Plant your pants, Nimbu! | Salmah Ahmed

Nimbu covered her ears with the palm of her hands, and the sounds of thrashing and whimpering stopped. She formulated a tune to the Ted Hughes’ poem she had heard in school. An undesirable tremor punctuated her song as she rocked herself back and forth. Her back pressed against the chipped wood of the cupboard in the dark kitchen, her bare toes pressing against the cold floor, curling in.

Lowly, slowly,
A pink, wet worm,
Sings in the rain:
O see me squirm

She had named her house ‘Charkha’ for two reasons: the incessant noise was intolerable, and it never ceased. It was spun in an endless loop by a demonic hand, weaving threads of tears into yards of tangible misery. She had to wrack her brain for any appealing aspect to the hole carved in the rotting brick building on Rutland Street in Ilford. The incense burning near the Holy Book wasn’t enough to mask the stench of decay crawling in wet webs across the ceiling. Defecation was an all-year-round gift from rodents, pets, and humans alike. Rubbish lay strewn like petals on the tarmac surrounding the building. Black bin bags lay forgotten and forlorn next to council bins, attracting foxes. Candy wrappers chased buses on invisible flying carpets.

Along the path.
I warp and wind.
I’m searching hard.
If I could find.

The torture, or what her father called ‘teaching’, followed a set pattern. It started with a build-up of verbal friction, physical manifestation of annoyance, a throbbing crescendo of violence, and a recession, as if the episodes were waves crashing against a beach. Her mother, Amma, was as pliable and erodible as sand against the approach of a tumultuous sea. In the aftermath, a little of her would be whisked away to the depths of a merciless ocean. The castle of dreams and hopes that formed within her, obstinate and inevitable, would crumble and dissipate. The light in her eyes would flicker and dim. Her smile would wobble and disappear until Nimbu found herself in constant search of it. The hours she spent with Amma would be a clever contrivance of retrieving it, using mischief, clowning, and compliance—whatever worked. She appeared young when she laughed. She was only twenty-five, but the lines on her face and white strands in her hair made her look much older. 

Some nights, Nimbu slept beside her, hugging her tight, knowing she was shedding silent tears and she would imitate her, sharing in her silent misery. On the nights she was in her father’s room, she prayed herself to sleep, hoping to find her alive and not too broken and bruised in the morning.

My elbow, my hair,
My hat, my shoe,
I’d look as pretty,
As you, and you.

Usually, Amma took refuge in studying the night sky. Fascinated with the sparkling formation of celestial bodies, she found solace far from the reality of her cruel world. Her imagination often took a deviant route, abandoning scientific logic. ‘See, Nimbu,’ she whispered, cradling her in her arms as they both stood by the window, faces upturned. ‘The brightest star over there is my mother and next to her is my father. Your Nana and Nani.’ Nimbu didn’t remember her grandmother, as she had died before her birth. Her memory painted her grandfather, Nana, in vivid colours and bold strokes of grandeur.

When she pinched her nose up at the smell of manure, Nana would say, ‘This is who we are and where we come from, Nimbu. We are the soil and to the soil we shall return. We should be like this.’ Her six-foot, well-built grandfather, Nana, sporting a dhoti, kameez, and a mammoth moustache sprouting outward from his upper lip like airplane wings, bent down low with his hands pressed together. ‘If we show attention, respect, and humility to the soil, it bestows its bounties on us.’

She missed the soil, the smell of wet earth after the monsoon rain, even the cow dung stench in Pakistan, her home for nine of her ten-year-old life. She had been whisked away from her land on pretext of a better, brighter future. A pleasing illusion, or pleasant delusion? ‘Why did we leave home?’

Amma shrugged a hunched shoulder, pain haunting her almond eyes. Amma had no choice. Married to her cousin when she was sixteen, she had spent two months with him before he immigrated to the UK, with no intention of calling her. The discovery of her pregnancy coincided with the discovery of her husband’s duplicity. He was already married to a British Asian woman who later abandoned him. This resulted in nine happy years for Nimbu, helping her grandfather in the cotton fields of Lodhran on the banks of the Sutlej River. Nimbu’s best memory was sitting by the bank, soaking her feet in the muddy shallow end, and sucking ripe mangoes with her Nana. She imitated her Nana, pressing at a chaunsa with her forefinger and thumb, biting off the end and sucking at the softened pulp. ‘The Sutlej has an interesting journey, Nimbu. Once upon a time, it’s believed to be a tributary of the Ghaghar-Hakra or Saraswati River, but four thousand years ago, it changed course, making a desert out of most of Cholistan and East Sindh. This could have led to the abandonment of Harappan settlements. Do you see how our land and rivers decide our existence?’

‘But I read in school Sutlej isn’t ours, according to the Indus Valley treaty.’

‘Who is to say what is us, and what is them, Nimbu? Who separates people – land, borders, colour, race, religion? Nature doesn’t, look at that mynah, can anyone stop her from flying across or the rain clouds from crossing over from Hindustan?’ Nana mused, a beatific smile playing on his face as he gazed at the gleaming, vast waters of Sutlej as far as he could see. Nimbu knew that Nana liked to philosophise after a lunch of vegetables, a raw onion, pickle, and roti that Amma prepared for them, and drift off to sleep for an hour under the shade of the eucalyptus tree. ‘Nature doesn’t recognise invisible lines on land, or scribblings on pieces of paper. What binds people is humanity, shared dreams, visions, and….’

‘And?’ Nimbu prompted him when she observed him drifting into a wistful silence as he stared into the distance as if watching an invisible movie play out before his eyes.

‘Love.’ he stated the word with an ache that had a complete tale cordoned within its boundaries. He continued after a pause of a few moments.

 ‘Sutlej starts at Lake Rakshastal in Tibet; it flows to Himachal Pradesh in India and comes to Kasur in Pakistan and along the way it creates and destroys lives. Lake Rakshastal means ‘Lake of the demon’ and is also known as Ravan tal. It was the place of penance by Raavan the demon king of Lanka. Each day Raavan sacrificed one of his ten heads in the lake to gain superpowers from Lord Shiva. We believe that we are pure and innocent when we’re born, but what if like Sutlej our point of origin is the site of evil and we must chart our course through life by sacrificing our inherent desire for power and strengthening our relationship with the soil which will be our ultimate abode?’

Mystic concepts such as these were hard for Nimbu to grasp but her Nana had a way with words. He mixed fantasy with relatable examples. 

When Nana’s health began to deteriorate, and the doctor gave him months to live, he made an offer to his deviant son-in-law that he couldn’t refuse. A bribe of ten lakh rupees prompted her father to finally call his wife and daughter to the UK. Amma highlighted her father’s struggles for their family, but Nimbu had developed a handy habit of filling in the blanks. She watched her father from Amma’s eyes, wary and watchful of his impulsive violence, giving him a wide berth when she was able to. Avoiding trouble was a skill that proved useful in her new school as well, although she couldn’t escape the regular hazing. ‘Miss Soily Pants’ was one nickname after she wet herself after being cornered by bullies and another was ‘Lemon’, the literal meaning of her name. 

When she had asked her Nana why he named her ‘Nimbu’, he had guffawed. ‘Do you want to be called jalebi? Being sour is much better than being sweet, child. Understand that. Better to be sharp, with a zing that goes a long way.’ 

She understood her classmates’ mistrust and hate. She was an immigrant misfit – an octagonal shape in a puzzle of square pieces. Nimbu’s village in Pakistan also had an anomaly, a boy with red hair, blue eyes and pale skin from a genetic aberration resulting from a centuries old romantic or not-so romantic liaison between a British officer and a hapless village belle. The Caucasian genes had skipped many generations to manifest themselves one fine day in the baby boy, who would also grow up to be a recipient of all manner of hazing, mistrust, and hate by brown village children.  

*************

Nimbu shuffled to the front of the classroom, curling her toe so it wouldn’t jut out of the hole in her left shoe. Summoned by the substitute teacher to explain the difference between logical and comparison operators in Python, she immediately regretted her decision to raise her hand. She hung her head as a volley of insults erupted around her. The teacher, having no real power or stake in the class, made a half-hearted attempt to hush the rowdiness. She was ignored. Nimbu ran out of the class, trying her best to hide the tears flowing down her cheeks. In her haphazard escape, and blinded with a film of tears, she bumped into a blonde lady carrying a brown box. The contents of the box burst out like confetti and littered the floor.

Nimbu was embarrassed. She scraped the wetness off her red cheeks with her knuckles and gathered sachets of seeds, pots of soil that had littered the floor and…. she picked up white cotton pants from the floor with her index and thumb frowning with confusion. ‘Oh dear, what a mess, don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I should look where I’m going, shouldn’t I?’ The lithe lady radiated an aura of clumsy warmth. She took the pants from Nimbu and threw them in the box, her knees stained with soil as they rested on the floor next to her. ‘Thank you. What’s your name?’

‘Nimbu.’ She watched the lady trying to push her long blonde hair away from her face and assumed she was rich not only by the clothes she wore, navy and beige cashmere, but by the benevolent optimism and cluelessness prevalent in people who had no first-hand experience with destitution.

‘I’m Anne. Well, it’s good to make your acquaintance, Nimbu.’

‘What’s all this?’ Her curiosity superseded her awe.

‘This is a farm experience in a box. See these pants?’ She scooped the white cotton pants. You are meant to plant one of these in your back garden and discover the richness of the soil. If within six months your pants are eaten to shreds by the worms and other wonderful creatures that live underground, we know that your soil is thriving with life.’

Nimbu was sceptical but when she handed her a pair of pants, she took it without argument.

‘Please accept these complimentary pants as an apology for unceremoniously bumping into you.’ Anne raised herself holding the box of magic tricks and nodded at her.  ‘Plant your pants, Nimbu!’ With these parting words, she dashed down the corridor mumbling about getting late for her appointment with the headmistress.

Nimbu walked down the length of the corridor and overheard the same blonde lady talking to her headteacher. ‘My co-ordinator, Katie, will be in touch with you to iron out the details of the farm visit. This is a nationwide programme and is meant to bring the joy of farming to children in underprivileged areas. We have the patronage of some of the most affluent people, like Dukes, Lords and even the King. I just received a cheque for Three hundred pounds from His Majesty the King only yesterday. This experience can change their lives.’

The world where Dukes, Lords, and Kings resided was far from the bounds of Nimbu’s imagination. She slunk behind a five-foot Kentia Palm. ‘I appreciate your consideration, but I’m not sure how a farm visit can change a child’s life. That’s a far-fetched claim, don’t you think, Anne?’ Headteacher Eliza Butler raised one painted eyebrow.

Anne’s face broke in an indulgent smile. ‘When an underprivileged child is exposed to the same opportunity as privileged children, even a single, lone opportunity such as this, it plants a seed of hope and aspiration within the child. That in turn can spur great change within their lives.’

When school was over, Nimbu walked home wondering where to plant the pants. She lived in a concrete jungle. An unsociable English lady named Mary, who lived in the house opposite her owned a front yard, but she only ever frowned at her and muttered something about bloody immigrants. As Nimbu passed by her house, she heard cries of distress. On impulse she ran through the open door and observed Mary’s sick husband lying on the floor having fallen from his bed and his medicine bottles strewn on the floor. The lady was trying in vain to place him back on the bed. Nimbu helped her and tidied the mess on the floor. ‘I didn’t ask for your help,’ Mary snapped, tight lipped. ‘Get out.’

A few days later, Mary bumped into Nimbu in a shop. Guilt had plagued Mary since their last meeting. Caregiver fatigue had made her bitter and angry over the years. Seeing the man she once loved die an agonising, slow death and transform into a hollow shell ate away at her happiness. Mary initiated dialogue. ‘I’m sorry I was curt when you helped me out. Can I do anything for you to make up for it?’

‘You can loan me your front yard to plant something.’

‘What?’

‘Pants.’

This request surprised Mary but she agreed without argument.

While Nimbu was digging up the dirt in Mary’s front yard, she felt strange forming a relationship with foreign soil. She dug her hands into the moist dark dirt feeling its soft warmth engulf her, inhaling its life-infusing scent into her lungs, and revelling in the knowledge of throbbing microorganisms’ unseen yet all-seeing. It whispered its ancient wisdom in her ears riding the wings of a soft spring breeze, the greater design in her grandfather’s death and the start of her new life.

‘You will experience death multiple times in your life. The kind that goes beyond biological mechanisms. The death of passion, love, friendship, trust, and familiarity. With each death your soul will break down and re-build. A phoenix turns to ash to be re-born. A snake sheds its skin. There is a beauty in endings and an opportunity in every death. You associate death with taking away, but it takes away the right things like the superfluous and the unnecessary. In your darkest moment, something is being re-born within you. You mourn the death of human love the most, but love is omnipotent and can never die. If it has touched you once, it imprints your soul and stays. Could death simply be an introduction to what you lack?’

 She concluded that soil wasn’t alien or inhospitable. It didn’t discriminate like people who asserted their audacious ownership over it. It had universal shareability, and it sustained its carer -no matter what their skin colour happened to be. ‘Thanks for letting me do this, Mary. We need to unearth this in six months to see the quality of the soil and whether anything is left of the pants, or if it has been eaten up by the rich life underground.’

Mary nodded, watching Nimbu walk back to her house.

***************

Two months later Mary’s husband passed away in his sleep. Part of her mourned his loss and part of her was happy he’d finally found peace. After the funeral service at church, she stood undecided in her front yard contemplating the spot where Nimbu had planted her pants. It was time to dig it out. As she approached Nimbu’s house, she heard loud voices. Through the keyhole, she saw Nimbu cowering in the corner under her father’s merciless hands. Her father had begun to take out his frustration on a new target. Mary dialled 999.

When Mary and Nimbu dug up the pants from the front yard, only a few odd strings remained of the original white pants. ‘Your soil is rich.’ Nimbu observed the soil with a soft smile. 

‘Well, I think it’s shared soil now, isn’t it?’ She gestured to the various flowering plants and herbs, including the lemon tree laden with its yellow bounty by her gate ? all of which they had tended together, and which that were now in bloom and thriving. Nimbu acquiesced with a small smile. Her father was safely stowed away in prison, where he had always belonged. Amma was whole again and the light in her eyes was back. She worked in the local grocery store and was training to be a nurse. ‘Now that we have made this yard beautiful, what’s next on your agenda, young lady?’

Nimbu didn’t have to think about it. ‘I will make Ilford beautiful. We will write to the local councillor about the rubbish on the streets. Maybe, I can become a councillor when I grow up to fix everything.’

Mary smiled indulgently. ‘Everything?’

‘Why not?’

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Salmah Ahmed is an accountant living in London. She has studied a fiction writing course from Faber Academy and is working on her debut novel. Her work has been published in TMYS June 2022 Review, a print anthology by the literary magazine ‘Tell Me Your Story’ in collaboration with the Global South Colloquium, University of Victoria. Her poem ‘Tourist Eyes’ was published in the print version of The Aleph Review-Volume 7. Her short story ‘The Khwaja Sira’s curse’ was published in the online commonwealth magazine adda.