‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.
Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.
‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.
Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.
The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.
Stop bringing those vapid women home.
I’m just trying to make friends.
Stop speaking Hindi to the children.
I’m trying to connect them to my culture.
Can’t you make something Not Spicy for a change?
You used to like my Goan curries.
Stop ringing your parent, we can’t afford calls to India.
But I’m so homesick.
As the church spire faded from view, images flashed in Nisha’s head. That sunset bar at Colva beach. The English backpacker asking why his beer was named after a bird. A snatched love affair heady with the tropical aromas of jasmine, sweat and secrets. Nishi showed Murray the Goan hinterland, a world apart from the crowded beaches and full moon parties. They feasted on local delights – peppery xacuti, feijoada with its echoes of Portugal, layered bebinca to finish. All enjoyed far from her family’s curious eyes.
Then the why nots started.
Why not take a break from her education studies in Bangalore to go campervanning around the Med. How exciting!
Why not have the baby? An unplanned pregnancy early on just meant another adventure.
Why not stay in the Dorset cottage Murray inherited from his grandmother? Just while the baby was tiny.
Why not have a second child soon? Murray was so close to his brother, and they were only 25 months apart.
Later, much later, along came the whys
Why do you need your own money? Just ask me when you want some.
Why are you so fat? Must be all those coconutty curries.
Why are you so stupid? I told you not to fold my clothes like that.
Why are you so dramatic? It’s only a bruise. It’s not like you’ve broken any bones.
‘Here we are. That’ll be eighty pounds’.
Nishi struggled out of the taxi and knocked on the door of the women’s refuge. Beyond the door with the peeling scarlet paint she imagined stepping into her new life. So much hope lay ahead, but mainly the hope of a loan for the taxi fare.
‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.
Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.
‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.
Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.
The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.
Stop bringing those vapid women home.
I’m just trying to make friends.
Stop speaking Hindi to the children.
I’m trying to connect them to my culture.
Can’t you make something Not Spicy for a change?
You used to like my Goan curries.
Stop ringing your parent, we can’t afford calls to India.
But I’m so homesick.
As the church spire faded from view, images flashed in Nisha’s head. That sunset bar at Colva beach. The English backpacker asking why his beer was named after a bird. A snatched love affair heady with the tropical aromas of jasmine, sweat and secrets. Nishi showed Murray the Goan hinterland, a world apart from the crowded beaches and full moon parties. They feasted on local delights – peppery xacuti, feijoada with its echoes of Portugal, layered bebinca to finish. All enjoyed far from her family’s curious eyes.
Then the why nots started.
Why not take a break from her education studies in Bangalore to go campervanning around the Med. How exciting!
Why not have the baby? An unplanned pregnancy early on just meant another adventure.
Why not stay in the Dorset cottage Murray inherited from his grandmother? Just while the baby was tiny.
Why not have a second child soon? Murray was so close to his brother, and they were only 25 months apart.
Later, much later, along came the whys
Why do you need your own money? Just ask me when you want some.
Why are you so fat? Must be all those coconutty curries.
Why are you so stupid? I told you not to fold my clothes like that.
Why are you so dramatic? It’s only a bruise. It’s not like you’ve broken any bones.
‘Here we are. That’ll be eighty pounds’.
Nishi struggled out of the taxi and knocked on the door of the women’s refuge. Beyond the door with the peeling scarlet paint she imagined stepping into her new life. So much hope lay ahead, but mainly the hope of a loan for the taxi fare.
