Valmiki's Daughter

by Shani Mootoo

  The hunting circle was elastic. One week it might include just the two of them, and another there might be four men altogether, but rarely was there ever more than that, and never was there anyone among them who would have known Valmiki in his other life of city doctor, San Fernando professional, and socialite. None of these men Devika liked or wished to entertain in her house. She bristled when Valmiki brought them onto her patio. If he offered them drinks, Devika made sure they were served — and certainly not by herself — in tumblers that only the maid and various other workers were supposed to use. These men looked to her more like security guards, or house builders, people who would work for them rather than visit with them. When Valmiki talked to her of going hunting with “Saul,” Devika said, “So, what now? He calls you Valmiki?”

  Valmiki could truthfully answer, “As a matter of fact, he and the others call me Doc.” Why he went with these men Devika could not fathom, and although Valmiki had a practice of cajoling her in almost every way, giving up this particular pastime or his communion with these men he would not do. With them he knew an affinity he simply did not share with her. It was a world of few words, more silence, and hard, immediate, and sure handling of one another that was as loaded, as sprung, as the guns they carried. The act of looking out for one another in the most primal way gripped him. It was not just him looking out for them, but them looking out for him too. An equal caring. With gun in hand, and knowing there was a wild cat or a startled diamond-back mapipire in the canopied darkness of an evening forest, every man had to look out for himself as well as his friends. When you reached a hand out against your friend’s chest to hold him back, that touch was like a lightning rod of information, intent, opinion transferred. Such camaraderie made Valmiki bristle with life in a way that not even the practice of surgery had ever done for him. In the forest with the men he might have been duty bound, but he was not weighed down by it. He was no one’s father, husband, employer, or healer. He was one with them. They were one with each other.

  Valmiki was not a gifted hunter, though. That is why Saul taught him how to set the bird cages with pieces of banana or a coating of laglee on the parallel rods, so that at the end of the day there was still the possibility they would return to where the cages hung in the bushes and he would find a peekoplat, a semp, or a banana quit in the cage. He would have something to take home, to show for his day away. Still, at the end of a hunt, over drinks by the open trunk of his car, the other men clapped his back and said, “Next time, Doc, next time,” desiring nothing more from him than he go with them soon again. How they admired him, if only because the town doctor left the comfort of his tamer world, of his social network, and went deep into the dark dank forest with them. They would spot the agouti, or the deer, or the lap, and point it out to him. They invariably let him take the first shot. He would watch it through his binoculars, then nestle the rifle’s butt into his shoulder and lift its long barrel, catching the animal in the target sight. Aim. Shoot. Nothing. Yet the clean, clear animal rawness he felt with these men friends, his sporting friends, enlivened him. It wasn’t for his correct or effective aim, for those were sorely lacking, that they called him “a real man,” but rather for his trust in them, for his courage to go with them time and again and then to sit with them, either right there in a clearing or on the roadside by the car, or in the dusty clay yard of one of the men over a hand-built fire as they cooked an animal someone had shot.

  If they were at Saul’s house in Fellowship Lands in Marabella, there would suddenly be a platter heaped with lengths of limp sugary plantain that glistened in a slick of the oil in which they had been deep fried until they looked, but were not, burnt. The others knew Valmiki liked the candy-like fruit, and someone would excitedly race like a person with a holy mission, not the day before, but the instant they arrived, and hack off a hand of fresh ripened-on-the-tree plantains, which Saul’s wife would then fry especially for Valmiki. She would leave after cooking and go to a relative’s house for the night. The other men ate with their hands, but they always gave Valmiki a thin, light spoon that bent with the slightest pressure, or a fork, each of its tines making off in a different direction, and a knife. But he would use his hands, and then he would lick his fingers, one at a time, each one deep in his mouth, down to the knuckle almost, pulled out slow, his teeth gripping and scraping off the very last tastes, with an indiscreet pop. Saul would bring out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label that he had bought and kept under lock and key especially for Valmiki. Or if they were at the home of one of the others, Valmiki might be served home-brewed puncheon rum or pineapple babash. His eyes had filled with water, tears of shock, when he had first tasted the babash. But then he got used to it and looked forward to the bite of the fermented fruit singeing the length of his esophagus.

  He sometimes drank babash or scotch enough that by the time he got home, after driving very slowly to remain steady on the dangerous pot-holed road back into the city, Devika would be either asleep or disgusted by his drunkenness, the searing odour of wood fire in his hair, the smell of wild meat, and the testosterone-enriched sweat on his sticky body, a combination that might have appealed to a different woman but certainly not to her, and she would not want him near her — just as he had hoped, as he did not want to contaminate the thrill of an excursion where his friends all reeked similarly, as if this were the mark of an unusual affinity.

  SO IT WAS THAT AT THE TABLE THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE TENSION caused by Viveka’s relentless desire to play volleyball was at an all-time high. Still, there might have been more discussion, but Viveka had given that laugh of incredulity, one she had been honing for months now and that she knew would irk Devika and himself. Devika shoved her chair backwards, and the screech might as well have come from within her. With that, Valmiki knew she intended to bring an end to the subject. Viveka began to say something, but barely had sound come out of her mouth when Devika shouted, “NO! I don’t want to hear another word. I said no. Don’t you understand? NO!”

  Valmiki and his younger daughter, Vashti, shared a weakness for cherry cheesecake, particularly Miss Myrtle and Miss Mary’s. The sticky yet tart topping of carmine-coloured Bing cherries. The deep middle section of sweetened Philadelphia cream cheese that had a consistency right on the nameless line of texture between velvety and a cheese that had been baked. And then there was the shell with its contrasting texture — the scratchiness of buttery, sugary, graham crackers crumbled fine. No part was complete without the other. Valmiki and Vashti would usually make a show of their enjoyment of this particular dessert that would delight Devika and irritate Viveka.

  As Vashti watched her family spar, she was, Valmiki could see, aware of the growing possibility of a dessert-curtailing blow-up ahead. And so she quickly ushered into her mouth one spoonful after another, cut from the top through to the bottom of the pie, mushing all three layers at once, intending to finish up the wide wedge she had cut for herself before the meal was destroyed, as it was bound to be, by Viveka. Valmiki, on the other hand, didn’t even bother to cut himself a piece. He leaned back in his chair and held his breath because a snickering laugh from his elder daughter told him that Viveka had no intention of leaving the matter alone, regardless of Devika’s outburst.

  Viveka, they all knew, had her strategies. The next round would surely come. Valmiki wasn’t sure when, and it exhausted him, the thought of waiting, of not knowing what would happen next. When Viveka and Devika quarrelled the air went out of the house. Vashti would watch as if taking lessons, and her father only hoped it was in how not to behave. He would usually make his way to the bedroom if the fight had not already travelled there, and turn on the air-conditioning, which blocked out the shouting and the pleading and the crying and the harsh words flung so carelessly between two people he loved — one because she was his own flesh and blood; the other because he had first grown used to her, then to appreciate all she had done to run the house and keep the family, and then, finally, to love, at least like one mig
ht love one’s sister — but neither of whom he understood. If the altercation had travelled to the bedroom, he would find a chore somewhere in another part of the large and sprawling house, and retreat there.

  In spite of the evening’s unpleasantness, that morning when Valmiki stirred in half wakefulness he had not at first remembered the quarrel. He had been awakened by the distant rumble of thunder, thinking of Tony. No, not thinking of him, but with a feeling of him in his belly, in the muscles of his thighs, and an ache in his early-morning sleep-hardened penis. It had been twenty plus years since he had last seen Tony, and still this. So often, still this. He opened and shut his eyes. The light through the windows of the room was a fast fading pink. The birds in the mango trees at the back of the house were well into their usual morning bickering session, louder in anticipation of rain. With a sudden conviction that he could go into the study, use the phone there, and call Tony in Goa, just to say hello, he came completely awake. And awakening so fully, he felt the heat under the blankets of another human being. Devika. He closed his eyes, turned on his side, and scuttled closer to her. The ache in his body dulled, his penis limped. There was, instead, a more tolerable numbness. He brought a hand up to rest on Devika’s shoulder. Her shoulder, however, was not heavy with the weight of sleep. He opened his eyes again. Devika was already well awake, and he was immediately aware that she bore the brunt of last evening’s quarrel still. He could hear sounds outside of their door.

  “You okay?” he whispered hoarsely. Devika did not answer, but her breathing sharpened.

  He said, “What is it? Is it still Viveka? Are you still on about her?”

  “Listen to her. She is storming about outside. She is the one who is not finished. I don’t want to start my morning like this. Why did you leave me to deal with her alone last night? She is as own-way as you are. You are the one she takes after.”

  He pulled his hand away and returned to his favourite sleeping position, flat on his back, his face to the ceiling, fingertips resting on pelvic bones, and he shut his eyes again. In an instant the door to their bedroom was opened, the attempt to do so quietly clearly halfhearted. Seeing both her parents awake, Viveka charged in to say that she was leaving for the day, that she had changed her mind from last night and although she had no classes she would spend the day studying at the university library.

  Valmiki’s heart lurched. He could see that if his son Anand had lived, these two children, particularly because of Viveka’s angular facial features, her lankiness, and her short hair, would have been unmistakable as siblings. He wished Viveka would grow her hair longer like all the other attractive young ladies he and Devika knew, at least to her shoulders.

  Viveka’s aggression first thing in the morning wore him down instantly, and he had not even got out of bed as yet. Valmiki asked her only how she was going to get to the university. She grumbled that she would take a taxi. There was a long silence while each waited for the other to respond. Finally, Valmiki asked Devika if she needed her car. Devika pursed her lips tight. He tried again. “Didn’t you say you don’t have anything to do outside of the house today?”

  “So I have to report to you everything I am doing now?”

  Viveka groaned audibly. She said, “Forget it. I am not driving on the highway in any case.”

  “Listen, it looks like it’s going to rain again. Why don’t you take my car and your mother can drop me to work in hers?” Valmiki offered.

  Devika immediately protested. “But Viveka just told you she doesn’t want to drive on the highway. She isn’t confident to drive on the highway and you are going to give her your car. You don’t see how ridiculous you can be? Why can’t you stand up to her just once?”

  At this Viveka looked as if she was trying to shout, but a whisper came out. “I said I will take a taxi. I don’t want to drive.”

  Valmiki shook his head in feigned disbelief, but making sure to employ a smile he told Viveka that if she waited half an hour he would get the chauffeur to take her. Viveka replied that practically everyone got to the university by taxi, even the professors. Valmiki winked in an attempt to cajole his daughter and said, “But do they all have access to a chauffeur? It’s no trouble, sweetheart, I don’t need him today.” He turned to Devika. “Do you?” His wife was sitting up now, propped against the pillows, and she looked at her hands clasped on her lap. A terse “No” came from her, like a cleaver falling onto a dry board.

  But Valmiki ignored this and went back to Viveka, who had not ignored it. Before he could say more, she snapped, louder, “I will take a taxi.”

  Her father pleaded, “In the rain?”

  “It’s not a big deal. I won’t melt. You should try taking a taxi sometime. I’ll get a ride home with Helen. I’ll probably be late.” She marched out of the room.

  Devika snapped again at Valmiki, “Why are you always trying to please her?”

  Valmiki hadn’t ever expected this kind of relationship to develop between Viveka and himself. She used to be a real tomboy, full of curiosity and adventurousness, but not argumentative like this. Lately, she elicited the kind of emotion from him that he was more familiar with in his dealings with Devika.

  And just as Devika had expected, Viveka was not finished with them for the morning. Devika had braced herself, waiting, and sure enough, Viveka returned, with less haste in her manner. She set herself down at the foot of their bed, pinning the blanket so that the toes of one of Valmiki’s feet were forced forward and those of the other backwards, strapped immovably there. Viveka asked in a softer tone if they had reconsidered allowing her to play volleyball. She baffled her father with such boldness, such obstinance. In lighter moments he would have seen potential in the boldness, but at the moment it infuriated him. He let Devika field this request.

  Devika said, calmly, “We told you it is not the kind of thing girls from families like ours do — wearing those kinds of skirts in public, prancing about like that. That kind of thing might be all right for other people’s daughters, but not for ours. Besides, look at you. Playing sports is just going to make you even more unladylike than you already are. The time for you to have grown up, Viveka, has long past.”

  Viveka breathed in so deeply that Valmiki thought she was going to implode. It was a relief, almost, when she burst out, “You know, I don’t understand you all. You’re both supposed to be so enlightened. And Dad, you above all people should know that playing sports is good for your health. I can’t help how I look, okay?”

  She clearly had more to say, but was unable, stuttering instead with hurt and fury. Devika snapped back, much too loudly for first thing in the morning, that when Viveka got her degree and was her own woman she could do whatever she wished, and until then, her parents said no, and that required no explanation.

  Viveka stormed out of the room, lashing out behind her, “You are so old-fashioned. This is ridiculous. I can’t believe you’re criticizing me. I mean, I am twenty years old. I shouldn’t have to ask . . .”

  She was interrupted by her mother shouting, “As long as you live in this house you are a child, and you will do as we tell you.” Then, when she was certain that Viveka had left the house, Devika turned to Valmiki. “This is ridiculous, in truth. You are behaving like a country boukie with her.”

  “Look, neither of us agrees with her playing volleyball. We have different reasons, but in the end, neither of us wants it. All kinds of things go on at that park,” Valmiki said quietly. “What if, next thing, she wants later to go to one of the islands to play in some competition or the other? One thing will just lead to another and this whole thing could get out of control. I don’t care if I am old-fashioned or a country boukie. I am not letting her play.”

  “You’re not letting her? You don’t even say a word to her. You leave it up to me, and that is causing a lot of coldness between her and me. You can’t even stand up to your own daughter?”

  Valmiki said to his wife, feebly, that it was not his job to discipline the children, th
at he had a job already and couldn’t take on another battle. It was in these moments that he just wished he could pull the covers up over his ears, shut out the light of the day, and go back to sleep. Or get up and go with his rifle and his buddies into the forest.

  AND SO, LATER IN HIS OFFICE, HE WAS STILL HARASSED BY IT ALL. Viveka had become like a stranger to him. She offhandedly interrupted and contradicted him, sometimes laughed in overly dramatic disbelief at something he said, and he felt silly, for he seldom understood what it was that she was getting at. She diminished him. That was how he felt in front of her. What had happened? If he were a young man just meeting her he would find her, he hated to admit, uninteresting, a little too smart for her own good. She wasn’t charming. She wasn’t willing to flatter, to let someone else’s faults or ill-conceived notions go unmentioned. Who on this earth would marry her if she continued like that? On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine a man who would indeed be good enough for her, for either of his daughters. He was as infuriated as he was proud that he had fathered a girl more strong-willed than he ever had been.

  Valmiki had never indulged in the hope for a child of a particular sex. When he was at medical college, he had known that his particular bond with Tony would have to end. He had known that upon qualifying he would return home — to Trinidad, that is — and marry. He had known that was what he had to do, but he had not been able to formulate an image of himself as husband or father. He tried to picture himself with a woman, he and she walking side by side, she pushing a pram with a baby in it. There was no face to this woman and the baby was always substituted — his mind insisted on the joke — with a dachshund pup in a baby bonnet. It was not the kind of joke that made him laugh, but cringe.