Home To India by Jacquelin Singh Page B

yard was filling up fast with the rest of the family.
    â€œIt’s Uncle Gurnam Singh!” Goodi cried.
    â€œWho’s with him?” Rano asked.
    â€œI can’t tell from here,” Goodi said.
    â€œI want to see too,” Nikku said, getting in between the girls to have a look.
    â€œI don’t see Aunt Gursharan,” Goodi said. Her voice breathed disappointment.
    The Punjabi came too fast for me to follow after that. It had to do with the other occupants of the jeep, names that were unfamiliar to me and relationships too complicated to sort out.
    Before we knew it, the jeep had drawn up inside the compound, in front of the main room of the house. Welcoming shouts of “Sat Sri Akal” greeted the newcomers. Mataji and Pitaji came forward as Uncle alighted from behind the steering wheel and lifted a little boy (his youngest son Surinder?) down from the front seat. Rano and Nikku, Goodi and Ram Piari were already down the ladder again, while I struggled to descend the swaying bamboo contraption with some shred of dignity, aware that a misstep would find me sprawling at its base. I would end up being the center of concern, if not laughter. Already, neighbors had crowded the roofs of adjacent houses to find out what was going on. Amongst them was Veera Bai, the girl from the village who swept our yard everyday. A smile hovered on her lips ready to break into a laugh if I were to oblige them all with a spectacle.
    Tej and Hari went to receive their bear hugs from Uncle and the others, and Dilraj Kaur, her face modestly veiled by her dupatta, touched Uncle’s feet. By this time Nikku was by his mother’s side and Uncle was patting the top of his head.
    It was time for me to step down from the bamboo ladder, and face the questioning glances of the newcomers that asked what Tej’s memsahib was like, what he saw in her; what their daughters would do for husbands if Jat boys should go on marrying foreign girls like this.
    I came forward with my palms together in greeting and the demure expression I had perfected when meeting elders for the first time. Tej managed it so that he was at my side as Uncle gave me his blessing. He inquired about the health of my parents, asked how many sisters and brothers I had and registered sincere concern when I told him I had no brother. He wished me prosperity and happiness anyway.
    It soon became clear that one of Uncle’s passions, even as a guest, was taking charge and ordering others to get things done. Mataji’s younger brother by two years was at his best at this, making it somehow an honor—a privilege even—to be allowed to do something for him. He issued instructions to the retinue of friends, poor relations, people who wanted favors from him, and servants, who like vassals of a maharaja, accompanied him wherever he went and who were now climbing out of the jeep. I had become familiar with the Indian habit of dispensing with introductions and knew that before long all these individuals who had come along with Uncle would get sorted out, and I would come to know in good time who each one was.
    Pitaji, Tej, and Hari, and the cousins from Amritsar, gathered around the recent arrivals while Mataji, the girls, Dilraj Kaur, and I returned to the kitchen to relight stoves, warm up the curries, and make fresh rotis for their lunch. Udmi Ram was already mixing a new batch of flour-and-water dough for them. A dessert was hastily concocted of fried bread slices soaked in cardamom syrup and fresh cream. Furious flies, disturbed from their siesta, buzzed angrily as they searched out new places to settle down in.
    Through the kitchen door I watched as the baggage was being taken down from the jeep and carried away to the main room of the house. Uncle Gurnam Singh came into view from time to time. Something Tej had said made him laugh. Casual, curiosity-driven neighbors had meanwhile joined the crowd around Uncle, who stood leaning on a walking