Asha picked the letter up from the doormat. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the white envelope, but it had a London stamp. She put it on the mantelpiece and waited for Pran to open it that evening.
‘Who’s it from?’ said Asha. Most of the letters they opened were either bills or airmail letters from friends and family abroad.
‘It’s from Rakesh. He’s here in London with his family,’ Pran looked up at her.
‘He’s here?’ Asha read the letter. Pran had lost touch with his old friend in the mess of expulsion. ‘How did he get our address?’
Pran explained that Rakesh had somehow managed to get it through a mutual friend. When Pran replied, they received an invitation for the whole family to go for Sunday lunch.
Rakesh lived with his family in a block of flats near Ealing Common. They climbed a concrete staircase that reeked of urine and stale smoke, with walls covered in a mixture of posters telling people where to put the rubbish and handwritten scrawled messages. More graffiti met them as they reached the second floor. Here, the row of flats ran along an open balcony that looked down onto a playground where teenagers hung around, cramming themselves onto a climbing frame that was clearly meant for small children. A few doors along, a little girl with blonde bunches sat on a step, clutching a paper bag. She was picking out cherries, chewing each one and throwing the stones on the ground.
Laughter and the buzz of a radio came from inside the flat. Rakesh opened the door. ‘Pranbhai! Kemche?’
Pran hugged him and smiled. He hadn’t looked this happy since Asha saw him in Arrivals at Heathrow.
Rakesh looked different, as though he’d shrunk; the bulk of his tall frame had disappeared. He’d grown a beard, thick dark hair swirling along his jawline. Asha recalled the last time they’d seen each other and said goodbye, in the bright light of the temple, all praying for the same things, for safety and refuge. ‘Come in, everyone. Jayamasi, it’s so nice to see you.’
Jaya patted his arm as they went into a narrow hallway. To their left was a kitchen with just enough space for a cooker, two cupboards and a small refrigerator. Every surface was crammed with large bowls and plates covered in tea cloths, and saucepans and frying pans were piled on the hob. Three young women, including Rakesh’s wife Sulekha, bustled about, washing and preparing and tidying, avoiding hips and elbows.
They all said hello to each other and Jaya found the one tiny space left on the worktop to put down a margarine tub carrying some buteta vara she’d fried that morning, filling the house with the scent of mustard seeds and turmeric. They followed Rakesh to the main room, painted a murky pea-green colour that gave the place a gloomy feel, despite the bright blue sky and haze of sun outside. Two men, one of whom Asha recognized as Rakesh’s father, were nestled on a sofa that had been covered in an old cotton sari, the worn beige-and-brown velvet armrests peeping out from the corners, while two younger men sat on scuffed wooden stools. Rakesh’s mother made herself comfortable on an armchair, hands meeting across her belly as she kept a watchful eye on the young women coming in and out of the kitchen, debating the best place to put this plate or that bowl. Four children ran around; they couldn’t have been more than six or seven, singing nursery rhymes. It was as though everyone in the room was competing to see who could make the most noise. And yet, even though there was little room for Pran, Jaya, Asha and Vijay to stand, let alone sit, despite the fact that the room was hot and stuffy, Asha felt more at home than she had in months. The familiarity made her heart swell, reminding her of the many Sundays she’d visited friends and family, eating coconut sweetcorn, fried kachori and samosa, drinking sugar cane juice in the late-afternoon shade, talking until the crickets joined them in their chatter under the moonlight.
‘Challoh, let’s eat,’ said Sulekha, refusing Asha’s offer of help. ‘Please, don’t be shy.’
The food was unveiled: golden-brown daar na bhajia glistened in a large bowl; another full of muttur bhat, the turmeric-coloured rice studded with peas; fenugreek paratha; a peppery chicken curry; yoghurt spiced with cumin and a kachumber of sliced tomatoes, cucumber, onion and grated carrot. They’d somehow managed to get their hands on halwo; the flat slices of baked milk and sugar scattered with flaked almonds and pistachio were piled on a plate. The joy of doing things that everyone else did bubbled inside Asha. Gathering together with friends, eating delicious food, surrounded by laughter and noise and music: the sounds of an ordinary life.
They sat down on the carpet in the centre of the room while Rakesh shooed the kids away. He told them all how they’d got out of Uganda.
‘And you managed to get a job quite easily?’ said Pran.
‘I’m not sure anything’s easy here. But I managed to get a job in a department store. I help with the tailoring, like I used to in Uganda,’ said Rakesh. ‘But it’s still tough, with all of us living here.’
‘You live here together?’ said Asha. Many Ugandan Asian families were living in cramped conditions, but there were at least twelve people in the room excluding Asha and her family. Sulekha had already told them there were only two bedrooms in the flat.
‘My sister and brother-in-law have moved to another flat with their own family now,’ said Rakesh, glancing at the two youngest children. ‘But we live here with my parents and the kids. Sulekha and I sleep in here, the others take the two bedrooms.’
‘And you’ve been here since you arrived?’ Pran leant forward.
Sulekha served them glasses of water, a strand of curly hair falling loose from her bun. ‘We were up north before, in an army barracks there for a while. Then we came to London, as we had a few friends here already. We would have got in touch sooner, but you know how things go. So much to think about. We’re only just settling in.’ Sulekha glanced at Rakesh with weary eyes. The strain must have taken its toll, the two of them responsible for three generations of their family.
‘We thought we’d be able to move out by now, but with the money I get from my job it’s not really enough,’ said Rakesh. ‘We’re looking into some help from the government for my parents.’
‘Not that they want to take it,’ Sulekha said.
‘Handouts are for poor people,’ said Rakesh’s father, who shifted in his seat on the sofa, putting his empty plate on the armrest.
No one had the heart to remind him that they were poor people now.
‘It’s a little easier for you, I suppose, as you’re all working?’ Rakesh said.
‘It helps having more than one income. But it’s still hard,’ Pran replied.
Rakesh took a sip of water. ‘You know some people are talking about going back.’
‘To Uganda?’ said Jaya.
‘But the news reports have said things are just as bad. There’s still a lot of fighting,’ said Vijay.
‘They’re leaving Asians alone though, the ones who stayed behind, like the civil servants and the other skilled workers,’ said Rakesh. ‘And there were a few more who managed to stay after expulsion, the ones who hid themselves in the smaller towns away from the cities.’
‘Wasn’t everyone else supposed to leave, just like us?’ said Jaya, recalling Amin’s threat of expulsion camps for any stragglers.
‘Somehow they managed to stay under the radar. And now there’s bigger things to worry about than a few Asians hanging around. Some of the Asian businesses that were taken over have already collapsed.’ Rakesh shrugged.
Pran stopped eating. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve got a cousin who stayed there, they get word out sometimes, through our relatives in Kenya.’
‘So they’re running businesses?’ Vijay asked.
‘I don’t know about that. But they’re managing to get some goods across the border, selling things on the black market. They’re getting by, perhaps better than we are.’ Rakesh and Sulekha shared a look. ‘I’m thinking about it myself.’
‘Returning?’ said Pran.
‘Just thinking about it,’ Rakesh nodded. ‘Not yet, I need to wait and see what happens out there. If things change.’
‘But you’d all go back?’ Asha was alarmed, they had young children to protect if nothing else.
‘No, just me, at first. The family could stay with my brother-in-law and I’d save up some money.’
‘It’s so dangerous.’ Jaya shook her head. She looked at Rakesh’s dad with concern in her eyes but he was too busy picking at the crumbs on his plate, while his mum was dozing in her chair, purring like a cat.
‘They’re not as worried about the Asians since we were expelled. There’s too few of us over there to be the enemy any more.’ Rakesh lowered his voice, aware that the children were still hovering around. ‘They’re even asking Bangladesh and Pakistan to send people over, doctors, engineers. People who’ve never set foot in the country before. You think they’d go there if it was so bad? Amin’s starting to realize he’s made a mistake. And anyway, it’s only a matter of time before they get rid of him, it must be. Others are always waiting in the wings.’
‘So what would you do?’ said Pran, mopping up the last of the chicken curry with a piece of paratha.
‘I need to look into it, but my cousin said I might be able to help him. He has contacts in the government too, they might be able to help me get the papers together.’
‘And it doesn’t bother you, even after everything that happened to us?’
‘Asha.’ Pran gave her a look.
‘It’s OK,’ said Rakesh, smiling. ‘A lot of terrible things happened there, I know. But look at the life we have now.’
‘But at least you’re all safe here together, beta,’ said Jaya.
‘Things are already different over there. People stick together, some live in the temples and gurudwaras too,’ said Rakesh. ‘And besides, the ordinary Ugandans are still there, they had no choice but to stay.’
Jaya lowered her head. Asha guessed that she was thinking of December and his daughter.
Rakesh glanced at the children, who had come back into the room arguing with each other about a penny they’d found somewhere in the house. ‘Anyway, enough talk of Uganda, please take some more food.’
They finished their meal, talking about simple things, their work, their homes, sweeping away thoughts of the danger and chaos Rakesh was considering going back to, but Asha couldn’t shake it from her mind. Why was it that Rakesh’s words relit the spark that had been missing from Pran’s eyes for so long?
Later, Asha made a start on the dishes in the kitchen. Through the window, she saw the children running up and down the long balcony, playing with skipping ropes. Sulekha brought the last of the plates into the kitchen. ‘There’s still a lot of food left over. You’ll have to take some.’
‘I don’t think I’ll eat again for a week, I’m so full,’ Asha smiled at her. Little glossy bubbles of washing-up liquid escaped from the bottle as she poured some onto a sponge. She stood back, taking care not to get any on her red kameez, and said, ‘You really don’t mind Rakesh going back?’
Sulekha piled up plates next to the sink and sighed. ‘I’m not sure how much say I have in the matter.’
‘But isn’t it better for you all to stay together?’ Asha wondered if she was going too far, pushing her like this.
‘I don’t know what Uganda’s going to be like, but it’s difficult enough here. Feeding and clothing everyone. But better to do that and live apart than go hungry living together.’ Sulekha paused for a moment. ‘One worry after another. The children stuck inside all winter. And those power cuts, the nights in the dark. We thought we’d left all that behind with the curfews.’
Asha couldn’t help but feel relieved that she and Pran didn’t have children to worry about, on top of everything else. It wasn’t something they’d have to think about for quite a while. ‘But power cuts are one thing, what about the danger?’
Sulekha shrugged her shoulders. ‘We wouldn’t take the children there until we were sure it was safe. But like Rakesh said, they seem to be leaving us Asians alone now. It’s not perfect, I know, but Amin can’t go on forever.’
Asha looked out of the window, across the sky streaked with feathery white clouds. Things did change, of course they did, just look at her marriage with Pran, look at her life now, so far from the one she’d imagined for herself years before. But putting your life at risk? She couldn’t imagine it.
*
Throughout the next week, Pran seemed newly focused on life again, fixing the broken door handle in the kitchen, taking more of an interest in helping at the temple. At first, Asha daren’t ask what had caused it, in case it broke the spell. But it was clear that lunch with Rakesh had raised his spirits.
‘You seem better,’ said Asha, as they lay in bed one night, the light from the street lamps seeping through the curtain fabric.
‘Better? Didn’t know I’d been sick in the first place.’ Pran turned his head towards her.
She thought about the best way to phrase her next question. ‘It just seemed like you were finding things a little tough? I don’t know.’
Asha could make out the contour of his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. He paused before speaking. ‘I guess I realized I need to get on with things, we’ve wasted so much time already.’ He curled his arm under his head. ‘Things are going to be different now.’
They fell silent, listening to the cars driving past the house. ‘I can’t believe Rakesh is thinking about going back,’ she said, hoping he’d show little interest.
‘He’s finding it difficult, like we all are. You’ve heard the news about home. Inflation through the roof, food shortages. They’ve woken up and realized that we weren’t the bad guys. It’s an opportunity.’
‘The opportunity to get killed?’ It was crazy to go back, with Amin’s thick fingers wrapped around the country’s throat, as tight as ever.
‘Things have changed.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I don’t know, we should think about it, though. I could try and get in through Kenya, maybe. I owe it to Papa to get our house back.’
Asha sat up, leaning on her arm, hair trailing across her shoulders. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I need to finish what I started there.’
‘But Pran—’
‘All those times growing up, I saw the disappointment in Papa’s face. He wanted to build something but he just didn’t know how. I was turning things around before he died, I was going to give him everything he wanted. Why would I just give that up?’
‘But you could start again here, you’re young.’
‘We belong in Uganda, building my Papa’s business just like he wanted.’
‘But I have a life here now, a job I like. It took everything I had to start again. I won’t go back.’
‘Look, I know how you feel.’
‘You have no idea!’
‘I know you can’t imagine going back right now.’
‘I can’t imagine going back ever. Not ever.’ She tried as hard as she could to keep her voice down; her heart drummed against her chest. ‘You don’t know what it was like.’
‘I do know.’ Pran tried to take her hand but she batted him away. His voice was tender. ‘Asha, I do know. Vijay told me about what happened to you. The soldier.’
She sat upright, pulling her knees to her chest. ‘He had no right to tell you.’
‘He thought it might help. He could see . . . He could tell things weren’t the same between us, after I arrived.’
What had Vijay told him exactly? What did Vijay even think he’d seen? It didn’t matter now, Pran knew. And perhaps, in a way, it was a relief not to have to pretend any more, at least about that.
‘Those salas, disgusting men.’ Pran’s voice shook. He reached out and put his hand on her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She pulled away. ‘They didn’t—’ She didn’t know how to begin to explain. Anger all over again.
‘I’m so sorry for all of this,’ Pran whispered. ‘This isn’t what I wanted for us, any of it. I want to go back and change it all.’ He reached out again. This time, she didn’t stop him. She was so tired of the sadness wearing her down.
She didn’t resist when he pulled her towards him. She didn’t stop herself lying down next to him. She wanted to forget the memories of the soldier, his acrid breath, his hands on her limbs; she needed to crowd it all out with new memories. And so she kissed Pran, his forehead, his eyelids, his lips, searching for the people they had once been, following the arch of his back, kissing his palms, his neck, his shoulder, searching for a single trace of the life they’d left behind.
*
The morning sunlight woke them both up.
Pran gave her a sleepy smile. Asha kissed his dimples.
‘It’s good to have you back,’ he said.
‘I didn’t go anywhere,’ she said, although she knew what he meant. ‘And I don’t think you should go anywhere either.’
Pran stroked her shoulder, staring at the ceiling. ‘Uganda? It’s only something I’m thinking about.’
‘Well, don’t. For me. For all of us. Forget it.’ Asha rested her head on his chest. She couldn’t lose him again. She’d forgotten how good it felt to hold him, to feel the rise and fall of his breath next to her. ‘I want you to stay here, please. Stay here. Don’t forget what it was like.’
‘They took all they could.’
‘Did they, Pran? What about your life?’
‘Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘You’ve already forgotten what happened with December?’ she said, struggling to control her voice. ‘I’ve never seen you like that.’
He turned his head. ‘Like what?’
‘That night the soldiers came to the house, when I came out of the bedroom. You seemed like you were in another world. Lost, I guess.’
‘I was in shock.’
Asha stared at him. ‘Something was wrong.’ She thought she’d buried the memories away. It was only now, as she thought back to that evening, something unlocked inside her mind that she hadn’t been able to reach before. The look on Pran’s face that night reminded her of the first time he lied to her. ‘Did something—’
‘Why are you raking it all up again?’
‘I just—’
‘No!’ Pran got up and opened the door. Though he whispered, it did nothing to hide the anger in his voice. ‘No more talk about the expulsion, ever. I’ve had enough!’
Asha stayed where she was, feeling the sheets beside her grow cold. The more she searched for the truth about what happened that night, the more confusing it seemed. Why hadn’t they hurt him when they found December hiding away? She’d seen this evasiveness before, the way he’d made her feel paranoid about the dukan. One thing was certain: if Pran wouldn’t give her the answers she was looking for, she’d find them another way.