Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens by Shankari Chandran

Author:Shankari Chandran [Shankari Chandran]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ultimo Press
Published: 2021-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

Maya was both terrified and relieved when Zakhir’s mother, Shazia Ali, finally arrived at the Sriskandarajahs’ door, dressed in a tailored skirt suit she later learned was Chanel, bought in Paris that year by Mrs Ali personally, not through a relative. It was from the 1977 Spring Collection, which apparently meant something.

Mrs Ali did not cross the threshold into Maya’s small house. She stood at the doorway and her eyes drifted inside. Maya flushed red as the woman’s gaze took in the Sriskandarajahs’ modest furniture, recycled from other family members, the towers of books, scrolls of maps and dusty relics that her father had salvaged from his travels. She lifted her chin defiantly. They were who they were.

Mrs Ali asked only one question: ‘Will you leave him?’

Maya had anticipated the moment and she understood that she must stand her ground. She would not be bullied into sacrificing what she wanted.

‘I will not. But if he leaves me, I will let him go.’

Mrs Ali raised her hand, fine-boned and armed with heavy rings. Maya braced herself in anticipation. That engagement ring was going to hurt. She closed her eyes but the blow never came.

Her father was at her side.

‘Your son’s heart knows the way. Let him run in that direction.’

‘Rumi was an idiot. You think it is his heart—’

‘Don’t belittle yourself as a mother or your son as a man.’

‘Or me as a human,’ Maya said, her face ablaze at the woman’s implication.

Her father nodded. ‘It’s time for us to accept that this marriage will happen with or without our blessings. Your son wasn’t my first pick either, don’t forget that. He’s an archaeological architect, for God’s sake, and not even a useful one like that Geoffrey Bawa. Unless you’re telling me he’s going to give up the study of temple architecture and sell renovated old houses to gin-soaked expatriates for a small fortune instead?’ He paused. ‘No, I didn’t think so. But life is a balance of holding on and letting go. I am letting her go so I can hold onto her and our future grandchildren.’

At the mention of the word grandchildren, a strangled cry escaped Mrs Ali’s lips. She shook her head and backed away, then turned and strode towards her car. Her driver was having a smoke, leaning on the glossy Bentley. He dropped the cigarette abruptly.

‘When did you start reading Rumi, let alone quoting him?’ Maya asked. Her father was a learned man but he favoured the Tamil poets, not the Sufi ones.

‘Since I discovered my grandchildren might be praying in Arabic as well as Tamil. She’s right about one thing. Rumi was an idiot. That kind of optimism can only come from drugs.’

Maya laughed and held her father tight.

‘Don’t mistake me, mahal. I’m worried. Your life will be hard. You will never be without family. But he will be lost. He will be the branch of the tree cut from the body. It will wither and die. All of us, we are connected, a part of the whole that gave us nourishment.

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