Cracking India by Bapsi Sidhwa

and a guilty conscience.

Chapter 8
    When I return from Imam Din’s village to the elevated world of chairs, tables and toilet seats, Imam Din continues his efforts to keep on the right side of Ayah. She is the greatest involuntary teacher ever. He plies her with beautifully swollen phulkas hot off the griddle, slathered with butterfat and sprinkled with brown sugar. He prepares separate and delicious vegetarian dishes for her. In fact he is, to a large extent, responsible for her spherical attractions. Where would she be without his extra servings of butter, yogurt, curry and chapatti? Wouldn’t she look like all the other stringy, half-starved women in India whom one looks at only once —and never turns around to look at twice?
    He continues to appease Adi and me with dizzying inhalations from his hookah; and chicken giblets and liver, turn by turn, on those occasions when my parents have guests and he cooks chicken.
    My parents entertain often: and when guests are expected we are fed early. Adi and I sit across the oilcloth on a small table against the wall, away from the silver cutlery and embroidered dinner cloth. Yousaf folds the starched white napkins into fancy peacocks and stuffs their props into long-stemmed crystal glasses. Flowers blaze in silver vases.
    Glitter and glory, but very little food. We know the guests will be served delectable but small portions.
    We have already shared the chicken liver, and today it is my turn for the single giblet. I place it on a side plate, saving it for the end when I can chew and suck on it for long uninterrupted moments. I notice the movement of Adi’s eyeballs under his lids as they sneak to the corners, peer at the giblet and slip back. This only enhances the quality of my possession. I am at peace—there is honor even among thieves—and the fear of reprisal. I casually place
my left hand above the plate and maneuver it to shield the giblet. I don’t wish to put undue strain on Adi’s honor.
    As it happens, the precaution is unnecessary. I raise a glass of water to my lips and Adi’s swift hand strikes. The giblet is jammed into his mouth and swallowed whole. His throat works like a boa constrictor’s and his face turns red. I grab at his mouth and he opens it wide, saying “Aaaaaa!”
    There is nothing left to retrieve.
    What hurts me most is him swallowing my giblet like a pill. Not even tasting it. It is an affront to my sense of fair play. I grab his hair and let out a blood-curdling shriek that brings Mother rushing from the drawing room and Yousaf, Imam Din and Ayah from the kitchen.
    Mother spanks Adi, and Adi, cursing and fighting back, is picked up by Yousaf and spirited away into the darkness outside.
    Ayah carries me screaming into the kitchen and proceeds to splash my face at the sink. Imam Din pops a chicken heart into my mouth. Yousaf carries Adi back to the kitchen. Adi’s mouth is working. It too has had something popped into it. I wonder what? An uneasy truce is contemplated as we scrutinize each other’s ruminating mouths. A short while later when everyone is busy preparing dinner we slip unobserved beneath the dinner table, friends again.
    We have done this innumerable times. One would imagine that someone might think to look under the table and chase us away before dinner is served.
    The table is supported by stands of polished wood. The stands are held to by a beam which runs six inches above the floor. We roost quietly on the beam in cloth-screened twilight, amidst a display of trouser cuffs, sari borders, ankles, shoes and a medley of fragrance.
    Rosy and Peter’s parents are present: we can tell by their legs. His are crossed at the ankles, smell frankly of cow dung and are prone to shake in and out at the knees. Hers are planted solidly side by side beneath her sari. Peter’s father is a turbaned and bearded Sikh. He is not permitted to cut his hair or shave—not even the hair of his