The House of Hidden Mothers Read Free Page B

remember Tara at this age, sensory memories mostly: the smell of her after a bath, nectar-sweet and kiss-curled; sitting in her stripy booster seat at the table, mashing spaghetti between her fingers with fascinated concentration; her laugh, which sounded unnervingly like her crying. There were so many occasions when Shyama had rushed upstairs expecting to find her trapped under the wardrobe or missing a digit, only to discover her sitting in a circle of her soft toys, serving up tea in plastic cups and chuckling loudly like an over-eager dinner host. Tara’s own favourite memory – and she claims it is her first – is when she was about fourteen months old. She had cut her two bottom teeth and Shyama suspected the top two were also trying to push their way out, so she told Tara to open wide so Mummy could have a quick feel of her gums. And as soon as her finger was in, Tara clamped her mouth shut.
    â€˜It was like being savaged by a piranha, honestly!’ Shyama said, dressing it up a little just to see Tara’s delight in the retelling. ‘I mean, whoever thinks babies aren’t strong … the power in those little jaws – I couldn’t get it out. And the worst thing was you thought it was a game. The more I yelled and said let go, the more you laughed and laughed. But without letting go. You laughed through clenched teeth like some mad little goblin. That was the disturbing bit.’
    â€˜No,’ said Tara. ‘I knew it wasn’t a game. I remember thinking, that’s hurting Mummy but I can’t stop. It’s too much fun. That’s the really disturbing bit, wouldn’t you say?’
    Tara then tossed her hair, or rather her hair plus the extensions she’d insisted on adding to the defiant bird’s nest perched on her head. Shyama had made the mistake once of telling Tara her theory that an Indian woman’s virtue was measured by her hair. Respectable women – in the movies and paintings, on the street – always had long straight tresses untouched by perm or primping, tamed into matriarchal buns or thick tight plaits hanging heavy like stunned black snakes. Only wild ‘junglee’ women or women in mourning uncoiled the serpents and set them free. The shorter and wilder the haircut, the looser the morals, wasn’t that the inference? It was only a theory, but within days Tara’s hair seemed to have grown up and out by several inches. Shyama’s, meanwhile, was getting longer, as if she was trying to blow-dry her way back into respectability. Well, too late for that now. Divorced, toy boy in tow and a stranger for a daughter. Who would have seen that coming?
    An ice-cream van pulled up at the park entrance and chimed out ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’, the dissonant notes dancing into the park and sprinkling on the shifting wind. It worked. Every child suddenly stopped mid-activity, ears pricked, sniffing the air expectantly. They are like little animals, Shyama thought as several of them started galloping towards the siren call, pulling adults with them. Others less fortunate were told Not Before Tea and the coordinated wailing began. The fury of injustice made them cry louder, but No Means No and Life Isn’t Fair – best you learn that one early. Shyama’s mother had told her that when that jingle sounded it meant that the ice-cream man had just run out of ice cream and was on his way home. For years, Shyama wondered why he always seemed to finish his supplies just as he reached her house. When the truth finally dawned, she couldn’t decide if she was horrified by her mother’s cruel lie or impressed by it. How odd it was that children believe anything we tell them for years, and then one day mistrust every word that comes out of our mouths. Why did she want to do this again?
    A faint beep sounded from the depths of Shyama’s overstuffed handbag. She rummaged amongst her usual debris of tissues and