Who Will Catch Us As We Fall (22 page)

‘People are going to want to eat soon so hurry up.'

Leena was placed behind the long, buffet-style table, serving spoon in hand, along with several other children doing the same with other dishes. It was an impressive spread; there was pea and cauliflower curry, stuffed parathas
and
chawal
,
fragrant basmati rice. At the end, she spotted the desserts – yellow ladoos and buttery chickpea fudge. At home they ate meat but at the temple it was forbidden and she wondered if Angela had kept the leftovers from last night's roast chicken dinner.

‘Hi, Leena.' Tag was standing before her, a plate in his hand. She dropped the spoon into the pot in momentary distraction and had to step up on her tiptoes to retrieve it.

‘Hi.' She hoped he thought it was the steam from the food that was making her so flushed.

‘I never see you here.'

‘My mother made us come today. I would rather be at home watching TV.'

‘Me too.' A grinning confession, holding up his Styrofoam plate and she scooped up a ladle-full of food, watching as it fell in sticky, graying clumps. ‘After we eat, some of us go to the back field and play football, if you want to join us.'

She tried to contain her excitement. His keen attention, the way his cheeks reddened as he said this, intrigued her and made her feel special. ‘I'll be out as soon as I'm finished.'

After he left, she served with gusto, eager to empty the container and join him outside. Once it was finished, she clanged down her spoon with satisfaction.

‘Where do you think you're going?' Her mother rushed out of the kitchen, a large pot in her hands.

‘It's finished.'

‘No, it's not.' She refilled the empty one. ‘Keep going – can't you see how long the queue is? And don't give out too much at once, otherwise I'll put you in the kitchen to help cook.'

When Leena was relieved of her station it was almost an hour later and she ran through the back doors, toward the field, not caring if she bumped and elbowed several people on her way there. Past the library, the council building where her mother held all her meetings, picking up speed but then skidding to a halt when she reached the edge of the flattened, dry grass and saw that it was empty.

Raj told his wife as soon as they returned home, took her by the elbow and dragged her up the stairs, even though she protested, ‘Mrs Laljee has invited us to her house for tea. She was so happy to see us at the
Gurdwara
.'

‘To hell with that woman.' Raj gruffly closed the bedroom door behind him. ‘She should find a different hobby – one that doesn't include butting into peoples' lives.'

‘She was only trying to be helpful.'

‘She was being a busybody,' he corrected her. ‘Just like everyone else on this street.'

Pooja sat down at her dresser, began taking off her jewelry. She tilted her head and the mirror caught the light coming in from behind her, like floating dust upon her dark hair, now thrown over one shoulder. He watched her through the glass – such severely beautiful features, all sharpness and points, and for a moment, he reconsidered telling her. He didn't want to upset her, didn't want to spoil this moment when she was sat in front of him, looking that way. ‘Please, honey. We have to be at Mrs Laljee's house in twenty minutes.'

That name again. His annoyance flared. ‘I'm tired of living this way. I hate that this family has thirty members instead of just the four of us.'

‘What are you talking about?' She combed her hair, held it in one hand while the other moved in gentle, downward strokes.

‘I'm talking about Mrs Laljee coming over to borrow a cup of sugar but really wanting to tell us how to run our lives.'

Pooja put the comb down and swung around to face him. Her mouth had become tight, pinched lines forming in the dip leading up to her nose. He didn't look at her as he continued talking.

‘I want to move.'

‘No.' Her answer was instant.

‘Pooja—'

She stood in a spritz of rose perfume and came to him. When she spoke, her voice was like a little girl's. ‘Don't do this to me. I'm happy here – I feel safe here. I know the children are safe here. I don't want to go anywhere else.'

‘But they're getting older now. Soon, they'll want their own rooms. I've been looking at some houses—'

She kept his words at bay with strong shakes of her head and he felt them swell and collapse in his mouth because he knew the steel gates of her mind – knew that she would not alter her decision. She moved toward the door, not looking back. ‘You should hurry. We're going to be late.'

Mrs Laljee's son, Vickram, returned home unexpectedly from England one weekend.

‘He's on holiday,' she told the neighbors when they inquired, though it was only October. She said it with a fight in her voice, challenging them to question her.

‘I hear he got into some trouble.'

Leena was lying in the grass outside Tag's house when she heard his mother say this to another neighbor,
hush-hush
because Mrs Laljee had eyes and ears everywhere.

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘He was caught up in some bad habits – you know how easy it is for our children to become lost over there.'

The second neighbor leaned in closer. ‘Someone told me that he's—' here she paused to find the appropriate word. She crossed her eyes and wagged her head. ‘Crooked.'

At that, Tag snorted out his vanilla milkshake. Goaded by his reaction, she asked, ‘What does that mean?'

He told her with a malicious glint in his eye. ‘It means he's a faggot.'

The two women turned to him sharply. His mother lifted her hand in indication of a slap and said, ‘Do you want me to give you one?'

The rest of the day was full of whispered anticipation. Everyone was eager to meet Vickram, to discover the real story of his return, so in the late afternoon when he finally emerged, the women bolted upright from their
jikos
, halting their work. Alerting each other to his presence with hissed whistles, they trained their collective gaze upon him – an unsuspecting antelope in the midst of hungry lionesses.

With careful eyes, they tried to gauge from his demeanor what had gone wrong, but if anything was amiss Vickram refused to show it. He smiled pleasantly as he walked down the street, lifting his hand in an occasional wave.

‘Good afternoon, Aunty Ji, lovely to see you,' he smiled, even reaching over veranda fences and kissing cheeks. ‘I go by Vic now. It
has
been a very long time.'

He was a lanky boy, dressed in a plaid shirt that was buttoned up and pressed, and he squinted behind metallic-rimmed spectacles. Everything from the slight cowlick in his hair down to the carefully rolled-up trouser hems was intentional and meticulous, just as she imagined a British man would be.

‘I bet he wears makeup too,' Tag chuckled.

‘I think he's handsome.'

Tag rolled his eyes and Leena looked away, upset. His attention flattered her, the way he whispered secrets into her ear and shared his milkshakes, but she couldn't shake the sense of discomfort that came with being around him. The easiness she had shared with her brother and Michael was gone and the excitement she felt with Tag brought with it more anxiety than happiness. She twisted her fingers together and, on impulse, leaned around the tree in the direction of her house.

Jai and Michael were engaged in one of their lengthy conversations, having brought their chairs close together, their knees touching. On his lap, Michael had a book, his hands resting lightly upon the closed leather cover. As if he sensed her watching, Michael paused from his words and glanced up. She waved and held her breath. After a long moment he raised his hand, and when he smiled it set off such a strong burst of relief in her chest, she almost ran to him.

‘What's a faggot?' Leena asked at the dinner table that night.

Her father dropped his fork. Her mother dropped her mouth.

‘What did you say, young lady?' Pooja demanded.

‘What's a fag—'

Her mother held up her hand. ‘Where did you hear it?'

‘Tag called Vickram that today.'

Shaken, Pooja told her daughter, ‘It means nothing. It's a dirty word and I don't want you to use it.' She looked at her husband in disbelief. ‘Children these days. We would have never uttered such things.'

‘Do you know what it is?' Leena asked Jai, who was hiding a smile behind his hand.

‘Yes.'

Pooja looked at her daughter warningly. ‘Stop asking. You don't need to know what it means. Finish your dinner.'

They went back to scraping the cutlery against their plates and even though it was Leena's favorite – coconut chicken and egg curry, she couldn't eat it. She kept thinking about the word, how even if one said it in the most gentle, loving tone, it still came out sounding wicked and ugly. How, when Tag had called Vickram that, he was delighted and disgusted in equal measures; how his eyes narrowed and spit formed at the corners of his mouth. She wondered how one word, a single, short word could mean and do so much. All day, it had kept the neighbors at a safe distance from Mrs Laljee's house. Once the hub for gossip and socializing over tea and cake, it now sat alone in the stiff shadow of peoples' turned backs. It sagged under the clucks of pity for the family inside, the relieved whispers that it wasn't them, for poor Mrs Laljee was the victim of the greatest misfortune, the one families on the streets feared the most – a failed son.

The next day, Leena sat cross-legged beneath her favorite tree, tearing apart a bright pink flower. Tag was playing cricket with the other boys and hadn't asked her to join in. She was in part upset, part relieved. Although she enjoyed the game, she was glad for the time alone – it gave her a chance to observe Vickram more closely.

He walked the edges of the game, hands in his pockets and a permanent smile on his face. Unlike his mother, he was unobtrusive and comfortable keeping to himself, indifferent to peoples' reactions as he passed them.

‘Do you mind if I join you?'

He had reached her spot, pushing up his glasses and gazing down expectantly. Instantly, Leena glanced toward the field where Tag had paused from his game, shaking his head fervently.
Tell him to keep away.

She almost did, but Vickram looked so hopeful and unassuming that she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she shifted slightly to make space and he slid down beside her, stretching out his legs. He looked so delicately clean that she winced to think of his beige chinos stained with dust, the freshness of his cologne disturbed by sweat.

‘I'm Vic.' He extended a palm.

‘Leena.'

‘You were this small when I left,' he grinned, holding his hand up a short distance from the ground. ‘It's been, what – three years now? You've grown.'

‘I don't remember you.'

‘You wouldn't.' He looked out at the cricket game, a shadow of wistfulness obscuring his features. ‘I'm very different now.'

There was something absorbing about him; perhaps it was the polished accent, the way it took its time with words, never lazy nor dragging, and she felt a stir of excitement, thinking of the world he came from. There were so many things she wanted to ask him but the questions stuck in her throat as she pulled at the flowers around her nervously. She was acutely aware of everyone staring – mothers and children alike, itching for a story.

‘Nothing here has changed though – still as suffocating as ever.' When he detected the ruffle of confusion in her, he explained. ‘You see that girl over there?' He pointed at one of the houses, where a girl Leena's age was playing on her swing.

‘Yes.'

‘Let's say the wicket keeper in this cricket game likes her.' Vickram settled back into the rough bark of the tree, shifting several times before getting comfortable. ‘He'll ask his friends about her. His friends will ask their friends, their parents and their relatives.'

‘What's your point?'

‘We live in such a closed community that someone is bound to know swing-girl. Wicket boy will know her stories, her secrets, before he even meets her. No one here will ever be a stranger.'

‘Isn't that a good thing?'

‘Sometimes,' he consented. ‘Other times, it can smother you. Especially if you're different.'

‘Then why did you come back?' She had been holding in the question, but sitting beside him, hearing him talk, her curiosity got the better of her.

He was about to answer when Mrs Laljee interrupted. ‘Vickram, come inside now.' She was standing above them, a wool cardigan pulled close over her salwar kameez despite the heat. Leena noticed how pale and drawn she had become; even her voice, which had once been so mountainous, was quiet.

‘I'm in the middle of a conversation.' His features had tightened up into something close to a scowl.

‘Now.'

They stared at each other for a prolonged moment; mother and son locked in a battle of accusations and guilt. Eventually, Vickram rose. As she dragged him back to their house, Mrs Laljee kept her gaze firmly on the ground, her shoulders huddled up near her ears, as if to keep away her neighbors' sniggers as they watched her go.

Feeling uneasy, Leena made her way back to the house. Mrs Laljee hadn't acknowledged her presence, hadn't even glanced her way while confronting her son. Leena thought about the quick movement of her eyes, the fingers tugging incessantly at the frayed edges of her cardigan, the hidden voice.

‘She was embarrassed,' she said aloud.

‘Who was?' Michael looked up from his book.

He had heard Leena come onto the veranda and pretended to keep reading, hoping that she would stop by him, and when she spoke, he jumped at the chance to hold her there.