Inheritance Read online

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ Amrit said.

  Father lunged into the room and grabbed Amrit’s arm. ‘Then come. You hear it for yourself.’ His fingers dug hard into her skin.

  She shouted: ‘If Mother isn’t happy, she can talk to me herself. Tell her to come to me and say something!’

  Father looked as if he might lunge at her, his feet separated at an awkward stance. Then the padlock to the main gate clanged faintly like a bell, announcing Narain’s arrival. A distraction. Satisfied, Amrit flipped to her side and tossed the sheet over her head. The light seeped through the worn cotton and made her entire body throb with pain. Later, Father came in again to tell her Gurdev and Banu were on the phone. They were going to Malaysia for the weekend and wanted to know if she needed anything from there. Amrit pulled back the sheet and told Father she wanted nothing from anybody. The door slammed, and then Father moved about the house, yelling, banging more things. She drifted back to sleep and had dreams of the walls splitting like eggshells.

  Mr Lau was not there when she went to collect her last pay cheque, but the other people at the office conveyed his resentment. The women in the payroll department shrugged when she asked them if her cheque was ready and then they deliberately took a long time to locate it. The marketing manager, who had always made it a point to say hello to her, regarded her coldly. He said something in Chinese to the man sitting next to him, who looked up at Amrit.

  ‘When the receptionist isn’t around, you know how many things are out of place?’ one of the payroll girls asked angrily when she returned. Amrit could tell she relished the opportunity to scold somebody, in Mr Lau’s absence. She shook the envelope at Amrit. ‘Mailings were not mailed. We all had to take time from our lunch hour to answer your calls. You know that or not?’ She tossed the cheque at Amrit. It slid off the desk and floated onto the floor. Everything fell quiet. Too proud to pick it up, but too broke to leave without her money, Amrit crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look as if calmness was her only plan. Somebody finally came along and picked up the envelope. It was the marketing manager, whose name she was having trouble remembering. She didn’t know any of their names; she started this job knowing she didn’t have to remember because she would not be here long enough. He shot the payroll girl a disapproving look and told Amrit she needed to go.

  She clutched the envelope to her chest. On her way out, someone loudly remarked, ‘I told him: next time, don’t hire these kinds of people.’

  Jealous, Amrit thought triumphantly. They had seen her engagement ring – she might even have mentioned it on the phone to the payroll girls when she called to say she would be picking up her cheque.

  Today the sun beat furiously against the windows of a nearby building. On either side of it, construction cranes stooped towards the complex bamboo scaffolding that shrouded the buildings-in-progress. The city was being built before Amrit’s very eyes. There were times when she sensed it was important to acknowledge this but the urgency didn’t overwhelm her today. The buzzing traffic and the drilling and clanging of construction failed to excite her. She remembered she was supposed to leave Singapore. The point of the marriage was to make her disappear. A heavy wave of shame washed over her, momentarily dissolving her surroundings. When she tried to count her misfortunes, none were detached from her own foolishness.

  A bus honked, jolting Amrit from her thoughts, but she couldn’t figure out where she was in relation to the bus. She was too close to the kerb; she was standing on the road. A man caught her sleeve and jerked her back. ‘See where you’re going. The light is still green,’ he scolded. She turned to see a small crowd watching, and a young woman she vaguely recognised coming towards her. No, Amrit pleaded silently. Although she had long forgotten their names, her former secondary school classmates were always similarly dressed – tailored jackets and high heels, briefcases swinging at their sides.

  ‘Amrit from Stanford Girls’ School, right? I knew you right away,’ the woman called. ‘It’s me, Gail.’ The crowd behind her looked reluctant to disperse until Amrit waved back. Then their interests waned.

  ‘How are you?’ Gail asked. Her voice had not changed since she was sixteen. It was high and breathy, easy to mimic. It was the only thing Amrit remembered about her.

  ‘I’m well, thanks.’

  ‘What happened just now? It looked like you were going to jump out in front of that bus,’ Gail asked, laughing lightly.

  Amrit forced herself to laugh as well. ‘I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘So what are you up to these days? I haven’t seen you in ages.’ Her words were clipped in a faint British accent, a remnant of their diction classes at Stanford Girls. Amrit had not spoken like that for years. Everything that spilled from her mouth was tainted in Singlish, that foul dialect of common Singaporeans. If she spoke, she would not convince anyone that she had once been a Stanford girl.

  ‘I’m getting married,’ Amrit said.

  ‘Congrats,’ Gail said, nodding. ‘That’s good news. So I suppose you work around here?’ She glanced uncertainly at Amrit’s denim slacks.

  ‘No, not today,’ Amrit replied, offering no further explanation, though Gail waited. ‘I’m. I just left my job. I’m getting married and we’re moving to Canada.’

  ‘Oh, congratulations. Canada is very nice,’ Gail said, brightly.

  ‘We’re really looking forward to it. It will be nice to get out of here,’ Amrit said pointedly.

  Gail offered a tight smile. ‘Won’t you miss your family? That’s why I didn’t want to study abroad. I was afraid I’d miss my mum’s cooking too much.’

  ‘Well, my fiancé’s family is there. I can adjust easily to a new place.’

  ‘You’re in love!’ Gail said, blissfully.

  Amrit feigned the same joy. She loved the change he could bring to her life, the escape route he offered. She loved what a husband represented. As Jaspal’s name lingered in her mind, his face appeared and became Hakim’s, the man she had gone to the park with. She pressed her fingers to the piece of paper with his phone number on it that she kept in her purse.

  After she and Gail parted with promises to stay in touch, Amrit boarded a bus home. Her seat at the back was hot from the engine. A gash in the upholstery poked the back of her thigh. As she shifted, her purse slipped from her hands and coins scattered across the seat, some falling into the exposed stuffing. She stared helplessly at the coins, and a stream of tears poured down her face. More passengers got on and stared before finding seats away from her. The conductor finally came bobbing along with the vehicle’s jerky rhythm. ‘Going where?’ he asked, snapping his ticket puncher at his side. He was taken aback when he noticed her crying. Amrit fumbled for her ticket and passed it to him.

  ‘You still must tell me where you’re going,’ the conductor said.

  Amrit shook her head and looked away. Straight rows of evenly spaced trees shot by the windows. Outside a church, two workers were struggling to keep a banner tied to a fence, as a strong gust of wind made ripples through the fabric. At the next stop, she pushed past the conductor and stumbled off the steps. She walked briskly until she found a pay phone, and then she opened her purse and pulled out the piece of paper. Hakim. She felt her heart thumping as she dumped out all of her ten cent coins. She could talk to him all day.

  Narain

  After work, Narain went to Bee Bee’s Food and Beverage, and bought three packets of nasi goreng for the family. He entered the flat sensing that Amrit was not there, but if he only bought two packets, Father might be offended by the presumption. Eating out of the brown paper packets reminded Father that his dinner had been cooked by strangers so Narain placed the packets on the kitchen counter and began taking out the plates and cutlery.

  Father shuffled out to the table when he was told dinner was ready. As he ate, he seemed lost in thought. He twirled the noodles with his fork, and his gaze followed the release of steam. Suddenly, he asked Narain, ‘Did you learn anything in America?’ />
  Narain was taken aback by the question. It seemed like something that would arrive in the middle of an argument. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Did it benefit you? All those years away, all of that money.’ Father’s voice trailed off.

  Narain looked down at his plate and noticed that the noodles were oilier than usual. He pushed away his plate. ‘Of course it benefited me,’ he said. ‘I got a degree.’

  ‘Yes,’ Father said, ‘a degree. But that wasn’t the only reason you were sent to America.’

  Narain felt his face burning. Not now, he thought. Not that he could ever think of an appropriate time to have such a conversation. Father began to talk about his own father, his dreams for all of his grandchildren. When he brought up the topic of the land money, Narain relaxed a bit. I don’t care about the money, he wanted to say, but Father would surely find this offensive. Instead, he just listened and waited for Father to tell him, in the manner of a judge reading a verdict, that he would not get any portion of the land money. ‘I paid so much in university tuition fees, Narain. And flights, and books, clothes – so many expenses to help you become a man,’ Father explained. ‘Honestly, I don’t know if it was worth it.’

  Narain wished he weren’t so afraid of standing up to Father. How much does it cost to hire a full-time caretaker for Amrit? Because I’ve been doing that for free at the expense of my social life. Instead, Narain finished his dinner and excused himself, saying he wanted to take a walk.

  Outside, as a weak sun descended below the shophouse rooftops, Narain caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window. He brought a hand to his face and touched his thin spread of beard and felt the full weight of his turban as if it was crushing his skull. He remembered keeping track of his shadow on those frosty Iowa mornings, and those thrilling prospects for change. How disappointing it had been then to return that summer and apologise – for writing those letters, for not studying hard enough, for inadvertently causing Amrit’s disappearance. On the plane back to Iowa at the end of that summer, he had felt the guilt building and pushing his first year off his shoulders like an old cloak - Jenny, the parties, the protests. When he returned, he abandoned his ideas to study politics and began to distance himself from Jenny. They broke up within weeks. In his second year of university, Narain declared his major in Engineering and attended an information night with many of the foreign students he had initially ignored. They looked eager and earnest, their faces scrubbed and their postures tilting forwards, wanting to please. Narain could not feign such an interest in Engineering but he accepted that he was not in America to discover himself. As his remaining years of study passed and he gained more distance from that first year, Narain began to omit it completely from his memory. By the time he graduated, that Narain had become so unrecognisable that on the morning of the graduation ceremony, when somebody tacked to his door a photograph of a man with his arm around Jenny, it took a while for him to recognise himself. The photograph, filled from end to end with Narain’s and Jenny’s grins, had been taken at a protest outside the Dean’s office. Narain flipped over the picture and found a note scrawled on the back. ‘Keep believing,’ Jenny had written in her distinct cursive. Narain sat down and studied the photo more carefully. He shut his eyes and concentrated on picturing Jenny. After her, there had been no more girls. There had been anonymous encounters in the shadows of parking lots and parks, but they had been with men. He opened his eyes and looked at the words again, searching for meaning in her simple message. Perhaps she had known about Narain all along, and like him, she knew he would not change.

  Narain had returned to Singapore with a suitcase lighter than the one he had brought to America. Father watched him unpack and reached eagerly into his suitcase for the diploma, which he unrolled and flattened against the dinner table, like a map. He had it framed immediately, and it was one of the first items to be mounted on their new living room wall. Looking around the flat for the first time, Narain was glad he was not sentimental for any items from his past. This new home was compact, allowing only for symbols to be displayed. Potted plants lined the entrance like miniatures of the palm trees of the Naval Base. The sun spilled tentatively into their small balcony, whereas it used to drench their entire home, stretching each passing hour until each day felt endless. Father exalted the public housing initiative; he praised the structure of the buildings, a sign that their country was moving forward. Narain heard the hope in his voice and knew that Father thought their problems with Amrit would be reduced in scale as well.

  For years since arriving home, Narain had worked each day and then gone home to deal with Amrit’s antics. He took her side in arguments against Father. He kept track of her departures and arrivals. He noticed that she could be present in their home, flipping through a magazine or dusting the carpets, but not there at all. ‘She’s gone again,’ he would tell Father, when she was like that. In between those moments, anonymous encounters with men divided Narain’s days. He found them in similar locations to those in America: in thick, unkempt bushes or narrow alleyways that reeked of drain water and rot. They never spoke to each other and they understood, without being told, that they were not to let their gazes linger on each other’s faces. What they did was purely for release.

  Sometimes Narain caught sight of a man’s wedding band or he heard in his own breath the sound of pleading, and he wondered if he would spend his whole life in disguise. Recently, since Amrit’s engagement, this question had begun to play on his mind. After Amrit, it would be his turn. The community would begin parading their most eligible girls for him and Father would happily entertain their requests, hoping that marriage would be successful in fixing Narain. Father would advertise him as the perfect potential husband: a son with a degree from America; an engineer from a good family. Punjabi parents would be satisfied to hand their daughters over, based on these credentials alone.

  Now, Narain walked until he came to a familiar place to rest his feet; Bee Bee’s Food and Beverage. This coffee shop was a modest establishment but it burst with activity. Mandarin songs crackled from the radio while spoons and forks chimed an accompanying tune. Ashes from cigarettes melted into tiles covered in oil and sweat. There was no entrance to the coffee shop; it was a string of food vendors with boundaries only made known by the furthest table. Close to this table was a tall wooden stand. Narain assumed that its previous incarnation might have been a television console or a low bookcase. Nails jutted crudely from the sides. One shelf held an outdated Yellow Pages directory. Another shelf was on the verge of collapse, its edges eaten through. The payphone was bound to the topmost shelf by rows of strings and padlocked chains. There was rope, raffia string, fishing line, a delicate necklace bearing a jade Buddha. Who would steal a telephone? Narain wondered each time he saw it, until he realised that fear of theft was not the owners’ concern. They liked the authority; they enjoyed knowing that theirs was the only discreet payphone in the area, that its patrons could pull the cord to a shadowy corner and become invisible as they arranged rendezvous with their mistresses or lied to their mothers. They were not securing it; they were ensuring that the customers were aware who was responsible for making their little escapes possible.

  Narain felt his own secrets bursting in his chest but somehow he could not utter them, not with this turban and beard reflecting the Sikh values that Father had instilled in him. He made the decision there: he would cut off all his hair. He would be able to reveal that he had not changed since the army, and when Father replied ‘you are no longer my son,’ it would already be true. They would already have nothing left in common.

  The next afternoon, Narain left work after lunch. In his mind, he had played out every scenario and rehearsed every response. Before leaving the office, Narain unwound his turban and replaced it with a cap.

  These days, the afternoon heat radiated from every surface: car windows glared; smoke billowed from the stoves cramped into hawker stalls; the warmth of concrete soaked through the soles of
his sneakers. Looking for shade, Narain quickly entered the empty deck of a block of flats. The walls were pockmarked and dusty with handprints. A bowlegged man wearing black shorts and a white singlet stood facing the rows of metal letterboxes. His hand shot swiftly in and out of the flaps, depositing a flier into each box. As he worked, sweat slid down the back of his neck and the wide armhole in his singlet shifted to one side, exposing his pinkish chest.

  Narain knew the name of the shop he was looking for: Hassan’s Haircutters. He had looked up barbers in the Yellow Pages and picked out the first one he could find in a neighbourhood on the other side of the island. He assumed it would be visible once he arrived in the neighbourhood, but he found himself in a maze of clothing shops, hawker centres and newsstands. The sun glared from above the concrete towers of flats. There was more shade under the canvas awnings of shops, expansive like large wings. They did not only block out the heat but also the light, so as Narain entered, he felt like he was walking through a dark corridor. Display shelves crammed with loaves of Gardenia bread and pandan rolls flanked the entrances to the stores. Triangles of bright red, blue and green agar-agar sat on plates in display cases. Narain stopped to buy one piece and felt the shock of cold as his teeth sank into the firm jelly.

  A set of bells made a hollow and rusty announcement as Narain arrived in the barber shop. It was empty.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ a male voice sang from the back room. ‘Sit down, please.’ Narain looked around. The seats looked too firm. The radio at the front desk blared so loudly it was possible that the barber would not hear his instructions. Narain took off his cap and waited.