THE TIES THAT BIND
Praba Moodley
KWELA BOOKS
For my three lovely nieces:
Divanya, Sayushka and Yashria
and nephew:
Kershin
“Do not brood over your past mistakes and failures as this will only fill your mind with grief, regret and depression. Do not repeat them in future.” – Swami Sivananda
PROLOGUE
I dreamed the dream again.
Red T-shirt loomed over me, an ugly sneer on a face filled with hatred.
He is coming to get you and this time there is no escaping.
His eyes were alive with unresolved anger. As he reached out to me I caught the metallic smell which reminded me of my father before he bathed after a hard day’s work.
Red T-shirt lifted my hands so that I could see the evidence and horror filled every cell in my body.
I screamed the scream of nightmares and my whimpers of terror brought me back to reality.
Drenched with fear, my eyes searched the moonlit bedroom.
He was not real, not any more. He was not of this world now.
But would the nightmare ever end?
CHAPTER ONE
2003
I’m part of a trio who are the custodians of a secret.
Right now I am terrified that this albatross we have been carrying around for over a decade is about to be exposed and will alter our lives and those of our loved ones for ever. My eyes fill with tears and I allow them to fall as I think back on my life and how different it would have been if only we had not gone away that weekend to celebrate friendship and new beginnings.
I’ve dealt with love, courtship, marriage, childbirth and, you can guess, yes, divorce and death, like so many women. I’m not the first to have run the gauntlet of the emotions associated with these experiences and I most certainly won’t be the last. However, I have done something so awful that it sometimes feels like a dream, and yet I am haunted by the reality of my actions.
Before judgement is passed on any aspect of my life, and more especially on this albatross, get to know me, to understand me, and why I had to do what I did and then you can decide if you would have acted in a similar manner or if you are a better human being than I am.
I’m no knock-out beauty but I am genetically blessed with height, inherited from my long, lean and graceful father, and an oval face with classically high cheekbones from my mother’s side of the family. I’ve discovered that caring, open-hearted women are not afraid to mention that there is a certain sadness lurking in my almond-shaped eyes while men say that it is impossible to believe that I’m the mother of three potentially very hunky sons. When I gaze at my reflection in the mirror I see eyes that are like soft, dark chocolate. I’m thankful the hints of bitterness have gone now, although I cannot see the sadness that people mention. Maybe I don’t want to. What I sometimes recognise is a glimpse of fear – but I digress.
I have, dark well-shaped eyebrows which I maintain by regular threading, which is an ancient art of hair removal using a cotton thread. I have a fondness for the unknown inventor of false eyelashes. I’m sure that one of my envious siblings must have plucked out my eyelashes when I was an infant. I fear I will have none left by the time I die and will be a sight to behold in an open casket. I have therefore requested a private viewing, only for my nearest and dearest. However, I have forewarned my two best friends and told them where I have my secret stash of false eyelashes, should some bright spark of a sibling not pay heed to my request.
I’ve inherited my paternal grandmother’s Cupid’s bow-shaped full lips, which I have passed on to my boys. Fortunately, I am almost pimple-free now but I went through my teenage years with the dreaded monthly zits. I try my best to keep my olive complexion clear by using my mum’s home-made sandalwood and rosewater paste. I’m into low maintenance because of financial constraints, like most single mothers. I try to minimise costs wherever possible because I want to be able to do the best for my boys. The advice my maternal grandmother passed on was the art of mixing the expensive with the not so expensive and carrying it off like a lady. She ensured all her grandchildren received a weekly dose of simple coconut oil to keep our hair shiny, smooth and silky, and in my teens and twenties I proudly wore my tresses below my waist.
Then I grew up and found myself a man to take care of my hair. I have not changed my hairdresser since the D-word. He is just about the only man who has not been the target of my anger and bitterness. I feel safe with him. He is bald, portly and a magician with a pair of scissors. He worked his way into my heart by calling me his “supermodel” and he keeps a portfolio of my hairstyles for his clients to copy.
I try to wear the trendiest of clothes and accessories and compliments on my youthful looks no longer surprise me, although I slipped quietly into my fortieth decade three years ago. When women ask where I buy my clothes I don’t tell them my credit cards are maxed to the hilt or that I discovered a gem of a shop. If one follows a tiny lane with cobblestone paving at the upper end of Church Street (I have not yet got used to all the street name changes) one will arrive at a quaint and tiny antique shop behind a set of stunning stained glass windows and doors. There is a charming café that reminds me of Paris (not that I’ve been there) where lovers rendezvous for lunch. This store sells fashionable “hand me down” attire which I like to fantasise was once owned by royalty, then auctioned off to raise funds for charity and, when hard times hit, their socialite owners secretly sold them off. I am fortunate in that I have a genius of an older sibling who can turn a curtain into an outfit that would outshine even Scarlett O’Hara’s creation.
Although of Indian descent, I am now proudly South African. I was born in a town everyone fondly – or maybe not so fondly – refers to as Sleepy Hollow. I’m thrilled that Pietermaritzburg has finally found a place in our history. For this, credit must be given to Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi who as a young lawyer on his journey through the Midlands was, in Pietermaritzburg, thrown out of the train he was travelling on for refusing to give up his first-class seat and move to a third-class seat. Today, the city honours the revered Mahatma with a statue in the city centre in commemoration of his brave human rights stance.
As the mother of three gorgeous sons, I am told by the nubile young girls who breeze in and out of their lives that they envy my calmness, slenderness and suppleness.
“It’s the yoga, the meditation and the art of breathing correctly,” I tell them, but the fact is that I’ve also let go of the anger and bitterness that once polluted my mind, body and soul.
I don’t mention the nightmares, though.
Still, I am in no hurry to have a daughter-in-law or to be a grandmother, so I try not to develop an emotional bond with these teenage girls. They think that by sweet-talking me they might wangle an early marriage proposal from my boys when they reach their twenties. I’ve noticed those slender fingers and manicured nails being preened for the ring.
My boys love all the attention they receive from these young would-be glamour dolls but I am constantly reassured that they are not ready to tie the matrimonial knot any time in the near future because they have their studies and careers to concentrate on. I pray when they are ready the young ladies they eventually choose will be wholesome, loving and caring and will put my boys first in their lives, and not their nails and hair. Life is more than the glamour and the gloss. I want women of substance for my boys and my grandchildren.
I pray too that their father’s two failed marriages have not turned them off the prospect of marital bliss. I want them settled by the time I reach sixty, even if I have to choose a partner for each of them. I’m so proud of them. They are turning out to be perfect gentlemen, thanks to my strong support structure of family and friends. They are forever thanking me for what I do for them with little home-made gifts, like