started playing with some plastic hoops.
Sooky sat at the other end of the sofa, half-taking in the news, half-watching her mother’s thin, careworn features. Meena stared at the screen, straining to understand the English. Pictures passed in front of their eyes: Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale in his blue turban, arm raised, rallying a crowd. Mom could understand him at least. She tutted at his words.
An ache rose in Sooky’s chest. She felt tender towards her mother, so vulnerable in her big house, in this country that was still so foreign to her. She felt a sense of honour for the journey her parents had made, from the wide farmlands of western Punjab to this city full of factories, chimneys and strangers. They never talked about any of that much, but she knew how important the community here was to them. It was their place, their people, a bit of home preserved in a foreign land. To feel disgraced was to be outcast: a nobody.
Sooky’s marriage had been a disaster. They all knew it, but it had upset everything. Mom was clinging to the ways she knew, where anything in marriage was endured. Your husband was as God: it was your duty as a wife to care for him, however he treated you. And yet what Jaz was doing went beyond this, and this seemed to lie at the root of the conflict. She also knew her parents blamed themselves for what had happened. Everything seemed to be about blame. Can’t we just stop it? she thought. All this blame?
How long was Mom going to keep this up, she wondered despairingly? She sat waiting for the news to end. Maybe then her mother would switch off the TV and turn to her: they would talk, the way they used to. They sat through the weather forecast – warm days ahead. Roopinder brought the children down, taking them into the kitchen.
Meena got up with a grunt. Her body was stiff, prematurely aged. Barefoot, she went and searched for a video and fed it into the player. Images appeared from a wedding the previous week – Sunny’s and Jaswinder’s. Sunny was the son of a family friend; the wedding had been in Smethwick. Even Sooky had gone: the mehndi patterns were still fading on their hands, the henna turning rusty after a few days.
‘ Mata-ji ?’ She couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘Make me a cup of tea, Sukhdeep.’
This was a hopeful sign. Maybe if they both sat down for a drink together . . .
Roopinder was putting Weetabix into bowls in the kitchen. She was wearing a cerise salwar kameez suit and lipstick, and the pink material seemed to glow against the white kitchen cupboards. As usual her handsome face wore an expression of snooty disdain.
‘I thought you’d gone out somewhere ,’ she said, turning away, as if Sooky was a bad smell. The way she said somewhere made it sound dirty and bad.
Not looking at her, Sooky smiled at her nephew Amardeep, a beautiful three-year-old boy, and niece Jasmeet, his one-year-old sister, who was in the high chair. Sooky was very fond of Raj’s children; they couldn’t help what their mother was like, she thought.
‘Mom asked me to stay,’ Sooky said, pouring milk into a saucepan. ‘I’m just making her some tea.’
Roopinder’s head turned. ‘She asked you to stay?’
Sooky ignored her and ruffled Amardeep’s hair. He squirmed and giggled.
‘Stop, Auntie . . .’
‘What are you doing today?’ Sooky asked in a mild voice, determined not to sink to Roopinder’s level.
‘Oh, I’m going to see my mother.’ Her tone suggested that her mother was nothing short of royalty. Roopinder was also from Birmingham and her parents lived only a short distance away.
‘That’s good,’ Sooky said sincerely. Great: Roopinder was going out. The stupid bitch would be out of the way.
She poured two cups of sweet, milky tea and carried them to the front room.
‘Here you are, Mata-ji .’
Meena took the tea without meeting Sooky’s eye. She nodded her thanks. Sooky could see she was very tense, was not sitting back comfortably.
Sooky sank
Sooky sat at the other end of the sofa, half-taking in the news, half-watching her mother’s thin, careworn features. Meena stared at the screen, straining to understand the English. Pictures passed in front of their eyes: Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale in his blue turban, arm raised, rallying a crowd. Mom could understand him at least. She tutted at his words.
An ache rose in Sooky’s chest. She felt tender towards her mother, so vulnerable in her big house, in this country that was still so foreign to her. She felt a sense of honour for the journey her parents had made, from the wide farmlands of western Punjab to this city full of factories, chimneys and strangers. They never talked about any of that much, but she knew how important the community here was to them. It was their place, their people, a bit of home preserved in a foreign land. To feel disgraced was to be outcast: a nobody.
Sooky’s marriage had been a disaster. They all knew it, but it had upset everything. Mom was clinging to the ways she knew, where anything in marriage was endured. Your husband was as God: it was your duty as a wife to care for him, however he treated you. And yet what Jaz was doing went beyond this, and this seemed to lie at the root of the conflict. She also knew her parents blamed themselves for what had happened. Everything seemed to be about blame. Can’t we just stop it? she thought. All this blame?
How long was Mom going to keep this up, she wondered despairingly? She sat waiting for the news to end. Maybe then her mother would switch off the TV and turn to her: they would talk, the way they used to. They sat through the weather forecast – warm days ahead. Roopinder brought the children down, taking them into the kitchen.
Meena got up with a grunt. Her body was stiff, prematurely aged. Barefoot, she went and searched for a video and fed it into the player. Images appeared from a wedding the previous week – Sunny’s and Jaswinder’s. Sunny was the son of a family friend; the wedding had been in Smethwick. Even Sooky had gone: the mehndi patterns were still fading on their hands, the henna turning rusty after a few days.
‘ Mata-ji ?’ She couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘Make me a cup of tea, Sukhdeep.’
This was a hopeful sign. Maybe if they both sat down for a drink together . . .
Roopinder was putting Weetabix into bowls in the kitchen. She was wearing a cerise salwar kameez suit and lipstick, and the pink material seemed to glow against the white kitchen cupboards. As usual her handsome face wore an expression of snooty disdain.
‘I thought you’d gone out somewhere ,’ she said, turning away, as if Sooky was a bad smell. The way she said somewhere made it sound dirty and bad.
Not looking at her, Sooky smiled at her nephew Amardeep, a beautiful three-year-old boy, and niece Jasmeet, his one-year-old sister, who was in the high chair. Sooky was very fond of Raj’s children; they couldn’t help what their mother was like, she thought.
‘Mom asked me to stay,’ Sooky said, pouring milk into a saucepan. ‘I’m just making her some tea.’
Roopinder’s head turned. ‘She asked you to stay?’
Sooky ignored her and ruffled Amardeep’s hair. He squirmed and giggled.
‘Stop, Auntie . . .’
‘What are you doing today?’ Sooky asked in a mild voice, determined not to sink to Roopinder’s level.
‘Oh, I’m going to see my mother.’ Her tone suggested that her mother was nothing short of royalty. Roopinder was also from Birmingham and her parents lived only a short distance away.
‘That’s good,’ Sooky said sincerely. Great: Roopinder was going out. The stupid bitch would be out of the way.
She poured two cups of sweet, milky tea and carried them to the front room.
‘Here you are, Mata-ji .’
Meena took the tea without meeting Sooky’s eye. She nodded her thanks. Sooky could see she was very tense, was not sitting back comfortably.
Sooky sank
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