Manjula did not take offence. She would just look at me out of the corner of her eye and smile. It was as though she had left her anger on the shore the last time she visited the ocean. There was no penetrating her happiness.
An aura of light would envelop her wherever she went, and she began to act foolishly. She would forget to feed the chickens or wash the clothes or pound the masala or scrub the cement. My mother would cringe and say things such as, “Future Mrs. Peter Simmons, please come back to this world. Chores still need to be done.” Then she would shake her head and say, “I swear love ruins everyone’s brains—even a grown woman’s! Go figure. Huh!”
Days passed and the wedding plans started to take form. I was afraid that this must be all a hoax: the wedding day would arrive, the procession would come with a loud bang, and everyone would be there except for the groom. Manjula would sob in front of her laughing guests. Her red sari would be thrown into the wedding fire and turned to ashes. Her jewelry would be sold to young girls awaiting their lovers, and her henna would be scrubbed clean. My mother would rub her back to bring light back into her eyes, all to no avail. She would spend her days sitting alone on the seawall, sobbing, and her tears would mix with the ocean waters.
And yet my worries were for naught. Just as he had promised, Peter returned from Toronto in exactly three months. He bore a bottle of Canadian rum for my father, chocolates for my mother, and a wrapped present for Manjula.
“Just as you asked—a twenty-six-inch waist and light blue in color. I hope it fits well and you like it,” Peter said with a smile. He presented the bottle of rum to my father, who put it away in the top cupboard.
In all my life, I don’t think I had ever seen Manjula receive a gift that was as beautifully wrapped as this one. It was covered in silver paper and even had a red bow. I was left open-mouthed, and a deep burn spread across my heart. Manjula glowed and said in English, “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll open it later.”
Peter sat and had chai with Manjula under the lime tree. Then he left.
She wouldn’t tell anyone what he had bought her, although we were brimming with curiosity. “I’ll show you later, Sumitri, I promise.” She winked and shoved the gift under our mattress.
When Father went to work the next day, Manjula came out of the room. She had hoisted blue bell-bottom pants high up to her torso and put on a plain white top. She limped through the house, giggling uncontrollably. I still couldn’t tell if she was missing any toes, as she had put on my father’s big striped socks to hide her feet.
“Sister,” she said to my mother, “when I fly away to Canada, I’ll have to wear pants like all the other women. So I thought I should get in some practice before I go. Yes.”
Shocked, I left the two women giggling in the living room. And that wasn’t the only law Manjula broke that day, for she persuaded my mother to put red and green straws in Peter’s red-labeled bottle and guzzle the golden liquid! Even though my mother made the excuse that their teeth were hurting and they had to numb their gums, I didn’t believe her.
They both giggled all the more, acting like foolish school-aged girls right in the center of our living room. They danced around in a mad frenzy to English songs blaring on the radio. I felt a rush of anger buzz through my body, seeing my grown mother and auntie acting like such fools in the middle of a bright, sunny day. I left the room in a huff and went and wrote down my feelings in a blue-lined notebook.
I don’t think Manjula or my mother noticed my departure or disapproval, but, if they did, they didn’t seem to care. They continued their senseless charade until my father and Raju came home. Then they quickly scurried away to put food on the fire and chai on the stove.
Since the adults were busy with the wedding preparations, Kirtan and I could venture a little further than before. We crept across the street to Tulsi’s house undetected; we were spies from a film, waiting and watching. We hid behind the jasmine bushes and peeked in the bedroom window.
Tulsi sat still at the edge of her bed, unaware of our presence. I had never seen Tulsi in a dress before. When she walked about the village, she was always wrapped up tightly in a plain sari, head and all. She would walk a few feet behind her husband, her head bent and eyes lowered.
Tulsi was studying her palms. Kirtan thought that perhaps she was observing the cuts and bruises, stamps and evidence of hard work, but I wondered if she was desperately looking to see if the markings on her palms foretold a better future. We heard her mother-in-law’s bellowing voice resound through the walls. “Tulsi, dishes won’t wash themselves, you know!” Tulsi got up from the edge of the bed and slowly walked away.
Kirtan and I moved towards another window and saw that she had assumed her position in front of a stack of dirty pots and pans. She squatted on a mat on the hard cement floor, scrubbing a blackened pot with steel wool. Her mother-in-law, a large woman with white hair, sat on the middle of her bed and stared intently at her. She wore a widow’s white gown.
From what I could see, there were only two rooms in this house: one room where Tulsi, her husband, and their three sons slept, and the other, to which the mother-in-law had laid claim. I knew the boys slept in the same room as their parents, because a separate mattress was laid out on the floor in the room where Tulsi had rested so briefly.
Tulsi was working hard; she had moved on to the second blackened pot. The mother-in-law still sat. Unlike our home, where everything was tucked away in drawers, these rooms were clean but chaotic and disarrayed. They had a cuckoo clock that ticked noisily in a corner. The drapes were bright orange and seemed gaudily out of place. Stacks of paper had been untidily shuffled across the coffee table, and an old glass vase of dusty silk flowers sat by the mother-in-law’s unmade bed.
We had bouquets of fresh flowers in our house; they stood submerged in clear water, in real china vases with blue drawings of children playing by the ocean.
What shocked me most wasn’t the vase, though: it was noon and the mother-in-law’s bed was still unmade, something that would have been unheard of in our home. My own mother would have thrown a tantrum right in the middle of our house if Manjula had forgotten to make the beds in such a tardy manner.
Kirtan tugged at my dress and tried to pull me down to the ground. He signaled for us to go, like a chief detective, but I did not want to listen. Greedily I watched, staring like a thief in the window, stealing details of Tulsi’s life, hoping to put it in a story I was writing secretly. I might never get a chance like this again.
Tulsi scrubbed the dirty pots and pans hard and fast; her soapy hands were blackened to the elbows. When she turned on the tap and washed away the soap suds, I noticed that, on the back of her right arm, from her wrist to her elbow, stretched a tattoo of her husband’s full name. It was as if a young child had scribbled his name on her arm in uneven thick black letters. The image made me gasp and dig my toes into the soft dirt. Tulsi looked up to the window, as though she sensed our presence.
Kirtan and I ducked down quickly, and I stepped sideways to avoid being seen through the window. But I did not see the small hole by my feet, and my left foot became tightly wedged inside. A terrible thought crossed my mind. What if Tulsi’s husband emerged and found Kirtan and I examining the bits and pieces of his life? What if he picked up a stick, like the headmaster, and beat us with it?
As tears started to well up in my eyes, I thought about calling out to my mother. But Kirtan grabbed my ankle and pulled my foot out of the hole. We scurried away, now like lizards instead of spies—quickly and quietly. We crawled out of the yard, hiding behind hedges and trees. My heart was beating at a fierce pace. Kirtan’s hair looked disheveled and his expression troubled. We ran home like wild dogs and collapsed by the Chicken House.
Later that night, as my mother sat in the dim light and painted henna on Manjula’s palms, I asked her why she didn’t have my father’s name tattooed on her arm.
“I don’t have his name burned on my arm because I was given the choice not to. Besides, they did that in the olden days. That’s how they marked which woman belonged to which man. They don’t do that anymore, Kalyana.” She looked closely at me and said, “How would you know about such things?”
My eyes flitted away and rested on the floor. “Oh, Kirtan told me!”
My mother nodded her head. “Of course. Kirtan!” She looked at me mischievously and said, “Does Kirtan want you to get his name branded on your arm?”
She and Manjula burst into laughter. I pouted and stalked out of the room. “Sensitive,” I overheard her whispering to Manjula. I just rolled my eyes and hid myself in bed, under the mosquito net.
Before, Manjula had been my ally against Mother. But now she was a proper woman about to be married; in a few days, she would become just like my mother, a lioness ruling over her small clan, in a vast land. This wedding fuss would be over and she would be gone. She would not be there to laugh at me with Mother, and she could no longer kick me or punch me in the middle of her sleep. I would get to spread my body across the mattress at last.
That night when I fell asleep, I had another dream.
I was sitting under a jasmine hedge, just like the one in Tulsi’s yard, except that this one grew in the wooden shack in the Chicken House. There were cobras tattooed on the front of my hands, and the serpents were weeping tears of blood. My hands rested on my plump thighs, palms facing the dark night. The air was still and calm. The sky was empty of moon and stars, yet light still reflected off the jasmine flowers. I sat alone. Blood soaked through my maroon dress and moistened the ground all around me. I knew that the jasmine tree was drinking my blood, for, as I sat there, howling in pain, I saw the white flowers change colors. I called to my mother, but she never came. The white flowers withered and turned red as blood.
I woke up soaking my pillows with tears. I cried for myself and for the flowers, but mostly I cried for Tulsi, I think. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I closed my eyes and prayed to the mighty Goddess Kali. I prayed that she would touch Tulsi’s arm and make her hideous mark disperse into smoke. I prayed that someday she might give Tulsi the courage to run through the meadows, alone.
17
December 15, 1974. Manjula’s wedding.
The flowers—frangipani, hibiscus, marigold, bougainvillea, and jasmine—were in full bloom during the weeks leading up to my auntie’s wedding. So was my mother; I had never seen her so distracted. I missed Kirtan, but when I asked my mother if my friend could come too, she always brushed me away. Kirtan wasn’t family, she would say firmly.
Now, when I voiced my request yet again, she sent me away to see what my father was doing. “Go be useful, Kalyana. See if the men helping your father build sheds outside need a cold drink or a warm cup of chai.”
With a long face, I stomped outside and slumped on the porch steps. I was wearing my printed yellow dress, but even though it was a bright and sunny day, I had a halo of black clouds upon my head. I sat there, silently sulking and watching Raju and the men help my father thump wooden posts into the ground and slide slabs of tin onto them to create roofs. Watching the preparations, I forgot all about my own troubles. I also forgot about asking the men whether they preferred hot tea or a cool glass of juice.
A casually dressed man brought branches of fresh coconut leaves, and after the shed was built, he tied them around it with special knots. “To keep the rain, wind, and sunshine out, Kalyana ji,” he said. I watched the men stack three concrete blocks in perfectly straight rows, making a border around the center. They dropped wooden boards over the blocks, and my mother came out of the house with a roll of white paper to cover the seats. I helped secure the paper on the boards by putting clear tape on the edges, as my mother instructed.
With the shed and seats in place, aunties young and old piled into our front yard. The uncles and cousins were set to work stirring giant pots of jackfruit curry and vegetable pilau with fat wooden spoons. Tonight the women did not stir food or make fires. They sat around the altar in the center, tucking the edges of their saris in their lenghas, and sang songs and beat drums. Their rhythmic songs pushed away the black clouds that had hung over me. I found myself rolling my shoulders, thumping my toes, and even shaking my hips, and other children were doing the same. No one here told us to stand up straight or to keep still. We danced late into the night, until we heard the yellow moon roar, the black clouds fading away into the disappearing sky.
As custom dictated, for the entire week before the wedding, Manjula sat alone in her room while we danced and sang. She was wearing a bright yellow sari, like my school uniform, but it was a color of celebration for her; yellow was always Manjula’s color. Seven times a day, for seven days before the wedding, she would come out of that room. She was always smiling, even grinning. She would limp to a wooden chair in the center of the room, but no one spoke about her limp now. The only thing the villagers could whisper of was how Manjula, like a slick fisherwoman, had laid out her bait and charmed and trapped a foreign man in her net.
When Manjula was seated, I joined other young girls who rubbed turmeric paste on her arms, legs, and face. Mother said it was to prepare Manjula for her wedding night; her skin must be soft, supple, and glowing. I didn’t really know what she meant, but I masterfully dabbed handfuls of yellow paste onto Manjula’s forehead, spilling some on the ground. She wrinkled her nose. “Too much, Kalyana. Too much! Only a little bit, Baby!” she said.
I ignored her protests and continued with the turmeric paste. She did not wash it off, even the gobs. It crusted over her dark skin, turning it as yellow as the insides of a ripe papaya.
On the night before the wedding, women and girls lined up in a circle in the middle of our living room to cook stacks upon stacks of puries for the auspicious day. My mother instructed me to sit cross-legged. A new white sheet was spread before us and covered with dry flour. My mother showed me how to use the rolling pin to flatten the dough into a perfect round shape. After a few tries, I got it right, good enough for it to be submerged into pure ghee. I glowed as I sat back and watched mine puff up and rise.
We made dozens and dozens of puries and stacked them in tall piles for the holy day. We cut and washed banana leaves and stacked them along with the puries; in Fiji, wedding guests ate on banana leaves rather than on china or paper plates. Eating on banana leaves was a rare treat, and I was certain that it made the food taste better.
I thought that surely, after this task, I would have no more chores to complete, but I was misguided. When the blessed day arrived, my mother handed me a red bucket and ordered me to go and pick fresh flowers. This was a pleasant task, for I liked breaking off the flowers and gently dropping them in my bucket. The delicate scents blended like the auras of my four old women, teasing and embracing.
Mother spread the flowers onto pieces of newspaper in the middle of her bedroom floor. She showed me how to sew them together with a thread and needle, making garlands for both the bride and the groom. This time there were no patterns to be followed, no order to adhere to. I joyfully linked the flowers together on a red thread, adding colors and varieties to my personal preference. My mother would occasionally glance at my progress and, to my surprise, compliment my work. Manjula would be so happy, she said.
As I sewed the flowers together with my small fingers, Manjula, behind closed doors, poured warm water over her head. She bathed for the first time in seven days and scrubbed the dried turmeric paste off her skin. I went into the room after her and saw the yellow water still flowing down the drain.
Afterwards, cousins—all of them young girls—decorated Manjula’s forehead and painted her nails and spread red lipstick on her lips. They wrapped her in a glittering red-and-gold sari, the one my mother had bought her especially for this occasion. A ruby-studded bindia lay across the top of her head, falling beautifully at the crease of her brows. Manjula seemed st
range, not like the Manjula I had known. She did not fuss or even grin, but sat quietly in the middle of the room as women buzzed around her. There was no impatient sighing as she waited for her groom. Her legs were crossed and her eyes fixed on the far mirror hanging on the wall.
There was a beauty I had never seen in her, and it was not merely from the sparkly sari that was loosely covering her head and shoulders. Looking at her made me dream of my wedding day. I, too, would sit like a queen. A glittering bright pink sari with an oversized silver border would be draped over my shoulders, and my feet would be encased in glass slippers like a fairy princess.
My mother had painted my nails a bright reddish-purple, but the dress laid out on my bed did not make me feel like a fairy princess at all. I threw my hands up in the air and tossed my new black sandals onto the bed.
I hated the dress, I told my mother. It was too tight and made me look fat, like a big maroon pumpkin. “Kalyana, stop being difficult,” Mother grunted impatiently. She brushed away my excuses the way she would brush away a flyaway hair, as if even the annoyance was nothing.
I was unhappy, but I squeezed myself into the new dress. It was only a little bit snug. I had not been telling the truth; the real reason I did not want to wear that dress was that it looked exactly like the one I had seen in my dream.
The pundit, a young man with jet-black hair, arrived early in the morning to bless the altar and prepare the fire for the wedding. There was not the slightest crease or stain on the cotton pants and the white kurta he wore. Even his nails were short and clean. He mumbled holy verses and chanted hymns that no one but priests could understand. Ignoring the pundit’s chants, my mother joined my father at the entrance of the shed, greeting the guests and shaking hands. I stood by them, holding onto my father’s free hand. I couldn’t decide whom to watch, so I kept one eye on the pundit’s activities and the other on the arriving guests.
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