A House Called Askival by Merryn Glover Page B

mine, beti !’ He smiled again.
    â€˜Please don’t call me that.’
    His eyes and mouth went round, anxious.
    â€˜I just…,’ she said. ‘They remind me of someone… Not so nice.’
    His eyes narrowed, head nodding slowly.
    â€˜ Accha ,’ he said and brought a dimpled finger to his mouth. ‘Not uttering again.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    They stood in fragile silence. Ruth felt acutely conscious of her bare legs sticking out under the fringed shawl. Pasty white legs, prickly black hairs. As if suddenly aware of them also, Iqbal bowed his head and scuttled out.
    Ruth added chotta hazri to her list of Things to be Changed.
    It was one small victory she did achieve, though she lost the larger battle over the sleeping arrangements. Iqbal insisted he was up before dawn every day and would cause her no end of disturbance if she was sleeping on the sofa. It sounded like he would do it on purpose. However, when she hid all the tea towels and waved the last one at him like a flag, he was forced to honour his promise that she could help in the kitchen.
    â€˜I’m using this and you’re not having it,’ she crowed. He stared at her, nostrils flared, eyes sparking. Then his face softened.
    â€˜I surrender,’ he sighed, bowing deeply and gesturing to the wet dishes.
    James, who was watching from the table, shook his head, lips tugged into a small, crooked smile. For a long time he had tried to help as well, but Iqbal’s protests had triumphed. ‘Doctor-ji is paying all the bills – the food even! – and not charging the rent, so he must leave the house-keeperly things to Iqbal. Is the fair thing, only.’ James was deeply uncomfortable with Iqbal performing the duties of a servant, but the man had insisted he was not: ‘I am friend, only,’ he’d said. ‘A brother. Like wife even!’ and he’d winked. James had thrown up his hands in defeat.
    But Ruth was not easily defeated. Along with washing up, she pestered to learn Iqbal’s cooking. He was most happy to teach her! The desi khana – the Indian food –however, was all in his head and she had to scribble down his tangled instructions as they went along. Half of it was delivered in song, the other half in riddles.
    Garam, garam, garam masala ,
    Dhaniya, zira rakhiye!
    Khana rani ke liye ,
    Bahot mazedaar chayiye!
    It was exasperating, but Iqbal would just chuckle.
    â€˜You have to learn by heart, Rani Ruthie,’ he chimed, holding up a finger. ‘There’s no other way.’
    The western recipes were easier, as they all came out of the Landour Community Cookbook. Ruth went quiet when she first saw the book with the faded green cover lying on the kitchen bench. It was a week after her arrival and Iqbal had promised baking. The book was battered, with a broken spine, and speckled with grease and yellow-brown stains. She turned the pages gently. Some were held together with sticky-tape, others torn. Everywhere, her mother’s neat, small handwriting.
    Delicious! Or, Too much sugar . Or, Re-heats well .
    Next to a recipe for Chocolate Brownies she saw Hannah’s round hand: First prize at Hobby Show! and a host of smiley faces. There were several recipes by Grandma Leota: Ham Scrapple, Good Plain Butter Cake for the Hills. And a couple of pages had dog-eared corners: Omelette, Macaroni Cheese, Tuna Hash.
    â€˜The Doctor-ji’s,’ Iqbal explained. ‘Easy peasy.’
    â€˜God!’ Ruth snorted. ‘Dad cooking?’
    â€˜Only when needed. Three weeks. Then Iqbal is doing.’
    Ruth studied his face. She wanted to ask why he had come but it felt impertinent so she turned back to the book. Next to a recipe for Never Fail Wacky Crazy Cake she saw her own teenaged writing. Large, florid script: Failed!!!!! The exclamation marks continued to the edge of the page. It had been for her mother’s birthday and Hannah was already graduated and