tongue tied
When I was small, I lost my voice, do not be mistaken, I could speak, I just could not talk. When asked to describe my day at school, my lunch in the park with my family, my day at the beach? I would tear the pen from your hand and make you feel the depth and breadth of everything I experienced and more but if asked to open my mouth the stories gave way to ear-splitting silence.
Those that loved me encouraged me and like some voiceless minstrel, my wordless stories kept those in my company captive and rapt.
Those that loved me most were my parents. Although the distance between one another had become one of polite chasm; they were unstoppable in their devotion to me and I was infatuated with them. It seemed that staying together for the sake of the children never worked so well.
My mother was Indian, a soft-spoken Goan Catholic with amber eyes and hair in inky black waterfalls. I would spend hours with it coiled around my fingers, plucking out grey hairs for fifty pence and her delight. It was not altogether lucrative but certainly enjoyable work because she would laugh as I mouthed a cheer each time I released one holding it up to the window, watching the sunlight turn it silver.
My West African father, was a huge French-speaking bear of a man whose voice was chocolaty even when angry. His skin was the colour of newly hewn coal. As a child, I had always thought his eyes were violet but it’s just that they were so dark brown they became oily, in summer when he was happiest? They glinted like wet slate.
From this unlikely and curious mix of continents, came me.
I was not large or small, I was not wide or thin I was not happy or sad I was neither plain nor beautiful, I vaguely resembled mother and vaguely resembled father.
I was the most middle of children and yet the eldest of three.
My average was so unremarkable that it evolved into a blessing, invisible to almost everyone, I hardly caught the eye. However after I lost the power of speech, I became more interesting. There were those who thought, that I lingered hushed because of new attention, but the truth was I could no sooner speak than pilot an aeroplane; the words having tumbled freely before now backed up in my throat like a car crash.
You must take her to see someone, a doctor, a specialist, my family judged my mother as she held my head to her thigh but my father stood his ground; they will take her from me, we will deal with it our own way.
So my mother bought me ornate pens and notebooks which she strung into my school bag on a long cord so I would not lose them and I ritually presented the filled pages to her in exchange for more books and when the pens ran dry she replaced them, each time wishing I’d ask out loud.
Every night my father divided up the pages of my books with penciled compartments; ‘for your mother’, ’for your father, ‘for your sister, ’ for your brother, ‘for your teacher’ and ‘for someone you don’t know’, what he expected my friends to do, I never asked. Maybe, he thought I would now no longer have any.
All the time, while he worked on my little journals, he stared at me, willing me to call to him before returning to his lines concentrating hard with his tongue sticking out like a child engrossed in a puzzle.
He longed for me to misbehave, yet I never rewarded him. Instead, no one ever told me to be quiet, like the others because I was already quiet. No one told me to eat slowly, as I never spoke with my mouth full, I would not be in danger of choking and was viewed as having impeccable table manners.
I sat peacefully in class and not distracted by gossip; I performed well and easily passed exams. Loved by Teachers who commented on my lively accounts, wonderful illustrations and beguiling descriptions.
Soon, years were folded away like unused blankets and the time had come for decisions.
My mother sifted through twelve years of my little scribbling, convinced I should be a writer. My father ever more pragmatic meant for me to be an architect; who needs to speak to build, she has spent years writing. He then gathered up all my notebooks and put them in a box. My mother cried and nodded. While I slipped unheard into university.
My life soundless life crept by. I had changed my major by the end of the first year but as I began writing, my father stopped calling, although he sent long missives which belied how adamant he was at my wasting my time with books. My graduation had been blissfully quiet and I decided to move even further away from my parents for postgraduate study. Term after mute term flew by and I enjoyed tapping away in closed mouthed achievement. No one approached me and I would have been content to continue like that for the rest of my time there.
However, in the middle of my second year among my solitude and cigarettes, I saw a student bent over a real typewriter. The click-clacking made my mouth water the carriage return played over in my head and I began timing my visits to coincide with her. Soon I persuaded her to share her research on reviving long departed languages. She seemed resolutely untroubled by my unspoken existence. We fell in love and although I had not spoken in years, it was only then I truly understood speechlessness.
Her tongue danced behind my teeth and dislodged a million syllables all dusty and scratchy. For the first time since I was a little girl, I spoke. I told her what I wanted for the two of us we spent long nights, making plans, trading pasts and offering futures. We were no different than any other new couple it felt sublime.
Then as suddenly as it was perfect it was flawed. I began to notice that something was missing. First, there were three chapters returned by my supervisor, with scathing criticism, my usual formality in jeopardy and so close to writing up. I showed the comments to my lover these are normal they want you to shine my love, it's fine why not follow their suggestions? she laughed, unperturbed but I was obsessed by their observations and became a brooding seething loudmouth. My tutors commented on a lack of commitment, my phrases were bland and finally my pages blank.
Where I had covered my lover in gratitude, I now blamed her for my verbal paralysis, believing she had made me dull with her love. I sought to break her heart at every turn making it impossible for her to want me and succeeding one autumn, she left me, speaking in tears.
Like children in the playground, her friends would come to me taunting me with their stories of how she was so much better off without me, which, because I agreed, they would then try other tacks, telling me I had fabricated my muteness and unable to sustain the lie I had broken it off between us. They took turns at calling me in the middle of the night saying she had found someone else. I admired her friends’ loyalty but as the months drew on my capacity to listen eroded and blocked out their derision. Then when what small pleasure they received in avenging her dwindled and they, at last, left me alone. One night, perhaps a little drunk, I spoke to my mother in desperation. She tried to comfort me but then could not stop herself from asking, baba, she gave you back your voice and you gave her away? There was a scold behind her question. I lay awake and a familiar lump swelled in my throat as my skin crumpled with longing.
Time does not wait for revelation. Then, realising I had not seen my father for a year, my sister called to tell me he had died. I had never expected him to be someone who would not be there anymore. I had been so self-absorbed that I had missed him slipping away forever. When I arrived home my mother stood in the doorway, having given up cigarettes long ago her hands were idle. She reached to groom and fuss.
At the funeral, my speech rasped and gurgled. My brother frowned his recognition, and my mother rose from her chair and moved steadily toward me to wipe my tears with her thumbs and slowly smooth my hair while I tried to make myself heard.
Later, she stood by the freshly turned earth. Her hands cradled my fathers Tiffin wrapped in the faded bandana he had often worn when decorating or working on one of his bad cars. She handed them to me to place on the coffin. That was when I first felt the familiar swelling lump in my throat. By evening it had become a wedge, straining in my mouth, freezing my jaw shut. I knew what was happening and in a fit of selfishness, I made my escape.
Night passed. I watched myself wash in the mirror my eyes still half closed with swelling redness. I considered visiting the doctor, but I know they would not find anything wrong. Even though the pain inside my ears felt like molten needles and my tongue felt like it had fused to my palate. I returned to the piled up sheets. At least there I could be calm. I may even sleep.
It was the knock at the door startled my self-pity and I shuffled out of my bed and went to answer. She stood arms crossed. Why had she come, when all I had been was hateful?
She told me how she had heard about my father, from my mother who had called her to say I had disappeared from the funeral. she bent her face to my ear and whispered her conditions; I bowed my head like an obedient puppy, she sat down and looked at the ceiling, I took the cue, I went for a shower and kept the door ajar to keep watch on her decision to stay.
As the water heated up, I could hear her sing in what used to be our kitchen and the clink of cutlery and her drumming fingers waiting for the kettle. My mouth loosened, my tongue fell away from my teeth.
I stepped out and sat in a chair opposite keeping my distance as she watched me twitching, crossing and uncrossing my legs, searching for words. At last in a sort of half irritation half compassion, she motioned for me to come to her, she allowed me a place next to her and as if to encourage me she placed her hand over my thigh while sipping her tea and nodded for me to start.
"There is a saying that the children of lovers are orphans. Except we never felt neglected due to our parents love for each other. Even later when the distance between them became agony they never let us suffer for the indifference they felt towards one another. I do remember their love not being accepted this was a time when their marriage was seen as one of those ‘mixed marriages’ so frowned upon, whole communities closed against and families took years to open their homes. I did not know what mixed marriage meant. As a child mixing anything made me think of baking which only sounded good to me and I did not know why adults spoke about it in such hushed tones, but I did know; my grandparents did not see me until I was five, that white people called my parents names; Africans spat at them and crossed the street, Indians called my mother a whore and slapped her in the face. They slapped her in the face even when she was walking me to school my hand curled in hers whilst she was carrying my sister on her hip who would always start to cry although my mother never did she just went about her business meeting the few friends she managed to make. Quickly stubbing her cigarette out by the school gates where she’d meet me every day until a while later, when pregnant with my brother she trusted me to walk my sister home.
I had always seen my parents kiss and they held hands even when my father was driving they seemed so happy which made us happy. But something was coming that haunted those times and strained conversations among the grown-ups; they said work was sparse, everyone around us started losing their jobs, and like the others, my father was not immune.
When soon he too became worthless he knew he had to make some money. He did anything for cash in hand so as we would not feel their desperation. If they fought we did not see it. Although there were times I knew they had been up talking all night, their movements slow with tiredness, but most times we would be too innocent to notice, that whilst we always had chicken on Sunday they were eating toast and tea or worse going without, telling us they’d already had most delicious meal and couldn’t eat another bite. We believed them because we wanted to but partly, because they wanted us to.
The reality was, they struggled and with those around disowning them, their already bad situation became worse with fewer than others to turn to my father started borrowing more and more money until what little work my father found could not cover what he owed. My mother did a few days in shops but she hated leaving us and started blaming my father for the situation they were in. Looking back it was her guilt, which led to her losing faith in my father and into doing something about the situation herself.
Even having half an Asian family meant I seem to have hundreds of aunties and uncles. It was one such uncle that one day during the holidays my mother pleaded with to help us out. She asked that we promised not to tell, not our father, not anyone. We did not really know what we were promising not to do but we agreed anyway she was our mother and she knew her fan base was loyal. It did not matter, she’d got the money we so badly needed and she would just tell our father she’d worked extra. They would be fine. She would pay it back when my father got a real job.
The thing with secret agreements is that because no one knows about them then no one can help you when they unravel, which they invariably do, precisely because they are so covert and someone else always has the power to change the agreement to suit themselves.
In the meantime, my father was so busy looking for a job, he found one. unfortunately, although it would pay him enough money to settle his debts and plus a little more, it meant he would have to leave us for a few months and my parents had never been apart. How would he explain to this her? Better not to tell her. She would talk him out if it and it would be an easy task he did not want to be away from us. And there they were secrets, both. We three in the middle.
When I wanted to be alone, I stayed in the cupboard under the stairs with my nose in my parent's coats, comforted by the scent of them. On one such hiding day, there was a knock at the door and my mother shouted for me or my sister to answer it but we were occupied at our respective games and did not see Uncle come in. He spoke to my mother I could hear her voice, shrill and agitated, so I opened the door enough to decipher the words circling around the kitchen.
I could hear him trying to placate her. But she was having none of it; I can’t get you the money by next Tuesday, you know how it is with us, you told me this was ok with you, no problem, take your time, you said, we’re the same you said, brother and sister, you said, what brother would do this?
I heard his pressure: things are different now, I need the money back, Didi, to get my son a car, you know, what these young ones are like needing to get about, very headstrong, we don’t want him to look bad In front of his goray friends, ha? She softened a little ok yes she said I understand but Tuesday’s too soon I can’t do it then, but as she spoke Uncle was gripping her arm, I narrowed my eyes, this did not look like being friends, he gritted his teeth and repeated more deliberately, you’ll have it here for Tuesday, he said, I was not sure that he should be holding her that way and as she nodded she glanced sideways, I think she knew I was in amongst the coats. I had never seen her look scared of anyone but her face was marked with fear for hours after he left, leaving the door open behind him.
I came out from my hiding place and walked passed her, my head down. I knew she did not want me telling my father and I knew I would not but she still kissed the tacit agreement to my forehead.
Later when my parents were in the kitchen and I could hear they were being sweet to each other it made me relax and forget the horrible Uncle. My mother smiled broadly when she left and went upstairs and my father beckoned me he held me very close and told me he had to go away somewhere but that when he came back it would all be good.
However the next few days were strange my father said things to my mother he had not said before asking her about a man that his friends had seen coming to the house I did not know what he meant but it upset my mother greatly and I wanted to say that it was just Knox Street Uncle, but my mother's face told me I shouldn’t. My mother told her friends that my father was being distant which was odd because he always seemed to be around. Everything they said began to confuse me but I also had every faith it would work out.
One evening I ran into the living room and shouted out to my father asking aloud whether he was still going away he rose to his full height and grabbed me to him and scowled. Do not say anything about that do not talk about that and I did not want you saying anything to your mama you understand me, I looked up and nodded I felt like crying but did not, he knelt down contrite at his reaction bebe it’s just that it’s a surprise we cannot spoil the surprise no? I nodded and he gave me some sweets that tasted of almonds and each bite emptied my mind of his words and my attentions turned to my sister fighting me over the packet whilst my mother cooked some food and things were normal again.
The next day I was playing in the street and Knox Street Uncle turned up. My mother opened the door and I stopped what I was doing and followed him into the house and ducked into my hiding place making sure the door was ajar so I could hear what was being said.
So you have my money? You know I have not I need more time. She shrugged. There is no more time, he grimaced.
What do you expect me to do? She half pleaded.
The Uncle moved very close and put his hand in my mother’s hair just like I did, but I knew he wasn’t playing nicely with it. Well, maybe there are other ways you could write this off or do you save it all for that bhandava of yours? Before he finished his words my mother had slapped him he started shouting words in the language I knew my mother spoke but I had not yet learned well enough and then he put one of his hands on her throat, I could see he was squeezing very hard, my mother put her hands on the work surface behind her to stop herself from falling. Then in English, he called out; You fucking whore, do you think this is funny? Do you know how many desperate people there are? you can’t give it away to your own kind for money but you gave it every night to some kala chutiya for nothing? He began shaking her and would not stop so I ran toward him and put his free hand in my mouth. I bit down on his palm with all my strength so hard that I felt his blood on my tongue. He screamed at my mother; get your little bastard off me, but my jaw was locked around the base of his little finger. When he had let her go, I loosened my grip of my own accord. I saw him bring his hand to his chest. I stood next to my mother. She raised her eyebrows and motioned to the door, he staggered out, defiantly announcing that he would be back for what was his and she had better be ready with the money.
My mother ran to the door and slammed it and I stood there looking at her. I think we need to tell daddy now I said quietly but she tried to reassure me that Uncle had got what he needed and would not be coming back although her eyes said something different, as she looked away and I knew she thought what I had said was true.
That evening, the kitchen door was shut. The three of us crouched on the landing straining to hear what was being said. My father repeated that his friends had seen some man in our house, my mother said that wasn’t it enough that everyone thought they had the right to call her a whore that now her own husband thought she was. My father started crying saying he did not know what to think when suddenly they had all this money but she had not been doing any work because he had asked at the shop. My mother asked did he expect that we should starve, she did what he should have been doing the volume was unbearable. I knew I had the answers and ran into the kitchen to tell him all about Knox Street Uncle, to tell her father was going away to get what we need but not to worry, because of how good it would be when he came back, but my parents both stared at me. My father took my arm and lead me back out and closed the door.
We took ourselves to bed that night, something we had not done before.
Next morning. I noticed my father’s Tiffin was still on the dining table with his flask of tea but my father was not there. My mother had told him everything but he used it as an excuse to leave without telling her. My parents had told me that nothing bad comes from telling the truth, but my mother had told my father the truth and it had made him leave us. It was my fault. I’d told them to tell each other and because of me, he hated us.
My mother helped me make my bed. She asked me why I had not told her what my father had planned. I said he had told me not to say anything. She smiled weakly and held me to her but I could feel her tears in my hair.
My father was gone for over a week and in those days there were no cell phones to rely on and pick out your movements so that loved ones feel secure. Our telephone had been disconnected for months now and then two weeks became four and my mother became desolate she began to look hollow-eyed with lack of sleep she had taken to being on the sofa not wanting the bed without him and wanting to be downstairs when my father came back.
Somehow I knew this was all down to me. My parents had been so happy and I had made my mother tell her secret and now she was the most sad I had ever seen her she did not rest she did not eat and when those four weeks became eight she was a shuffling thin ghost and no longer saw us and then she stopped counting the weeks and now she did not have the strength to fight off Knox Street Uncle when he again returned grasping and touching and saying things he should not because he thought he could.
He poured himself a drink and sat himself sat in my father’s big chair and scoffed; They can’t be trusted Didi you know they are not like us what you need is your own people now, its too late for your children, but you should think about yourself, people talk, you here, no husband. I watched my mother pale, grey and silent. I sat on the floor at her feet watching him stroke that scar I’d given him.
It was then I heard my father’s voice as deep and chocolaty as ever. The three of us squealed in delight. Forgive me please he says out loud. my mother put her head in her hands in disbelief as he came whistling through the house calling out to us; hey, hey my darlings everything is good now and my angel, I have the money for that thieving dog, where are you all my loves he broke off on coming into the living room, eyes boiling over, what are you doing here?
Uncle jumped up; ha-ha we thought you were dead no harm done my brother. My father moved toward my mother and looked at her with a question I knew was only between them. She slipped her hand in his as he turned to the intruder; I am not your brother and this is not your sister. The uncle sneered You think you are better than everyone else? In the end she came to us for help while you did nothing! My father dropped my mother's hand and reached inside his coat and brought out a roll of noted money. He rifled through it counting, then he slowly stepped forward and took Uncle by the wrist; this is yours he growled you take it and go and leave us alone now.
The Uncle put his hands up and smiled his relish; Oh no, your wife took care of that, we are paid in full, I’m sure she’ll tell you, later, ha? You think she didn’t enjoy herself just now before you came in, ask her, she did not complain.’
My father knocked the uncle to the floor and kicked him my mother ran toward us but she need not have bothered we had already scattered.
My father’s howling reproach was too loud for me to hear the words even if I had not already covered my ears. I saw my father bring down something over Uncle’s head, to this day I do not know what. But when the money flew up, some of it was red. I saw my father drag the Uncle along the floor by his jacket and push him out the door and throw the red money after him.
My mother cowered in the corner of the living room tears streaming.
It was quiet and I could take my hands from my ears. He came to find me, he sat outside my cupboard and whispered my name and said hey little one come out for daddy I said it would be good when I came back there is nothing wrong, now he has gone. I stumbled out and fell into his lap he stood up and steadying me I saw blood on his hand, tell me what happened he asked. I looked at him. Bebe its ok he said just tell the truth and in that instant, I remembered what the truth had done I remembered that he had gone away because of the truth. No. not saying anything at all was the best thing I could do.
My ears ached, and my tongue felt like it was swollen from a sting. My father picked me up and carried me upstairs and over his shoulder, I saw my mother say she loved me. Waking up to the sunshine, we all went out together. Each time my father and I were alone, he would ask me what happened, but I never told him. For a few weeks after he still asked. Asked me every day but I did not speak, and when my voice dropped from existence altogether, my father gave up asking. It was not long before my parents gave up talking to each other and although I tried to make them happy with my silent stories, but nothing was ever the same again.”
My story was done. I watched for some sign I had given what was needed. She stood up, she walked over to the window then turned to look at me
“It's a sunny day she said, smiling, get dressed let's go out.”