ALL THE TIME YOU BRING SHAME TO ME.’
DAY FIFTY
Amit Patel had served with the Indian Army during the war, fighting with the Allied Forces in Italy during the battle for Monte Cassino where he was wounded. After the war, he was honourably discharged and returned home to India, to his home and wife in Lahore. He had saved all his Army pay, depending on his wife’s family to feed and clothe her and their children whilst he was away, as that was her family’s responsibility, not his.
However, after the Partition of India in 1947, when northwestern India, including Lahore, became part of Pakistan, Amit, as a Hindu, had no desire to remain in a country ruled by Muslims, especially after his brother, sister-in-law, two nephews, and three nieces were murdered in a massacre by Muslims in revenge for some earlier killings by Hindus. They had been burnt to death in a railway carriage attacked by a Muslim mob as they tried to cross into India during the Partition, and so he immigrated to England, arriving at Southampton in July 1949. Quite how he eventually ended up in West Garside he never fully explained; he merely shrugged his shoulders and said that ‘It was fate, Karma.’
Shortly before he arrived in Garside, Amit sold all the gold that his wife had brought to the marriage as a dowry, and so when Norman Haslam retired and put his grocery and newsagents’ shop on the corner of India and Burma Streets up for sale; Amit saw the fact that the shop was located on India Street as a providential sign. He walked extensively around the area, along Burma Street, Rangoon Street, Mandalay Avenue, Arthurton Road, Brick Street, around by Cedar and Poplar Streets and back to the corner shop on India and Burma. There were no other shops within a half-mile, and he immediately saw the prospects of a general store selling a far greater range of goods than Haslam ever did.
Amit took out a bank loan to supplement his capital (his saved Army pay and the proceeds of the gold sale) and bought the premises and business. You would have to say that it was a very clever move, especially since all the workers in the shop would come for free, without any need for pay because he had sent to Pakistan for his wife Purika to join him, together with their two daughters, his wife feeling great family shame at not producing a son.
After school, both daughters helped their father and mother in the shop, serving, sweeping, stacking, cleaning, never to be allowed out to play in the street like other children. Hopscotch, hide and seek, and skipping were not for them.
There was only one other Indian family in Garside at that time, (there are a few more now), and Amit Patel’s wife was very lonely, all day she served in the shop, leaving the counter only to prepare the family meals.
Half-day closing on Wednesday was taken up with stock taking, re-stacking shelves, doing the accounts; she was a very adept bookkeeper.
Sundays the family might take a walk to the park, but often as not they worked in the shop, which although it could not officially open on Sunday, would often see some mildly illicit backdoor trading as housewives would come by asking to buy some sugar, or perhaps tea or other essentials that they had run out of. In time, it became impossible for Amit Patel and his wife Purika to go out together on Sunday as the demands on the shop were now too great. Not that Amit minded.
He did not smoke or drink, spent little on clothes, either for himself or his wife, although the two daughters always wore clean, smart clothing, and the little business prospered. Amit and his family kept the shop on the corner open for longer hours than Norman Haslam ever did, and kept it far cleaner; there had always been a musty, mouldy mouse-shit smell about it when Norman owned the shop. Amit was content, the shop was prospering, the bank loan had been repaid earlier than specified in the agreement, and savings were accruing in a savings account. If his wife and daughters were less content, that was irrelevant; they were females and so therefore their considerations or wishes were of no consequence.
Maleha, the eldest daughter, was now twelve years old, soon to be thirteen, and Amit was beginning to give serious thought as to whom she should marry. There could be no suggestion, of course, that she might meet and marry a local boy, no, no, no, a suitable groom would be sought from well-placed Vaishyas families back ‘home’ in India. Amit was of the Vaishyas caste or Varma, the caste of traders, and his children could not marry outside their caste; doing so would bring dishonour and shame to the family, a shame which could only be expunged by blood.
(The principal castes are: Brahmins – the caste of teachers, scholars, and priests; the Kshatriyas, the caste of kings and warriors; Vaishyas, traders; and Shudras, artisans and labourers. Dalits or untouchables were the lowest caste, so much so that they could not drink from the same cup as another caste, other castes could not even touch them, and they had to move out of the way in the street.)
Amit had already written to a second cousin in Delhi, a wealthy jute trader, asking for his advice, hoping perhaps that one of the cousin’s own sons might be suitable.
Nabiha, the second daughter, was nine, time yet for her to enjoy her childhood, such as it was, before Amit would begin the search for her husband. In the meantime, the girls came home from school, changed out of their smart, clean school uniforms and donned suitable clothing for working in the shop.
If he was totally honest with himself, Amit did not really approve of educating girls; basic maths so that they could keep the books and household accounts, that was OK, domestic science to learn how to cook and keep house, that was also OK, but what was the use of teaching geography or history or French to them? As soon as they were of a marriageable age, they would be married off and spend the rest of their lives as housewives, mothers, and grandmothers; what need of geography or history?
And as for the homework that Maleha now brought home from school to do, the only homework she should be doing was to clean and cook and sweep and help in the shop, that was homework!
That day, Maleha was on her own in the shop. It was late on Saturday morning; her father had gone to the wholesalers to try and bargain down the price of some goods, always he complained bitterly that he was being robbed by his suppliers and spent many hours arguing with them over the newly installed telephone (which only he was allowed to use) or confronting them in their offices, shouting and ranting in broken English that they were ‘very dastardly robbers, no better than bandits, dacoits’, cheating him because he was Indian (he never thought of himself as Pakistani even though that is what his passport declared him to be), not that he ever got very far with his complaints, yet another source of annoyance to him.
Maleha’s mother was in the back kitchen preparing food for that day’s meals, and Nabiha was helping her.
Maleha much preferred it when her father was out, and she was left to herself in the shop. As much as she loved her father, whom she called Baba, he was a malign influence hanging over her like a dark cloud every minute of her life at home. She loved going to school, to mix with other children, to laugh and play and learn. She was a clever child, all her teachers told her so; she was top of her class in English, even though it was not her native tongue and it was never spoken at home. Her mother had learned enough English to serve in the shop and made little effort to learn more; her father spoke enough to conduct his business affairs, but once behind the door at the rear of the shop, which led to the living quarters, only Urdu was ever spoken—the only language she had known until she and her sister arrived in West Garside almost four years ago.
Maleha excelled in mathematics and all sciences and yearned to be a doctor, but she knew, deep in her heart, that that would never happen. Baba had told her often enough: as soon as she was old enough to leave school at fifteen, she would do so and work full-time in the shop until such time as a ‘suitable’ groom had been sourced in India and brought over to marry her. At that time, she would transfer from being the property of her father to the property of her husband, whom she would never have seen outside of blurry photographs before she married him, and he took her to his bed—a thought which horrified her.
From that day, any hope of a meaningful life would cease; from then on, she would lead a life of domestic drudgery, child-bearing, and an ever-present threat of domestic violence, the life her mother, in fact, led.
She thought about killing herself. There was enough rat poison on the bottom shelf to kill herself ten times over. Enough poison to kill her father and herself. Enough poison to kill herself, her father, and her husband, whoever he might be when he arrived in West Garside to ruin her life forever.
The bell attached to the top of the shop door to announce customers tinkled brightly, and she jerked out of her morbid reverie and gave a gasp of fright. A man stood before her, a scarf tied across his face to conceal his identity, wildly waving a cricket bat, swishing it back and forth angrily in front of her. He was tall, much taller than her, and he towered over her. His hair was slicked back and greasy, with a high quiff, shiny with Brylcreem, and his eyes were wild and piercing, glaring at her over his mask.
“Money,” he growled, in an obvious attempt to disguise his voice. “Open the till,” pronouncing the word as ‘oppen’. “Do it, open the till. Now!” prodding her in the chest with the bat, and she gave a little whimper of pain as she backed away from the counter, away from the till, not consciously to distance herself from the till but from fear. “If tha don’t want to get thissen hurt, open the fucking till and give me the money, else. I’ll not tell thee again,” swinging the bat and hitting her hard across the upper arm.
She cried out in pain and then bit her tongue to stop herself, fearful that he would hurt her even more if she made a noise. She wanted to scream and scream again but dared not. Slowly she shuffled forward again, towards the till when he smashed the bat down onto the counter top, cracking the glass, jagged shards spreading weblike across the top, and Maleha had a sudden vision of the bones of her skull doing the same if he hit her hard enough with the bat. As the thought crossed her mind, he hit her again, this time smashing onto her elbow, and this time she did scream with pain. Her eyes blurry with tears of agony, she reached across with her other hand and fumblingly managed to press the key to open the till.
The robber reached inside and grabbed at the cash. It had been a quiet morning, and there had been little in the way of takings. Baba left four pounds in various changes as a float; apart from that, there were two five-pound notes, three pound notes, and five ten-shilling notes.
As Maleha screamed with pain from her agonised elbow, the robber scrabbled for the cash in the till trays, seized the notes and spilled most of the coinage on the floor. Then he did something that shocked her far more than the robbery or the attack on her with the cricket bat, he reached across and grabbed her budding left breast and squeezed it hard, bringing forth another squeal of pain and shock. At that the robber turned and fled, in his haste knocking over a basket of broom handles and brushes before jerking open the door and fleeing, just as Purika Patel, Maleha’s mother and Nabiha her sister came running through from the rear on having heard her screams.
Tearfully Maleha, in short gasping sentences, told them what had happened, her elbow was swelling up and she feared her arm might be broken, she was in shock from the sexual assault and all she wanted was for her mother to hold and comfort her. But Purika held back, ‘Baba will be angry, very angry.’ she said fearfully. Amit’s rage would be directed at his wife and daughter for letting such a shameful thing happen, to allow them (him) to be robbed and under no circumstances could Maleha tell Baba about the indecent assault on her young breast, that would be an ultimate shame, it could jeopardise her marriage prospects should it ever come out that she had allowed a man to touch her in that way.
Purika was also hesitant about calling the Police, Baba might not approve, to take such a precipitate action without his knowledge might only exacerbate the situation and she decided to wait until his return. Maleha wanted the police to be called straight away, before the robber had got too far, to pick up the telephone and call 999, but again Purika would not, ‘Baba does not permit us to use the telephone machine’, she said, not even sure that she knew how to use it.
As predicted, on his return Amit Patel was incandescent with rage that his daughter ‘had allowed some hooligan to rob him. ‘Bay-waqool larhki’ ‘stupid girl’ he shouted at her in Urdu, ‘ghair-zaruri bayti’ useless daughter, idiot, such shame you bring me, where are all your clever books and reading now that you allow a choer, a thief to steal my money?’ slapping her hard across her face, causing her to stumble back and bang her damaged elbow against a shelf and she whelped in pain again. ‘What have I done to so anger Vishnu that he can only give me idiot, stupid girls, why not a good healthy chaalaak, clever, son to help my business?
(Hinduism recognises some thirty-three million gods of which Vishnu is the principle, the Supreme God, the All-Pervading essence of all beings.)
Amit then turned on his wife, shouting at her, blaming her for the fact he had only idiot daughters, for letting her stupid daughter allow herself to be robbed, ‘to steal my money’
‘Baba, Baba, I’m sorry, but look he hurt me, hit me with a bat, see my arm, Baba.’ pleaded Maleha, sobbing in fear and a shame she knew she did not deserve. What could she have done, a twelve-year-old girl confronted by a thug with a cricket bat? ‘Baba, we must call the police, find this man and get the money back,’
‘The police! Those thieves are worse. Worse than the robber. They will want rishwat, a bribe to investigate and if they find this man, they will take the money for themselves and say he spent all the money.’
‘No, Baba, this is England, the police are not like police in India or Pakistan, they do not want bribe, the only way to get our…your money back is to call the police. Please Baba.’
Finally, Amit relented, his immediate anger spent, and he began to see the sense in calling the police. ‘OK. Theek, call the Gestapo, you see, they take rishwat alright, but maybe they take only half the money, better half than nothing.’
Although his English was adequate for shouting at his suppliers, he did not feel sufficiently confident to call the police and reluctantly he allowed Maleha to do so, she held the receiver as he dialled 999, hovering over her as if afraid she would damage the telephone machine. ‘Please, come, the Corner Shop on India Street. A robbery. Yes. Patel’s Corner Shop.’
‘Mr. Patel’s Corner Shop,’ Amit growled beside her, ‘Idiot girl’
‘Please come quickly. I’m hurt.’ And she put the down phone as gently as she could but even so, Amit snatched it up again to examine it, convinced his useless daughter must have damaged it, holding it to his ear again to hear the dial tone. Not entirely convinced he placed it back on the cradle and watched it for a minute or so, as if expecting it to fall apart or explode.
‘Why you tell the police you are hurt?’ he asked angrily, ‘All the time you bring shame to me.’