Karma
"Oh Lord Ganesh, remover of obstacles and lover of sweets, look kindly on this offering and on our new enterprise, which we dedicate to your honour on this your birthday,” prayed Mr Patel. With trembling hands, he set down the bowl of milk next to the heavy old brass figure on the shelf over the door. As he folded his stepladder, the September sunshine streaming in through the shop window warmed his thin shoulders and reminded him of home.
He shook himself. “No,” he said aloud. “This is home now and don’t you forget it, you silly man.”
“Who’s a silly man?” asked Ajit, resplendent in his Sunday best. “Well, Grandad, you will be if you leave that milk out. It’ll go sour and smell, if Raja doesn’t get to it first.”
“But it is traditional to offer milk to Lord Ganesh on his birthday.”
“Well do it in the Temple! If you leave it there, Mum will go mad. She’s spent hours getting everything ready for the official opening and she’s in a bad mood already. I’ve told her there’s no way I’m moving my Newcastle poster to make room for that stupid wall plaque Auntie Jean brought me back from Kronborg.” Pausing only to help himself to a bar of chocolate, Ajit disappeared back upstairs.
Mr Patel sighed. The combined savings of the whole family had gone into buying and refurbishing the shop premises and living quarters. There had been obstacles enough to overcome, the last only yesterday, when a young thug had walked in uninvited and told him to get back where he came from.
“My father and grandfathers didn’t fight two world wars to have their country taken over by people like you,” he had snarled, emphasizing his remarks with a few adjectives Mr Patel preferred to forget. He had managed to retain his dignity, even when the youth deliberately knocked over some sweet jars on his way out, threatening that he would be back. Had he never heard of the thousands of Indian troops who fought and died for the British? Evidently not. He should have argued, made him look at the medal his own grandfather brought back from the Boer War. As a stretcher bearer who saved many lives, he had earned the respect of everyone who knew him.
Mr Patel’s daughter-in-law Fiona had taken off her favourite blue floral scarf to act as a temporary bandage. “You shouldn’t have tried to pick up the glass yourself, Dad,” she clucked. “You know your eyesight’s not up to it these days. Here, Ajit, lend me your pin for a few minutes until I can find the First Aid box.”
Ajit was secretly rather proud of the little silver sword shaped kilt pin that his Granddad MacPherson had given him, but he wore it on a bright tartan tie. No kilt for him! A boy who bore the weight of two very different sets of family traditions had to draw the line somewhere. The MacPherson motto, ‘Touch not the cat without a glove’ was apt enough, though. Raja would allow no one but Granddad Patel to pet him and was already a fixture in his basket behind the counter.
“Not long to go before the shop fills with family and well wishers,” thought Mr Patel. “Oh, someone is early.”
The door swung open to reveal a scowling figure with a baseball bat. “I told you I’d be back, Paki!”
As the ambulance men took the unconscious figure away, one wrinkled hand was stroking soft fur while the other one reached for a cloth to wipe the blood off the brass figure on the floor. “Oh, Lord Ganesh,” crooned Mr Patel, “you know it is bad karma to hurt a cat. Please forgive this humble creature for trying to steal my offering to you. Please forgive him also for knocking you off your shelf onto the head of the evil doer, but find it in your heart to bless him for his impeccable timing.”