Kuli, a Punjab woman, has just quarreled with a younger woman ; she is now sitting on the pavement, pretending to be hurt.

Clsoing her eyes, she waited for her breathing to return to normal.

“You awlright?”

Why open her eyes and disturb the tranquility behind them?

“Do you think she’s had a stroke? My grandmother has one. Or a heart attack? Uncle Arnold popped off after he got his. Hello!”

What a cheery soul, she thought, trying to imagine a picture of the person from the voice: young office or shop worker, judging from the edge of gentility on his tones.

“You try her. My grandmother became a vegetable after her stroke. You can communicate better.”

How could the other communicate better? She was puzzled and waited for revelation. “ Thusi thik hai? Please boulou! In Anglicized Punjabi.

How sweet! Her eyes flew open. And snapped shut in instantaneous recoil. When she opened them again, the vision had moved back slightly. A multicolored, dangly earringed, glitter-painted Asian punk. Dressed in one of his mother’s old kameezs; a velvet garment incrusted in embroidery, beloved by Punjabi women in the early sixties; heavy boots, leather jacket, belts, studs and chains completing the ensemble.

“Thusi thik hai?” was that all the Punjabi he knew?

“Koi darrd hai?” Doctor bulaye.”

The boy was an accomplished linguist! She smiled gooey-eyed at him.

“Thank you! Would you help me up?”

A henna-painted hand came under hers, fingernails painted in stripes of gold and sliver, curved over the back of her hand, each finger loaded with rings, some of them the almond – or flower-shaped Indian ones. So he was wearing his mother’s gold too! He saw her looking at them.

“Mater won’t miss them. The economy of this country could be kept going on on her gold. If she could be like that old king, who could turn everything into gold, she would! Instead, she makes do with my father. What happened to you?” his voice changing tone. “ Were you done over? Did they take anything? Hurt you?”

“Just an attack of juvenile delinquency, my own. Ouch!”

A poodle snapping round her ankles. Him, with the family of medical disasters, picked it up and cuddled it in his arms, all the while apologizing.

“His name’s Anton, my name Bahadur. I don’t let anyone shorten it. You know what it means, don’t you? Hero, warrior. Punjabis will worship machismo. I flunked out after they told me I was a genius. Pater booted me out of the house, Mater lets me him when he’s not looking. It was a boarding shcool, would any natural parents send their one and only to be turned into an English thing?”

“And you’re stil running away.”

“Dead right! You know you got it sussed out. Why couldn’t you be my father?”

Why couldn’t you be my daughter? Did your father make his money here?”

“Yes, we’re disguntingly nouveau riche. Pater’s the ABC guide to the Asian success story. If only he’d been born in the States, he’d be twice as rich as he is. As it is he hasn’t done badly for a village boy from Jullundur Town. Hey, you want to come along to the Asian elderly center? I run it. You look under age but I’ll squeeze you in. You could help to bring other women in.”

“Doubt it. I flunked out of respectability too.”

“I like you, a lot. Here’s the address. It’s only twice a week. Pater’s so miserly allowance won’t run to holding it more often. Must go. We’re taking Anton’s poodle for his daily constitutional.” Taking Anton’s hand, fingers intertwining , “Bye, don’t forget.”

Ravinder RANDHAWA. A Wicked Old Woman, 1987.