“Ever heard of a bee being hospitalized for having too much honey?” she responded.
It was her easygoing nature that encouraged Rajan to share his secrets, despite the fact that she said little about herself and her mysterious locked suitcases. But Rajan felt no qualms about sharing his story. He briefly told her about his search for her, avoiding the embarrassing parts.
“You are a cow, all right,” she swooned. “What you need is a fine milking of the foolishness in you.”
Rajan laughed along with her, and then continued telling her about his life, too fearful that asking questions about hers would drive her away. So he told her about his grandfather Babu and grandmother Fatima, his father Rashid, who had gone to study in England and stayed, his mother Amina eventually joining him.
“He left at the height of the emergency, when I was about ten,” Rajan said of his father. “Now I’m twice as old.”
“Do you miss him?”
Rajan paused and looked at Mariam. “You are the first person to ask me that,” he sighed. “It’s been ten years of solitude. And all Grandpa says when I inquire about my father is: We came in dhows to build the rail, and left in planes.”
“Do you miss him?” Mariam pursued after a brief silence.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged a naked shoulder. “There are times,” he went on after a moment, “that I wonder how my life would have turned out if he had been around.”
Mariam wrapped her arms around him. “You shall be fine,” she assured in a tone that suggested she was speaking to a child. “We shall be fine . . .”
* * *
It was on their fourth day together that Rajan took her back to the Jakaranda and composed a song for her. Just like that, or as locals would say, Hau hau. Later that night, as he sought to refine the lines, infusing words from local languages, Mariam asked where he’d learned Kikuyu, which was spoken widely across Nakuru but seldom used by Indians. So Rajan told her about the journey that he had taken three years earlier, when he’d turned eighteen.
“I thought it was a joke,” Rajan confessed. “My grandfather was making his usual rail jokes, only this time he said he and I would be taking a road trip the following morning. We came in dhows to lay the rail, so let’s hit the road, he told all of us.”
Babu had surveyed the table where the two dozen friends and family members had assembled to celebrate Rajan’s milestone and said: “This country has been generous to us. It’s a decent thing to return the favor.” He then paused and looked in Rajan’s direction. “I’m passing the baton on to this young man. Now that he’s come of age, it’s his turn to go see the world . . .”
That’s where Babu left it and Rajan thought no further about the issue. But the following morning, he was informed that Babu was waiting, ready to embark on a journey to serve his country. Initially, Rajan thought Babu was bluffing—until he got to the driveway where Murage, the family “boy,” as Fatima liked to call him, was revving the engine.
“What’s going on?” Rajan asked. “Where are we going?”
“No need to argue, young man,” Babu replied calmly. “We’ll talk on our way to Ndundori. You are going to become a fine teacher.”
“Where, when, why?” Rajan was frantic as Murage pushed him into the car.
Once inside the vehicle, Babu said calmly: “If American children can travel halfway across the world to serve as volunteers, what’s the excuse for an Indian boy wasting his youth in funny occupations like producing sounds imitating the train?”
“I felt like I was being banished from the land,” Rajan told Mariam that day. “I was angry at my grandfather. Angry that I had to leave all my friends without a proper farewell. Angry that I was being forced into serving my country as a teacher in some far-off location.”
With the emergency laws still in place, the land was desolate and they encountered very few people along the way, most of them security agents—middle-aged men in khaki shorts, their long, ashy legs resembling marabou storks, their homemade guns lethal beaks.
When they reached Ndundori, Babu directed Murage toward a dirt road that led to a modest one-story wooden house ringed by eucalyptus trees. It was eerily silent and Rajan asked, with panic in his voice, if this was the school he’d be teaching at.
Babu smiled and explained, “This is the home of the Karims. They have a small business here. When Indians crave homemade roti or samosa or biryani, this is where they come. So you will be lucky to eat home-cooked meals every day.”
Rajan said nothing, so Babu went on: “I want you to know my friend and his family. You know the story of our dhow being shipwrecked on our way here to build the railroad. Karim was on that dhow. These are good people. We were like family when we were young . . . Yes, I was once young,” Babu chuckled. “And Karim has a granddaughter just about your age. Actually, you two knew each other when you were smaller.”
Rajan shrugged and said nothing. This was too much information. In any case, why should he care about an Indian family in the middle of nowhere? All he needed was to return home and carry on with his life.
No sooner had the engine turned off than a little balding man emerged, with a big smile that Rajan found irritating.
“Karim, my good man,” Babu greeted. They embraced, then paused to examine each other.
“You don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you,” Karim said. “The gods have been kind to you.”
“We are not complaining,” Babu replied. “You are looking hale.” He glanced across the compound; it hadn’t changed much over the past few decades.
“And this must be Mr. Rajan,” Karim enthused. “You know, I first saw you when you were like this.” He bridged his open palms as if rocking a baby in his arms. “Now you are taller than me,” he added, standing beside Rajan to compare heights.
Rajan said nothing.
Two tiny windows creaked open simultaneously, as Karim’s chubby-faced wife Abdia appeared. Upstairs, Leila, their granddaughter, peeked through the lace curtains to spy on the goings-on below. Instantly, Rajan took a dislike to them. He vowed to himself to keep away from these nosy women.
Babu waved at the woman in the duka.
“Abdia, come greet our guests,” Karim called out to his wife. “You too, Leila,” he waved to his granddaughter, whose silhouette was visible through the curtains.
As the two women made their way toward the men, Rajan shuffled uncomfortably. Karim and Babu spoke in Punjabi, which Rajan barely understood. Abdia joined in the conversation. Murage made for the woods to pass water, leaving Rajan and Leila standing awkwardly, eyeing each other suspiciously.
“Get to know each other,” Abdia pressed. “Leila, ask him where he goes to school.”
Leila did as told, but Rajan answered gruffly, “I don’t!”
“You don’t go to school?”
“No!”
