He: Your cousin’s right—next time you should let one of us know what’s going on.
She: There’s dal and a brinjal curry that’s still cooking—sorry, I’m a bit behind today.
She: You’re telling me to call! That’s rich! How many times have you been late and not let me know? Remember the time when—
He: We’re talking about now. Why do you always have to bring up ancient history?
She: Anju, can you give me a hand in the kitchen? Come on, Anju!
She: It’s always like that, one rule for you, another for me. Why?
He: (Silence)
She: (Silence)
She: (Silence)
They eat with small, jerky gestures, pushing the food around their plates, not tasting. Sudha has forgotten to add salt to the curry. But no one pays attention. The wind curls itself complacently on the windowsill. Dayita, oddly quiet, wriggles from Sunil’s arms to the floor, and for once he doesn’t call to her.
A tableau of silence: three people, inside their chests small black boxes, holding inside them smaller, blacker boxes. Secrets packed in secrets: velvet scraps, foam pellets, wood shavings, baby-black hair. Some of these they know, some they guess at. Others itch inside them like the start of an infection. Until, at the very center of the chest, the secret of whose existence they are totally unaware. The secret of their own self, already pollinated by time’s spores, waiting to burst open when they are least prepared for it.
Five
Letters
Calcutta
April 1994
My dear Anju,
Blessings of the goddess Kali on all of you.
I miss you more than a letter can convey. The house is empty without the little one’s laughter and mischief. We old women feel even older. We’ve taken to wandering the streets, bargaining with vendors for things we don’t need, because we dread coming home to silence. Selfishly we wish we had married you to a Calcutta boy. Then our family wouldn’t be scattered across the world today. But then I think, the new life you are living in a land unfettered by old customs will perhaps give you opportunities I was unable to provide. I am particularly pleased that you and Sudha have each other for companionship.
I am very glad you are taking classes again. Now I do not feel as guilty about depriving you of college in order to get you married. Perhaps I was overhasty. But I made a good choice, did I not? How many husbands would have been as supportive as Sunil about you continuing your education? And how generous he has been to take Sudha and Dayita into his home. Yes, I know what you are thinking, your nostrils flaring with annoyance (how well I remember your gestures!). It is your house, too. But if he had said no, how much trouble it would have made!
It is good that you are busy with your studies. Keeping oneself busy is the best cure for sorrow, I know that too. But do not repeat my mistake and build a wall of work between you and the people you love. Spend a little time alone with Sunil. In that land of strangers, who does he have for love and comfort except his wife?
Pishi hopes you two are telling stories from our epics to Dayita. These stories, she says, have much old wisdom embedded in them. Nalini asks if you have put up the Indian calendar she gave Sudha when she left. It is important to keep track of our holy days and celebrate them, even if in a simple fashion. How else will you pass on our heritage to Dayita, and to the other little ones who, soon, I hope, will be lighting up your home? She says you must make special note of the bad-luck hours which she had the astrologer write in for each day (though I suspect you do not believe in such things).
You will be sad to hear that Singhji, our old chauffeur, is dead. He went quietly, in his sleep. His landlord found him after a day and called us. We looked around in his rented room to see if we could find any information about a family to contact, but there was nothing. So we conducted the funeral last week ourselves. May the Goddess be with him. He served us loyally all his life, even after we could no longer pay him, and he was very fond of our Dayita.
Will you be coming to visit us soon? It is such a long time since I saw you. Our prayers are with all of you. Every month we have a puja done in Kalighat for our Prem, so that his spirit will be at peace.
Your mother
Dear Mother, Pishi, and Aunt Nalini,
We are all well and happy here. Dayita is a real joy and amuses us for hours. She crawls everywhere and is even trying to stand up. I think she’s going to get teeth soon. Her jaws are all bumpy and she chews everything she can get her hands on. It’s worse than having a puppy! Sudha is a better cook than ever—I must have put on ten pounds since she got to America, just eating her fish curries. Sunil is doing very well at work and thinks he might be up for a promotion. But with so much work pressure, it is doubtful that we can visit you soon. I find my classes challenging but like them very much. It is lovely to get all your news. Don’t worry about us—as I said, we are fine. Sudha and I thank you for your blessings, Sunil sends his greetings, and Dayita gives you many wet, drooly kisses.
Anju
Calcutta
April 1994
Dear chiranjibi Sunil,
My son, I have heard nothing from you in months now, ever since Anju’s unfortunate miscarriage, which as I wrote made me very sad indeed. But such is God’s way. Please do write so that I know through your own words that you are well, though from your mother-in-law Gouri I get some news of you. That is how I know that your sister-in-law Sudha and her poor daughter are now with you. I am proud of your kindness in giving them a home. You have acted honorably in this. They have no man to look after them apart from you, after all.
We are well here, though your father is suffering from high blood pressure. He will not go to the doctor, however, and shouts at me if I suggest it. I do not like to complain, but since his retirement he has become more irritable and also excitable. Even reading the newspaper, about a riot somewhere, or a murder, or even something like a minister caught evading taxes, which you know happens all the time, he will shout and curse. I am having trouble holding on to any servants because he yells so many insults at them, I am sure knowing him you can imagine the words, and these days with so many factory jobs around, who except a wife will put up with such behavior? Even Nitin, our old kitchen boy, left last month, and now I am having to wash all the pots myself.
Last week your father fell down while climbing the stairs and frightened me almost to death. I asked if I could call you and he shouted at me again. His face turned red and I was afraid he would harm himself, so I dropped the matter. Do you think you could pay us a visit? Perhaps he will listen if you talk to him in person. I know you had that unfortunate fight before you left, but it has been many years, and though he is too old and stubborn to contact you, I think in his heart he regrets the quarrel. I am hoping, from your side, you have forgiven him, as a dutiful son should.
One more thing I must request—please do not send us any more money. I was shocked to discover how much you have been sending. (Your father, of course, tells me nothing, but I looked in his bureau a few days back when he forgot to lock it and saw a stack of uncashed U.S. money orders.) I hate to think how many problems this must cause you, especially now that your household has doubled in size.
I miss you, my son. Write to me soon. It is best to write to Gouri’s address and she will arrange to get it to me without your father knowing. Otherwise it will cause a scene. (He waits like a hawk for the mailman, although all we get are catalogues and bills.) I am thankful I have such a good relative in Gouri. Sometimes when your father goes to play bridge at the club, I take the bus to her house. Even a brief talk with her brings me some peace.
My blessings to Anju. Tell her I remember her sweetness to me when she was here. My prayers to Lord Ganesh and to Shasthi for all your health and happiness also, and by God’s will, a new baby to fill her lap soon.
Your mother
San Jose
April 1994
Dear Respected Mother,
It makes me angry to have
to sneak around Father’s back like this. What must Gouri Ma think of our family! But I’ll do it to keep you from getting into trouble.
Don’t ask me not to send money. I’m repaying Father for whatever he spent to bring me up so that he can never again say how much he’s done for me. It’s a way of buying back my freedom.
About his health I’m unable to feel any sympathy. He brings it on himself. I’m just sorry that you have to put up with all this hassle. Try to stand up to him a bit. Remember, he needs you more than you need him.
I’m sending you some money separately with this letter. Spend it on something you like—maybe a movie when he’s out, or a new sari. Maybe you can take a trip to a holy place, if Gouri Ma is going. I wish. I could do more—but the other thing you ask—to visit. Father and talk to him—is not possible. I’m afraid you think too highly of me—I’m neither dutiful, nor particularly honorable. Maybe with your prayers, one of these days, I’ll do better!
Your son
Sunil
Six
Sudha
Each afternoon I wander the pavements of the city, footstep by hard gray footstep, pushing Dayita in her baby carriage. She sucks her thumb and stares around her with eyes the color of wet licorice. The faded blue awning of a Chinese takeout. An Indian grocery where cardboard boxes of okra and bitter melon are set out on the pavement. A beauty salon that screams NAILS! ONLY $19.95! A Kmart outside which teenagers slouch, looking sulky in crew cuts and pants too big for them. She will not sleep, not until I return to the apartment. And then she will plummet into thick, exhausted dreams, refusing to wake for dinner. I am afraid she is losing weight. I am racked by guilt. Yet I find it impossible to remain in the apartment past noon. Is it fear that drives me, or desire?
I think from time to time with remorse of Singhji and the news of his death that Gouri Ma wrote of. How scared I used to be of his burned face when I was little, the disfigurement that was his disguise. All those years he worked for us—and no one had known who he was. He had loved us—me—mutely, through his service. Loved me more than I deserved. Again and again, he took risks to bring Ashok and me together. He had known—better than I—that I should have married where my heart led. I think of the letter he slipped into my bag when I left for America, explaining that he was my father, long presumed dead, begging me to keep his secret. I should have written back, telling him that I loved him, too. But I was too unsure myself, teetering on the tightrope of my new life. I felt I had to keep my eyes fixed sternly ahead. One backward glance and I’d fall, crashing, into the nothingness below. How could I risk that? And now it’s too late.
Minutes fall around me in clumps, like cut hair. Keep track, keep track! I must be back on our street by the time the white-and-green bus pulls over to the side and huffs open its doors. When Anju steps out, I will be there to greet her. I will speak brightly about how nice it is to leave the apartment for a breath of fresh air. About the daffodils, eye-watering yellow by the library entrance. About the first leaves, their webbed fingers. Anju will lean down to Dayita. For a moment, her hair will enclose them in a silken fringe, faces stitched into the same tapestry. She will whisper into my daughter’s ears, filling her with secrets that make her giggle as she never does with me. I will feel a twinge. A numbness at my extremities, like frostbite. Foolish jealousy! This closeness between them—isn’t it the only gift I have to give Anju?
But underneath it all, I will be thinking about the kiss.
I have grown disenchanted with stories, the way my life veers away from the ones I long to emulate. But once in a while, remembering Pishi’s request, I tell Dayita tales from the Ramayana. I think she enjoys this—it is one of the few times when I am not scolding. Does she understand? I don’t know. Still, it makes me feel motherly and good, which is rare for me.
The story I tell her as we walk today is about how the demon Ravan stole Sita from her home.
When Sita saw the golden deer outside her forest hut, she desired it more than anything she could imagine. She said to her husband, Ram, “I gave up the palace and came to live in the forest for love of you. If you loved me as much, you would catch the deer so I could have it as a pet.”
Ram suspected that the golden deer was not real but a demon trick, and he said so to Sita. But she would not listen.
“Now I know how little you care for me,” she cried.
So Ram took his bow and arrow and left to find the deer. He told his brother Lakshman to remain behind at the hut to guard Sita. After a while they heard a distant voice that sounded like Ram’s crying for help. Sita was distraught and asked Lakshman to go to his brother’s aid.
Lakshman said, “I think this is another demon trick. Ram is a great warrior and would never need to call for help.”
But Sita scolded him bitterly and said, “You are an unnatural brother. For all I know, you want Ram to die so that you can force me to become yours.”
Stung, the faithful Lakshman left in search of Ram, but before he went, he drew a circle in the earth around the hut. “Do not step outside this boundary,” he said to Sita. “As long as you are inside, no one can harm you.”
But as soon as he went away, the demon Ravan, disguised as a sannyasi, came to the hut and begged for alms. He tricked Sita into crossing the circle, captured her and took her to his island kingdom in Lanka. It would take many years of sorrow and searching, war and death, before Ram and Sita would be united again.
This is what I do not tell Dayita: Each of our lives has a magic circle drawn around it, one we must not cross. Chaos waits on the other side of the drawn line. Perhaps in leaving Ramesh I had already stepped outside my circle. With the kiss, Sunil trampled the circle his marriage had etched around him. What is there now to keep us safe from our demons?
I am angry with Sunil, but angrier with myself. When he kissed me, it was as though a lance went through me, striking me in my most secret parts. His tongue moved in my mouth. His odor was sour and addictive, like pickled plums. My treacherous lips did not want him to stop. I pushed him away, yes. But my breasts yearned toward him. The husband of my sister, said my brain. But the trembling in my legs said, I don’t care.
I fear my body. I fear his. Because bodies can pull at us, whispering.
Why not.
I deserve more.
I am young, and life is passing.
What will our bodies do, the next time they are alone?
Preoccupied with storytelling, I’ve taken a different turn somewhere. I find myself in a park.
I have been in American parks before. But this time, looking with undistracted eyes, I see more. It is always this way. When I am alone, it is as though a scalpel has cut a cataract away.
Why then do I continue to resist loneliness?
A pretty park, clean, with new equipment. This must be a more affluent neighborhood. So neat, so bright, so much space between things. In Indian parks, people would jostle for space beneath the few banyan trees. The hot-gram and ice-cream sellers would singsong their way between families with too many children. Piebald dogs would follow them, panting endlessly. Bus fumes, spicy pakoras, the too-sweet peaks of old woman’s hair candy. The odor of oleanders crushed under small, excited shoes. Anju and I always returned home exhausted, sticky with surfeit.
The slatted red cups of baby swings arc through the air. Tidy. Vivacious. On springs shaped like giant corkscrews, rocking horses bob their synchronized heads. Why should all this order make me sad? Children pour sand on each other, but it doesn’t show in their blond hair. Blond mothers dressed in coordinated outfits chat animatedly. I venture a smile, they do not see me. Is it their ignorance of my world that renders me invisible, or their distrust? If I were in their place, I wouldn’t have smiled either at a brown woman in a sari and windbreaker.
In the stroller Dayita scrambles and squeals. When I pick her up, she cries louder, twisting. Recently, she refuses to let me hold her. When did this start? Was it after the kiss? I am paranoid. How can a child her age unde
rstand? She stopped nursing two nights later. I’d been trying to wean her for weeks. Still, when she pushed my breast away, the condemnation in her fingertips stung my skin. All night my mouth was dry with shame.
I set Dayita down on the spongy surface of the play area that edges the sand. In America, even falls don’t hurt. Entire generations of children, growing up innocent of pain … Something feels wrong to me about this.
Why should I think this way? I’ve eaten my fill of pain. What good has it done me?
Then I notice the girl. She’s on the big-children’s swings. She wears cutoff jeans, makes the swing go way past safety. No, it’s a grown woman. Her black hair streams out, seal-sleek, as the swing sweeps forward. She wears her tight purple T-shirt with a nonchalance I envy. Kicks out with naked brown feet. Her toenails are darkly iridescent. Mynah feathers. On the ground, a boy belted into a stroller laughs and claps his hands.
Up and down and up into the sky again. The wild abandon of that movement, the first way we learn of flight. That weightless moment poised at the highest point of the arc, that total quiet before the fall. I thought I’d forgotten it, along with my childhood.
I walk up and ask, “Are you Indian?” I cannot help it, though Anju has warned me that here people do not talk to strangers this way. Not even Indian strangers. A gust following in the swing’s wake blows away my words. I must shout them again. She is looking skyward, creasing her eyes, focusing on the dip and rise of the horizon. A sailor searching for a new geography. The boy looks at me, curious. His eyes are blue and brown. Her son? She does not turn to me. Her lips are the juicy red of ripe pomelos, curved in a joke she’s keeping to herself.
Mortified, I begin to move away.
Then she says, “Wait.”
I go back to the park day after day to see her. She is so unlike any woman I’ve ever met. And I am so hungry.
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