Whispers from the Rooftops

Copyright © 2012 by Dalbir Kaur Khaira.

Illustrations: Upkar Singh Khaira and Aman Singh Khaira

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Autumn

The Black Sheep

The Conflict

The Demon

Finders Keepers…

The Tangled Muddle

My Uncle Mungle

The Three Brothers

The Surrogate Mother

The Immigrant’s Story

The Sita Devi Story

The Drama Queen

If the Sheet Could Speak…

The Adventures of Miss Polly

Bittersweet

The Prodigal Son

Two Bricks

The Thread of Silk

Dedication

For my parents Atma Singh and Kartar Kaur who made me what I am today, my husband, Onkar Singh who always supported me. For my sons Harvinder Singh and Upkar Singh, and their wives Kalminder and Mona, who kept me going during the good times and the bad. I want to thank my sister Parmjit her husband Harjinder and their three children Kiran, Aman and Simran who always lent a listening ear. Finally I want to dedicate this book to my grandchildren Manrika Kaur, Kallum Singh, Mia Kaur and Jai Singh who are my future and I hope the book may act as a link to their past.

Autumn

The sun shone with an extra sparkle that day. I had driven from Birmingham to Royal Leamington Spa, just as I did every Thursday. My mother was sitting on her recliner, her eyes on the door waiting for me to come.

She beamed with pleasure; her eyes twinkled, and she opened her arms ready for a hug as she croaked a feeble ‘allo’. My mum always gave the warmest of hugs. Her soft limbs encompassed my torso and transmitted all her love to me.

‘Children?’ Mum asked. She meant my two grown-up sons who had children of their own. She always referred to them as children, just as she always referred to me and my sister as ‘the girls’. A stroke had left Mum with inability to talk, but I did not need many indicators to understand what my mum was saying.

I told her that they were all well. She loved to hear about the antics of her great-grandchildren and see their photographs.

‘Onkar?’ she asked next. That was the name of my husband. I explained that he was very well and that I had left him at home in Birmingham cooking chicken curry. She smiled at the image of him in the kitchen because she had seen him in action many times and knew of the mess that he was probably making in the process of his cooking.

‘Parmjit?’ Mum continued. My sister Parmjit lived in America and telephoned Mum at least twice a week, but Mum always liked to double-check that she knew all that I knew. I told Mum about Simran, my sister’s youngest daughter, having her wisdom teeth out; about Kiran, the elder daughter, being at university; and Aman, the boy in the family, being well over six feet tall and easily the tallest of all of Mum’s grandchildren.

When Parmjit and her husband had gone to live in America, Mum had been very worried about them. Once she had been there herself and seen their nice house, huge gardens, and all the mod cons, she was more than happy that they should follow their destiny and sample life wherever the winds of fate were directing them.

‘Tea?’ Mum shuffled in her chair as if she was about to get up and make it. I explained to her that I did not want any tea and that we could always have some at the temple as the ladies there would be most insistent that we should.

‘Go?’ asked Mum, reaching for her walking stick, which was propped up against the wall next to her recliner. I helped Mum out of her chair and escorted her to the toilet. While she sorted herself out in there, I found the wheelchair and put it by the toilet door. Mum’s outdoor shoes, white headscarf, and best coat were all upstairs in her bedroom. I ran up and brought them down. It was easy to take off Mum’s slippers and put on her shoes while she still sat on the toilet. Her clothes adjusted, hands washed, and coat and scarf on, we were ready to go. I wheeled Mum out of the house and helped her into the car. The wheelchair was folded and put in the boot. The walking stick rested on the back seats.

Mum so looked forward to her Thursday visits to the temple. Thursday was a ladies’ day when the organisation and the services were all run by women. Men were not excluded, but it was generally understood that this was very much a social gathering where women dominated. My mother had been a part of this scene for over twenty years, but these days she was totally dependent on someone taking her.

As soon as we entered the temple, other old ladies gathered around the wheelchair, and greeted us with such warmth and kindness found only in such gatherings. Mum put her palms together and returned the greeting, beaming from ear to ear. My mum was unable to converse with them at their speed that some of them began to wonder if Mum knew who they were. They asked her, ‘Do you remember me?’ and Mum answered them with the appropriate name. Smiles beamed. Laughter abounded. Hugs proliferated. Mum felt alive and well. We removed our shoes and covered our heads in keeping with the temple traditions and made our way to the main hall to pay our respects to the Holy Book.

Many ladies were already seated in the prayer hall. There was a lot of banging on the dholki and the playing of the harmonium as well as the clanging of the cymbals. I parked the wheelchair in a strategic position so that Mum had a good view of the congregation and the proceedings. I saw her looking around and taking in who she had seen and who was missing. One of her friends came and asked her how she was. In reply, Mum asked her, ‘Swaran?’

The lady took a deep breath and shook her head while turning her eyes heavenward and said, ‘Gone to God!’

Hearing this, Mum was subdued. She patted her friend on the back and said, ‘His will!’ Both women pondered in silence, holding hands and nodding their heads to the dholki beat, which had started up again.

Two more of Mum’s friends had come up to join us. They instructed me to go into the Langar hall (free kitchen) and eat while they sat with my mum. I did as they commanded. The vegetarian food was, as always, good. They had rice pudding to accompany the chapattis, dhal, and fried vegetables. Most of Mum’s food had to be liquidised, but she was able to enjoy the rice pudding. The regulars asked me about my family and my sister and showered blessings on us both for being such thoughtful daughters. Others joined in the conversation and wanted to know where I lived because they had not seen me around in the town. I explained that I lived in Birmingham and came to visit my mum and to bring her to the one social event left in her life. They said nothing further, but the unasked questions were imprinted on their faces.

I went back into the prayer hall. The proceedings were drawing to a close. Everyone was standing for the final prayer, and Mum was very uncomfortable watching them stand while she sat. She shuffled in her chair, but the two minders were on her case straightaway and gestured to her to remain seated.

Prayers over and the ladies started to make their way to the exit and to receive the sacrament. Some limped, others shuffled, some with one stick and others with two, all in the autumn of their years. My mum was the only one in a wheelchair. Standing in the queue, my mind wandered and I found myself thinking about all those others—men and women who were incarcerated alive in their mausoleum homes, alive but not living, dead to the outside world and yet breathing.

Mum had her rice pudding, and I said my goodbyes to the ladies. A few of them escorted us to the car and tried to help me with the loading up of the wheelchair into the boot. I smiled and thought they deserved medals for their determination. The bodies were giving up but the minds were still ready to move mountains let alone wheelchairs. We drove off leaving them behind, but the echo of their blessings buzzed in my ears all the way home.

The garden of Mum’s house was bathed in the autumn sunshine. I wheeled the chair around the garden and over the leaves that had already started to fall. I parked the wheelchair by a bench and sat myself down beside Mum. She looked up into the tall trees and heard the breeze rustling in the branches. I wondered what she was thinking but I did not have to wonder for very long.

‘Pipal’, Mum said with great effort. I was confused. Did Mum think that that tree was a pipal tree? Mum read my confusion and tried again.

‘Song—pipal—leaf’. Realisation dawned; Mum was remembering the words of a very old Indian folk song.

O leaves of the pipal tree,

Why do you make such a din?

The old leaves must fall

To let the new ones in!

O leaves of the pipal tree,

Why do you shiver and sigh?

The old ones must fall now

The season for the new is nigh.

I sang the song the best I could, thinking it would bring back some good memories from the past. When I had finished, Mum pointed to herself and said, ‘Old—leaf!’

The Black Sheep

‘C hacha Ji! Chacha Ji! Come quickly! Papa’s taking us away. He says we are never coming back home!’ That was the plea of my niece named Charni. She was barely nine years old. It was dinner time, and school would be restarting in a few minutes. My eye caught my mother’s and her look seemed to be saying, ‘Never mind school! Go and see what that fool is up to now!’

‘Charni, you stay here with Ma Ji,’ I instructed the troubled girl. Picking up my bicycle, I rode it to the end of the street. The school bell rang loud and clear, and I knew my absence would soon be discovered; but I had no choice as family always comes first. My class would have to double up with another or maybe the boys would have to be sent home; but there was nothing I could do about that right at this moment.

I turned the corner, and there was my infamous cousin. His eyes burnt like fire! He hissed like a snake when he saw me. He was carrying Sarwan who was five, and holding Bikram who was seven, by the hand. I stood and surveyed the courtyard through the open door. The earthenware pots were broken. The corn was half scattered on the floor. One of the beggar women was carrying away the clothes. The flour and the food had already been taken away by the scavengers who are always ready to pounce whenever misfortune strikes.

Some of the neighbours were watching the drama from the rooftops. What makes the human sprit so placid that it can watch and not react even when innocent lives are threatened? Why do human ears become deaf and eyes blind when the helpless plead for help?

‘Chacha Ji! Papa has thrown all the pots and pans into the pond over there. He says we won’t need them anymore.’ That was Charni tugging at my arm. It brought me out of the trance and back to consciousness.

‘I told you to stay at home with Ma Ji . . .’ I started to say. ‘Yes, Son! I’m here too—but where is Karam Singh and the boys?’ interrupted my mother who had followed me down on foot.

‘Oh God!’ One minute he had been there hissing at me and the next minute he had wriggled away taking the boys with him. Once again, I grabbed my bicycle and rode out of the village as fast as I could. He couldn’t get far on foot with two children in tow. Sure enough there he was, running along the dust road, hunched over, crooked, and bent, yet going at speed dragging the boys with him.

Suddenly, he turned and saw me. I shouted to the boys to stop. Karam Singh let go of Sarwan’s hand, picked up a stone, and threw it at me. I was twenty years of age and very nimble. My eyesight was better than his, and I saw the stone coming. Having dodged out of its way, I stooped, picked up the same stone, and hurled it at him. The missile found its target. It hit him on the bare ankle and drew blood. He fell to the ground and howled with pain. Sarwan, the younger boy, took the opportunity and ran towards me and clung to me petrified. Bikram lingered a little longer, no doubt torn between loyalty for his father and the chance of escape for himself. A torrent of abuse flowed from his father’s mouth. It spared no one, not even his own children. Bikram followed his brother’s example and ran into my open arms. His eyes were wide with fear and confusion. His heart beat like the loudest drum. He hid his face against my stomach and sobbed relentlessly.

There was an empty cart coming towards the village. I put both the boys on the cart and asked the man to take them to the Shah’s house—which was how we were known in the village. The injured man quickly realised it was his turn to be dealt with next. He struggled up and hobbled along the road, out of the sight of the village. The blood continued to drip along the road from his ankle, and the poison spewed out of his mouth in the form of abuse. At intervals, he stopped and spat in my direction, while I followed at a distance and watched in silence. I decided not to pursue him further. He had done all the damage he was going to do for one day and he could be dealt with later.

I made my way back into the village reflecting on the antics of my cousin, past and present. How much more heartache would the family have to endure because of him? How was it possible for this one man to disrupt the peace and harmony of such a large extended family? As I approached the desolate house, I saw my mother putting the most enormous padlock on the door. That padlock was to stay there for the next eleven years. She marched the three children in front of her and took them to our house.

Karam Singh

What makes men do the things they do? Karam Singh was my oldest cousin, and ever since I can remember, he was in the middle of some controversy or other. He was the only child of my oldest uncle Daleep Singh. They had inherited my grandfather’s home. The house stood in a prime position, facing the beautiful gurdwara on one side, and right next to the village life source, the well. Our family had the most land in the village and was financially secure. That is how we earned the nickname ‘the Shahs’. Everything in the household worked according to tradition and the laws of the elders—everything that was until the west intruded upon the east.

Uncle Daleep Singh had servants to farm his share of the land. The land produced more than enough for the needs of his mother (my grandmother), his wife and his only son Karam Singh. With time on his hands and money in his pocket, my uncle mingled with outsiders. He frequently went to town and discovered pleasures available there. On one such visit, he met the razzmatazz of a recruitment campaign. They were looking for young men to go to Panama where a great canal was being dug and many workers were needed, and much money could be made. The power of money and the sincerity of the White man’s promises was enough to lure him away from the family that he loved and the world that he knew.

The year was 1910, and my uncle had never travelled farther than the nearest town ten miles away, and yet he had decided to bypass three continents and cross two oceans to go to Panama. In reality, he would have had no idea as to what was in store for him. Did he know on that ill-fated day, when he said his goodbyes to his mother, brothers, his widowed sister, nephews and nieces, wife, and baby son Karam Singh that he would never return? Did he think he may die there with no one to comfort him during his last moments, no loved one to shed a tear at his passing and no preacher to perform the last rites? Did he realise his bones would be left to rot at the bottom of a watery grave he had helped to dig in a land so far away?

The family knew Daleep Singh got to Panama because he sent letters and money. In fact, it was that money that had ruined and defiled Karam Singh, the only child, the apple of his mother’s eye, and the substitute for his grandmother’s son. Both women doted on him day and night. His every command was their wish; they indulged his every whim, and lived to regret it!

In time, the letters from Panama stopped and so did the money. Rumour had it that the natives had murdered him out there. Others said he had remarried and settled there. No one ever found out the truth, even to this day. In the meantime, our grandmother