Now Sunil sits by the river, where the priest has lit a small fire, and repeats mantras to bring peace to the dead. But what about peace for the living? What about the woman and the child, the lack of whom he carries like a laceration in his flesh? The priest pours black sesame seeds in his palm, sprinkles them with river water. (“Offer, offer. Pray.”) Sunil chants obediently after the priest—now they are holding up balls of cooked rice for fourteen generations of ancestors—but really he’s looking at the river. The sun has come out, and the slow-flowing water shines like steel. It hypnotizes him. In his father’s bureau there was a shoebox filled with uncashed money orders from America, years’ worth of them. Enough to keep his mother in luxury for the rest of her life. The waves sound like a dim confusion of voices. The voices of the dead, one might think, if one didn’t know better.
The priest is chanting: “Weapons cleave It not, fire burns It not. Water wets It not, wind burns It not.”
Sunil repeats: “Water wets It not, wind burns It not.” There’s perplexity in his voice, a certain unease. He wants to dismiss the sacred verse, handed down from a time so ancient and calm that it cannot possibly have a bearing on his tortured twentieth-century life. Why then does it make him reconsider his desires, which he thought he knew so intimately?
It is time to pour the ashes into the water. He holds out the copper pot. The ash is gritty, with black lumps which might be gristle. It is studded with pieces of bone, shockingly white. An old, charred smell rises from the pot. He sways a little, as though dizzy or intoxicated.
The priest chants, “This Self is unmanifest, unthinkable, unchangeable.”
“Unchangeable,” Sunil says. The waves take the word from his mouth and carry it toward the sea.
“Knowing This to be such, you should not grieve.”
“I should not grieve,” Sunil says. He is speaking not of his father, whom he has not so much forgiven as let drop from his mind, but of himself, the addiction that he has carried on his back so eagerly all these years. Is it possible to let go of something that has cut such a deep groove into you? Ash falls from his hands. Some of it blows into his eyes and makes them water. He wipes at them. The priest nods with approval at this sign of filial piety. The gray flecks float for a moment on the gray skin of the river, then are pulled under.
Thirteen
Sudha
“Ridiculous!” Lalit says, kicking at a stone. “It’s a ridiculous plan. Going back to India, to some godforsaken tea town in the boonies, to waste the rest of your life taking care of some old man that you hardly know. How can you even consider it?”
We’re walking in the Botanical Gardens, up on the foothills behind the University of California. We’re in the desert section, surrounded by towering cacti with thorns like witches’ needles. Beyond, the acacias have burst into bloom, clustering gold coins on every branch. Is it because I’m to leave it soon that this California day looks so magical?
I smile to mask my disappointment. “Thanks for the vote of support!”
“I do support you. That’s why I’m upset. Haven’t I been doing everything you wanted? Didn’t I negotiate with Anju on your behalf, convincing her with my superior use of logic? It was like pulling teeth with a pair of tweezers, in case I didn’t tell you.”
“You did. About twenty times.”
“Well, it is a striking use of simile. Then I brought you your childhood beau’s number—”
“I didn’t exactly ask for that—”
“To provide more than the customer demands, that’s my motto. And now I’ve brought you here to see him so he can offer you blandishments and seduce you with sweet nothings. Is that beyond the call of duty or what?”
“It is. I’m most appreciative.”
“I can think of better ways of showing your appreciation than running away.”
“I am not running away.” But even as I say it, I wonder if he’s right.
“There are so many opportunities here for you and Dayita”—Lalit’s voice is heated—“and you’re throwing them all away—stupidly, if I may say so.”
“You should meet my mother sometime. The two of you would get along like French fries and ketchup.”
He gives me a pleading look. “Don’t ruin your life, Sudha.”
Because I’m unsure, I snap at him. “What life, Lalit? What kind of life do I have here? I’m tired of this mantra that everyone chants, this cure for all ills. AmericaAmericaAmerica. For you, yes. America did help you make yourself into what you wanted. But I don’t have any professional skills—”
“All you have to do is to go to school—”
“I don’t have the money for it. And maybe not the patience either. My visa will run out in less than a month. I’m working illegally. Even the clothes I’m wearing aren’t mine.” I point to the skirt, red hibiscus on soft black cotton, Myra’s, which she had insisted I wear for this meeting. (“He’s come all the way from Calcutta just to see you! I can’t believe it! That is so romantic!”)
Lalit fingers the material of the sleeve. “That’s why you’re so high-strung this morning. It’s the vibrations, as our Myra would say!”
“Quit! She’s been really generous to me, and she has a good heart. I like her.”
“I do, too. I never make fun of people I don’t like.” Then his voice grows sober. “All the things you hate about your life here, I could change them, if you’ll just—”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it, whatever it is. It’ll jinx things between us.”
He grabs my hand, kisses it, then holds it to his face. “What things? You won’t allow us to have anything.”
I love the feel of his cheekbone under my fingers. The slight rasp of a day’s growth of beard. He’ll never know how tempted I am to give in. To let him kiss all my objections away. But sooner or later, they’d come back. I tug my hand from his. “We do have something very special. Our friendship.”
“Please, sir, may I have some more?” he says in a high child’s voice.
I laugh. He took me to an oldies revival to see the movie last week. Then I say, “I can’t offer you any more. Everything else I have, I need it just to survive. Besides, I don’t want to repeat the same mistake with you—”
“Which is?”
“I always allowed myself to be dependent on someone else’s goodwill. I was the one who was always taking, the one who was taken care of.”
“What’s wrong with that? It would give me great pleasure to take care of you.”
I shake my head. “It makes it harder to say no—”
“Personally, I don’t see that as a problem. But if it’s equality you want, I can think up all sorts of ways for you to take care of me, starting right now!” He leers at me unconvincingly, making me laugh again.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t decide to go into acting,” I say.
Then I see him. Wearing a woolen Nehru jacket, on the bench next to the garden offices with his back to me. He is gazing at a bank of Niles lilies.
“Just when the conversation was getting interesting,” Lalit says. “Don’t tell me that’s him. Man, he’s ugly. Old, too. And just by looking at his back I can tell he has a mean streak as wide as the Grand Canyon. Why, he might even be a psychopath. Us doctors, we’re trained to detect these things, you know. Uh-uh, he’s definitely not the man for you.”
In spite of my nervousness, I can’t help smiling. “And you are?”
“Mais oui! Absolument! Maybe I should hang around, in case you need rescuing?”
“I won’t need rescuing, thank you very much.”
“I’m crestfallen. I’ll be back in half an hour to pick you up.”
I stand still for a moment, reluctant to call Ashok’s name. So many memories are welling up in me, sorrows I thought I was done with. Ashok in the movie theater’s dark, his eyes like opals, asking my name. His white shirt blazing in the Calcutta sun as he waited for hours by the roadside to catch a glimpse of me being driven to school. The time we
met in Kalighat temple, among the odors of crushed flowers, to make plans for our elopement. I should have gone with him. My first love. How could I know that the way I loved him then—I’d never be able to love anyone else like that? Not even him when he came back into my life after my marriage broke apart. How fleeting youth is, the passion that withholds nothing.
Ashok sits erect. His sleeves are rolled up, his arm muscles as well defined as ever. He must still be lifting weights. His profile is lean and thoughtful. The clean, intelligent line of his nose is so familiar that an illogical regret catches in my throat. He doesn’t look any older than when I saw him last. This surprises me until I remember that I said good-bye to him just a few months ago. It’s only I who have been through a century’s worth of changes. There’s a notebook in his lap. I step closer and see that it’s an artist’s pad. He’s been sketching the lilies. I didn’t know he drew. His style is spare, the charcoal strokes few and masterful. This, too, surprises me.
“Sudha?” he says, without turning around.
“When did you learn to draw so well?”
“I started after you left for America. I’m very much an amateur, but it helps me to stay calm.” He keeps gazing at the lilies, which annoys me.
“I can’t imagine you not being calm—ever,” I say, an edge to my voice.
A small smile. “You think I’m calm right now?”
I step around to stand in front of him. “How can I tell when you won’t look at me?”
“I was afraid—like in the story of Eurydice—that you might disappear.” But he does look. And continues to look until I smooth down the thin cotton of the skirt with self-conscious fingers. Finally he says, “You’ve changed, Sudha. That was the other thing I was afraid of.”
“Changed how?” I say, my voice belligerent. “You mean because I’m wearing Western clothes?”
He shakes his head. “That wasn’t what I meant, though a sari does make you look more beautiful.”
I can’t help making a face. Is there anything as conservative as a conservative Indian male?
He holds up his hand. “I’m not saying it’s a negative change. You’re just different. I see it in the way you stand, the muscles of your shoulders, your neck. It’s like you’re threaded through with galvanized wire.”
“You see that?” I say, taken aback. No one else has mentioned anything like that to me. But, then, who has known me for as long as Ashok has? Only Anju—and she and I have been too closely tangled to see anything but our reflected selves in each other’s eyes.
He nods. “It makes me fear what you’ve been through—something that shook you up more than leaving your husband, even. No! I don’t want to know. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to take care of you.”
Again that phrase. “It’s not your job to take care of me,” I say heatedly. “I’m an adult.”
“Even adults need to be cared for, by people who love them.”
Now is the perfect time to say, I don’t love you. But somehow I can’t. Our shared history, his patient waiting, this long and expensive journey he’s undertaken for me and my daughter—they stop my mouth. I cannot forget that I’m the first one he loved, too.
“Anyway, now that I’m here, you can tell the people you’re working for that you’re quitting. I’ve reserved our tickets for next week—I did that as soon as you phoned me. That should give your employers enough time to find a replacement.” He adds gallantly, “Not that anyone could ever replace you.”
“Whoa!” Inside me, anger is playing tug-of-war with disbelieving laughter. “I never said I’m going back with you.”
“But why not? What reason do you have to remain here, now that you’re not helping Anju anymore?”
I don’t know how to answer him. Maybe that’s why I let anger take over. “And I don’t like people making high-handed decisions without consulting me.”
He looks hurt. Taken aback. “I’m only trying to help, to speed things along. We’ve wasted so much time unnecessarily—time that we could have been together.”
Guilt stings me. “You shouldn’t have come, Ashok. I told you over and over to forget me. The love we felt for each other was beautiful—but it was a long time ago. We’re both different people now.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, I am. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. But you’re in love with an idealized me that doesn’t exist anymore—if it ever did.”
“That’s not true. I love the real you, the Sudha that’s pure and innocent and loving, no matter what—”
“The real me! You have no idea who I am, Ashok. I don’t think anyone does—except maybe Anju. Maybe that’s why she won’t have anything to do with me. Let me tell you. When I came to this country, I knew right away that Sunil was attracted to me. I should have left at once. Gone back. But I was greedy for something more than the life I could have had with the mothers in Calcutta. I told myself I was doing it for Anju and for my daughter, but really I was doing it for me. I was the one who wanted to be adored. I was the one who wanted to be admired. Half the time I thought of my poor daughter as an obstacle that kept me from what I longed for.”
There’s a pained look on Ashok’s face. But he says, “That’s only natural, Sudha. You never had any of those things, and so—”
“Don’t make excuses for me, Ashok. That’s what I convinced myself—that I deserved those things. If life wasn’t going to give them to me easily, I was going to snatch them, no matter what. I went to a party. I met a young man. If you think I’m good and innocent, you should see him. He’s the real thing. I knew he was attracted to me. I went out with him even though I knew it would make Sunil crazy with jealousy.”
“Enough, Sudha! You don’t have to say any more!”
A strange recklessness has taken me over. All those words I held back because I cared so much what Lalit might think. What freedom to finally let them go. What freedom not to care anymore. “Yes, I do! I have to say it, and you have to listen! You must!” I kneel in front of him, so that he’s forced to look at me. “Sunil made me have sex with him. No, it’s wrong to say it that way, putting the blame on him. Because I didn’t fight it. Maybe I was even hoping for it. Why else did I lie down on his bed? And when it happened, I enjoyed it….”
Ashok gazes at me—not with the shock I hoped for, but an unexpected sorrow. He leans toward me, as though to take my hand. The notepad falls to the ground, but he ignores it.
I snatch my hand back. I don’t want kindness. Or pity. I want to shock him so much that he’ll leave my life, never to return. Or is it my internal demons I’m trying to exorcise? “I left, but was it really because I felt guilty?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a movement. It’s Lalit, back after half an hour, as he had promised.
How much did he hear?
Almost, I stop speaking. Then I go on. Let them listen. Let them both listen. “No. It was because Sunil frightened me. There was such a need inside him, need like a black bottomless pit. Even if I poured my entire self into it, I couldn’t fill it. So I ran away.”
Ashok is silent. He doesn’t look at me.
I’m glad of that. It’s easier to leave when they don’t look at you.
I pick up the notepad and put it on the bench next to him. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Ashok,” I say as I stand up. “I’m sorry if I made you hate me. But it’s best that you know the truth. Now you can forget me—the me you created, the me who wasn’t real—and start over. And maybe I can, too.”
“Wait.”
I turn.
“I’ll go back, like you want,” he says. “I won’t try to persuade you further. Not because I hate you—how can I? I have my own faults, too, my acts of weakness. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to burden you with them. I’ll go because I can see that you have, indeed, detached yourself from your past completely—I hadn’t quite believed someone could do that….”
If only he knew how incomplete my detachment is, how many bygones I still agonize over.
> “And so I mean no more to you than a stranger you might meet at a street crossing.”
I let him go on. There’s pain in his voice, but I don’t dare comfort him. It would undo everything I’ve achieved with such difficulty.
“Other people have become more important to you now….”
Is he glancing toward Lalit, waiting in the shadow of the mimosas?
“I need to come to terms with all this—I don’t know how long it’ll take. But that’s no longer your concern.” He pauses, perhaps to give me a chance to disagree. When I don’t speak, he hands me the notepad. “I want you to have this.”
I want to refuse, but I know I must take it. This last gift, by accepting which I accept our past together, my indebtedness. I put out my hand. In my mind, I say, We did love each other. It’s gone now, but it was good and true. I thank you for it.
In the car, I open the pad. Page after page of sketches. Except for the lilies on the last page, they’re all pictures of me. How well he’s caught my expressions. How well he’s remembered moods I don’t even recall having felt. Here’s me as a schoolgirl, looking obedient and dutiful in the sacklike uniform the nuns made us wear. Me in a salwaar kameez at the movies, a shy half-smile on my face. Me reading a book, braiding my hair, looking into a mirror with a faraway expression. Me in a sari, with a temple in the background, looking excited and scared. That must have been the last time he saw me before my wedding. Me as a wife, with a bindi on my forehead, the end of a sari covering my hair. He must have imagined that one. Me looking very pregnant, a rebellious set to my lips—that was after I left Ramesh. There are more—me in a boat on a mountain lake, laughing, the wind lifting my hair; me waking up in bed, looking sleepily surprised; me playing with a baby who isn’t Dayita. With a pang I realize that I’m looking into the heart of Ashok’s hopes.
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