like to be called a “black bitch”, either,’ concluded Heera firmly.
‘Nor “fast colour”,’ added Durga, enjoying Eileen’s puzzlement.
There was a twist to the story: Madhuri had garnered her children’s support during Diwali to enthusiastically etch traditional Diwali rangoli patterns using white powder on the path near the garage. The English neighbour’s elderly father was visiting that year, and took an evening walk with his terrier in the fading light. The moon was already visible among the bare branches of the tree-lined street as he noticed what appeared to be a ghostly white Nazi swastika shining on the ground. A war veteran, he returned unsteadily tohis daughter’s home, incoherent and disoriented. Convalescing on his bed, he pointed wordlessly with a trembling finger in the direction of the window. Later that night there was a sharp passing shower, and the rangoli patterns were washed away, leaving the ground dry by the morning. The rest was history.
‘Look, girls, how is it that all the manky trousers and tweed caps in England land up at Lady Di’s posh shop only? The more she wants to impress her friends, the more rubbish we get. Funny smell in here.’ Heera sniffed. ‘Smells like cat pooh.’ She thrust her hand into the bag. ‘It
is
cat pooh!’
Swarnakumari wailed. Heera dragged the offending bag away and commanded, ‘Give me your soap dispenser , Swarna!’
Swarnakumari removed it with reluctance from her handbag. ‘I will also go and wash my hands,’ she said. ‘Dirty, dirty shop. Much better for me to go and help in the old people’s ward at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. When I see those poor helpless people I tell myself, I am not staying in Cambridge when I am old, but Your Uncle has got so used to life here, he likes this English law and order. Just the other day he showed me the Cambridgeshire County Council blue library van. It had stopped outside old people’s flats so that elderly people could climb into the van to borrow books. Your Uncle told me so proudly, “See, Swarna, this is why I like this country. I can see where my tax money is going.” No, Your Uncle will not leave England.’
At the precise moment when Heera marched towards the telephone to do battle with her employer, ‘Your Uncle’ folded away his newspaper. Two hours earlier, MrChatterjee had embarked upon his daily trek to the newsagent next to the Methodist Church, bought his Bengali newspaper and savoured the headlines. As he walked away from the till, he sneaked a ritual glance at the covers of the girlie magazines that Mr Patel, a family man, placed on the highest shelf and always upside down.
Peering sideways, Mr Chatterjee wondered about Newton’s law of gravitation and whether the falling apple could ever have remained suspended in mid-air.
CHAPTER FOUR
All cats are grey in the dark
M R C HATTERJEE TWITCHED the net curtains at the bay window of his semi-detached home and peered outside . It was 8.13 a.m., and as always, Mondays to Fridays , the woman emerged, wheeling her bicycle out of her doorway. A freckled toddler sat stoically on the child seat, and the woman bent over the strap, displaying exposed breasts to an expectant Mr Chatterjee. With a flash of black fishnet tights and the twirl of her skirt, she was gone.
Every weekday morning, the sight of the woman was as wholesome as a portion of tropical fruit in a breakfast of toast, juice and tea. Growing up as a boy in Calcutta, as the city of Kolkata was then known, he had been accustomed to the British legacy of thick white bread, and as a creature of unswerving habit he rejected new-fangled wholemeal, wheatgerm, organic, rye, poppy seed and barleyseed varieties. The white slice emerged every morning, lightly browned from the toaster. The popping sound soothed his waiting ears, and, thick and respectable, the bread stared up at him from the white and green patterned Johnson Brothers plate, waiting for the corners and edges to be
‘Nor “fast colour”,’ added Durga, enjoying Eileen’s puzzlement.
There was a twist to the story: Madhuri had garnered her children’s support during Diwali to enthusiastically etch traditional Diwali rangoli patterns using white powder on the path near the garage. The English neighbour’s elderly father was visiting that year, and took an evening walk with his terrier in the fading light. The moon was already visible among the bare branches of the tree-lined street as he noticed what appeared to be a ghostly white Nazi swastika shining on the ground. A war veteran, he returned unsteadily tohis daughter’s home, incoherent and disoriented. Convalescing on his bed, he pointed wordlessly with a trembling finger in the direction of the window. Later that night there was a sharp passing shower, and the rangoli patterns were washed away, leaving the ground dry by the morning. The rest was history.
‘Look, girls, how is it that all the manky trousers and tweed caps in England land up at Lady Di’s posh shop only? The more she wants to impress her friends, the more rubbish we get. Funny smell in here.’ Heera sniffed. ‘Smells like cat pooh.’ She thrust her hand into the bag. ‘It
is
cat pooh!’
Swarnakumari wailed. Heera dragged the offending bag away and commanded, ‘Give me your soap dispenser , Swarna!’
Swarnakumari removed it with reluctance from her handbag. ‘I will also go and wash my hands,’ she said. ‘Dirty, dirty shop. Much better for me to go and help in the old people’s ward at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. When I see those poor helpless people I tell myself, I am not staying in Cambridge when I am old, but Your Uncle has got so used to life here, he likes this English law and order. Just the other day he showed me the Cambridgeshire County Council blue library van. It had stopped outside old people’s flats so that elderly people could climb into the van to borrow books. Your Uncle told me so proudly, “See, Swarna, this is why I like this country. I can see where my tax money is going.” No, Your Uncle will not leave England.’
At the precise moment when Heera marched towards the telephone to do battle with her employer, ‘Your Uncle’ folded away his newspaper. Two hours earlier, MrChatterjee had embarked upon his daily trek to the newsagent next to the Methodist Church, bought his Bengali newspaper and savoured the headlines. As he walked away from the till, he sneaked a ritual glance at the covers of the girlie magazines that Mr Patel, a family man, placed on the highest shelf and always upside down.
Peering sideways, Mr Chatterjee wondered about Newton’s law of gravitation and whether the falling apple could ever have remained suspended in mid-air.
CHAPTER FOUR
All cats are grey in the dark
M R C HATTERJEE TWITCHED the net curtains at the bay window of his semi-detached home and peered outside . It was 8.13 a.m., and as always, Mondays to Fridays , the woman emerged, wheeling her bicycle out of her doorway. A freckled toddler sat stoically on the child seat, and the woman bent over the strap, displaying exposed breasts to an expectant Mr Chatterjee. With a flash of black fishnet tights and the twirl of her skirt, she was gone.
Every weekday morning, the sight of the woman was as wholesome as a portion of tropical fruit in a breakfast of toast, juice and tea. Growing up as a boy in Calcutta, as the city of Kolkata was then known, he had been accustomed to the British legacy of thick white bread, and as a creature of unswerving habit he rejected new-fangled wholemeal, wheatgerm, organic, rye, poppy seed and barleyseed varieties. The white slice emerged every morning, lightly browned from the toaster. The popping sound soothed his waiting ears, and, thick and respectable, the bread stared up at him from the white and green patterned Johnson Brothers plate, waiting for the corners and edges to be
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