“Due to Brigadier Grewal’s pathetic sense of humour, I have decided to accept the job. If I go to Dubai, I won’t have to listen to his jokes. And the salary, benefits, living allowance is fantastic. They say over there a person can save a small fortune in just four or five years. Maybe I will be able to come back and start my own air-conditioning business in the city. Or even better, we could start a tailoring business. With all my experience last year, I would be the boss, of course. (Ha ha, just joking.)”
It was getting difficult to read with the tears stinging her eyes. She blinked rapidly a few times and took a deep breath. “I have to be in Dubai in three weeks, so Mummy is driving everyone crazy trying to get things ready for me. It’s a repeat performance of what she went through last year when I was leaving for college. And Daddy is the same as before. He hasn’t talked properly to me even once since I returned, although I’ve done exactly what he wanted. He now makes it sound like I am abandoning him and the General Store. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. What does he expect if he runs things in his same old-fashioned way. When I try to make suggestions, he just gives me that tragic look of his. He’ll feel better once I’ve gone, he just does not enjoy having me around. I knew it the day he sent me to boarding school in the fifth standard.
“Please tell Om I am sorry not to be there to meet his wife. I am sure she will be very happy with a wonderful mother-in-law like you. (Ha ha, joking again, Aunty.) But next year, when I come home from the Gulf on vacation, I am planning to stop over and see all of you.
“Lastly, I want to thank you for letting me stay in your flat, and for looking after me so well.” The next sentence had been cancelled out, but she could decipher two fragments under the heavy scratches: “the happiest” and “life.”
There was not much more after this. “Good luck with the tailoring. Lots of love to Ishvar and Om, and to you.”
Below his name he had added a postscript. “I have asked Mummy to write the enclosed cheque for three months’ rent, since I did not give proper notice. I hope this is all right. Thanks again.”
The writing went quite blurry now. She removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. Such a wonderful boy. Would she ever get used to being without his company? His teasing, his constant chatter, his helpful nature, the good-morning smile, his antics with the cats, even if his ideas about life and death were a bit grim. And how generous the cheque was; she was certain he had pressured his mother into writing it.
But it was selfish to feel sad, she thought, when she should be happy about Maneck’s opportunity. He was right, lots of people had made fortunes by working in these oil-rich countries.
Two days after receiving the letter, Dina went to the Venus Beauty Salon. The receptionist returned from the rear and announced that Zenobia was with a customer. “Please wait in the waiting area, madam.”
Dina sat near a withered plant and picked up a stale issue of Woman’s Weekly, smiling to herself. Clearly, Zenobia was still miffed about the business of Om’s wife, and this was her way of letting her know, or she would have come running, clutching scissors and comb, breathless, said hello, and run back.
Forty-five minutes passed before Zenobia emerged to escort her customer to the door. The extravagantly coiffed woman was none other than Mrs. Gupta. “What a surprise to see you here, Mrs. Dalai,” she said. “Is Zenobia doing your hair?” Despite the smile, something about the left corner of her upper lip suggested she did not approve of the idea.
“Oh no, I could never afford her services! I just dropped in to chat.”
“I hope her charges for chatting are more reasonable than for hairstyling,” tittered Mrs. Gupta. “But I’m not complaining, she is a genius. Just look — what a miracle she has performed today.” She moved her head in a slow rotation from left to right and back again, letting it come to rest statuesquely in a gaze frozen at the ceiling fan.
“So lovely,” said Dina without wasting time. Mrs. Gupta was capable of holding her pose indefinitely if a compliment were not forthcoming.
“Thank you,” she said coyly, and allowed her cranium to move again. “But when are we going to see you at Au Revoir? Have your tailors returned or not?”
“I think we’ll start next week.”
“Let’s hope they don’t ask for honeymoon leave when their wedding leave finishes. Or there will be another population increase.” Mrs. Gupta tittered again, glancing in the mirror behind the reception counter. She patted her hair and departed reluctantly; the angle of that particular glass had given her immense satisfaction.
Alone with her friend, Dina smiled confidentially, sharing a wordless opinion of Mrs. Gupta. But Zenobia’s response was cold. “You wanted to ask me something?”
“Yes, I got a letter from Maneck Kohlah. He doesn’t need my room anymore.”
“I’m not surprised,” she sniffed. “Must be fed up of living with tailors.”
“Actually, they all got along very well.” She was aware, as she mouthed the words, that the statement did not do justice to her household. But what else to say? Could she describe for Zenobia the extent to which Maneck and Om had become inseparable, and how Ishvar regarded both boys like his own sons? That the four of them cooked together and ate together, shared the cleaning and washing and shopping and laughing and worrying? That they cared about her, and gave her more respect than she had received from some of her own relatives? That she had, during these last few months, known what was a family?
It was impossible to explain. Zenobia would say she was being silly and imagining fancy things, turning a financial necessity into something sentimental. Or she would accuse the tailors of manipulating her through fawning and flattery.
So Dina merely added, “Maneck isn’t coming back because he has got a very good job in the Gulf.”
“Well,” said Zenobia. “Whatever the real reason, you need a replacement paying guest.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here. Do you have someone?”
“Not right now. I’ll keep it in mind.” She rose to return to work. “It’s going to be difficult. Anyone who sees your Technicolour curtain and a tribe of tailors on the verandah will run from that room.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remove the curtain.” Dina expected her friend would come through; when Zenobia was upset, she took a few days to recover, that was all.
She went home and made sure Maneck’s room was spotless. But she must stop thinking of it now as Maneck’s room, she resolved. Dusting and cleaning, she found the chess set in the cupboard. Should she send it to Maneck? By the time it reached the hill-station, he would have left for the Gulf. Better to save it till he visited next year, as he had written.
Dina liked this idea, and tucked away the set among her own clothes in the sewing room. It seemed to fix Maneck’s visit more definitely in time. It was a comforting thought, drowning the other, painful one — that he would never live here again.
At night, she went to the kitchen window and fed the cats, calling them by the names he had given them.
The full six weeks had elapsed, and yet she kept waiting patiently, certain at every ring of the doorbell that Ishvar and Om had returned. Then the hire-purchase man arrived to demand the overdue amount on the two Singers.
“The tailors are coming next week,” she stalled. “You know how busy it gets when there is a wedding.”