“Mum, come on,” said Anil. All Rajni could do was shake her head. No, no, no. Tonight was supposed to be special: their last dinner together before she went off to India. If Anil had chosen this occasion to tell them about his girlfriend, then she was supposed to be. . .well, a girl. Somebody who called her Mrs Chadha and whose parents regarded Anil with a reasonable amount of suspicion until he won them over with good manners and clean fingernails.
Anil turned to Kabir. “Dad,” he said in a slightly desperate way that made it clear to Rajni that they had already discussed this matter without her. Guilt rippled across Kabir’s expression. He stole a glance at Rajni.
“You knew about this?” Rajni asked Kabir. “For how long?”
Kabir had thin lips, which almost vanished when he was unhappy. “He came to me this morning,” he said. You were packing for your trip and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Dinner time – morning = a whole day.
Rajni fixed Kabir with the kind of stare usually reserved for naughty students called into her office. “And how do you feel about this? Care to share your opinion?”
“Obviously, I’m concerned, but Anil is old enough now to make his own decisions.”
“Concerned? Concerned is how you feel about old Mrs Willis next door when she’s struggling to put her bins out.This is our son, Kabir. He finished Sixth Form mere weeks ago and now he tells us he wants to move in with a woman twice his age!” Where did Anil even meet a thirty-six-year-old? A horrifying thought struck her. “She wasn’t a teacher of yours, was she?”
“God, no,” Anil said. Rajni let out a sigh. Thank goodness. She had always worried about Cass Finchley, a music teacher who swayed too suggestively on the edge of the dance floor while chaperoning school formals.
Kabir cleared his throat. “Anil, your mother and I just know you have a bright future ahead of you. We don’t want you squandering it on some...fling.”
“It’s not a fling,” Anil said. “We’re serious about each other.”
“I’m sure you feel that way now, but there will be problems, son.” Rajni used to find it touching when Kabir called Anil “son”. It was old-fashioned and charming and it brought a rush of warmth to her heart. Now he said the word like he was losing grip on its meaning.
“There’s nothing we can’t work out, innit?” Anil said.
“Nothing?” Rajni echoed.
Anil shrugged. “We’ve got the same cultural background. We get each other. People are always saying that’s the main thing.”
“You’re from completely different generations. She’s a grown woman. You’re a boy! You might as well be from different planets.”
“Nothing,” Anil repeated tersely. With his jaw clenched like this, he looked so much like Kabir that Rajni wanted to suspend the argument and run for her camera. They say photos of the first-born child always outnumber those of subsequent children. As Anil was their first-and-only born, Rajni documented him thoroughly with no fears of sibling inequality. Their home was a shrine to Anil’s childhood: portraits and finger paintings, pencil marks on the wall charting his growth over the years.
Crises about Anil’s future were becoming an annual milestone. Last summer’s fight had been about Anil’s declaration that he wasn’t going to apply to university – he wanted to be done with education after completing Sixth Form. “They don’t teach you nothing you can’t learn on the internet these days, don’t they?” Anil said. Rajni, head spinning from all the double negatives she had spent a lifetime correcting in her son, had left the room.
When she returned, Kabir said he would talk some sense into Anil. It took months, but they finally arrived at a compromise: Anil would apply to university, but he could defer for a gap year. He was supposed to get a job during that time (his parents’ hope being that the gap year would help him to recognise the limitations of being without a degree), but then his grandmother had died and left him a small inheritance, turning the gap year into a paid holiday.
“Think about this for a moment then, Anil,” Kabir said. “She’s surely at an age where she wants to settle down.”
“That’s why we’re planning on moving in together.”
“But do you realise what this entails? For her?”
Anil clutched the back of the dining chair in front of him. His news had brought them to their feet, standing before their unfinished meals. A scaly whiff from the salmon hit Rajni in the nostrils again. She picked up the plates and brought them to the kitchen.
“I understand exactly what Davina wants,” Anil was saying. As Rajni tipped the scraps into the bin, she had an uninvited image of her son tumbling around in bed with an experienced woman. Stop it, she ordered her mind. She looked around the kitchen for something, anything, to focus on.
There was a leaflet on the counter from the Jehovah’s Witnesses who came by yesterday evening. They were such a bother but she found it im- possible to shut the door on their faces – those pallid cheeks and impressively starched shirt collars. ‘I’m busy at the moment but perhaps you can leave behind some literature,” she had offered as a consolation for not wanting to be saved, even though the leaflet would find its way to the bin within a day or two.
ALL SUFFERING IS SOON TO END, declared the header over a painting of a sunny green meadow. How nice to be so certain. The words brought Rajni only a brief shot of relief before she returned to reality.
“A woman at that stage in her life is looking for a long-term partner,” Kabir was saying to Anil.
“This isn’t some kinda phrase, Dad.” He meant “phase”. Rajni was too upset to correct him but she kept a mental note to educate him on the difference later.
“Son, listen for a moment. I’m saying that Davina probably has bigger, more permanent plans.”
Rajni rushed back into the living room. “Tick-tock!” she cried, startling her family. “That’s what everyone says to a woman in her mid-thirties whether she wants children or not. ‘Have one before it’s too late.’” (In her case: “Have another one, you’re not just having one, are you? Finish what you started! Give the poor boy a sibling.” As if she and Kabir didn’t try and try until sex became another routine household task like doing the laundry or paying the water bill.)
“Yes,” Kabir said.”Societal pressures.They’re bigger than you think, Anil, especially for adults.”
“Look, the only person pressuring me is you. Davina and me are just fine.”
“So if she wanted a baby tomorrow it would be okay? You’d give up all that travelling, your nights out with mates?” Kabir asked.
That ought to give him a fright, Rajni thought, noting the swell of unease on Anil’s face. He’d been plotting his European holiday: skiing in Bulgaria; island-hopping in Greece; God-knows-what in Amsterdam.
“I would. I am going to give it all up,” Anil said quietly. He gripped the chair.
The room became still. Anil bit his lower lip and looked at his knuckles, which had turned white.
Kabir stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“I am going to give it all up for her,” Anil repeated.
“Son?”
“Mum. Dad. It’s not a big deal, alright? You have to promise not to overreact.”
The edges of the room began to blur and the floor tilted slightly. Rajni heard Kabir gently saying, “Okay, we promise. Now what is it?”
“Davina’s pregnant,” Anil said.
And then Rajni fainted.
Excerpted with permission from The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters, Balli Kaur Jaiswal, HarperCollins India.
