Bodies in Motion

by Mary Anne Mohanraj

  The woman looked shell-shocked; Kuyila wasn’t sure she saw her, or Minal, at all. When she saw Prema, she froze for a moment—then she pulled the boy across the room, falling at Prema’s feet, hiding her face against Prema’s dark green sari.

  “Where are your parents, Himali? Your husband?” Prema’s voice was sharp, but her hand rested gently on the woman’s greying hair.

  The woman didn’t answer—it was the boy who finally said, “They’re dead, Aunty.”

  Kuyila’s stomach twisted at the boy’s words, and she picked up Minal and held her close. The woman was perfectly still, her face hidden. If she cried, Kuyila couldn’t see it. The boy started crying then, and Prema reached out with a trembling arm, pulled him close. Kuyila wished desperately for her husband to come home.

  WHEN ASHOK DID COME HOME, LATE THAT NIGHT, WITH BLOOD FROM the clinic still on his shirt, Kuyila finally understood. She didn’t understand why, or how, or even when—but she saw the look in his eyes when he saw Himali, the way Ashok looked at her and at the boy, the same yearning hunger that Kuyila had seen when he first held their daughter. A look he had never turned toward herself.

  She saw his eyes on the fleshy curve of Himali’s back—the woman was turned away when he walked in, reaching up to turn off the ceiling fan; it had gotten unexpectedly cold. Kuyila understood then the discomfort in Prema’s face. Himali hadn’t even seen him yet; Minal ran to him, and he scooped his daughter up in his arms. Kuyila walked over slowly, steadily, until she was standing beside him. She was his wife; she should fight for him, for her place. Her chest was tight; she was suffocating. She should turn the fan back on; she should throw that woman out of her house; she should do something.

  But she had lost this battle before she had even begun it. Even if she went down fighting, Kuyila knew from that look in her husband’s eyes—it was over.

  Mangoes with Chili

  San Francisco, 1983

  HIMALI WAKES IN THE SMALL ROOM SHE SHARES WITH ASHOK AND ROSHAN; WAKES UP LATE, OFTEN CLOSE TO NOON, AND LIES IN THE empty bed telling herself the story. She is twenty-six years old. Her name is Himali Manavalan. She is Ashok Manavalan’s wife, recently emigrated from Sri Lanka. Her parents were both killed in the troubles, but her husband was able to take her and their son to safety here, in San Francisco, in America. Ashok is a doctor. They have a ten-year-old son, Roshan, who is doing well in school, despite everything. It is a sad story, but not an unusual one—many have lost family members to war, even in America.

  When Himali has finished reviewing her story, she forces herself to climb out of the bed, to put her bare feet on the chilly wood floor. It is only October, but it is so cold here. Cold always, and no sun to light the room, to draw her early from her bed. Just the grey fog, chilling the hard floors, which never get clean. At home, her mother would rise, early each morning, and pour water across the dirt floors of their home, rinsing away layers of dust, dog hair, grains of forgotten rice. By the time the sun came through the open windows and open doors, the floors would be clean, newly made, soft and dry. Himali would be up by then, coaxing Roshan to take a little crab curry, some fresh hoppers the cook had just made—the boy was a fussy eater, and too thin. Her father would be at the store already, working hard, though he would come home for a meal and a little sleep in the heat of the day. They would tend to him then, but the morning was the women’s time—once Roshan was fed, clothed in his white school uniform of shorts and shirt, and sent off on his bicycle, then it was time for a nice lazy gossip, with Amma and the aunties, while the cook prepared the midday meal.

  There are no aunties here. There is only herself.

  Himali opens the bedroom window. She puts her head out—it is wet today, not raining but thickly damp. “Good morning, Mrs. Manavalan!” the blonde girl calls from the courtyard below. She is often there, that girl, sitting cross-legged on the stones, not minding the damp, the chill. She is meditating, she says. When they first came to the building, the girl had invited Himali to join her. She had asked with enthusiasm, eagerly, as if she expected Himali to be as ardent as herself. Himali had refused, but it had been impossible to be anything but gentle in the face of such eagerness; now the girl greets her every morning with the same words, and Himali must call back her own, “Good morning!” though it is now scarcely morning, and she has long forgotten the girl’s name. That is all right. After all, the name the girl calls her by is not rightly her own.

  The real Mrs. Manavalan is Kuyila Manavalan, the woman Himali had shared a house with for two weeks. An impossible time, and an impossible woman. Despite Kuyila’s brown skin, and her years living in Colombo, she was so very American. Arguing loudly with Ashok in those weeks, shouting at him in the middle of the night, so that his mother, the servants, everyone could hear them. Fighting a battle that was already lost, that Kuyila had lost before she ever met Ashok. Ashok’s choice had been made years and years before, and if he had been kept from it for a time, he was no longer. We are defined by our history, Himali’s father had liked to say.

  Her father was referring to the ancestral history, to the great Sinhalese kings who had once ruled the island, lending legitimacy to those, like her father, who believed the Sinhalese had a duty and the right to rule it once again. Rule it democratically, but rule definitively. Her father was a good man, a decent man—he wanted to treat the Tamil minority fairly, as long as they didn’t get too close. He had made that mistake once before, had let a Tamil family become neighbors, then good friends—and what had come of that? A daughter almost ruined, saved only by three sets of parents, working together. One Tamil boy, sent packing to medical school far away. One Sinhalese girl, quickly married to a respectable, dark-skinned, horse-featured Sinhalese man. It all happened so fast, who was to say that the child wasn’t fathered by her new husband? But Himali always knew. Ashok knew too, when she came to his house, when he saw his son.

  The phone rings, and she answers it. It is Ashok, of course—no one else calls here. He is calling to see whether she is up yet, and is happy to hear that she is. Some days, she doesn’t get out of bed until Roshan comes home from school. Those are the bad days. Today she is up, and she tells Ashok that she has showered and dressed, has eaten, that she thinks she might go for a walk, maybe even go down to Golden Gate Park. He tells her that he will be home from the hospital as early as he can and hangs up, reassured. Thinking that it is only a passing sickness after all, the effects of grief and terror and even homesickness, that perhaps Himali is finally getting better. Thinking that he will finally have the wife he always wanted, the girl he has always loved. She can hear it in his voice, the painful hope.

  Lies. She cannot get better. How can lies birth anything but more lies?

  When Himali came to Ashok, made her way to him, from the house where her parents had lain bloody on her mother’s clean floors, it all seemed so clear. A chance, finally. Himali knew he was married, of course, to some girl from America. Had heard that he had a small daughter now. But she chose to come anyway, bearing their son and the ghosts of her parents, carrying the horror she had seen into his house, knowing what he would do when he saw her. They were not children anymore, to let their parents choose their roads. And he had once loved her beyond all reason, had loved her despite knowing that he, a Tamil doctor’s son, would never be allowed to marry a Sinhalese shopkeeper’s daughter. Himali came to the house he shared with his mother, his daughter, his wife, knowing that Ashok loved her still.

  She had done her duty by the husband her parents had chosen for her, had shared the man’s bed and been grateful to find him lacking in desire, almost incapable. He touched her only a few times before it became evident that she was pregnant, and not at all after Roshan was born, seeming only grateful to have a son to call his own. He was a kind enough man, gentle with her, and Himali cooked and cleaned for him as her mother had taught her, until, when her son was almost eight, the man took sick. Himali nursed him through the wasting disease that pulled the flesh from his bone
s, and he seemed grateful. When he died, she took her son and moved back into her parents’ house, finding an odd comfort in being treated like a child once again, with the burdens of wifehood lifted from her. She thought, briefly, of finding Ashok again—but he was married himself by then, with his own duties. What could she have said to him?

  Himali goes to the tiny kitchen, sets a pot of water to boiling for tea. That is sufficient breakfast for her—Ashok eats cereal, cornflakes, and claims to like it, but she can’t bring herself to eat cold food in the morning. She longs for her mother’s hoppers, for pittu, for rice. Himali could cook them herself—but she doesn’t have the right pans, the right flour, the right spices for the curry. Ground cumin at the store but no cumin seed, tamarind pods but no paste, and no curry leaves to be found. Ashok has told her there are Indian grocery stores where she can get many of the needed supplies, and Chinatown for fresh produce, for crabs almost as tasty as the ones back home. Chinatown isn’t far from the Haight—just a short bus ride. When they came here in early August, Ashok took her on the buses, the trolleys, even the subway. Himali knows the way. And still, she can’t bring herself to go. She will have tea now and make a cheese sandwich for Roshan when he comes home. Ashok will come home late, and then will go out again to pick up takeout from one of the restaurants down the street. The Ethiopian one has curries that remind her of home, though their bread is strangely sour. Or perhaps she will make spaghetti. Himali opens the cupboard and looks—yes, there are the long boxes of pasta, the jars of sauce. Spaghetti will be plenty for tonight. She can manage that, and it’s Roshan’s favorite food now. He loves spaghetti.

  Himali walks from one room to another, waiting for the water to boil. She can’t find a place to sit down. There are only three rooms—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Ashok has promised that soon they will move into a bigger place, once they’ve saved up a little money. They were only allowed to take a few hundred dollars out of the country—that and an advance on his hospital salary sustained them for the first weeks, let them rent this shoddy place. He says by January they can move, but Himali cannot imagine it. Instead, she pictures her mother’s house, with its many large rooms and its high beamed ceilings. As a child, at night, she lay alone in her bedroom, with the white mosquito netting that made her feel like a maharani in a fairy tale, like Sita, Rama’s wife, protected from the world. Her father came and tucked her into bed, kissed her forehead and called her kumari, princess, before letting down the walls of white. When she came back to her parents’ house with Roshan, that had become her job, to do that for her son. Here, he sleeps on a thin mattress on the floor in a corner of their room, and she must be careful not to step on him when she wakes in the night, parched, desperate for water.

  Maybe she will go out, after all. It is unbearable, the thought of staying here in this dank set of rooms, waiting for the rain that may or may not come. Himali does not shower. She dresses in a heavy sari, with one of Ashok’s sweaters pulled over it, and a long grey coat. It is far more than anyone else on the street will wear, she knows, but she is so cold. She turns off the pot of now-boiling water, pleased with herself for remembering, picks up her keys, and walks out the door.

  As Himali walks down the stairs, through the heavy iron gate, down the street, her left thumb plays nervously with the gold ring on her fourth finger. It is a bad habit, but she cannot seem to stop herself. She has been doing this since Ashok gave it to her, since the day he told her that he had the papers, the new identity papers he had purchased from a government official, certifying that she was Himali Manavalan, his wife, and that her Roshan was Roshan Manavalan, his legitimate son. The American had refused to give him a divorce. Himali admired the woman for that, for the spirit in her that kept fighting the lost battle. Kuyila remained the legitimate wife, and the little girl, Minal, remained the legitimate daughter. But Himali had the semblance of a marriage, and the body of the man. She had America too, if only by deceit, the country that woman had given up for her marriage, for her husband. Himali had almost expected Kuyila to go back, to go home to her parents, as Himali herself had done when she lost her husband. But the American had decided to stay in Colombo, to keep living in Ashok’s mother’s house, with his mother, and his little girl. Kuyila clung to what she could of her married life; Himali, cast adrift, could not blame her.

  It isn’t so far to the park, after all. Himali walks along a curving road, past a museum, a Japanese garden, walks until her feet in their heeled sandals start to ache. She hasn’t worn heels, hasn’t gone outside in days—or has it been weeks? Himali sits down on a bench and slips off her shoes, resting her feet in the cold grass. The damp chills them, but also eases the pain. The park is almost deserted—an occasional young couple strolls by, arm in arm, evidently so in love that the dismal weather, the now-approaching storm clouds, cannot infringe on their pleasure in each other.

  Himali and Ashok walked like that, on the beach in Colombo, under the bright sun. She ran into the warm waves, came out again with her sari clinging to her body. Teased him with it, dancing away when he reached for her, laughing. They found private places in the great park, under spreading banyan trees. They climbed up into the trees, among the shrieking monkeys, and there she let him undo her blouse, cup her breasts in his slender hands. He pressed his ear to her bare chest, listening for her heartbeat. “Ah, yes, a strong heart,” he said. “Are you sure?” she asked, turning her face up to his, so handsome in the leaf-speckled sunlight. “Oh yes,” he answered, his lips coming to kiss hers, salty-sweet against her tongue. “I will be a doctor someday, and we understand these things.”

  Himali doesn’t want to remember. She just wants to sit here, watching a little brown man push his white cart along the path toward her. He calls out something to her, but she doesn’t understand it. Himali shakes her head, but he only comes nearer and repeats his words. “I’m sorry,” she says, feeling helpless but not frightened. “I don’t understand you.”

  “You not Spanish?” he asks, speaking with a heavy accent.

  “No, no—Indian.” It is easier to claim India than explain Sri Lanka, she has discovered. And India holds no memories to trap her with.

  “Ah, India! The Indian ladies, so beautiful. You—you very beautiful,” he says, smiling broadly at her. “Would you like to buy some mango?”

  She is far from beautiful. Himali knows that, has always known it. Though Ashok too claims she is beautiful. Is that why she loved him, so long ago? She can’t remember.

  Himali should send this man away, but the thought of mango, sweet and tangy on her tongue, is irresistible. And the man is small, brown, and wrinkled—he reminds her of the sweets-seller in her parents’ village. That man had just the same smile, the same way of telling you that you were such a pretty girl, you deserved something sweet to eat. Himali reaches for a coin—and realizes she has not brought her purse with her.

  “I’m sorry—I have no money.” It seems a betrayal, this unexpected thwarting of desire. Such a small thing she had wanted, a taste of mango.

  “It’s okay. Eat, eat.” And he is taking a small white paper bag from his cart, one filled with bright slices of mango. “Chili? Salt? Lime?” He sprinkles each over the little bag, without waiting for her response. And then hands her the bag with one hand, a toothpick with another. She takes them from him and, after a moment, tries one.

  Salt first, then chili burns her tongue, and Himali is a little girl again, leaning against her mother’s knee as she makes a mango sambol, stealing bites from the bowl, being scolded. “Stop that, duwa! There won’t be enough for your father!” Saying it fondly, though, so that the child knows that she is entirely safe in stealing another piece, and another. She eats the same way now, greedily, one piece after another in her mouth, not bothering with the toothpick anymore, just cramming them in with a sticky hand until the bag is empty. The sour lime lingers, but the sweetness of the mango prevails. The old man smiles and turns away, walking back to his cart.

  “Thank
you!” she calls after him. He doesn’t respond as he pushes it away, down the curving road. Himali’s mouth is tingling, alive in a way it hasn’t been since the day she huddled behind a door with Roshan pressed up against her, not daring to breathe or let him breathe, terrified that the men with guns would find him there, discern that her child was half Tamil, fair game for their vengeful fury. Her father standing in the front door, defying them, denying them entrance to his house, berating them with all the strength and power of his years, his righteous indignation. Is this how the descendants of kings should behave? What have we come to? You are not our sons! You are nothing, no one!

  A foolish old man, and so they turned on him instead, first beating him in the doorway, then, when her mother tried to intervene, shooting instead. Shooting them both in a blind frenzy while Himali huddled, smothering her son, trying not to breathe.

  It is raining in the park now. No gentleness to this rain—an opening up of the heavens, a full-force pounding against her body, her face, running down her hollowed cheeks. Himali couldn’t cry that day, couldn’t let them hear her. She hasn’t cried since—not when she finally came out to take up the bodies, not on the long road to Ashok’s house, not even at the terrible look on that poor woman’s face. Himali stole Kuyila’s husband, just as surely as the rioters stole her parents away. And did so without remorse, with only a desperate need to take what she could, of what little was left to her. If she could, she would not change that choice.

  Himali stands and starts walking back, through the merciless rain. She might still love Ashok, somewhere. Somehow. When she isn’t angry at him for being Tamil, for giving her a son who brought killers to her parents’ door. Angry at the language he speaks, the people he comes from, enraged by the very shape of his face.

  She will try to love Ashok again. She owes that to him, and even more to the American wife, to the daughter who will grow up without a father. There has been enough sourness, enough bitter bite in what has been done to her, in what she herself has done. For balance, she must find something sweet.