In exasperation, for I kept coming into the kitchen for something to eat, Vasanti sent me off to the market. I was given a string bag, rickshaw money, and a rapid goodbye. I decided to walk and save the fare for a flavored ice later on. The day was still cool. I passed a group of children playing hopscotch. I began to wish I had a special friend, a confidante. There were usually people like this in the books I read, girls who walked arm in arm, telling each other heart secrets. I didn’t have any close friends at school, being absent a lot. The girls I admired ignored me, having their full share of friends. I must have appeared strange, half brown, half white, without actually having the cachet of having been to America. I always seemed the odd one out. Anyway, these girls liked silly music, teenage stuff, and had no interest in books, except romances. It was different when Jani shared her Mills and Boons romances, because we talked about other things. But the girls in my class seemed immature. I guess that’s why I liked Jani so much—she never took me for granted.
One of the teachers befriended me, a pretty young English teacher named Miss Julie. She discovered my interest in reading and lent me many novels. She was careful not to show me special attention in class, and it never occurred to me to invite her to the house. When I told my aunts about her, they told me to ask her over for lunch, but I never did.
Once I met her on the street. I nearly didn’t recognize her, so accustomed was I to seeing her in a classroom. But there she was with an armful of colorful bangles and sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. She was with a young bearded man whom she introduced as Mr. Vivek. She hesitated for a moment, but the man broke in and added that he was, in fact, Miss Julie’s husband. My confusion must have broken out like a hidden sun on my face. “Yes,” she said, “I’ve been married for a month or so. I thought I’d tell you next term, since we’ll be finishing up so soon. You girls are so, so inquisitive.”
I understood what she meant. The girls in our class, once they heard that Miss Julie was married, would crowd around her desk and tease her unmercifully. They would want to know all sorts of things, how handsome he was, how they had met, did she shave her legs before the wedding night and what else did she shave, things like that. I assured them that their secret was safe with me. Still, I thought she might have told us, so that we could have celebrated with her, brought her a gift, taken a half-holiday from classes.
Later, I wondered if Miss Julie had wanted to keep the marriage secret for another reason. Perhaps it wasn’t approved of by her parents, or perhaps they were too poor to have a big wedding and were ashamed. It never occurred to me to doubt their word, for the idea of Miss Julie having a boyfriend seemed too ridiculous. Yet that was the very rumor that swept through the school the next term. She never mentioned her marriage to anyone.
But this was Pi, not Madras, where liberated Christian schoolteachers might have as many boyfriends as they desired. The island was off the coast of India, not connected to the mainland, an eye, a tiny eye, to the teardrop that was Sri Lanka. It had been invaded and colonized so many times that it nonchalantly absorbed the morals of every culture that came to it. Castes intermarried, racial lines were blurred, and nearly everyone was an eighth something else. I was certain my family had both African and Dutch blood in it somewhere, but that was of course hushed up. Anthropology would prove me right, but religion remained an obstacle. Our family descended from pure-blooded priests, said my grandmother firmly, refusing argument. As such, we had our own codes for conduct, and old traditions reigned. Thus, to our acquaintances with similar histories and beliefs, my mother was a tramp.
The marketplace was a mixing ground for rich and poor. There were big stores with shiny windows displaying the latest sari fashions and jeans and small shacks selling betel leaf. Women spread their wares on burlap smoothed over pavement; men set up wooden crates to sell imported watches and fancy scarves. Book vendors showed off their fare on rickety, movable stands, the spines facing out. I always took a long time choosing a title from my favorite book vendor. All the books were used, and many were in English. Some were from religious publishers, some were commercial, and some were from a local press that published poetry on handmade paper. There was always a supply of Penguin paperbacks, and I often walked away with a good Jane Austen or George Eliot.
I dearly loved this stall. The owner was a fat Turk who wore an embroidered fez and a short crimson vest. He had a face that seemed to exist only for his smile, which left him a dimpled baby. He didn’t mind how long I took with my selection, and sometimes let me sit on an old orange crate, reading a few pages to see if I liked the beginning.
But this day I didn’t have money for a book, so I turned to the food stalls. I picked ripe tomatoes, plump lemons, and slender eggplant. I found fresh garlic and bunches of coriander. What else did my grandmother want? A packet of sugar and small white onions. Finally, I was done, and began to debate over a cold soda or slices of peppered mango. I opted for the latter and made my way to the stall that sold the sweet, juicy, yellow-orange fruit. There was a white man there already, ready to pay for his purchase.
“One rupee,” said the owner.
“Not more than four anna,” said the foreigner and I together. He and I began to laugh, and the owner shrugged.
“Let me buy you a slice for coming to my aid,” said the man, sounding like an American.
I refused, saying it wasn’t anything much. I noticed that he was older, about thirty, I thought, with short blond hair and green-grey eyes.
“I’ve been here so long, it’s funny that someone would try to swindle me,” he said so the vendor wouldn’t hear.
I smiled and turned to buy my mango. When I turned back, he was gone. I was a little disappointed, for I would have liked to talk to him a bit. I didn’t know any Americans, except for Mary Ann, a girl at school who said “okay” a lot. Wiping away the golden juice that dribbled over my chin, I made my way home. I passed a foreign couple, Japanese, in a cuddle. All around me, people were cuddling—Indians, islanders, Pakistanis, Singhalese. Was the world love-mad? Or had it always been this way, and I was just suddenly more acutely aware of it? March was warm, the tail end of spring. There were rains in the north, and we’d be getting our share of them in a few months. But the island seemed to be monsoon-crazy already, affecting couples with lovesickness early. “Cheap display,” elder lookers-on would mutter, like in the song by Joni Mitchell. “Amour” would whisper others.
I had a book of Indian miniatures and was enthralled by the pictures of decorous courtly love, royal couples in royal pavilions, faithfully attended by respectful servants, always in a garden with a small deer or two in the background, trees dripping with leaves and fruit over the bower, a fountain in the foreground. I thought I would fall in love like everyone around me, respect my husband, and have many children. Someone I could look up to, someone tall, but not too tall. Someone I would cherish. Toting the groceries, I wandered home.
Seven
The next two days it rained. Everything was drenched. There had been no news of Jani’s suitor.
“Do you think you’re in love with C.P.?” I asked, unable to stand Jani’s silence any longer.
“Love? No, I don’t think so,” answered Jani.
“But could you grow to love him?”
“I don’t know.”
We were in our room, in bed, but not talking. Usually, Jani would tell me straightaway what was in her heart, but now she was on guard. She was afraid of something, and I dearly wished I could make it all right for her.
“Are you going to marry C.P.?”
“I suppose I have to—unless—”
“Unless what?” But she just laughed.
“Unless one of your heroes arrives and rescues me, In guess.”
“Why can’t C.P. rescue you?”
I wanted to rescue her. I was ready to be Jani’s knight, to wear her favor upon my sleeve and fight for her.
“There’s so much you don’t know,” she told me.
I g
uess it was true. One by one, Jani refused to meet any other suitors selected for her. At first she complained that she didn’t like this one’s nose, this one’s hair, when she was presented with their photographs, but then she started to say nothing, becoming glum and silent. Grandmother became exasperated, sometimes trying to coax her nicely to give one a try—here, this one is a genius, and he is loved by his three sisters—but Jani would have none of it. Then Grandmother would lose her temper, stamp her foot, appeal to the gods. Jani would close her ears and retire with a devotional.
I became distracted by the rain. It pounded on the roof and gushed across the windows; the trees would sway back under its assault. I caught a little cold and had to stay in bed. Jani brought me trays of orange juice and toast. The entire household was a firm believer in bed rest and vitamin C. I was agonizingly bored.
“Come, now, it’s not so bad,” said Jani, but she didn’t like to sit at the window while it poured and listen to the singing of the wind. She didn’t like to lie under the awning of the balcony where the water dripped into saucepans and watch the villagers make their way through the puddles, protecting their heads with plantain leaves. Not for her the vibrant pounding that made you want to dance in imitation of the raindrops, plunk, plunk your feet up and down, and then thunk, thunk, thunk for thunder. Rain was something to avoid for Jani, something to come out from.
Surprisingly, my mother came once or twice to check up on me. She looked at me through the doorway, but if I attempted a smile, she didn’t respond. Once she did smile at me, but it was my turn to pout and stew. All right for her to stand and smile, while I was bedridden. Where was she when I was well and able? I scowled quite fiercely.
When the days were bright again, I soon went back to the market. I brought along a book of zoology to a cafe I had lately discovered. It was a well-lit place full of scuffed tables and patrons who nursed their drinks for hours. I had a rose milk, which I took to a corner table by a window that poured in sunlight.
I liked what zoology offered me. In the study of animals, I saw how environment affects a certain species and what bearing it has on its life. I thought about Jani’s upbringing, how she had no parents, how she seemed docile and able to adapt to any given environment. Her stubbornness in refusing even to be nice to C.P. must be the result of all that former adaptability. If Jani were an animal, her species would die out in her refusal to mate and create offspring. All Grandmother was trying to do was to continue the species.
I looked at my book of animal classifications. There were nineteen categories of animal life before even getting to the class of mammal and man. If all the protozoa and the mollusks and segmented worms reproduced regularly, why couldn’t Jani? Even my mother followed the biological urges that maintained mankind, although she should certainly retire her wares by now. I expected to marry and have children. Maybe I’d settle on Pi, in a nice house with a garden, and work at the wildlife preserve in Cootij. It was a place with lots of protected land and full of options for a zoologist. I could come back from Radcliffe, get married, and go to work immediately. Idly, I began to wonder who would be at my wedding. My sisters, of course, but what of my mother? I was interrupted in my musings by a tap on the shoulder.
“Hello, my friend,” said an American voice. Turning around, I looked up to see the American from the mango stand. Wonderingly, my face grew warm.
“Hi,” I said finally.
“I’m happy to say no one else has been trying to swindle me,” he said.
“That’s good.”
“Anyway, it’s not like I’m wealthy or anything,” he said.
“But you’re American—that’s enough,” I said. It was true, America and money went hand in hand.
“What are you reading?”
I showed him my book, feeling a bit foolish. But together we looked at the insides of a great blue whale.
“I once went on a whale watch and saw a whale breaching. It was magnificent; it leapt into the air, and it kept on emerging. It didn’t look like anything I’d seen before,” he said.
“Wow,” I said.
It was the only response I could think of. I could say I’d seen a jellyfish, lots of seaweed, an eel or two, and once, a shark’s carcass, but what were those next to whales?
“It was enormous. It’s hard to imagine something so enormous,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you studying for school?” he asked.
“No, I’m on holiday. I just like to read.”
Seeing that my rose milk was almost empty, he asked if I wanted another one and soon joined me at the table.
“I was never any good in science. I liked music, though. I played violin for years. My mother wanted me to be the next great violinist; she was deaf to the sounds I produced. Treat it like an instrument, Richard, not like a device for torture, my teacher would say.”
“My aunts used to make me take classical dance, until I finally convinced them it was a lost cause. I like music, too,” I said. “I also like rose milk. Do you?”
“No. I like lassi, and buttermilk.”
“I like curds and rice with cucumber and mustard.”
“What I love are the bhajis, anything fried. It’s not at all good for you, though.”
“My grandmother is a stickler for healthy type foods. We never have bhajis.”
“Well, maybe we should order some now.”
I agreed, thinking it only a slight indiscretion.
Munching on the fried onions and potatoes, we talked some more. I liked the way he looked and the quiet shy smile. He didn’t smile often, which made me smile all the more. He wasn’t handsome in the way of a model or film star, but handsome in that his features were composed, his expression calm. I felt I could learn from him, although I didn’t know what I wanted to learn. He was sexy, too. Sitting next to him, I found my attention wandering from what he was saying to the nice color of his shirt, his darkish whitish skin, the depth of his unfathomable eyes. Then I snapped myself out of this spell. He was just an American talking to a kid, me.
“What do you do, Richard?” I asked, testing out his name.
“I give English lessons to schoolboys. Not girls, of course, they’re too shy. I came to India to study ayurvedic medicine, and I take classes here on the island.”
“Do you have a lot of money?” I asked, not shy.
“No.” He laughed. “The classes I take are free. Do you know Guru Gowmathi?”
I shook my head.
“He teaches all of us—there are six of us—for free, with the idea we will spread his knowledge.”
I had heard of foreigners coming to study Indian arts but had never met one.
“Are you full Indian?” he asked me.
I told him my father had been white.
“Your features are just slightly different from most of the Indians and islanders.”
I became self-conscious then and told him I had to go.
We parted when it began to grow dark. Thinking my grandmother would be annoyed that I’d stayed out so long, I hurried. As I walked along, I realized how starved I had been for a real conversation, that the person I knew most was myself. Talking with Richard made my heart light, and even the flowers around me seemed more potent. I was heady with excitement at the time I’d just had. He had seen a whale!
Fully expecting to be reprimanded at home, I was surprised at my grandmother’s abstracted greeting. She yelled just a little, and then she urged me to see my cousin. I followed her to our room, where I discovered Jani weeping on the bed.
“She has been like this all afternoon,” said my grandmother, wringing her hands.
She left me with Jani, and I approached the bed.
“What’s wrong, Jani? Tell me what’s the matter,” I said softly, putting out my hand to stroke her back. But my words only made her weep harder, so I sat quietly.
“It’s no use—I can’t pretend,” she finally said between sobs.
I stroked her long black
hair, untangling the knots. She said I was too young to understand, that I couldn’t comprehend. But I begged her to try, and slowly, she told me. She spoke of her friends, of Nalani and Rohini, both of them recently married, and how they told her that it hurt to give birth to a baby. How could they do this to her, Grandmother Kamala and our relatives, marry her off and subject her to such pain? I said, no, no, it’s not like that, there doesn’t have to be pain. I had read a lot more books than she, I told her, and I knew it didn’t have to be so. I said, think of all the others, think of the drugs, think of most of the world, think of The Good Earth and how babies just dropped in the fields while the mothers worked. But Jani said that there were always some exceptions, that some girls never feel the monthly pain and some scream for hours, and what would I know anyway? I know, I know, I said, I know the thing between men and women, and how they fight for each other, how they brave fire and exile to sleep with one another, how they adore their babies. Jani, because she felt she had already told me so much and there was no reason to hold back, said she was really afraid of killing her baby. What can I do? she wailed. I won’t be able to give birth! And if I do, the baby will die! You can’t know that, I said, you can’t possibly know. But Jani said there were some things you just knew about your body, and she was absolutely, positively sure.
I tried to calm her and soothe her, but she kept crying.
“I cannot marry C.P.,” she said.
“You need to fall in love with someone,” I offered.
“No one will ever love me, no one that gentle,” she said.
“Maybe you don’t have to sleep with your husband,” I said, but even as I said that, I knew it was preposterous. Children were always the object of marriage; everyone knew that.
“There is only one thing I can do, and I need to do it soon,” she said.
I became alarmed, and thought she meant to take her life, but she merely clasped a blue prayer book to her heart and closed her eyes.
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