The Worlds Within Her by Neil Bissoondath Page A

wistfully, as of something lost, his tone betrays no pain, no plea for consolation.
    â€œWhat would you like me to call you?” Yasmin says.
    He thinks for a moment. “You ask Penny the same question?”
    She nods.
    â€œAnd she say?”
    â€œPenny.”
    â€œWell, it’d be nice if you call me uncle, but I guess Cyril is probably the best idea. Or Manager.”
    â€œI prefer Cyril.”
    â€œCyril, then.” He smiles shyly at her and runs his hand — a small, soft hand — along his bare pate, as if brushing flat his extinct hair. His eyes squint behind the thick lenses of his glasses, the right eyeball dancing briefly off-centre.
    Yasmin returns the smile but looks away from the unsettling eyeball: to the back of the house and its large second-floor balcony supported by two concrete pillars; to the roof of galvanized iron, red with rust; to the iron pole rusted bronze that rises from one corner of the roof in support of a television antenna. To the land sloping away to the fence — the only thing with the gleam of newness — and beyond it the sudden ending of the land at water.
    Yasmin says, “What are you manager of?”
    â€œWas. The estate, when there was one. And Ram’s campaigns.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œOh, I try to keep things together, make sure they don’t fall apart too much.” He pauses, as if in thought. “Is not too much, really. You play the hand you’re dealt. You know.”
    Yasmin lets her gaze wander across the bay. “It’s a lovely view.”
    â€œIt is?” He laughs quietly, as if in embarrassment. “Guess when you see something every day you stop seeing it for what it is.” His gaze follows Yasmin’s, and after a moment he says, “Yes, is a lovely view. Shakti always liked it. Is too bad she never see it again. I was in two minds, you know, about you two leaving, back then.”
    â€œMom always said she chose to leave because it would have been dangerous for us to stay.”
    â€œSome people thought so.”
    â€œYou didn’t?”
    â€œWas hard to tell. Maybe yes, maybe no. So I opt for prudence, nuh. The Canadians were very accommodating. More than the British. Hardly surprising. Things moved fast.”
    â€œI’ve always wondered why my mom didn’t seem to have much in the way of mementoes. Photos, stuff like that.”
    â€œI think she jus’ took a couple o’ little things with her. Couldn’ tell you what, though. After all, as you well know, it wasn’ suppose to be forever.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œShe didn’ tell you? You were suppose to stay in Canada for a few months, till things settled down, nuh. Then come back quietly. But when it was time, Shakti said she wasn’ ready, she needed a little more time, and a little more time. Always a little more time. And is only now she come back, with you.” He glances at her — in disbelief, in discomfort. “She never tell you any o’ this?”
    Yasmin shakes her head. “Not a word.” And the implication of possibility not chosen causes her heart to race in bewilderment.
    After a moment, he takes her by the arm, a touch as light as air. “Come, chil’,” he says. “Let’s go inside. Penny must be ready.”
    And it is only because of the gentleness of his manner that Yasmin allows herself to be led.
    Penny is sitting in the porch when they return. She gestures Yasmin to an easy chair. “You enjoy your little walk?”
    â€œIt’s a lovely place. So peaceful.”
    On a round brass table, in the centre, is a silver platter heaped with Indian sweets both familiar and unfamiliar. Yasmin recognizes the
kurma,
the golden
jilebi
— which she has always thought of as honey-drenched pretzels — and the white rectangles of
laddoo.
But she doesn’t know the large yellow balls, or the smaller fried ones.
    Cyril,