By Selma Carvalho
The following is extracted from the novella Notes on a Marriage published by Speaking Tiger, 2024.
Christmas Day arrives—sounds muffled, hands mittened, necks sunk in scarves, the air crisp as a ciderapple. Mother returns from morning church service, singing softly to herself, ‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come…and heaven and nature sing.’ This being their last Christmas at the manor house, Anju has put up the Christmas decorations. The house smells of pine, its telltale needles leading to a green spired-tower, twinkling with many-coloured lights berried in the unshaved fir, drawing the eye to a dignified steeple on whose helix head rests a winged angel. Red and green baubles hang high and low, and here and there shoots of holly loop through scallops of scarlet sash. In the shallow umbrella-shade of the Christmas tree, Anju places the presents, boxes large and small, wrapped in white and ribboned in red.
Tony has invited what feels like a flood of British-Asian friends, people Father and he had known at university and their early life in London. This is the best way to honour your father, he says.
At mid-day, the guests arrive dressed in expensive silks and smart suits, bearing bottles of prosecco and boxes of Quality Street chocolates; they swarm in circles segregated by postcodes or the corporate successes of their sons and daughters. But the swarms are porous, and they glide with peculiar grace from one flock to find common cause with another, those they might know from villages back in India or a cricket team they might share allegiance with, for in such ways their disparate lives here in London are tethered to the illusion of kinship.
At times, they talk politics, loudly voicing their first-generation immigrant loyalty to Labour governments, and if some upstart with a first sighting of a whisker on their upper lip, challenges them, they are soon disarmed with stories of the racist National Front bullying them, and how they could not have endured were it not for Labour. A few English sons and daughters-in-law hover listlessly, nodding agreeably, saying polite things, perhaps even obsequious things, and though they are not obligated to make themselves likeable, they try very hard to do so with their wide smiles.
Steadily, the groups disperse and form elsewhere; they excuse themselves to fetch a glass of whiskey-soda or snatch a samosa from platters of finger-food laid out on the sideboard, or they wander into the kitchen to find Tony cooking. There, the sounds of raucous merriment rise to the ceiling amidst the smell of bay leaf, cinnamon, rosemary, and roasting meat. Gentle ribaldry follows, about how much alcohol they can hold or their wives’ nagging, kindly jibes punctuated with chuckles and raising of glasses in the air, to the accompanying chants of hear, hear. It is an unfamiliar world, an old and elegant world, Anju’s father’s world. Tony has made them revisit this world, lives transformed by years of living in Britain, turned upside down and inside out but which chug along gently.
The food is laid out in the main hall, where Anju has lit the fireplace, the flames spluttering, and slanting their pale lemon light on the faces of those assembled. The guests indicate the time is nigh for a toast. Old friend, Bal Chatterjee raises his glass to pay tribute to Nivant Kale—stressing the syllables just right—his wife, Jeanne, a beautiful and kind-hearted woman, and their daughter, Anju, good people, who do their best in life, and who had always been a source of pride to Nivant; for a moment, Anju belongs to this man, to this community, to the benign myth of the unblemished life, because something primal and indefinable claims her with its ancient, feral claws as Indian. Mother looks away avoiding Bal’s eyes, for Father would have hated a gathering such as this and called it a vulgar spectacle of exhibitionism.
The host this year, Tony, is held in much reverence, even more than usual for having cooked the meal himself. Appreciative oohs and aahs ripple through those gathered, as they sing praises not just of Tony’s culinary skills, but a short summary of his many virtues is delivered by Bal, and much is made of the fact that despite being a fine specimen of a man, and despite having many women vying for his affections, Tony had chosen the life of a ‘bachelor boy’. This solitary existence was not altogether derided, for he was after all an Asian man who had every right to a life of his choosing, and it was only good-naturedly frowned upon because he’d denied a woman and the world his progeny.
At this, Tony draws Mother, whose eyes have turned damp, to his side, and announces to the room, that Jeanne and he are going to make the most of their life, together. There is much loud clapping and a gush of good cheer all around, with ‘He’s a jolly good fellow and so say all of us,’ ringing tunelessly in their ears. Their aching arms try to raise Tony up in the air, but he lands on the floor, to the concluding shouts of ‘Hip-hip- hooray’. To watch them then, this gathering of people, is a symphony of sorts where goodwill and the good life preside. If there is disappointment dwelling amidst them, it is directed at those not present, who by their very absence have deprived them of their love and are deserving of mild rebuke.
Then Mother, still the grand dame of the manor, invites them to eat. All at once, the people scatter about the table, murmuring their delight in soft gasps, filling their plates with gravy-soaked turkey and spoonfuls of sage and onion stuffing, sugared cranberry sauce, slivers of roasted parsnips and dollops of pulpy potatoes. But Tony has taken care to be true to his own roots, and to this end, there appears a tureen of spiced pork and platters piled high with steamed rice cakes, there are bowls of chickpeas cooked in coconut, pilaf rice of cardamon and clove, a creamy fish salad with carrots and peas, and plates of marzipan iced fruitcakes, toffees and rose cookies, caramel flans, and glazed guava cheese
‘You’ve outdone yourself, Tony,’ the guests rave. The grand-children who until then had been sitting down, feet dangling, or chasing up the stairway, peering through frost-blinded windows, elbow their way to the table, and in their haste they at times stain the white tablecloth with gravies and jelly. But nobody minds this delirium unleashed by the warm glow of savouries and the happy smell of sweetmeats. After dinner, they sing songs which have followed them from India, and new songs they’ve learnt in Britain, snatches of the chorus they can still recall, and toast to everyone’s good health with a full-bodied port wine. When at last darkness descends, they fold into bands of threes and fours, kissing each other on the cheek and offering to drop off those without cars to the nearest train station. Let’s do this again soon, they say, as they leave, struggling into their woollen coats like birds with half-spread wings.
The house is sucked into silence, the smells of orange rind and roasting receding as Anju walks through empty rooms puddled with wrapping paper. There is a sense of things coming to an end, but she is not yet cloaked in the melancholia of endings, rather she is buoyed by a feeling that the evening will unfold forever and if ever it did end, then dusk will be followed by a fresh dawn, full of possibilities, for indeed there is Boxing Day to look forward to, and then New Year’s Day, and the endlessness she feels in this moment, this leap into hopefulness, she knows is what happiness is.
Selma Carvalho is the editor of the JRLJ. She is the author of Sisterhood of Swans and Notes on a Marriage, both published by Speaking Tiger.
Banner image by Mel Poole downloaded from Unsplash.com