It wasn’t exactly like the movies.
KUYILA STOOD NEXT TO ASHOK AT THE COLOMBO AIRPORT, WAVING good-bye to her family as they walked through the door, down the stairs, across to their plane. They would be back in a year. Back home, lots of kids would be going away to college now, in September, and wouldn’t come home again until June—that was almost a year. They would be homesick too, but they somehow coped.
The bathrooms were the worst. They had to live with his parents, though at least his dad was a doctor too and owned a large house with many rooms. It could have been a lot worse—in so many homes they’d visited, nice homes, the only way to go to the bathroom was to squat on the floor, your feet in their slippers placed in marked indentations. Ashok’s family actually had toilets. But the bathroom vents, high on the walls, let in all the damp heat; the toilet seat was always wet, the walls were wet, and there were bugs everywhere. Spiders and chameleons and flying beetles and red ants and others that she couldn’t even name. Kuyila hated bugs. She hadn’t been able to stand them since the day with the ants. She had been seven or eight, sitting on the porch steps, waiting for the bus; she had put her bag down on the ground. Inside the bag, her juice had spilled. When Kuyila got on the bus, she put the bag in her lap. After a little while, her legs had started itching, and she looked down and there were ants all over her blue plaid skirt, her bare knees, her thick socks; ants had even crawled up under her skirt. She jumped up and started screaming, and couldn’t stop until another little girl had managed to knock most of them off her.
In Sri Lanka, the red ants bit you, and the mosquitoes did too. Kuyila was allergic to mosquitoes—too many bites and her throat got tight, her chest started to feel squeezed, squished, as if a giant were sitting on top of it. At night, she lay awake under their netting, just looking up at the mosquitoes buzzing around, counting the chameleons that skittered along the ceilings. One, two, three, four, until the netting tore from the weight, came crashing down to smother them in crawling lizards, in stinging mosquitoes. That last part was only in her dreams, but even with the netting, Kuyila woke up most mornings covered in small red bites, which she desperately rubbed with the back of her hands, trying not to scratch them, trying to breathe.
THE HEAT WAS UNBEARABLE. KUYILA DREAMED OF AIR-CONDITIONED movie theaters, of wearing a tank top and shorts, watching an R-rated movie she’d snuck into with Jenny and Maria, complaining about how cold it was and about how they always over-air-conditioned the theaters. When they finally left the theater and went out into the summer heat, they’d get cherry ice cream and walk a few blocks over to the mall, and more air-conditioning.
Ashok said it would get cooler soon. They did what they could to stay cool, lying under the old, slow fan, staying very still, sending the servants for cold drinks. Kuyila was grateful that they had a refrigerator—so many didn’t. She still couldn’t just let water run in the tap until it got cold; she had to boil it every single time and drink it lukewarm. If she didn’t, she came down with runs so bad that they were just disgusting, and then she had to spend more time in the damp, sticky bathroom.
Ashok’s mother, Prema, kept trying to talk her into having hot tea instead, with milk and sugar, cooked on the stove. She said it made you sweat and that that made you cooler as the sweat dried on your body. Kuyila couldn’t bring herself to do it; the thought of the drying sweat made her stomach churn. Instead she drank expensive cold sodas—Portello, black currant, or Necto, nectarine. They were tasty; she actually liked them better than Coke.
She loved the food too. Ashok’s mother was a much better cook than Amma, and so happy to teach Kuyila. Her own daughter had no interest in cooking—she was a bookworm, like her brother, and always busy with her schoolwork. So Prema spent hours teaching Kuyila—she told Kuyila what she was doing while she cooked, and then had Kuyila try it, watching and offering advice. For every meal, Ashok’s mother always made at least one dish, and it was always the tastiest thing on the table. After only a few weeks of her teaching, Ashok looked up from dinner one day to casually compliment his mother—“Amma, this brinjal is very good.” He was like that, thoughtful. Prema said, smiling broadly, “I’m glad you liked it, rasa, your wife cooked it.” Ashok had looked so surprised—but then he smiled, and the smile spread across his face like sunshine. Kuyila flushed and felt warm all over, and even though cooking in the midday heat had made the sweat run down her back, pooling at the base of her spine, she found herself happy.
That night he held her close and ran his hand through her hair, over and over. Kuyila closed her eyes and pretended they were in Massachusetts, that the air conditioner had just broken down, and that soon they’d get up and take a nice cool shower together, then plop down on the couch in front of the TV. They’d pop a movie in the VCR, and then he would fall asleep with his head resting in her lap. She wasn’t sure if she loved her husband, not yet. He was so often at the clinic, or at his export business, checking on the staff. But when he came home he brought fresh mangoes from the market just for her, and spoke to her gently, in his perfect (if accented) English, to which she responded in her still quite broken Tamil. Kuyila was growing fond of him.
That night, Ashok revealed his long-term plans.
“We won’t stay here forever—there are opportunities in America. A few more years to establish the business, so we have some security; then I will apply for a hospital job. You can be near your family, and take me to your favorite places. You can have ice cream and air-conditioning…” Ashok turned his head on the pillow, smiling down at her.
“That sounds nice,” Kuyila forced herself to say; it was important to be supportive of one’s husband. But she was surprised to find that she didn’t want to go. Aside from learning to cook a dish now and then, she had no other responsibilities here, nothing she was supposed to do but sit with Prema, with Ashok’s aunts and sister, listening to their gossip, improving her Tamil. They treated her like family, and Ashok himself treated her as if she were precious, a fragile flower imported from the far West. Here in Sri Lanka, she felt special, like a princess.
In America, she’d be just another housewife.
ASHOK CONTINUED TALKING OF AMERICA THROUGH OCTOBER, November—when the heat finally broke and a series of sweet, crisp, almost autumnal days lifted everyone’s spirits. In late December, all plans to leave Sri Lanka soon were dropped—Kuyila was pregnant. She was seventeen. Prema told her that she had had Ashok when she was fifteen. Kuyila knew she should have expected this, but she wasn’t ready. She wanted to go home then, wanted to go to her father, have him fold her into his arms and call her his rasathi, his little princess. She knew she should be happy—the household was ecstatic, rejoicing, especially after Ashok’s grandmother placed her hands on Kuyila’s belly and pronounced that it would be a boy. But instead she slipped out from under Ashok’s heavy arm in the middle of the night, climbed out of their bed silently, out from under the white netting, and crept down the stairs, along the hallway to the kitchen, where she mixed oils and chili powders, syrups and milk—creating whatever repulsive concoctions she could think of and then gulping them down, without even noticing the taste. She did this every night for a week, until finally, finally she miscarried, doubled over the toilet for hours of bloody, painful cramps.
The family grieved as if they’d lost an actual child—Ashok’s eyes were shadowed, and he looked older. Prema assured Kuyila that it wasn’t her fault and told her not to worry. Young brides often miscarried—she had lost two herself. They would be more careful the next time. Kuyila agreed and tried to look sad, and hugged her secret to herself.
Ten months later, she was pregnant again.
THIS TIME, THE FAMILY WATCHED HER EVERY STEP. IT WOULD BE A girl, the grandmother announced, but Ashok seemed just as excited. Kuyila had no opportunities to try to lose this child, but she didn’t really mind. She was eighteen now and had lived in Sri Lanka for a little over a year. Her family would be coming for a visit soon, and she wanted to have something to
show for her year as a wife. Raji had been sending her long letters about her life in college, the parties she went to, the white boyfriend she was madly in love with. Kuyila knew it was petty, but she wanted to show her sister that she was happy, that she had made a good choice.
To be honest, she was also a little bored. Ashok’s mother didn’t really want her to cook much, and the servants took care of all the cleaning. Ashok’s aunts were full of endless conversation, with talk of everyone in town—who should marry whom, whose business was booming and whose was failing. Kuyila didn’t know those people. And her husband, despite his joy in the coming child, seemed busier every day, with less and less time for her. Kuyila was still waiting for love to come—she had grown to care for him, but she wasn’t sure she loved him, or that he loved her. He never seemed passionate about her. Not like the boy in Raji’s letters, who apparently declared his love every night over her sister’s naked, unmarried body. Ashok was unfailingly kind to her, but oddly distant.
Maybe a baby would change that.
THEY NAMED HER MINAL, PRECIOUS GEM. ASHOK GAVE KUYILA A RUBY pendant the morning Minal was born: one large stone set in twenty-four-karat gold, on a slender chain. The gold was beautiful, softer than American twenty-two karat, richer in tone. The ruby was cut in many facets, so that every time Kuyila moved it caught the light. She never took it off, and with it resting against her skin, she felt like a queen, rather than just a simple princess. She felt she had earned it—the baby was big, and the labor had lasted almost two days. By the end of it, Kuyila had been convinced that despite all the doctors and the gleaming sterility of the Colombo hospital, she was going to be torn apart, was going to die for lack of American medicine. When Minal finally slid out, she did so with a last kick that tore Kuyila further. The pain made her pass out, and when she came back to consciousness, Kuyila promised herself that no matter what everyone said, she would never forget that pain.
People said a lot of things that weren’t true—breast-feeding, for example, wasn’t the wonderful bonding experience she’d heard about. Minal had a tough, strong, sucking mouth, and when she clamped down on Kuyila’s tender, cracking nipples, a jolt of pain went through her. Still, when the light fell on Minal’s face, tracing the soft curves of it, Kuyila had to admit that her daughter was beautiful. And Ashok was incredible with her—Minal fussed and fussed, but all he had to do was pick her up, swing her around, curl her into his slender arms and she quieted right down. Kuyila hadn’t realized how much Ashok had wanted a child until Minal arrived; he had never said anything, almost as if he hadn’t let himself believe she was coming until she was actually there, until he held her in his arms. As if he didn’t think she would make it that far, and didn’t want to love her until she did. But now that his daughter had arrived, he was head over heels. When Kuyila saw her husband’s bright face, bent over the child, she felt a wave of emotion rush through her, like nothing she had ever known. She had finally found her role, her place in the world.
A FEW MONTHS LATER, ASHOK’S FATHER DIED. KUYILA HADN’T known him well; always busy with his patients and, when at home, buried in a medical journal. Only in the last few months, since Minal came, had he spent any time near Kuyila—and even then, it was only to spend time with the baby. His only grandchild so far. Kuyila was determined to give Ashok many children, more than one son. Not yet—her body still ached. But someday. She wasn’t certain, but she thought the old man had been disappointed when the ultrasound told them it would be a girl. This wasn’t a house of forced abortions, of dowry deaths and bride-burnings. Still, it would be good to have a son.
The old man had had a weak heart—it ran in the family. Minal appeared fine, but Ashok had it as well and could pass it down to other children. His family carefully hadn’t mentioned that when the marriage negotiations were going on; Kuyila was glad they hadn’t. Her parents would likely have pulled out, and every day she was growing happier with her choice, happy to take Ashok, weak heart and all. Since Minal’s birth, he had been utterly attentive, a perfect husband. Kuyila thought he was really starting to love her now.
THE NEXT YEAR BROUGHT AN ASTONISHMENT, A MARVEL—RAJI CAME to Sri Lanka for a whirlwind arranged marriage herself. Apparently she’d caught her white boyfriend cheating on her—with another South Asian girl! In a frenetic fury she had sworn off white boys and asked Amma and Appa to arrange a marriage for her—she was here, married to a man called Vivek, and moved back to America with him before Kuyila could even ask her if Raji was sure this was what she wanted. Kuyila could only hope her big sister would find some happiness, the kind Kuyila was finding herself.
IN THE FOURTH YEAR OF HER MARRIAGE, KUYILA AND PREMA MADE a small pilgrimage, walking barefoot for hours, until they reached a sacred temple where only women went. Kuyila had been surprised by Prema’s suggestion—they had both been lighting candles at the cathedral, saying their rosaries, asking for Mary’s intercession to help Kuyila become pregnant. But Ashok’s mother saw nothing wrong in praying at a Hindu temple, just in case. So Kuyila went.
No one bothered them: two obviously respectable upper-caste women on pilgrimage. But the roads were tense. Drivers of auto-rickshaws shouted at each other more than usual; bullock carts refused to get out of the way; more than one pedestrian was knocked down in their sight. And when the police came, they did nothing—or they made things worse, knocking down more people. Few women were on the roads, and when they reached the temple, few worshippers were inside. They made their offerings in silence, and then called Ashok to come with the car and take them home.
IT WAS JULY 25, THE DAY BEFORE MINAL’S BIRTHDAY. SHE WAS TURNING two, a little Leo, as fierce and proud as one. She loved being the center of everyone’s attention. Minal was talking to her grandmother Prema, chattering away in a mix of Tamil and English, mostly Tamil, about big spider soldiers. Bugs didn’t scare her.
The streets had become more restless, and Kuyila had started leaving Minal at home with the servants when she and Prema went to market. They were unlikely to see trouble at the house; they lived in the nicest part of town. But Kuyila was still concerned—in the rest of the city, it wasn’t good to be Tamil.
Kuyila hadn’t even known that she was Tamil until she was ten or so in America, and even though she’d now been living in Sri Lanka for four years, she still couldn’t look at people on the street and tell if they were Tamil or Sinhalese. Ashok could tell by the line of someone’s nose, by the way they shaped their vowels when they spoke English. She didn’t really understand the cause of the current troubles—something about difficulty getting jobs, getting into good schools. Language laws, religious feuds. Ashok had told her there had been riots in the late fifties and might be again. He didn’t want her to go out in the street alone; it wasn’t safe for a Tamil woman to be alone in public.
Minal ran barefoot now across the wooden floor, playing soldier, shouting rat-a-tat-tat! Last night, Ashok told the gate guards to get the rifles out. In America, Kuyila had been in favor of gun control, of banning guns altogether, but now she found herself glad that they had them.
THERE WAS SOMEONE BANGING ON THE GATE. KUYILA COULD HEAR them faintly, shouting. There had been shouting and banging all day—gunshots in the streets. When Ashok came back for lunch, he ate quickly, telling them in between bites of the fighting that had broken out that morning, worse than anyone had expected. As soon as he’d finished eating, he squeezed Kuyila’s hand, kissed Minal on the forehead, and then went running out the door. He was worried about the business, but at least his partner was Sinhalese, and the warehouses were in his name.
Tamil warehouses were burning, Tamil businesses were being looted, destroyed. Kuyila knew Ashok would want to go on to the clinic once the business was secure. But today was not a day for Ashok to see patients; he should leave that to the Sinhalese doctors; they’d understand. Kuyila sat in her cane chair, fanning herself, waiting for her husband to come home. A man had been shot yesterday, less than five streets away, just because he didn�
��t pronounce a word as a Sinhalese would. Kuyila wanted Ashok with her behind the iron gate, the sturdy guards with their rifles.
The banging on the gate just wouldn’t stop.
One of the gate guards came in, his rifle slung over his back.
“What is it?” Kuyila asked.
“A woman, with a child. She claims they’re friends of the family.”
“What’s her name?” Prema asked.
“Himali.”
Kuyila knew that was a Sinhalese name; she had learned that much, at least. “Do you know her, Amma?” Prema had insisted on being called that, but Kuyila had never gotten used to it. Her Amma was in Massachusetts, which seemed impossibly far away.
“Yes—her parents were old friends. Let her in, Raj.”
Prema didn’t look happy; her skin had paled, and she moved to sit down in her favorite chair.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong, kunju. Do not worry.”
The guard showed her in; a woman who held hands with a young boy, perhaps nine or ten. Kuyila had been worried for a moment that perhaps this woman had been some old flame of Ashok’s. She had braced for someone beautiful, but this woman was almost homely, dressed in a simple cotton sari, and she looked tired, old. Kuyila stepped forward to do her duty.
“Welcome, please. Come in. Can I get you some tea?” It was important, even in the midst of chaos, to be a good hostess, a proper wife. Kuyila knew that she had become a good wife; she had put all her heart into it in the last four years, and while growing to love her dear husband, she had grown to be the kind of wife he needed. A good cook, a pretty, gracious hostess for his parties with business associates. Undemanding, calm, friendly. Even in the midst of a civil war.
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