Next to her was a white man reading a book. Black receding hair, hunched shoulders. The man held up the book for someone to see: Bob Dylan Lyrics 1962–1985. The man gave a thumbs-up and returned to its pages. He’d guess that was his father. The one who walked out when he was three and caused his mother a lifetime of doubt and low self-esteem. He remembered that.
Identical girls sat on either side, talking through him. As though he wasn’t there. Straight black hair cut to a bob, red T-shirts with an embroidered elephant on each. Green and turquoise sequins down the trunks. He had twin sisters, these must be them. He tried to listen to what they were saying but their words were blurred. Out of focus. He tried to join in but they carried right on. As though he wasn’t there. He tried to remember their names but nothing came.
Beyond the sister on his right were three women of similar ages – he guessed maybe fifty years old. Two were animated, one sat quietly, hooded eyes on her plate. The quiet one would be his mother.
Round the far side were men sharing a near-empty bottle of whisky, their shouting and name-calling suggesting they had consumed most of it. One flourished a book called The Wrong Heaven. Uncles? Brothers? Neighbours? He recognized none of them. He took a dislike to all of them. Empty clanging vessels.
Then came the two IPS women, the dead one and the new one. They were deep in conversation with each other, oblivious to the drunks on their left.
In the far corner, underneath a framed black and white photograph of an old man in a cream shirt and traditional white dhoti, sat a man he guessed was his grandfather who had died before he was born. He was dressed identically to the man in the photo. Maybe he was the man in the photo.
The student knew all of this was strange, wrong even, but felt he had to stay as long as he could. He was sure he would have to leave soon. It was the end of a meal, the plates contained only scraps; rice, chapatti, some fish curry. In the centre of the table, a large serving bowl had only a few spoonfuls of a yellow lentil dish left; an ornate stainless-steel platter contained what was left of the rice. He seemed to have no place setting.
His family, without him. His family, moved on.
The woman he assumed was his grandmother was on her feet, explaining something, and suddenly the room was quiet. All eyes were on the old woman, who held both hands in the air. The material of her sari had fallen back to reveal arms ringed with many gold bracelets, a dozen or so thin bands that had slid back to her elbow. Her forearms were deeply scarred; long, pale, jagged lines of pink skin ran like a maze from her wrist. When she spoke, everyone listened. So did he. These words he could hear.
‘We will be jailed, you know. All of us.’ Her voice trembled slightly. ‘We are CPI-M.’ She emphasized each letter, the M receiving the heaviest inflection. ‘And they hate us. They are revisionists and class traitors so they will put us away. Cut us, yes, denounce us, yes, but we stay. The stinking Indian bourgeoisie in league with imperialists.’
And as though a spell had been broken, everyone in the room turned away from the old woman and resumed their conversations. The cacophony returned. His sisters talked through him. His father read his book. The whisky drinkers finished the bottle. His grandmother slumped to her seat.
It was getting darker.
The dead IPS woman pointed a finger at him.
Then it went black.
He was back at the station. The train arrived and the dead IPS woman with the red scarf stepped off. She said she didn’t have long. She explained that she had kept his letter. That it had won her over. She didn’t get many letters. He explained that it had been an act of drunken ambition. That he had wanted to be a journalist and thought she could make it happen. She said that she could.
He was nervous and anxious to please. She was effusive, engaging, and wanted coffee and cake. She suggested going somewhere nicer to talk but he said there wasn’t anywhere, so they sat opposite each other in the station’s ferociously lit café. Other shapeless, faceless people walked past; he didn’t waste his time on them. He and the IPS woman were the story here.
Recently, she explained, she had been struggling with a story and realized she needed help. Remembering his neat, well-written, slightly desperate letter, she’d called his number. She had a startling proposition. She explained what she was looking for and how he might find it. She offered him a thousand pounds towards his university fees and an internship at IPS when he graduated. He accepted before the cake was finished.
Then it went black.
34
3.40 p.m.
MILLIE AND AMARA. His sisters were Millie and Amara. He knew that now. How shameful to have forgotten. Without effort he could recall their teasing, flashing eyes, their relentless, tuneless singing and their combined weight on his shoulders as he gave them rides around the garden. His mother was Misha, his father Sam, his grandmother Nyta, but his sisters were Millie and Amara. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep them all safe.
Very slowly he became aware that he had a visitor. Sounds first. The shuffling, the rustle of fabric, the plastic-on-lino sound of a chair being repositioned. The lights were coming back too. It was like a system reboot. Wherever he’d been, he was back. In hospital, with a visitor. He could hear the electrical buzz of the lights and the occasional
