“If we went out here like we do in England,” she said, handing me a pair of dangly pearly earrings, “in jeans and trainers, they probably wouldn’t let us in. Here, try these on.”
It was just another way, wasn’t it, to solidify the markers around class, to make any permeability between them more difficult? I felt that discomfort even while I relished my borrowed sparkly handbags and tinkly earrings. Such a contrast to cold nights out in sticky-floored London restaurants, to being in a sweater all the time. Also, I felt, frankly, beautiful in the slinky tops and flattering trousers, the elegant earrings and nicely done hair.
The uncles had differing reactions when we wished them goodbye before our nights out. Eric, sweet and paternalistic, would look at us the way one would a baby or a blooming flower, with a kind of nostalgic marvel.
“Ah, to be young again,” he would say and then tell us to be careful and not stay out too late. The next morning, he would ask us what we’d gotten up to and remind us to drink more water and wear sensible shoes. “The feet,” he would say. “You realize later that the most important thing is to take care of the feet.”
As for David, I felt like he looked at us with something like admonition.
“You won’t be cold?” he asked Shiba pointedly once, causing her to self-consciously tug at the hem of her dress.
“She’s fine,” I said. “It’s warm outside.”
And Arjun and George, well, if I’m honest, I sensed a desire in their gaze. George responded to his by quickly turning away and busying himself when we came downstairs. And Arjun. Well, Arjun and I would look each other straight in the eye.
“You look nice,” he would say.
“Thanks,” I’d reply.
And I would see, in his eyes, a hunger. It embarrassed me a little, but I considered it harmless. And, maybe, it also flattered me. I carried Arjun’s gaze with me to the bars and restaurants that we went to and would bask in this suddenly sexy body that I occupied. My limbs felt longer, my tummy flatter, my skin unblemished, my entire body supple and lithe, as if it were in communication with the attention it received and was altering itself accordingly.
·
The days passed in a whirl of sightseeing, culinary feasts, and beautiful things. One evening, though, my wavering attention was finally brought back to the hovering ghosts and yet unanswered questions. Shiba and I were walking by the study, and the men met us with their usual smiles and questions, like, “You girls having a good time?” and “Have you been shopping?” Shiba happily responded, in a tone of voice that shifted, ever so subtly, into a register closer to a child’s. I had been feeling a growing irritation at the men’s condescension and Shiba’s complicity, so I asked her about it.
“How come you used to be so annoyed at being excluded that you went ahead and discovered the truth about the Centre yourself, but now you’re happy to let them get on with it while you run the bit they’ve left behind?”
“It’s different now,” she said. “I’ve realized that the best way forward isn’t trying to get them to change, Anisa. The way is to change things yourself.”
“How?”
She shrugged, “Strength, patience … and most importantly, fearlessness.”
I felt that she was doing that thing again, of beckoning me somewhere deeper, and felt a wave of embarrassment at my own complaisance, at not having pushed harder to get the answers I’d been promised. I decided to finally address the matter that night over dinner.
Kumar had made a delicious-smelling chicken roast that evening, and Shiba and I waited at the table for the men to emerge from the study. By the time they did, chatting animatedly about the prospect of buying a farmhouse or something like that, the chicken was cold. They took their seats, continuing their chat. Then, Arjun ruffled Shiba’s hair.
“All well, sweetheart? Did you have a fun day?”
She beamed in response, “Haan, Papa, all good.”
Arjun started to call for Kumar to cut the chicken, but I stopped him. I found myself saying that I’d like to do it.
“Be my guest,” he said.
I stood and picked up the large knife and two-pronged skewer that lay on either side of the bird, and examined it, trying to figure out where to begin. I’m not an expert chicken carver or anything, but I had done it before, and I’d felt a strong urge to do it then, as if carving up this bird for the hungry mouths that surrounded it, the way I’d sometimes cut up my nephew’s food for him, would be an antidote to the infantilization I’d been subjected to earlier. I ran the tip of the knife gently over the chicken, trying to establish some kind of rapport. Then, I picked a leg. I stuck the prongs in and began to carve. The meat was tender, and it detached easily, the hip bone popping without protest. Next, I took the thigh apart from the leg with a cracking of a slender bone, and then, I gently detached the wings. The sternum, though, was not so elegant; I messily hacked and sawed through ribs to remove the breasts. In the end, two succulent morsels remained on either side of the lower back. I removed them last and popped one into my own mouth. My final handiwork was not perfect, but it was fine.
David, however, ruined my reclamation of adulthood by saying, once I was done, “Very good job, dear.”
I sat back down and helped myself to the juiciest-looking leg piece.
“We have still not addressed the matter of Anna.”
The table fell silent.
“I would like to know how, exactly, she died.”
There was some shuffling of chairs, some throat clearing.
“Obviously, she died of natural causes,” Arjun said coolly. “Surely you are not imagining otherwise?”
“It’s hard to know what to think since I haven’t yet been told anything really,” I said. “I would like to know now, please. Exactly how this process works.”
“Well,” Arjun said. “You only had to ask, my dear. You see, we wanted to make sure you were ready. For all we knew, maybe you had decided that you didn’t want to know after all.”
“Of course I want to know.”
“All right then, after dinner, we’ll tell you everything.”
And so, after dinner, which was slightly rushed, Shiba, Arjun, and I once more made our way to the cottage, where finally, the truth emerged.
TEN
We sat in the office, on the cane chairs around the large table. Arjun and Shiba were procrastinating, talking about the weather one minute, offering tea the next.
“You were going to tell me about Anna?” I interrupted.
“Yes,” Arjun said. “She was elderly, as you know. And she died of heart complications. It ran in her family, apparently.”
“All right …” I said.
“As for Peter, he was diabetic. He had already been diagnosed when he signed up to be a Storyteller.”
I paused for some moments.
“Are … all the Storytellers dead?”
“The Storytellers whose stories you hear at the Centre, yes, they are.”
“Is there a reason we’re playing twenty questions here? Are you trying to tell me that the Storytelling itself induces death, is that it?”
“Of course not,” Shiba said.