they were young children, might still be Indian, especially her father, Prem. But she was utterly one hundred per cent British Asian, a new generation which had never previously existed, cutting swathes. She had never even been to India and she had no wish to go there either.
She listened with an expression of polite amusement as Sylvia and Roger reminisced about their years in Delhi. They had moved there from Hong Kong in the earlySeventies when Sylvia was expecting Jeremy and they had ended up staying for nearly ten years. It was true they had loved it although Sylvia was conscious as she described it to Smita – the lovely big house in Lodhi Colony, the amusing servants, the drinks on the veranda in the sudden Indian dusk – that it did all sound awfully days of the Raj. So she was keen to stress that it was the
place
they had loved; the myriad sights and sounds and smells of India which first startled and then captivated you, the flowers, the birds and chipmunks in the garden, the markets and, oh, everywhere, the colours, the glorious colours.
Smita listened politely but eventually she said, rather primly Sylvia thought, that it sounded nothing like the country which her parents described. Well, that felt like a slap on the wrist.
Sylvia protested to Roger afterwards, “Of
course
there’s poverty and ghastliness in India, we all know that, but there’s no point pretending you can’t have a perfectly marvellous life there too. Where in India did her parents come from anyway?”
Roger had replied “Gujarat” and Sylvia had been surprised by a pang of jealousy because, obviously, Roger had been having private personal conversations with Smita on his own.
Sylvia had to admit, guiltily, that there was something a little disagreeable about having an attractive young woman around the house. Ever since her marriage, Sylvia had been the woman of the house. Smita was very attractive. She would lie beside the pool in her scrap of a bikini, slim and flawless, and Sylvia would come out for adip in her capacious floral one-piece and she felt like a whale, sploshing up and down the pool.
Everyone thought Smita was wonderful, partly because she was so very pretty and partly because it made their ex-pat friends in Riyadh feel good that here was an Indian person with whom they could actually make friends.
Apparently only Sylvia could see clearly, by the end of that first visit, what was wrong; Jeremy had been caught up in Smita’s chariot wheels, as she put it to Roger after the young couple had left. They said goodbye at the airport, Jeremy all stiff and awkward as usual and Smita utterly charming but chilly. That was it, Sylvia complained to Roger; the girl was cold. She had set her sights on Jeremy for reasons of her own – maybe she liked the glamour of his career in broadcasting – and poor Jeremy was helpless, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
Roger replied thoughtfully, “It’s unlike you to be so uncharitable, Syl. I must say, I found her a lovely young woman. A bit reserved maybe, yes, but I suppose she was on her best behaviour, wasn’t she?”
Sylvia tried hard to see things from Roger’s point of view. It would make the whole situation so much better if Roger were right. But, in her woman’s heart, Sylvia knew what was what and, besides, it went against Roger’s nature to think badly of any pretty young woman.
When Jeremy and Smita announced their engagement, about six months later, Sylvia sent an enormous bouquet, hoping to make up with an excess of flowers for her shortage of happy feelings. It was arrangedthat she and Roger would have dinner with Smita’s parents when they were next home on leave.
Sylvia preferred to gloss over that acutely awful evening in a showy restaurant in St John’s Wood. Smita’s mother, Naisha, an optician – as she managed to mention in most sentences – talked nineteen to the dozen. Her father, Prem, barely spoke. Jeremy and Smita both looked exquisitely
She listened with an expression of polite amusement as Sylvia and Roger reminisced about their years in Delhi. They had moved there from Hong Kong in the earlySeventies when Sylvia was expecting Jeremy and they had ended up staying for nearly ten years. It was true they had loved it although Sylvia was conscious as she described it to Smita – the lovely big house in Lodhi Colony, the amusing servants, the drinks on the veranda in the sudden Indian dusk – that it did all sound awfully days of the Raj. So she was keen to stress that it was the
place
they had loved; the myriad sights and sounds and smells of India which first startled and then captivated you, the flowers, the birds and chipmunks in the garden, the markets and, oh, everywhere, the colours, the glorious colours.
Smita listened politely but eventually she said, rather primly Sylvia thought, that it sounded nothing like the country which her parents described. Well, that felt like a slap on the wrist.
Sylvia protested to Roger afterwards, “Of
course
there’s poverty and ghastliness in India, we all know that, but there’s no point pretending you can’t have a perfectly marvellous life there too. Where in India did her parents come from anyway?”
Roger had replied “Gujarat” and Sylvia had been surprised by a pang of jealousy because, obviously, Roger had been having private personal conversations with Smita on his own.
Sylvia had to admit, guiltily, that there was something a little disagreeable about having an attractive young woman around the house. Ever since her marriage, Sylvia had been the woman of the house. Smita was very attractive. She would lie beside the pool in her scrap of a bikini, slim and flawless, and Sylvia would come out for adip in her capacious floral one-piece and she felt like a whale, sploshing up and down the pool.
Everyone thought Smita was wonderful, partly because she was so very pretty and partly because it made their ex-pat friends in Riyadh feel good that here was an Indian person with whom they could actually make friends.
Apparently only Sylvia could see clearly, by the end of that first visit, what was wrong; Jeremy had been caught up in Smita’s chariot wheels, as she put it to Roger after the young couple had left. They said goodbye at the airport, Jeremy all stiff and awkward as usual and Smita utterly charming but chilly. That was it, Sylvia complained to Roger; the girl was cold. She had set her sights on Jeremy for reasons of her own – maybe she liked the glamour of his career in broadcasting – and poor Jeremy was helpless, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
Roger replied thoughtfully, “It’s unlike you to be so uncharitable, Syl. I must say, I found her a lovely young woman. A bit reserved maybe, yes, but I suppose she was on her best behaviour, wasn’t she?”
Sylvia tried hard to see things from Roger’s point of view. It would make the whole situation so much better if Roger were right. But, in her woman’s heart, Sylvia knew what was what and, besides, it went against Roger’s nature to think badly of any pretty young woman.
When Jeremy and Smita announced their engagement, about six months later, Sylvia sent an enormous bouquet, hoping to make up with an excess of flowers for her shortage of happy feelings. It was arrangedthat she and Roger would have dinner with Smita’s parents when they were next home on leave.
Sylvia preferred to gloss over that acutely awful evening in a showy restaurant in St John’s Wood. Smita’s mother, Naisha, an optician – as she managed to mention in most sentences – talked nineteen to the dozen. Her father, Prem, barely spoke. Jeremy and Smita both looked exquisitely
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