there early or he wouldn’t answer the door. He’s a Chini, she said, as if that explained everything, every oddity in Mr Lee’s personality. Dimple washed her hair and put on lipstick. She’d taken to wearing trousers because it allowed her to walk with a little strut in her step, or lounge on the couch with her legs spread, or slouch like a pimp, or climb a tree if she felt like it. It allowed her to act like a man when she wanted to. But that day she wore a starched salvaar with the pallu wide on her chest. She put on slippers with small heels and placed a pair of silver hoops in her ears. It was a conservative look: Nargis, offscreen, circa Raj Kapoor: a good Indian girl going to meet her elders. Dressed this way she almost believed it. She thought: Clothes are costumes or disguises. The image has nothing to do with the truth. And what is the truth? Whatever you want it to be. Men are women and women are men. Everybody is everything. She thought: Who do I look like? Do I look like my mother? Do I look like my mother or someone else? She had no idea and for that she was grateful. Forgetfulness was a gift, a talent to be nurtured.
*
The tree was a peepul, very old, with shreds of fabric caught on its branches, shiny bits of silk and crêpe. It was a common Indian tree, but the ribboned fabric made it look like some rare import. There was a shrine under it, incense bunched around a porcelain plate of oranges, and a box in which squares of coloured paper had been burned. They were in a side lane off Shuklaji Street, a place for refugee families from China and Burma, two or three generations living in small rooms facing a courtyard. They went directly to a room on the far side, the only room with a locked front door. The tai made her stand in front of the peephole so he’d see her easily and then she knocked. Dimple heard a shout on the street, a man’s voice saying an English word. Paper. Or: papa. The tai knocked again and Dimple’s first thought when he opened the door was not a thought exactly but a word, old . He ignored the tai and spoke only to her. ‘Nee ho ah?’ And then a longer sentence she couldn’t follow.
She said, ‘Can you please speak English please?’
‘You not Chinese?’
‘No, my family is from north-east of India.’
‘Okay, north-east, I understand. Very close to China, VERY close.’
‘I don’t know from exactly where. I grew up in Bombay, here, on Shuklaji Street.’
The tai said, ‘Leeji, we have come for your help. She is having pain. Can you give her afeem?’
Inside, they sat on a low bed covered with bamboo matting. He gave them tea without milk or sugar, a rust-coloured liquid with a taste she couldn’t identify, a dusty earth tang like dried flowers or herbs. The room was dim and tidy, all the windows closed except for a skylight set low on the tiled roof. When her eyes adjusted she saw two men, asleep, one to a bunk on adjoining beds, or not asleep exactly; they didn’t move or speak but their eyes were open, seeing nothing. They were all eyes, as if their faces had caved in around their mouths. Mr Lee sat on the floor on a woven bamboo seat and sipped his tea. She’d never seen such a room. Everything in it was floor-level and old and beautiful. She loved the desk’s polished wood, set on a stand made of darker wood. It had a hinged top and no legs. The closet was horizontal with a usable surface. It was a toy room filled with toy furniture. Mr Lee screwed a cigarette into a holder and tapped the ash into a saucer that said cinzano , his eyelids heavy; for a moment he seemed to forget that she and the tai were in the room.
He said: Heat is very much. Drink tea is best thing, better than cold drink if you thirsty. He held the cigarette holder like a paintbrush and waved it around when he asked questions. Had she taken opium before? Did she know the taste was very bitter, strong enough to make her sick? Was it her own idea or did the tai want her to take it? What
*
The tree was a peepul, very old, with shreds of fabric caught on its branches, shiny bits of silk and crêpe. It was a common Indian tree, but the ribboned fabric made it look like some rare import. There was a shrine under it, incense bunched around a porcelain plate of oranges, and a box in which squares of coloured paper had been burned. They were in a side lane off Shuklaji Street, a place for refugee families from China and Burma, two or three generations living in small rooms facing a courtyard. They went directly to a room on the far side, the only room with a locked front door. The tai made her stand in front of the peephole so he’d see her easily and then she knocked. Dimple heard a shout on the street, a man’s voice saying an English word. Paper. Or: papa. The tai knocked again and Dimple’s first thought when he opened the door was not a thought exactly but a word, old . He ignored the tai and spoke only to her. ‘Nee ho ah?’ And then a longer sentence she couldn’t follow.
She said, ‘Can you please speak English please?’
‘You not Chinese?’
‘No, my family is from north-east of India.’
‘Okay, north-east, I understand. Very close to China, VERY close.’
‘I don’t know from exactly where. I grew up in Bombay, here, on Shuklaji Street.’
The tai said, ‘Leeji, we have come for your help. She is having pain. Can you give her afeem?’
Inside, they sat on a low bed covered with bamboo matting. He gave them tea without milk or sugar, a rust-coloured liquid with a taste she couldn’t identify, a dusty earth tang like dried flowers or herbs. The room was dim and tidy, all the windows closed except for a skylight set low on the tiled roof. When her eyes adjusted she saw two men, asleep, one to a bunk on adjoining beds, or not asleep exactly; they didn’t move or speak but their eyes were open, seeing nothing. They were all eyes, as if their faces had caved in around their mouths. Mr Lee sat on the floor on a woven bamboo seat and sipped his tea. She’d never seen such a room. Everything in it was floor-level and old and beautiful. She loved the desk’s polished wood, set on a stand made of darker wood. It had a hinged top and no legs. The closet was horizontal with a usable surface. It was a toy room filled with toy furniture. Mr Lee screwed a cigarette into a holder and tapped the ash into a saucer that said cinzano , his eyelids heavy; for a moment he seemed to forget that she and the tai were in the room.
He said: Heat is very much. Drink tea is best thing, better than cold drink if you thirsty. He held the cigarette holder like a paintbrush and waved it around when he asked questions. Had she taken opium before? Did she know the taste was very bitter, strong enough to make her sick? Was it her own idea or did the tai want her to take it? What
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