Anjali Banerjee:

HEART OF TROUBLE

An earlier version of this story, “Night Watch”, appeared in the University of Baltimore’s Passager: A Journal of Remembrance and Discovery, issue 31.

Visit: http://raven.ubalt.edu/features/passager/

Indra awoke to the fading scream of a siren and forgot where she was, the way one does in a moving train or after nodding off on a languid afternoon. Her wristwatch flashed 7:30am. She’d fallen asleep in a sweat-soaked dress, on a board disguised as a bed. This was not her Berkeley apartment; this was a strange new room filled with gauzy light and the smell of dust. Everything — window, dresser, and fan spinning overhead — seemed obscured, evasive. Slowly she recalled the bumpy drive to her grandparents’ bungalow on the edge of New Delhi. She’d arrived that morning. Her watch was still on California time: this faint light was dusk.

With the memory her heart lifted. She sprang out of bed and grabbed the Bengali-English dictionary from her suitcase. She’d made this trip despite Ma’s warnings: It’s an election year. The Sikhs will secede by ‘85. You’ll be right in the heart of trouble.

Indra took her dictionary to the living room, past melodic snores drifting from her grandfather’s bedroom. How could this be the “heart of trouble” when he napped so peacefully?

On the couch she opened her dictionary and studied the words for mother and father. The room smelled of spices and a faint trace of sweat. A brass statue of Lord Ganesh, the god with an elephant’s head, kept watch from atop a small television. Through sliding glass doors she saw papaya trees drooping in a twilight stupor.

Tomar Baba, acha hei? she whispered to herself. How is your father? Bengali consonants slid across her tongue. After becoming fluent here, she could go home to the Indian Students’ Union and converse with ease. At the first meeting she’d sat alone and mute while foreign phrases floated through the air. She’d felt like a deserter, but she hadn’t asked to grow up on tasteless hamburgers and blockbuster movies — she’d been born in India and brought to America.

After a few minutes, Thakurma, her grandmother, appeared with a teacup in hand. At seventy she had long black hair streaked with white like shooting stars and amber eyes full of youth. She carried the scent of jasmine blossoms.

“Bengali was your father’s favorite language. Bhalo mai,” she said. “You’ll soon be Indian through and through. You just need a sari and bangles and a red bindhi on your forehead.”

Indra smiled, somewhat pleased. “Back home people think of me as Indian, which I suppose I am though Dad never taught me Bengali. Perhaps he thought I needed to focus on English to grow up in America.”

Thakurma sank into an armchair, her sari deflating like a parachute. “He was born in Burma and learned Burmese. We had to dress him up as a little Muslim and smuggle him through Pakistan. That was just after Independence, you know. If the Muslims had known he was Hindu, they would have killed him.”

“That’s hard to imagine. Everyone here seems so tolerant and… relaxed. At home, people race around as if they want to see who can die first.”

“We move quickly when we must.”

That was true. Earlier Thakurma had navigated the airport crowd and deftly avoided beggars who cried Ma, Pice. Indra had shoved a ten-rupee note, worth a dollar, into a boy’s hand. A throng of children had materialized from hidden corners. Thakurma propelled her into the car, chastising her for giving so much.

“Let her give.” Indra’s grandfather, Baba, turned his bald head and winked from the driver’s seat. “Welcome, my dear. Did you bring Whiskey?”

“Dad says you like Glenlivet.”

“Ah, Scotch. We’ll have some together, in true Indian style.” He’d gunned the motor and the car lurched forward.

“Stop telling her such nonsense,” Thakurma said. “We don’t normally drink Scotch. Our liquor tastes awful. You have much better whiskey, don’t you, Indra?” She chattered on about marvelous things made in America, while Indra stared out at boulevards crammed with pedestrians, mangy dogs, rickshaws and crowded buses. A thin man in black scuttled across the road. Everywhere were cars like her grandfather’s — massive Ambassadors with round headlights and broad fenders. She wanted to immerse herself in the sounds and smells of India, and escape those shallow American things that her grandmother idolized.

Now, in the living room, Thakurma turned to Indra. “You’d better wash up before we run out of water. It’s the drought, you know.”

To save water would build character, Indra thought. Americans were too complacent.

The snoring stopped and with great fanfare and throat clearing Baba emerged from his room. He gave the impression of height and solidity, though he stood no more than five foot seven.

“Shall we have a glass of whiskey?” He winked at Indra.

“Not now," Thakurma said. “Rama hasn’t come.”

“Not to worry. He’ll come.” Baba waved a thick hand.

“Who’s Rama?” Indra conjured up an image of a dark Hindu god.

“Ramaswami,” said Thakurma. “He’s been working here for years. He knew your parents when they were children.”

“People here have to work until they’re very old, don’t they?”

Baba laughed and Thakurma looked startled. “I hadn’t thought of it,” she said. “Well. Speak of the devil.”

A slender man with onyx skin slipped in through the sliding glass doors, crept to Thakurma and spoke in hushed, staccato tones. His lined face was fixed in a grimace that could have been a grin or a frown.

“What’s he saying?” Indra had the uncomfortable feeling she was being discussed.

“He’s speaking Hindi,” Thakurma said. “His daughter was attacked last night. A man broke into the hut through her window. It’s a good thing she screamed before he could hurt her. Rama and his wife chased him off.”

Indra wondered how Rama could scare anyone away.

He rattled off something else in Hindi and bowed deferentially, hands behind his back.

Thakurma laughed. “He says you’ve got your father’s oval face, like an egg. You haven’t got your father’s nose. You could hang parathas off that nose....”

“I don’t think I look like anyone.” Indra stared down at her fingers, slim and smooth like the rest of her. Her mother had broad fingers, and her father’s were gnarled gingerroot.

“You have a studied look, very much like my eldest sister,” Baba said. “Rama, tea!”

Rama disappeared into the kitchen.

A shrill warble followed, accompanied by rhythmic tapping.

Indra stiffened. “Is that Rama?”

Another whistle came, this time from the street, then another a little farther off.

“It’s the night watchman.” Thakurma switched on the television to Star Trek. “He passes every hour, at night.”

“Why do you need a watchman?” Indra imagined a young policeman — a whistle dangling from his mouth — swinging his nightstick as he marched.

“Vandals have been roaming the streets.” Baba’s face was grim. “People think a watchman will protect them.”

Thakurma flipped to a Hindi channel and back to Captain Kirk, whose face was tinted green. “We just started getting these shows. We also get I Love Lucy.”

Rama returned with tea. As he lowered the tray to the table, Indra caught a whiff of tobacco.

She took a sip of hot, milky liquid and felt oddly comforted to see familiar Star Trek characters flit across the screen. Fascinating, said Spock.

“It’s the Sikhs causing trouble,” Thakurma mumbled.

“Aren’t they fighting to have their own state, for freedom?” Indra said, “in the Punjab? Isn’t that miles away?” She felt Rama gazing at her. Perhaps he judged her with thoughts that could not translate to English.

“Freedom. Ha.” Thakurma slapped her thigh. “If we were all free, chaos would reign. We’re stuck together like overcooked rice. Nothing is far from anything else in India.”

“You can’t blame the Sikhs for everything,” Baba said. “Any political conflict incites violence everywhere else. It’s a domino effect, very complex...”

“I told you I didn’t want to leave Calcutta,” Thakurma said icily. “Delhi is full of Punjabis. Nobody speaks Bengali.”

“I’d like to see Calcutta,” Indra said. “We could go together.”

Baba sighed. “In Calcutta it was the Communists; here it is the Punjabis and the Sikhs. What will it be next--?”

“I was happy in Calcutta,” Thakurma insisted.

Indra felt trapped in the midst of a battle. “I’m going to wash.” She clutched her book and dashed to her bedroom, which closed in on her. Why did these homes have such low roofs? One could suffocate. She threw her book on the bed, went into the bathroom and turned on the tap; only a trickle came out. She would have to scoop water from the bucket in the corner, and keep her mouth shut to avoid swallowing parasites.

The water felt lukewarm, the concrete floor slick beneath her feet. She longed for a cold shower. Maybe a walk outside would help, or a visit to the ruins of the Red Fort, the imperial palace of the Mogul emperors. It was said that inside one of the marble buildings, the Persians had inscribed a couplet: If there is a heaven on earth, it is this—it is this.

After washing up, Indra dressed in long kurta from Sona Chaandi’s shop on University Avenue. Cotton felt soft against her skin and smelled of laundry soap, of home. It would be just past breakfast time in Berkeley. It was nine p.m. in India. The night watchman was due to pass again. She held her breath for a moment and listened. Nothing. No whistle, no tap, no footsteps, only silence.

In the living room, Baba was on the phone. Thakurma switched off the television and sat with fists in her lap, her face pale. Rama had disappeared.

“What’s going on?” Indra whispered. “Who’s Baba talking to?”

“Police. To be safe.”

“Safe from what? Where’s Rama?” Indra felt like a child asking questions.

“He went to look for the watchman,” Thakurma said.

Baba slammed the receiver down. “Damn phones,” he spat. “Indra, go and pack. We’re going to stay at my sister’s flat.”

“I don’t understand,” Indra said. “What’s happened?”

“The Sikhs have taken over the Golden Temple at Amritsar. It’s their holy place, but they’re shooting from inside, firing at people in the street.”

“That’s miles away,” Indra said. “It can’t--”

“Hurry,” Thakurma said.

Indra ran to her room and crammed her belongings into her suitcase. She felt as though she were half-asleep, half-dreaming.

Baba and Thakurma were waiting at the front door, each carrying a suitcase. How had they packed so fast? Indra recalled Thakurma saying we move quickly when we must.

Indra followed them outside. The sky, a chalky gray, threatened to lapse into black. Dust floated through the air like ash. She could hear her own breathing and the swish of cotton as she slid onto the car’s back seat. The neighborhood fell strangely silent, as if all the people had ground themselves into sand. Thakurma sat hunched over in the front passenger seat.

“What’s going on?” Indra persisted.

Baba did not answer as he started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

Indra opened her window; she needed air or she would vomit. This wasn’t happening. She was an American with a plane ticket. She could leave any time. Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind: You’ll be right in the heart of trouble.

The car lurched to a stop and Baba dashed out into the street.

Indra leaned over the seat.

“Don’t get out,” Thakurma said.

A man lay in the road. Baba’s bald head shone in the headlights as he pulled the man to his feet, dragged him to the car and shoved him in. Thakurma shifted to make room. The left side of the man’s face looked swollen and misshapen.

It was Rama.

Baba jumped in after him.

“Is he all right?” Indra touched Rama’s cheek. Her fingers came away wet with blood. As the car screeched off, something heavy struck Indra’s window. Shards of glass flew into her lap and air rushed in, thick with the odors of cow dung and exhaust. She slid away and ducked her head.

“Stay low!” Baba yelled. “I’ll get us out of here.”

Thakurma grabbed the dashboard with both hands. “Baba! You will get us killed.”

Indra longed for Baba’s confidence. She imagined the watchman, sprawled on the ground alone, his whistle beside him.

Rama began to sing softly in an alien tongue. It was not Hindi or Bengali or any language Indra could identify. Yet somehow she understood its meaning, a universal prayer for peace. The rhythm consoled her and blended with the car’s hum and the crackle of gravel on tires. Beyond the road’s edge, dimly lit by the car’s headlights, the landscape fell away into blackness.