girl,” Jini’s mother had said, even though she hadn’t properly met her yet. It was as though she had been trying to convince herself.