At one o’clock in the afternoon the doorbell rang and Govinda went to open the door but his father was there first. It was Mumbles; there was an argument at the door, and the cook, eyes twinkling, came into the house and went straight to the kitchen. He was supposed to come in the morning to cook and then again in the afternoon to wash the dishes. But he hadn’t shown up earlier that day.
Mumbles explained that his other employer wouldn’t let him go. ‘Their cook didn’t come today, Sir!’ he protested. Mumbles had a shy, elusive demeanour as though he was hiding something.
Later he came out of the kitchen and began to dust the furniture. ‘My wife wants me to take the family to the Golden Temple, Sir,’ he said to Sunil Seth. ‘To celebrate Sri Harmandir Sahib…But I have no money to take them.’
‘When do you want to go?’ the headmaster asked.
‘When I save enough…Sikhs all over the world wish to pay a visit to Sri Amritsar and to pay obeisance at Sri Harmandir Sahib in their Ardas,’ Mumbles answered. Then he stooped to pick up the games which Govinda had left, as usual, in the middle of the room. There was a chessboard; each of the pieces lay scattered on the floor. Mumbles put them on a side table. After sweeping and mopping the floor, he returned to the kitchen and cooked quickly and with little fuss. When he had finished, he left quietly and closed the front door.
Govinda’s parents ate at the dining table. The food was plentiful: there was a lentil dhal in a stainless-steel bowl, a combination of kale and spinach leaves among other things; deep fried rui, alu dalna and fish in mustard sauce. It was tasty but Govinda said he didn’t like the food.
His father ate dinner quietly. ‘The dhal’s not very good,’ he said, holding up his spoon.
‘The fish is fresh,’ said Gitanjali. She had jasmine in her hair. ‘Have more fish,’ she continued, reaching and serving herself vegetables. ‘Try the vegetables.’
Govinda stopped eating and looked pleased and surprised at this exchange taking place because his father and mother had not been talking of late. His father looked up, nodded seriously, looked down again, and began to finish what was left of his dhal and rice.
As Govinda ate, his mother and father talked about a points system.
‘Ten points for education,’ said his father.
‘Plus thirty points for having relatives in Australia,’ added his mother adjusting the jasmine in her hair.
Govinda wondered what the points might mean. If they were a certain age, they qualified for a certain number of points, and then if they had a degree they qualified for more points. What were his parents talking about? Did he also have to be a certain age? Why did they get points for having relatives in Australia? His father had said you could do anything in Australia; it was a place of unlimited opportunities and ‘Everyone there is equal.’
‘I am not sure I want to be equal,’ Gitanjali responded to her husband’s declaration.
When his mother scoffed at the notion of Australian equality, his father glared. He did not like being challenged. He liked to mould the world around him to fit his liking. A man should be firm in some matters,’ Sunil Seth said, raising his voice.
‘Be calm, my dear,’ Gitanjali replied. Her eyes flashed and her body became erect. She lifted her glass and took a sip of water. ‘Remember a woman gave birth to you. Your very existence is thanks to us.’
Govinda pushed his plate away. He did not like to see his father angry because he found it hard to love him when he got angry. It scared him. Maybe he even hated him a little.
Gitanjali ignored her husband. During the meal she wrote a list to give to Mumbles: asafoetida, radish, pomegranates, peppercorns, cinnamon bark, cloves, saffron, peanuts, socks…
When the meal was over, his father and mother sat for a while. ‘Won’t you rest?’ asked Gitanjali.
‘Can I do that?’ said Sunil Seth as he rose from the table.
Later, the doorbell rang, and his father was heard opening the door and saying, ‘So late again?’ Mumbles entered and went quickly to the kitchen to wash the dishes.
After Mumbles left, Gitanjali went out for a walk. Govinda went to the balcony to see where his mother was going. She walked past Mumbles’ wife, Sonia, who was on her haunches washing laundry. Her daughters were helping her. It was hard for Govinda to align Sonia with Mumbles. While Mumbles was handsome, she was painfully crooked from hard work and arthritis. Her teeth were stained from chewing beetlenut. She had a damaged eye but a brilliant work ethic. The soapy water was bubbling and frothy on her arms.
‘You do such a nice job with our laundry,’ said Gitanjali.
For a second, Gitanjali seemed to hesitate but then walked on to the servants’ quarters. She stood outside Mumbles’ hut. Govinda saw her look to see if anyone was watching her before quickly slipping in behind the door. For a while he watched Sonia scrub at a shirt collar, and then he went in and looked at the clock. The time was seven-thirty. He knew he should not follow his mother, but he did so regardless. He found himself in the darkness of the servant quarters. The walls and windows were grubby. The air smelled dimly of earth and rubbish. Looking through Mumbles’ window, Govinda wondered what his mother was doing in there. Why was she there on her own? He was absorbed, hardly daring to breathe, and watched as a bare-chested man stood up. He could not see the man’s face but he looked like Mumbles. He was not wearing his turban. His long hair hung loose. Govinda couldn’t see his mother but it infuriated him that she was in there somewhere. Then he saw her. She had her cheek on the man’s chest and then her hands and lips.
Nitesh silently came up behind him. ‘Hey, Buttscratcher what are you doing?’ Govinda turned and pushed Nitesh hard in the chest. Then he kicked him.
‘What are you grinning like a monkey for?’ Govinda said.
Without wanting to make a fuss, he walked away and hoped Nitesh would follow, but Nitesh didn’t. Govinda climbed a tree. He was half way up the tree and looking down. Then Govinda saw his mother standing beside Mumbles outside the hut. His mother was adjusting her hair. She raised her eyes to Nitesh’s face. His mother’s eyes were patient, but the lines of strain were on her forehead. She reached out and brushed her fingers on her dress. Govinda tried to look surprised to see his mother, and she seemed embarrassed to be in the servant quarters, but they smiled and said hello to each other happily enough. The jasmine was no longer in her hair.
‘What are you doing, Govinda?’ The tone of her voice was different, the vibrations more tense. Her face reddened. She wiped some moisture from her upper lip.
‘I did not mean to come this far,’ said Govinda.
Gitanjali placed her hands on her head and flattened her hair once more. She hurried Govinda back to the main house.
‘Why were you there?’ Govinda asked his mother when they were in their house.
‘I went for a walk,’ Gitanjali said quietly. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was giving him an order. Your father did not like the fish last time. He wants kebabs.’
That night, long past midnight, Govinda heard tabla drumming. He kept waiting for silence. But the drumming did not stop.