“Yes.”
“What are you studying?”
“First year P.U.C.”
“I’m in eleventh standard.”
We had run out of conversation, I thought, but Murthi, C.P.’s cousin, began to talk of a movie he had seen, which made me say that I wanted to see it, too. He said his sister was going with her friends and did I want to go; he could ask her to ring me? And to all this I answered yes, why not? I gulped my milk and thought, To hell with Richard.
The movie was a good one, a regular weepy epic with lots of drama, two heroines and two heroes, five villains, all taking place near a temple and a hill station in India. A Hindi film with good songs, and when the front row audience began to sing along, Murthi’s sister and her friends began to giggle and I giggled, too. But in the second half, the hero reminded me of Richard, and I cried and hoped no one noticed. I began to wish I had never met Richard, that I was still an innocent girl, like the girls around me who were shy about certain subjects.
After the movie we went out for espresso and ice cream, and the girls discussed the film and their friends. They didn’t pay too much attention to me, so I was left to dream on.
I began to fashion a Richard from my memory of him. In my inner world he was even more attentive, more alluring than he had been in reality. He had been gone two weeks. I dreamed up long conversations with him, scenarios in which I spoke my own mind clearly and at length. He replied with utter devotion, a multitude of compliments. For a while I waited to receive a letter from him, but none arrived. I reasoned that he might have thought it dangerous to send mail to me at my grandmother’s, that it would arouse suspicious attention.
“Why don’t you begin a project—some drawing?” asked my grandmother.
I said no, I didn’t want to draw.
“Do a painting for me,” she sweetly suggested.
I had drawn those mandalas for her but she never knew. I decided to attempt some painting, but my paints looked dull. Great-uncle had some better colors, and dispiritedly I borrowed his and sat down to paint.
I tried some images of girls, having learned from one of my classmates how to draw a quick portrait. I had small squares of paper, also borrowed from Great-uncle. Idly, then more seriously, I began to draw some portraits of Richard. I drew his broad forehead, his strong nose, his quick smile. I drew from a memory that seemed to have been burned into my mind. As I drew I felt myself ache with longing. I forgot the verandah, the birds, the house, Grandmother. I had completely entered the world of my dreams, where time stood utterly still. I was with Richard in my mind. It was almost like dying and entering another dimension. But somehow I snapped myself out of this trance and was conscious that I had lost minutes. I was surprised to see the sun high in the sky and to hear my grandmother calling me to lunch.
Meanwhile, my mother began to disappear in the evenings, too. Usually, she ate her meals alone on the verandah. After my supper, Grandmother would set her a plate of food. Sometimes my mother would take her plate to the garden, where she surreptitiously sipped wine. But for a few nights, she missed her evening meal; late at night I’d hear the garden gate creaking open and my mother entering the compound. I began to notice that she disappeared on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Sometimes she came home laden with lilac. Blooms of wet purple were cradled in her arms, and a strange smile floated on her lips. I knew then she had gone to visit her friend the poet.
The poet lived a few blocks from us. She was a woman in her forties who was famous for her female lovers. Her books of poems were dedicated to them. To Kavita with Love. To Lalitha with Devotion. To Radha, My Happiness. She produced dozens of these slender volumes, hand-printed by our local press. My mother was not a lover, as far as I knew, and no poems had been dedicated to her. But she and the poet had been friends a long time; I think they went to school together.
I imagined the two of them in early evening, on deeply pillowed couches, sitting in Sapphic splendor, sipping tea. Maybe they traded romantic anecdotes, revealed secret conquests. Maybe they braided each other’s hair and massaged each other’s backs, I supposed they read poetry to each other. My mother always came back peaceful and dreamy, and holding flowers from the poet’s garden.
But where did my mother go when she returned with no flowers? Where else did my mother go? There were places she roamed that I had no idea of. Sometimes she was gone for hours, sometimes for an entire night. Maybe she had trysts in the city. Maybe she met a handsome playboy, a man who drove her around in a spotless white car, who would take her out to a meal at a five-star hotel. She might be dressed in her finest, her mouth lipsticked and bright, her lids heavy with shadow. Or maybe she lounged in the arms of a vegetable seller, the two of them drunk on rum, sprawled on a sidewalk. But this was harder for me to imagine, I could not see her with a man without money, only with someone who would make her forget herself for a while. But, and this might have been closest to the truth, I thought she was usually alone. She was brave enough to walk anywhere she pleased, I could see her drinking alone under the stars, waiting for the pink tinge of dawn to usher her home.
In this town, my mother was granted special status that let her walk unpestered through the streets. No one flicked a greeting her way; no one invited her to talk about the weather or someone’s baby. They denied her the closeness of people tied up in bystander talk, the contact of eyes, perhaps a brush of fingertips on the arm, a good-natured laugh that unites us with our fellow men well within the strictures of propriety, a bond that promises nothing and demands even less. Sharing a few words about the rain doesn’t oblige anyone to issue dinner invitations.
But rapists could still get to my mother. They could grab her breasts in the darkness, knee her apart, tear off her sari. Hoodlums could take their pleasure with my mother, although I was certain that they were afraid of her. She would claw at their eyes, she would curse their lives, she’d kick their groins hard. My mother was nothing if not tough.
At night, I asked my grandmother to tell me stories. She told me the story of the Pole Star. She said that there was once a king who had two wives. The first wife bore him a son of whom he was very fond, but the second wife was very jealous. She persuaded the king to banish the first wife and son from the kingdom, and so much under the power of the second wife was he that he complied with the request. The first wife and her son lived in a hut at the edge of a great forest. When the child was seven years old, he asked his mother to tell him who his father was. When she did, he asked her where his father dwelt. When she told him, the son wished to visit his father and set off. The king was delighted to see his son again and embraced him many times. But the minute his second wife entered the hall, he hastily set down his son. The son was so hurt by this that he quietly crept away from the palace and went home.
At home, he asked his mother if there was anyone stronger than his father.
Yes, replied his mother, it is the Lotus-Eyed.
And where does the Lotus-Eyed dwell, Mother?
She told her son that the Lotus-Eyed lived in the heart of the forest, surrounded by tigers and bears, hoping to discourage her son from seeking him out. But that night, the son arose and kissed his mother softly goodbye. He walked through the forest, not knowing whom he was seeking but knowing his name. So simple was his desire and so innocent, that he had no fear in him. He did not expect that anything could harm him.
In the forest he met a tiger and asked, Are you the Lotus-Eyed? The tiger said no. He met a bear and asked, Are you the Lotus-Eyed? The bear said no.
Finally a sage came by (and, you know, this was God himself) and said, “To find the Lotus-Eyed, you must chant his name aloud.”
And so the boy chanted. And by chanting, he discovered God within himself, as well as the knowledge that he contained his father. He became the Pole Star, and he now guides others on their travels and their quests.
My grandmother stopped speaking. The sky had filled with stars, and I felt as if I’d never seen them before, s
o bright were they. I held my grandmother’s hand and together we waited for my mother’s return. We both fell asleep.
Sixteen
My mother returned at dawn. She said nothing to my grandmother and me. She walked past us. Later I heard my grandmother scolding my mother with exasperation and concern. But my mother’s replies were muffled. I ate my breakfast and listened to the radio. Later, I sneaked into my mother’s room and stole some of her poetry books. I thought I might find out something about my mother by reading her friend’s verse. I kept on telling myself that she deserved to have such treatment from me if she refused to address my needs. Guiltily, I looked at the books. They were beautiful, worn and weighty when I placed one between my palms. The lettering was embossed, and some of the gilt was worn.
There was no picture of the poet on the back of her books. I imagined her with wild, unruly hair, a faraway expression in her eyes. I wondered what it would be like to kiss a woman. Soft, I guessed, feather-light. I kissed my arms to see if I could tell, but I knew it couldn’t be the same. Maybe women were better off with women; they were more alike. I opened my mouth and kissed my hand slowly and sensually, imagining the poet’s mouth on mine. It made me shiver.
I began to read. Her poems began simply, strings of images attached with threads of herbs, fragrant jasmine, lush rose. Then this string was stretched taut, and the herbs gave way to polished stones. Pain and conflict skidded on the surface, dug deep like needles piercing, drew blood, tears. Lovers were listed, cast off, abandoned, cheated on.
My eyes are full of your jet-black hair
It chokes my dreams and your sweet tongue releases berry juice in my mouth
I aim for the milk in you
Stars scatter at your footstep
The moon loses itself in your skin.
She spoke of anger, betrayal, and whispered apologies.
When Krishna fled from Radha, she turned to her own playmates for comfort
What could the blue-skinned god give in place of the soft hands of her friends as they undressed her?
I stopped reading. I stretched and sensed the world as if through a fog, yet aware of my own movements. Everything seemed peaceful, dreamy. I had read some poems and felt good. They hadn’t told me that she liked poetry. I walked out of my room, which suddenly seemed cleaner and better than before. I felt like I could kiss everyone. Richard was away; let him be, I thought, maybe he will discover something worthwhile. Meanwhile, I had a day at my disposal. No wandering around town aimlessly, no need to rush urgently to his apartment, seeking his arms. No need to wish violently for something that wasn’t mine to have.
But what to do? No one was at home. Grandmother was visiting a friend with whom she played Parcheesi. I decided to apply polish to my toenails, which occupied me for half an hour. Then I called up C.P.’s cousin and asked him if he wanted to visit. He agreed and brought over a book for me to read. We spent the afternoon talking about school and the movies and told stupid jokes without exhaustion. We went for a bike ride, and then he left and I fixed myself a snack and waited for my grandmother’s return. It seems all I did was wait for someone else that summer.
Then idly I wondered if Richard had found someone in Africa. A dark Ethiopian beauty. How old would she be, I wondered, suddenly bitter, angry, choking on my imagination. Would he caress her as he had done me and all the others before me? Would he make pancakes afterward? I tried to concentrate on something else, nearly crying from the strain of it, but even if I just chanted zoology, a litany of what I had memorized out of a textbook, Richard came up all over again. He was a distraction, an error, a wrong turn, and why did he leave me? Was it my color? My age? The impossibility of loving an Indian island girl with a horrible family? Instantly I was ashamed—not horrible, merely eccentric, odd. Was he embarrassed by me? Was he ashamed of me, in the final analysis, in the distant and full picture? I wept all night against my pillow after the lights were off.
He had left because of his mother. That much was clear. But in his absence I began to think and therefore undermined myself. Would he come back to me? Was I worth coming back for? More to the point, was he worthy of me, headed for Radcliffe and my own job in Africa? How dare he go to Ethiopia before me? It was my dream he had supplanted, I wanted to see the Transvaal, the Serengeti, Deep deserts and indomitable plains. Rushes of sunset in the sky, rhinos outlined against the horizon. And giraffes. And leopards and gazelles, swifttooted and tame. If I was a gazelle, what was Richard? A lion? Or merely a man whom I missed to distraction?
The next day my grandmother took me to the bank. Ahead of us in the queue was an American man with his young son. Watching him I was struck with an understanding that had escaped me most of my previous life. Watching this stranger, this American father, his hands in his pockets, his feet shod in sneakers, as I stood in line with my grandmother, I looked at the larger picture. My grandmother, who only meant kindness, asked for the third time if I did not wish to use the rest room, which filled me with humiliation—as if I were five! As if I didn’t understand my body. Instead of thinking of something else to say, I could only wish to be someone else. There stood the American, confident and knowing, his watch sparkling, his shoes scuffed.
I realized that I could never have that, that American symbiosis with the world, the ease of knowing that if life was indeed a river, he was part of it, not helpless, not alien, but part of it. It was something I could never have, no matter how hard I tried; I would never be able to cut myself loose from my family. It was my aunts, my uncles, my great-uncle, my grandmother, all of them in their noisy, quarrelsome ways, their pettiness, their awkwardness, that would burst out of my seams, no matter what my affectations.
My mother tried to escape it. She tried to dress differently, to use her beauty to make up for not being white or rich or cultured, to use her sexuality to make up for having the natural self-consciousness of our family. And as for me with Richard, I saw not only the man, but more: I saw ease, something that had to do with eating hot dogs, with sports, with the strength to lift a hammer as well as throw a Frisbee, with animal casualness, with American confidence. He was everything that no one in my family was; it was everything I wanted to be. But simple association wasn’t enough. Even if I were smarter and prettier than an American girl, even with my youth, it would be the American girl who would be welcomed into Richard’s relatives’ houses, it would be she whom they’d understand. Even if we were to be married, I’d never gain admittance into his extended family, his family who were tied to memories of Thanksgiving dinners, backyard baseball, first dates and first cars, roots that I didn’t have. Being half American wasn’t enough. I remembered the Joyce story “Araby,” where the narrator suddenly realized some truth about himself and sees himself for a vain and horrible creature; I recognized the vanity in myself thus, standing in line.
But my grandmother did a surprising thing. She clicked open her handbag, and taking out her sunglasses, she gave them to me. I was forced to regard her. “These are for you. They are to chase foolish thoughts away from your head,” she said. I inspected the gift. They were RayBans from abroad, from London or America, maybe Australia. I tried them on, and although they were loose about my head, I saw things differently through them. The American noticed me and smiled, and I, despite my alienation, smiled back. My family had triumphed again.
Seventeen
Still. I sighed to the trees and sighed over the grass and sighed over the gate of our house. I felt rejected and dejected, far away from the comfort of anyone I knew. At this time, I began to ride the bus. I would buy a ticket and ride round-trip without getting off at any stop. I’d wait for the bus to start its journey again. I lost interest in everything at home, even my mother.
My great-uncle returned from wherever it was he’d gone, and entreated me to play cards or join him and my grandmother in Parcheesi. We called it “Dayakatum.” I would quit before the game concluded. I began to practice distracted Yoga and uneven Tai Chi Chuan. I continued re
ading the poetry I found in my mother’s room. When I tried to sleep, I couldn’t.
One night, I took my sleeplessness to the verandah. I peered into the darkness, not sure what I wanted to see, aside from Richard striding across the courtyard coming back to me. Perhaps it was my state of mind, or the shadows of the trees made by the watchlight. I thought I saw my mother in the arms of a ghost. I saw her embrace a shadow. Was it my father? I looked closer. Was he wearing a cowboy hat? I watched my mother in her sari twirl around with this stranger in her arms, watched them execute steps like Nargis and Raj Kapoor, movie stars in motion. The ghost held her close, his arm about her waist, the other holding my mother’s arm. Her sari glittered white, and were it not for the fact that they hovered in midair, I might have been seeing something real. I became afraid. I felt out of control. A dread seized me, sucking out my breath so that I gasped. A convulsion gripped my heart. I drew away and remained awake the rest of the night. In desperation, I wrote to Jani.
Dear Jani,
What I am about to tell you will probably shock you, but I feel you must know. I think I saw a ghost. It was a vision of my mother. Also I have known a man here who is actually quite old and is more than a friend. When you left I began to see him more and more, and now he has left the island and I do not know what I can do about it. I know it was wrong of me, but he was like a beckoning Krishna, and like any gopika, I danced toward him. Don’t laugh at me, Jani. Now he has left, and I am inconsolable and seeing things. What shall I do?
Your loving cousin,
Sonil
When dawn came through my window, I sealed the letter and searched for a stamp. I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and found Vasanti muttering in the kitchen. My mother had been found drunk on the front steps that morning, and Vasanti had had to bring her in.
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