He is lying in the new hospital bed, just delivered that Sunday morning, when his daughter, Tarani, calls. She’s moved back to England after her divorce from the American husband, Hinton. The custody battle is over. She doesn’t talk about that. Instead she describes Sami’s new bedtime song (I Bolam, I a puppy, you Tenklu, you a bear). She asks how he is adjusting to the bed.
He is no longer able to lie flat on his back; his breathing is difficult. The hospital bed elevates him, although he hates seeing his skinny knees pushed up like thin candles. Also, he can no longer get out of his bed unaided. He used to bring his knees up to his chest and kick to give him the impetus he needed to roll out. But eventually, it didn’t work. He could only kick twice and then he was helpless, lying half in, half out, waiting for someone to come and help him. At least the hospital bed permits some dignity of freedom. Hospital bed. He resents feeling claimed by the sick and weary, even though he is one of them.
He cannot even ask his god for comfort. This god, who has begun to turn up more frequently, and is often in the room at these moments, is usually examining the prints of elephants or the pictures of Sami. Sometimes he wants to ask, ‘So, what good are you?’ He knows the answer. He has drawn this god for himself: his black outline, his careful crayons. He’s created his own dithery, peripheral god who doesn’t have anything else to do because Arjun hasn’t assigned him anything. But what room is left when there is Sunila and her now-look-what-you’ve-done-and-I’ve-got-to-clean-it-up? Perhaps it’s his resistance to any more interfering that has evoked this mellow god who keeps out of the way.
He has told Sunila, ‘Don’t send me to the hospital. Let me die at home.’ He can never get through the second sentence before she crowds his words. ‘You’re not going to die. You’ll live a long while yet.’ He is irritated with her inability to face death. After all, it’s his death.
It isn’t the hospital smell, the indifferent care of the hospital nurses, the barely concealed boredom of the doctors; it is the fact that he would not recognize anything there. He wouldn’t have his pictures of Sami, beloved two-year-old grandson, or Sami’s creations: a portrait of Arjun that is blotches of black with spidery arms and legs, the strange brown blob declared a teddy bear, the object made of sticks liberally smattered with glitter glue that is, according to Sami, the moon.
Arjun would miss his back-garden window. He can still reach it if he takes his time, carefully balancing his weight on his walker so that he won’t suddenly tip backwards or sideways. He can stand there for a few minutes and gaze at the budding blue fir, or the grass that will soon need cutting, or the valiant green stalks of his tiger lily. Surely this year it will bloom.
Arjun enjoys seeing this abundance of green life pushing up through the soil. He smiles at the wayward dandelions that raise their yellow-tufted heads. Sunila will murder them later, carefully pouring on a solution that will turn them brown. The bright yellow heads remind him of his grandson’s spiky black hair. He is secretly pleased that Tarani cannot comb or gel the renegade hair flat. Let Sami defy convention; let him run wildly over the carefully kept garden, Sunila pursuing him and exhorting him not to stand on the new plants, Tarani in her stiletto shoes, shouting pointless threats from the kitchen doorway.
Let Sami tear up the new lemon basil and bring handfuls back for his grandfather to smell. Meanwhile, Sunila will complain and Tarani will roll her eyes. Boys are so destructive. But he will bury his nose into Sami’s offering and smile into the bright face. Yes, it smells wonderful. ‘S’kee, ’Ampa?’ Yes, let’s have some ice cream. The dancing light of Sami’s energy is surely regenerating his own. Sometimes he feels some urgency moving in him, feels he can almost stand up without the walker, feels something widening his lungs. Surely the muscles will respond for his grandson. He will go to the freezer himself.
But they don’t have ice cream. Sunila doesn’t approve of ice cream and won’t have it in the house. She claims she forgets, but he knows she hates ice cream. It makes her fat, so no one can have it. She is an old woman. Why should she care if she doesn’t have an hourglass figure? Old women are for hugging, but Sunila hugs no one. She even hugs Sami carefully, not allowing more than his face to press to hers briefly, something Arjun will not forgive. He would give a good deal to hug his grandson.
The clear flute of Sami’s voice opens everything as he pushes through the front door. Tarani follows in his wake, cautioning, hushing, attempting to suppress his bright voice. Ah? Ah?
Sami crushes his head against Arjun’s chest, then plants a soggy kiss on his cheek.
Arjun is joyful. ‘I’m so happy to see you, Sami.’
‘S’kee?’
Sunila says, ‘Oh dear. I forgot to get some.’
Sami looks at his grandfather.
‘Never mind, son, you can get some from the van when it comes by.’
‘That van never comes here any more. I don’t know what happened to it.’ Sunila laughs.
Not even an hour later, the tinkling of ‘Greensleeves’ announces the van and Sunila has to hide her disapproval and cough up the money for an ice-cream cone.
‘Get one with a chocolate flake, son.’ Arjun hopes Sami has heard him as he runs to the door, Tarani following on precarious spiked heels shouting about the traffic and holding hands.
Arjun mutters to himself, ‘She’ll break her neck in those shoes.’
‘It’s about time she bought something nice for herself. She never had anything from that good-for-nothing man.’ Sunila doesn’t approve of the shoes either, but Arjun knows she won’t admit it.
‘They’re divorced, Sunila.’
Sunila sniffs and rubs her nose with the palm of her hand. He knows she is aware that he finds this dismissive gesture disgusting.
He cranes to see whether Sami has bought his ice cream. ‘Let him eat his ice cream in here.’
‘Not in here. There will be ice cream all over the place.’
‘What does it matter?’
‘And who has to clean it up?’
There was a time when he would have had more energy over these disputes. He would have found a towel for the boy to sit on while he dripped ice cream happily over himself. But now he has no power, no choice, no freedom to say, ‘But it is so’ with the finality that comes with a functioning body. The brief memory of energy, of supple strength, is fading.
When the body no longer operates, the self disappears. He feels this diminishing, a gradual receding of who he is, what he likes, how he dresses, where he goes. And he can go nowhere. A short trip to the back window and he is tired enough to have to rest for a while on the sofa before he makes the trip back to the safety of his armchair.
He longs to walk with his grandson by the seashore and go searching for treasure. Let’s dig for gold, Sami. And he would slyly drop in a few polished pennies so that Sami shouts with delight. If only he could stand and reach up to one of the high shelves for a book that has pictures of elephants. He looks around for Sunila, but she has gone into the kitchen to make tea. Instead, he asks Tarani, ‘Can you reach down the elephant book?’
Sami comes bouncing back in with his ice-cream cone with a chocolate flake sticking out proudly, like a small flag. Arjun calls to him, holding the book open. ‘Look, Sami, see the tusks? This is a big guy.’
‘E’fun?’
‘Yes, in India. And the elephants there are as tall as the ceiling.’
Sami’s eyes blaze.
‘And tigers, too. Huge tigers!’
‘Rraarrr!’ Sami bounces around the carpet, the ice cream sagging precariously.
‘The elephant is bigger than the tiger. And very brave and strong. The tiger won’t attack the elephant. The elephant is the real king of the jungle.’
He longs for musculature so that he can hold Sami’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze, so that he can open his arms and receive his grandson for a hug, so that Sami can hug him back, or climb him like a tree.
But in the absence of these physical luxuries, he makes his voice as welcoming as possible. He tries to match Sami’s enthusiasm with his own weaker echo.
Sami loses interest in being a tiger and wanders around the living room, sucking his cone, the ice cream dripping down over his hand.
Arjun stands carefully, allowing his body to find its balance before leaning forward onto the walker. Slowly, he edges himself to the sofa where he sinks onto a thick cushion.
Sami spins, jumps onto the sofa and thumps against his grandfather.
Arjun is overjoyed to be pummelled by his grandson, even though he feels himself losing his balance. A combination of a fleeting reflex and a wild grab at the walker helps him remain upright.
‘Is your ice cream delicious?’
The ice cream is thrust into his face and he opens his mouth to receive the gift. But the muscles don’t respond properly. He can’t bite and close his mouth around the ice cream, so it smears across his mouth and cheek. He is delighted to taste what Sami can taste. Does he taste more than the cold sweetness, is there a richer chocolate taste in the young mouth?
Sunila comes in and begins fussing. ‘All over your face. You’re a mess.’ She rubs at his face with a paper towel. She puts her sweet, cajoling smile on for Sami. ‘Let’s go in the garden and you can eat your ice cream there.’
His heart drops. There is nothing he can do. Even if he argues, she will win.
Sami turns to Arjun but Sunila quickly speaks. ‘Grandpa’s going to stay here while you finish your ice cream. Then you can come in and see him.’
Tarani says, ‘Go with Grandma, Sami.’
Sami thrusts out the ice-cream cone again, a last attempt to share, but feminine hands guide him away.
Sunila makes a joke. ‘You almost got Grandpa on the nose that time.’ She laughs.
He hears them in the kitchen, small exclamations of ‘Oh, no’ and, ‘Oops, let’s get you outside quickly’ as the women bundle the child into the garden. Sunila goes outside, too, and Tarani, he supposes, is leaning in the doorway. ‘Don’t get ice cream on the roses, Sami.’
He hears their voices from what sounds like a long way away. If he closes his eyes he will drift away. He is determined not to lose any of Sami’s visit, so he levers himself up and inches the walker into the kitchen. At least he can stand by the window and watch.
Sami is walking in slow circles around the lawn, licking around the melting cone. He’s eaten the flake. Arjun tries to imagine what it tastes like. His tongue searches his mouth for the memory, but it is gone.
Tarani and Sunila are standing together on the flagstones near the tiny greenhouse. They are probably discussing herbs and how coriander needs this and tomatoes need that. They don’t know anything, the pair of them.
Arjun watches his grandson sit on a cement step. He puts his whole mouth over the cone and sucks. Arjun feels uneasy. What if he inhales the ice cream and chokes? He tries to lift his hand to the window to knock, to draw the chattering women’s attention.
Sami yanks the ice cream out and drops it on the patio. He looks up at the window at Arjun, his mouth open in astonishment. His face turns red and he screams.
Arjun guesses it’s a bee. He waves feebly at the women, but now they are fussing around the child, asking him questions. Sami screams, catching his breath in great swooping sobs.
Arjun finds he is breathing in great gusts, too. What if the boy swallows the sting? Sami will have to go to hospital, be put on a respirator. And what if he is allergic to bee stings?
He tries to knock on the window, but his hand cannot make a fist and his fingers scrape helplessly against the glass. Neither woman looks up; Sami’s eyes are squeezed tight. Finally, more by luck than by rational deduction, Tarani manages to open Sami’s mouth enough so that she can extract the sting.
He is relieved, his own mouth throbbing in sympathy. The two women manage to bring the boy inside and suddenly the house is filled with his broken heart. An ice cream has bitten him.
The women are trying to console Sami. ‘It’s only a bee. Nasty thing. It’s dead now.’
But Arjun sees that Sami hasn’t made the connection between the ice cream and the bee. He has been betrayed and he continues to wail.
Sunila brings a piece of ice. Sami sucks, a strange rattling, noisily incompatible with his weeping.
Arjun pitches his voice so that the boy will hear him. ‘Sami, son. The bee was on your ice cream. And when you put the ice cream into your mouth, you put the bee in too. The bee was frightened and so it stung you.’
Sami looks at his grandfather, his breath shaking his body, the piece of ice bulging from one cheek. ‘Ah?’
‘It stung you. Your mother pulled the sting out. The bee carries a sting in its tail. You bit the bee and it stung you.’
A half-smile wobbles across his face and Arjun wants to lift him into his arms. He nods instead, impatient with the knowledge that his arms won’t even stretch out to his grandson.
Tarani gently wipes her son’s face and cuddles him. ‘There, there, my darling.’
Sunila sits close by. Arjun can see she also wants to do something to take away the pain. At this moment, Arjun loves his wife and daughter with a flaming love that makes his chest hurt.
Sunila says, ‘I’ll make some iced lemonade. That will make your tongue feel better, Sami.’
Arjun says, ‘Don’t we have something? Give him medicine.’
Sunila shakes her head and indicates Tarani with her chin. ‘He doesn’t believe in giving medicine.’ He meaning Tarani’s ex-husband, Hinton, who claims that pain doesn’t exist. It’s all psychological. Therefore, pain medication is irrelevant. Tarani has told them about the severe period crampings she endured because Hinton insisted she imagined it.
Arjun breathes in to steady himself and speaks quietly. ‘Tarani. Hinton is in America. You are here. I don’t think Hinton would mind since Sami is in so much pain.’
Tarani, also tearful, looks at Sunila. ‘I’ve got Calpol in my bag. Hinton doesn’t know.’
Sunila fetches Tarani’s bag and they squeeze a few drops of pink medicine into Sami’s mouth.
Tarani whispers into Sami’s hair, ‘We won’t tell him, will we? You’re feeling a bit better, aren’t you, darling?’
Sami, still shaking with sobs, says, ‘Mm, mm.’
Arjun examines Sami’s face. There is some swelling around the eyes, but that may be because of the crying. He swallows past the hurtful obstruction in his throat. If only he could open his mouth and take Sami’s pain.
Sami is quieter now. Sunila insists on peering into his mouth. Arjun is impatient with her. ‘You’re poking around there as though you are after a rat.’
‘I’m trying to see if he’s all right.’
‘Take him to the light where you can see better.’
Sunila pushes her finger into Sami’s mouth. He begins crying again. She wipes her finger on her apron. ‘I think the swelling is going down.’
‘No thanks to you.’
The women croon over the crying child again. Arjun hates them and their hush darling, don’t cry, darling. Poor little Sami.
Finally, Tarani decides it’s time to leave. The Calpol appears to be working and Sami has fallen asleep. Arjun clears his throat for the request. ‘May I kiss him goodbye?’
There’s a barely perceptible signal exchange between Tarani and Sunila. Arjun refuses to let the anger rise up. Tarani lowers the sleeping child so that Arjun can kiss the top of the sleeping child’s head. He whispers, ‘Be well, son.’
‘What was that?’ Sunila frowns at him.
Arjun shakes his head. This will be safe from her.
‘What did he say?’ Sunila asks Tarani but she shrugs.
Arjun says, ‘Have a safe journey, pet. Call us when you get home.’
For Sami and Tarani, home is now a flat in Swiss Cottage. Sami likes the roof terrace, where he has started his own garden in a sandbox with petunias named Bolam, Hentiss and Tenklu. Arjun worries about the roof terrace, even though it has a strong, high safety rail. He has cautioned Tarani never to let the boy out of her sight. You never know what growing boys will get up to.
The women’s voices trail along the hedge outside as they walk out to the car. He hears Tarani open the car door and imagines her settling Sami in his car seat, buckling him in, nesting his cheek against the cushion. Goodnight, Sami.
He listens to the car starting up, the cheerful goodbyes and the engine accelerating away. Silence.
Sunila closes the front door and comes back into the living room. ‘Well, time for dinner, I suppose. What do you want to eat?’
‘Anything.’
‘All right,’ she says in her patient voice.
She goes to the kitchen, turns on her Ray Price CD and clatters her pots and pans about. She will be absorbed there for another half an hour.
He clutches his memories greedily to himself. Sami’s smile, his hello kiss, open-mouthed, sweet-breathed. His wonder at the elephants. His delight over everything. Arjun wonders, Was I like that? Ever?
He feels anger stirring against this ex-husband, this Hinton, who still insists on dictating to Tarani. What idiocy makes a man dismiss pain as though it is some fairy tale? How dare he be so callous? How could Tarani have suffered him for so long?
Memory flings a door off its hinges. Tarani, thirteen, crouched on the floor in tears. They’d been getting ready for a trip to the beach. The car was packed and even Murad, notoriously slow at everything, was dressed and standing in the living room.
And now his daughter was crying. He saw his thirty-four-year-old self, so confident, such authority, hands on hips. ‘Leave her, Sunila. She’ll soon come round.’
Sunila had murmured to Tarani, ‘I’ll get you something.’
He had shaken his head. ‘No. Don’t spoil her.’
Sunila had turned on him. ‘She’s in pain.’
‘It’s all in her mind.’
He said that?
He hears the rattle of the tray approach, slow and then stop.
Sunila says, ‘Arjun?’
But he cannot reply; he weeps, bent over, as though he has dropped his heart somewhere in the folds of the blanket lying crumpled on the floor.