After having coffee with the others Sami headed for home, each of the men going in different directions. The streets were brightly lit and there were lots of people about, as well as stalls on each street corner and under every streetlamp, selling a variety of things for the home, as well as basic fruit and vegetables. Each stallholder called loudly to those who passed by, desperate to sell their wares and take money home to their waiting families.
His housekeeper usually bought what was needed for the week, carefully stacking it in the cupboards and in his nice new fridge which he was very proud of. She often offered to cook for him, but he rarely took her up on this, preferring to cook for himself. He enjoyed it and liked experimenting with different ingredients, producing meals for himself and his friends that were both inspirational and delicious.
The house had changed little since Gopal, Leila, and Mati’s time. Mati’s room had been left exactly as it was when she was alive, a bed to one side and her chair by the window. Over the arm of the chair was the blanket he had always tucked around her legs. He often picked this up and held it to his face, desperate for even the faintest remains of the rose perfume she always used every morning, a dab on each wrist and behind each ear. It was made for her in Kannauj and was sent once every six months in a wooden box to prevent breakages.
A chest of drawers was still full of her things, as was the carved wooden jewellery box on the top. By its side was her hairbrush and favourite shell clip. Several times each day he would gently brush back her fine silver hair, then neatly pin it to the back of her head, hating to see her looking unkempt or neglected. The small wardrobe still held her clothes, including the beautiful glistening sari that she once wore to a party after her grandson’s wedding. This item of clothing had been the catalyst for the beginning of Sami’s schooling and being taught to read and write. Mati was dressed in her new clothes waiting for the guests to arrive, and Sami’s comments, although he didn’t know it at the time, had cemented his future.
‘Grandmother has lights all over her,’ he had stated, gazing at her with open admiration. ‘She is glowing like the moon and sun together… It is like she has been blessed with light!’
His poetic turn of phrase had moved the lady greatly.
‘Sami?’ she asked, just as he was about to leave the room.
‘Yes, Grandmother?’ he replied, turning back.
‘Those words you just spoke, about the sun and the moon on my sari?’
He nodded.
‘So beautiful. You have a gift, and if I am to do one thing of use in my life, it will be to make this gift grow. After Leila has taught you to read, I shall speak with her about your education in poetry. You will obey, and trust Grandmother and her judgement?’
‘Yes!’ he replied. ‘Sami will obey grandmother in all things.’
Initially, Sami had considerable misgivings about Leila coming to the house as his master’s wife. He dreaded her changing things that he didn’t want changed and altering the pattern of his day, as well as taking over his courtyard, thereby damaging the relationship he had with his Mynah bird and ruining his peace.
As it turned out, nothing could have been further from the truth. The courtyard was mostly left for himself and his bird alone. Leila wasn’t remotely interested in cooking, cleaning, or any other domestic duty, and both Sami, and the cook who came in every morning, were greatly relieved. At the end of each day of both domestic and educational duties, he would take a large tumbler of either coffee or buttermilk out to his beloved courtyard. Leaning against the banyan tree, the rough bark pressing pleasantly into his back and his books spread on the ground around him, he settled down to read.
His only disturbance was his bird. Annoyed at the lack of attention, it would chirrup and call, occasionally with the few words it had learned and was usually very reluctant to offer, even for his favourite mix of nuts bought in the market and destined for human consumption. For Sami and perhaps the bird, life could not have been better.
Kind-hearted Leila had been a great support to him throughout his life, as had Gopal, who although often lacking the most appropriate words, had always been there when he was in need. Sami cared for them both deeply, continuing to think of them as his family, and treating them with the greatest of respect.
Some years ago, the pair had decided to move out of the old house and into a new modern apartment a little closer to the centre of the city, both keen on a fresh start, and a property chosen by them both together. Knowing that Sami would be unwilling to leave the house and his beloved bird in the banyan tree, and not wanting to sell the property that had been in Gopal’s family for so long, they offered it to him at a rent they knew he could afford. Sami couldn’t believe his luck and instantly agreed, everyone happy at the arrangement that meant the house was lived in and well looked after, as well as allowing Sami to continue to live in the place he truly thought of as home.
Although his income was modest, it was enough to pay for his needs, and as the years went by and his success as a writer and poet grew, he was also able to save a little, adding further to the pile of money hidden under the kitchen floor-tile. The original space under the tile had now been scooped out further to give extra space for his increasing stash. Each time more was added, he would stand back to gaze at it with satisfaction, as well as genuine surprise that he should have a stash at all.
He was soon home, and without any need to switch on a light, he hurried through the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house, quickly opening the back door and walking out into the courtyard. The large banyan tree had grown over the years, so much so, that there was no option other than to cut it back. To Sami, the tree had a life and personality of its own, and to sever its limbs pained him greatly. However, this had been done by a friend of Gopal’s who sawed with the greatest of care, both with respect for the tree, and the life held within its branches. Coco the Mynah bird declined to show himself until the heathen who had come to defile his home was gone. Stepping cautiously down the largest branch, his head turned from side to side to check for danger; small guttural sounds of disapproval coming from the back of his shiny black throat.
Sami had to admit that the tree was the better for it. It continued to thrive and looked lusher than ever, the leaves green and glossy, and the branches spreading with greater ease now that they were less crowded. Leaning on the lowest branch he whistled a few times, waited, then whistled again until a rustling could be heard coming from the densely leaved interior, which usually heralded the arrival of his bird. A few seconds later, an orange beak began to protrude from the outer leaves, followed by a blue-black body glowing in the bright moonlight. Sami pulled out a few cashew nuts from his pocket taken from the table in Sagar’s coffee bar. He placed them in a small hollow in a branch of the tree which had been used for some years now as the bird’s feeding bowl. Within seconds the nuts were gone, and in a particularly friendly mood, the bird allowed its master to stroke the back of his head, before turning and disappearing back into the foliage.
Sami was soon in Mati’s room, sitting at his desk that faced the street. Given that she had been the instigator of his writing and poetic endeavours, it felt only right that he used her room to write in. He felt comfortable there, and rather like Rajinder on his balcony peeping between the plants and flowers, Sami observed his neighbours as they passed by, the routines of their day as familiar as his own. To him, every face was an opportunity for a new story, and this premise had never failed to inspire him.
In the evening if he was alone, he would sometimes sit in the courtyard to eat his dinner. Despite there being a cupboard full of china plates, he still preferred the old and battered tin one he used when he was a boy. He also preferred to drink, cook and wash with water from the pump in the courtyard. It was cold and clear and tasted sweet, which most definitely couldn’t be said for what came out of the kitchen tap.
He knew that others might think his clinging to the past somewhat ridiculous, laughable even, but for him, his connection to the old house and the many happy years he had spent living there, from boy to man, were precious, and he saw no reason to move. As far as he was concerned, food tasted far better from the old plate than it did from a new one, and eating in the courtyard, leaning up against the tree with the plate in his lap, reminded him of the simplicity of his life back then, and with it, a craving to live in the same simple way now. His affection for Mati would stay with him until he died, and that was that. People could say and think what they liked. He truly didn’t care. When his front door was shut and the bolt pulled across, his world was entirely contained within it; whole, unadulterated, and safe.
At twenty-one Sami left university, a BA with honours in literature proudly under his belt. Given his humble beginnings it was a great achievement, not only for him, but for his family, and in particular, Mati.
‘You see, Sami?’ she had said, tears filling her eyes. ‘You see what you can do? You must promise me that always your aim will be high. Promise me this one thing before I die.’
‘I promise, Grandmother. My aim will always be high. You cannot die, Grandmother. I forbid it!’
Whether he forbade it or not, she died anyway, only living long enough to see his graduation, then dying a week later, as though she had been holding on for that moment alone. Sami was bereft, but one of the things that helped was when his university department was given extra funding to twin with a university in England. With the purpose of sharing ideas and promoting their future connections, including student exchanges and a variety of scholarships, it was a competition that truly set Sami on the road to success. They had decided to run it each year, and a short story with a brief of ‘My Everyday Life’ was the first heading assigned to it.
Sami had written ‘A Mynah in the Banyan Tree,’ which had been declared a masterpiece and outright winner by far, from the many hundreds of submissions. As well as a sum of money to further his writing career, a trip to England had been included, to meet his fellow graduates and establish friendships that more than ten years later still held strong. Leaving his home and country had been an enormous challenge, involving multiple discussions with various people, a visit to the fortune teller, and tranquilisers from the doctor.
Several trips had taken place since then, both ways, and Sami had travelled around Europe with some of his new friends, seeing places that until then had only been seen in books and his imagination. Sami had never forgotten his promise made to Mati and was now the accomplished author of two novels and four volumes of poetry. He also taught one day a week at the university and was very popular with the students who found him amusing and interesting, with a fresh new way of exploring the subject they had chosen, stimulating their thinking and filling them all with hope for the future.
Half an hour later, and unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he got up from his desk, then wandered back through the house and out into the courtyard. The night was still warm, and he watched as a few fireflies danced around the tree before whistling quietly for his bird. In response, he heard a rustling of leaves and a few chuckling sounds, but no appearance was made. Shrugging his shoulders, he went back into the house to warm some milk to take up to bed. Tomorrow was a teaching day, and at this thought he felt a fluttering of excitement inside him. Things had turned out well, and satisfied with both the evening, and the day to come, he was soon asleep.
***
Gopal was beside Leila in bed, who had demanded that he recount the events of the evening.
‘You are sure he meant Mati? “She will rise again,” those were the fortune teller’s words?’
‘Yes. Exactly…’
‘I have always known there was a secret!’ she stated firmly. ‘She would say a few things, then pretend to forget. She often did this when Harish was there, especially when he was very young. “I have seen these eyes before,” she would say, then refuse to add more! Also, he was correct about the travel. You will agree to come to England?’
‘Yes, I agree.’ Gopal had never felt any desire to leave the city, let alone the country, but that said, he was intrigued by the house in the English countryside and the people connected to it. Of course they would go.
‘And your life is to begin again? You are now looking for another wife, is this it? Leila is no longer the love of your life?’
Hearing this Gopal laughed, then put his arm around her and held her close. ‘She will remain so until the day I die! No more questions now. Sleep!’
***
Restless and unable to settle, Rajinder was on his balcony, as usual hidden behind the palms and other plants that thrived in the warm and sheltered spot. There was still quite a bit of activity in the street below, and he watched through a gap with interest at who was out so late, as well as wondering where they might have been.
The evening had unsettled him, and whilst he’d enjoyed meeting up with Manju and Sami, he had struggled to shake off the words of the fortune teller, even though much of what was said made perfect sense. He wondered about the man who was to come into his life. He met many men during each working day, most wanting something from him, usually illegal, and always refused outright. He had never become involved in that kind of thing, and neither had his father. A part of him longed to rush back to the square where the fortune teller sat and ask for further clarity. After all, he must know more. Perhaps he had chosen to withhold it so that his clients must soul-search to find the way forward, and come to conclusions for themselves?
He was seeing Rani tomorrow and would tell her about it. She was as sharp as a knife and could usually cut through any dross in seconds. He’d already decided that he would make no fuss whatsoever about her trip to England when it was mentioned again. He would be gracious and encourage her to enjoy the time with her son. As for advice when she came back, he would certainly offer it if he could. He wondered what sort of advice she might need… Was she expecting complications?
Hearing laughter, he pulled back a large leaf to get a better view of the street. Below him was a group of young men, joking and fooling around, as young men so often did. In that moment he was transported back to Oxford, and the group of young men he had spent so much time with, relishing every moment of the life that was so different from the one he had back home. When he went to England with Rani, which he thought might be the following year, he had every intention of looking up some of his old friends. He still sent the odd letter to a few of them, all lawyers, and based in and around Oxfordshire. He felt a shiver of excitement run through him. How wonderful it would be to meet them again and go over old times.
With the noise now gone the street became much quieter. There were only a few stragglers left with sacks of goods on their backs, exhaustion etched on their faces after a long evening trying to sell their wares. Hearing a car behind them, they slowly moved to the side of the narrow road, wanting to irritate the driver as much as was possible, given that he was far more privileged than they were in having a car.
If the driver was irritated then he showed no signs of it, the face seen clearly through the window impassive and unmoved. The long black limousine seemed to move in slow motion, and now intrigued, Rajinder leaned further forward. In the back was an older man, dressed in white and enjoying his ride, a benevolent smile on his face. Looking up, he spotted the spy from behind the palms and raised his hand to wave, nodding as he did so in clear recognition of his client from earlier that evening.
Suddenly recognising the fortune teller, Rajinder quickly moved back, the foliage instantly falling together to obscure the view. He wondered if the fortune teller suspected that his client might be on the balcony. Had he seen him before? It felt odd to know that he might have been spotted numerous times in his position of observer, whilst having no idea that he was being watched.
Was the man really as wealthy as he had intimated earlier that evening? A limo like that wasn’t cheap. Raj had his own car and driver. It was a good car, also large and black, and the driver wore a smart uniform, but it went nowhere close to matching the one that the fortune teller rode in.
Well, that was another lesson, he supposed. Never make judgements or assumptions about anything. He should know that already! Some of his wealthiest clients arrived to sign papers for a big-money deal in the tattiest of clothing, patched up and frayed, clearly more comfortable dressed like that than in fine linen and silk. But to sit on a dusty mat and tell fortunes, albeit very accurate ones, for a few coins if you were already wealthy? Why would anyone do that? He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the low table in front of him. If Rani were there, she would say straight away that he did it to be of service to humanity, and to help others on their journey through life.
Was she right? He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps she was… Maybe he should think about doing something like that himself, but how? He slowly got up and walked through the apartment to his bedroom with its big empty bed. Without changing his clothes, he climbed on top it, and pulling a thin sheet over himself was soon asleep. He dreamt of Wishanger Hall in the green English countryside. Standing at one of the windows was Harish, and in another, his mother, Rani. From somewhere behind him he could hear his name being called, and turning, he saw one of his greatest friends from university, Michael, smiling and beckoning him over.
Looking from the house to his friend and back again, he felt unable to decide, and shifted as he slept, restless and ill at ease. When he woke the next morning there was only a hint of the dream left, rather like a puff of smoke that disappeared as one watched and within seconds was gone. However, a vague feeling of excitement lingered, as did the thought of a trip to England in the future, visits to old friends, and perhaps the chance to change aspects of his character and life for the bettering of both himself and others. He still had no idea how he might do this, but the seed had been sown, and for now, that was enough.