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Bhaji was
talking about the benefits of seawater, which he said, was
enriched with all kinds of minerals that could easily be soaked
up by the human body through the pores of its skin.
"Then, you
must be coming here every two months or so?" I asked.
"No way, yaar.
Ever since we’ve come to England, it must be our second or
third time, really. There’s hardly any time for such things.
Besides, it’s also a matter of choice." Subhash had
replied.
"Just as
we haven’t been able to assimilate with the White people
despite living among them, in the same way we have been so near
the sea and yet so far," Bhaji said, running his eyes into
the far distance as though he was measuring the length of the
other shore.
The tidal waves
were rushing in towards the shore and people sitting upon the
sand were slowly stepping back. A few White women, who were
braless, were lying face downwards. When the water came rushing
in, covering their breasts with the towels, they moved further
inland and then lay sprawling upon the sand all over again. But
it seemed as if the water was chasing them around, teasingly.
One Indian
woman was bathing with her sari on. Her wet sari clung so
tightly to her body that, despite her clothes, she appeared to
have been stripped naked.
"Yaara,
let’s go in for a swim." It appeared as though a desire
for playing with the waves had surged up inside Kulbir Bhaji’s
heart also.
"Let it
be. We haven’t ever done that. It’s quite
embarrassing." Subhash had voiced his dilemma.
In the
meanwhile, a statuesque white woman went swirling towards the
waves, breezing past us. The sunshine had given her wax-like,
oiled skin the same glow as copper.
"Yaar,
how these women love to sculpt their bodies!" Bhaji said,
staring at her body.
Without a
doubt, she didn’t have an ounce of extra flesh on her.
"Just look
at our women. Their stomachs are like lumpy dough. And their
thighs, sagging." Subhash suggested, by way of comparison.
"In
comparison, our men too figure nowhere. We are no exceptions.
Not without reason do we feel embarrassed while removing our
clothes." Bhaji stopped in the middle of a sentence and
then, looking at a Gujrati sitting upon the sand, he added.
"Now just
look at that man’s pitcher-shaped stomach. It’s as if he’s
sitting with a huge watermelon between his thighs. Doesn’t he
look somewhat like Mahatma Buddha?"
"We don’t
look that obnoxious! Come on, let’s remove our shirts."
"All
right. You aren’t going to say it everyday!"
Both of them
jumped into the water. I was quite keen myself but as I was
wearing long knickers underneath, I became a little
self-conscious. They invited me repeatedly but, on the pretext
of feeling cold, I kept standing upon the shore.
After about
half an hour, feeling a little cold, they too emerged out of the
water.
"Yaar,
it was really wonderful! We just keep feeling self-conscious
without any reason."
"Such a
deep-seated inferiority complex is also bad. After all, what’s
so special about the Whites except their skin?"
It was already
four in the evening. Feeling thirsty, Subhash expressed the
desire to have some beer. But Bhaji suggested that we return
home and go to the pub in the open park, close to the house.
On our way
back, I got the impression as though Bhaji’s complaint had
largely been redressed. He neither showed any signs of
loneliness nor sadness. It seemed as though he felt his
life-tree had sprung roots in this very soil now. It was as if
he had become a soul-mate to his own children.
Later, the
three of us went to the pub in the park. Filling up our glasses,
we had barely settled down when a group of White mischief-makers
came and parked themselves next to us. It was apparent that they
were in a mood to create trouble.
After some
time, one of them turned his face towards us and asked,
"Got a light?"
"Sorry, we
don’t smoke." Subhash was quite laconic in his response.
"But you
do drink." And all of them burst out laughing.
In the
meanwhile, one of them, who was wearing a red T-shirt and
appeared to be a body-builder, asked Subhash, "What is your
nationality?"
"British."
Subhash was as brief as possible. On hearing this, all of them
started laughing.
The same White
man repeated the question, a crooked smile on his lips.
"Let’s
go home and drink. As it is, we’re tired today." With
these words, Bhaji got up to leave and so did we.
Going past the
counter, we wound our way out. The barmaid with black-hair
smiled at us and said ‘bye’ as well. She was the same woman
whose charming smile had bowled me over on the first day. But
today, I couldn’t even get myself to respond to her ‘bye’
and her smile, too, appeared somewhat lukewarm to me. I felt as
though her smiles had no special meaning and that it was more of
a habit, really.
As soon as we
got home, Bhaji poured out large pegs of whisky for us. And then
he started narrating to Bharjai the incident at the pub.
"I always
say that you should drink at home, if you must. What’s so
special about these pubs and clubs?" said Bharjai, on
hearing him out.
"But
daddy, there were three of you, and fairly young, at that. Why
couldn’t you give them a few slaps?" Pappu piped in.
"Bastard,
isn’t it enough that we came home on our own, And you didn’t
have to carry us from there!"
"We
thought, we have to show Kew Gardens to your chacha,
tomorrow. So we should be in one piece until tomorrow, at
least." Subhash told Pappu in half-jest.
"Though I
had learnt about a good many things in England by now, there was
always something that threw up a new surprise every time. Now
what was this thing called ‘Kew Gardens?’ I was rather
curious to know more about it.
Finally I
decided to ask Bhaji as to what these ‘Kew Gardens’ were.
"In these
gardens you find those species of flowers, plants and vegetation
which are not native to the English soil."
"Then how
have they managed to nurture them here?" I was completely
bewildered.
"They have
spent a lot of money and built a huge glass-house there. The
plants get plenty of sunshine and warmth. The steam in the pipes
running through the glass-house makes it humid inside, somewhat
like the monsoon in India. In this kind of controlled climate,
they have managed to grow all kinds of crops, including sugar
cane, cotton, maize, banana and thousands of other varieties.
Efforts are made to create the climate most suited for the
plants and trees. Trees such as mango and jamun are also given
the right kind of climate to grow."
I saw that
Bhaji was now dead drunk, but emptying his glass, he started
again.
"Balli,
Subhash and I. You’ll find many more like us. We are all trees
of Kew Gardens. Our roots don’t run deep. We tried our best to
strike roots in this climate but in just didn’t happen or
perhaps we didn’t really know how to do so. In Kew Gardens,
you do find mango trees, but they don’t ever flower. And that’s
what our situation is. Like the trees in Kew Gardens."
(Excerpted from the anthology From
Across the Shores: Punjabi Short Stories by Asians in Britain.
English translation and critical introduction by Rana Nayar,
Sterling Publishers (P) Ltd., New Delhi.) Pages 193 Rs 50.
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IT was for the
weekend that I waited most expectantly. That is when Bhaji would
invariably take me out somewhere. Either we would go
sightseeing, visit new places or friends and relatives. One
Sunday, it happened to be quite warm and bright. Even though it
was June, the sunshine was as warm as if it were March.
