When he returned, Hunaid was helping a British officer in the shop. The short, broad man was squinting and making hand gestures, while Hunaid spoke to him in Hindi, pointing to the bottles and tins around him. Abdoolally had picked up a few English phrases from listening to the herbalist speak with the officers. In private, he mimicked their exotic words.
“Hullo. How you?” he attempted. The officer turned his green eyes to Abdoolally. They were bloodshot, with pink bags that clung like slugs underneath.
“Something for headaches, I need something for headaches,” he said, pointing to his head.
“Chai banouoo?” Hunaid looked to Abdooally, speaking to him in Gujarati. He pointed to a packet of ginger.
“You make tea,” Abdoolally said. “One cup water, one spoon this.”
Just then, Dr. Chunara returned from his errands and took the packet from Abdoolally’s hand. “What are the symptoms?”
The officer repeated his ailment, this time rubbing his temples to demonstrate his distress.
“Take the tea twice a day until the headaches pass.”
The officer paid Dr. Chunara. When he’d left the store, the herbalist split the four coins, placing two into the register and two into Abdoolally’s hand.
“You should follow his example, Hunaid! Learn some English so you can talk to the Angrez!” Dr. Chanara turned away from them both, returning to his work.
Hunaid glowered at Abdoolally, who reflexively rounded his shoulders and avoided the older boy’s gaze. He busied himself with wiping the dust off the counter. Then he cleaned the large glass jars that held the loose herbs. Dr. Chunara glanced at him and nodded his approval.
Later, Abdoolally would hand over one of the precious coins to Hunaid, to maintain the peace.
EIGHT
I scrounge through kitchen drawers at 5:00 a.m. I’d been lying awake in bed, circular thoughts about whether or not to pack a flashlight making their eighth loop. Do power outages still happen in Mumbai? What about in the deluxe place Fatema has organized for us? I find a working flashlight, roll it in one of my T-shirts, and tuck it into my suitcase. We leave for India in six days.
I debate whether to crawl back into bed and realize I’m too awake for that. According to my mother’s reports, I’ve always been a “fussy” sleeper, as though insomnia is much ado about nothing. I’m easy to rouse, and I usually need to use the toilet two or three times during the night. When I was a kid, my parents tried a number of strategies, including no liquid after eight o’clock at night, then seven, then six. But then I’d just wake up thirsty.
Zee is the opposite; from the beginning, she slumbered longer than other babies, and by the time she was two, she was quiet through the night. With puffy eyes and slack bodies, my friends would tell me how lucky I was to have a baby like Zee. I’d nod, knowing that yes, my life was easier than theirs, but that didn’t mean I, too, wasn’t sleep-deprived. I’d watch Zee sometimes, dead to the world, even when a phone rang or Murtuza and I squabbled. How I wished for that.
I grab naps when I can, push through with caffeine (before 3:00 p.m., obviously), use the middle-of-the-night wakefulness to get caught up on work. I imagine that during my year off I’ll find a way to clear my sleep debt, that quicksand pit of accumulated time. It must be thousands of hours by now.
This morning, as I drink my first cup of coffee, my nerves are frayed, like wires chewed through by the mice I know live in our walls despite last year’s pest-control call. I shake the thought, sip my coffee, watch the sun rise.
When I check my email a few minutes later, I see that my first Abdoolally survey has arrived.
Abbas Kaaka is my father’s youngest paternal uncle. I sent him the survey link a few days ago, after Mom reminded me that he’d be a good source. He’s well read, has travelled more than his contemporaries, and was a teacher, a career different from the men of his generation, most of whom were businessmen.
We’re not close but I try to visit him at least once on each trip back. When I was doing my master’s, we discussed my thesis topic, and he’d commented, “Did you include the Komagata Maru in your project?” He is my only relative, including my North American ones, who knows anything about this history.
He is on the board of the Rangwala Trust, a charitable organization that funds the hospitals and schools Abdoolally’s inheritance built. Also, Abbas Kaaka knows something of our family’s genealogy and has attempted an elaborate family tree, drawn on parchment paper affixed to his bedroom wall. By the time he began the project, his wife, Amtulla, had been dead a few years. She was a woman, from what I recall, who would not have tolerated the wallpaper of souls alive and dead decorating her home.
I click open his survey link and read his essay.
Well, Abdoolally was quite the figure, not just for our family, who are his proud descendants, but for India as a nation. He was well known and respected by the British, as well as Indians. Of course I’m assuming you know of his numerous business pursuits, land holdings, and his charitable endeavours. I’ve attached a separate document for those. But what is most interesting is that he spurs on the imagination about how he arrived at such an impressive station in life!
He had humble beginnings — and that is an understatement. He was an illiterate and penniless village boy arriving in the big city of Bombay. Can you imagine? He had attended no school at all. But he was ambitious, the sort of mind that manages to overcome all obstacles. When his businesses grew successful he purchased land, instinctively knowing which undesirable places would turn profitable. Come to think of it, he started out that way himself, undesirable, and then he became Abdoolally Seth.
I enter “Seth” into a search engine and learn it is a title that denotes greatness. Historically it was used to identify the wealthiest man in town. While I find this impressive, I’m not that interested in my great-great-grandfather’s financial status. I reread Abbas Kaaka’s words: “The sort of mind that manages to overcome all obstacles.” My research question hasn’t been well defined, but its edges are growing sharper, like a Polaroid image in the sun: I want to know more about my forefather’s mind.
“I will miss you, my little Zeenat Zee Nut!” Mom squeezes Zee at Newark Airport.
“We’ll see you in a few months,” Murtuza says, and he and I hug her, A-frame-style around Zee, who still clings to Mom’s leg. She has a ticket for a four-week visit in late March, returning home on the same flight with us. I lobbied her to come earlier, but she insisted that this first trip back without Dad would be challenging enough without extending it.
“We’ll talk on Skype, right?” The thought of her being lonely while we are gone is like acid pooling in my belly. She nods and ushers us toward the security gate.
After we pass through, we have a two-hour wait. Murtuza gets his shoes polished and Zee and I drift toward Twelve Minute Manicure. Normally, this would have been part of my back-to-school routine. I ask Malina, the aesthetician, for coral pink, my usual. Zee scans the entire paint deck and picks up a red with sparkly shimmer through it.
“This one is nicer.” She passes the bottle to me. Malina nods to Zee.
“Why not? I’m on vacation, right?”