by Holly Bodger
I stuffed
underneath.
I stare at my parents,
their elbows only inches from
each other.
their demeanors
no more intimate
than two high-rise towers.
I imagine
the three of us could really talk.
I’d ask them questions such as
Would you do it again if given the choice?
Would you marry because you had to?
Or would you run—
even if you had nowhere to go,
and no one to go with—
would you run because
staying
meant another kind of death?
My imagination
provides an empty lot
where answers should be.
Even if they could tell me the truth,
it would be like polishing funeral logs.
We can’t change the past.
Not Mummy’s.
Not Papa’s.
Not Nani’s.
Not even Koyanagar’s.
No, we cannot change
the mistakes we’ve left behind.
But there’s one thing we can do—
one thing I must do—
we can choose not
to repeat them.
30
The rich boy and I are led back to the waiting room. We sit on the perpendicular benches while the middle-aged guard stands by the door. He’s there to make sure we don’t cheat or fight, although I don’t know why—or how—we would do either at this point. This last test is a formality. A way to show us that the winner is not chosen by intelligence or by strength or by skill. It’s chosen by her.
I take my first piece of paper and write one word: Goodbye. I want to say Good luck, but that would be admitting that she needs it and I must believe that she does not. She seems smart and she’s definitely strong-willed. She’ll do just fine without me. Won’t she?
I glance across the room. The rich boy looks up from the blank sheets of paper on his lap. He shrugs and grins at the guard. “I’ve got something to give to that sweet little virgin and it’s not a poem.”
The guard doesn’t smile back. He moves his gaze slowly to meet mine as if he’s trying to see if I’ll react.
And I do.
In my head.
In my head, I stand up and grab the boy by the front of his kurta. I slam him against the wall and then I drop him to the floor like a sack of manure. I tell him that Sudasa deserves his respect, and not because she’s a girl. Because she’s a human being. Like him. Like me.
The boy stands, letting his papers and pencil fall to the floor. He continues to address the guard. “I bet you wish it was still the old country, huh? A man should be able to stick it to his wife whenever he wants, and if she doesn’t like it, he should be able to slap her senseless. That’s the only way they understand who’s wearing the pants, right, Mota Bhai?”
This time, the guard’s eyes meet mine quickly. He lowers his gaze to the bench. To where I’ve tightened my fists around my paper, my knuckles turning into snowy peaks. My head is a hurricane of swirling heat. I don’t want to drop that disgusting monster on the floor. I want to hold him by the neck until his face goes from red to purple to blue, and when it’s almost too late for him to take a final breath, I want to tell him that if he ever talks about Sudasa that way again—if he ever so much as touches one of the silky hairs on her head—I will end him. Then and there.
“Get your papers,” the guard says to the rich boy as he whips open the door. “You’re going to another room.”
The boy exits, flashing me a wink on his way out.
I jump to my feet as the door closes. I kick it with my foot and then I punch it with my fist. I’m about to punch the wall as well when I hear Appa’s calm voice in my head.
Patience, boy. Any idiot can fall down. It takes a strong man time to climb up.
Oh, Appa. What I’d give to see you now. You could tell me that it’s okay if I deviate from the plan. You could tell me that it’s okay to marry Sudasa and make you the brother of your greatest hero. You could tell me that we were both wrong. That Koyanagar is not as bad as we thought.
I sit back down on the bench. No. You could not tell me that and I couldn’t believe you if you could. This country is the reason Sudasa and I are both here. It’s the reason I don’t have my amma and the reason Sudasa might end up the wife of a beast. Everything about Koyanagar is wrong and everything about your plan is right.
I pick up a new piece of paper and scribble Goodbye again. I have to leave. Amma or not, it is like the Mighty Bala said: the right path to follow, even at the darkest hour. And oh, how dark this hour is. Did Appa know it would be so hard? Would he tell me not to go now that I know Amma is dead? No, of course he wouldn’t. Appa wants a better life for me. A life not here. And he cannot know about Amma. He would have told me if he’d found out she was dead. He would have let me mourn her every year on 31 December. He would have mourned her himself.
So why did the Mighty Bala leave the registry where I would see it? Did Appa ask him to help me if I needed it? To guide me if I looked lost? Is that what the registry was? A way to give me an extra push in the right direction? Perhaps as far as the Mighty Bala is concerned, the fact that Koyanagar caused the deaths of all those boys should be reason enough to leave it. And it is.
I hold my head in my hands. But how can I leave Sudasa in a world like this? And worse, with a boy who will hurt her? It will haunt me for the rest of my days, and I already have enough ghosts.
I lift my head. What if—?
No, it’s too risky.
I stand. But I could—?
No, it will never work. Not now that I returned the registry. Unless—?
Could I?
Would I?
Would she?
31
The boys return.
First
my cousin, with his chin leading his strut.
Last
Five, his gaze low, his brow furrowed.
He seems nervous.
Nervous that I won’t keep
my promise.
That I won’t set him free.
The director looks my way,
making a sweeping motion
that tells me it’s my turn
to perform.
I position myself in front of my cousin.
He holds his paper in his hands.
His shoulders slightly dropped.
His tail between his legs.
I take the paper from him,
my reaction checked
as it unfolds.
I finally have control of the reins.
Too bad the race was won
long ago.
His poem is a forced rhyme
with words like
fun,
ton, and
sun.
They rhyme about our future.
About the girls we’ll have.
About the girls we’ll bring
to Tests like these.
In my head,
I scrunch up his poem.
Throw it in his face.
I tell him that will happen
over
my
dead
body.
Because I’d rather die
than do
→ THIS ←
to my own child.
With that thought,
the clouds disperse.
My options
turn into
w i d e
blue sky.
All this time
I’ve been struggling with
who
to choose,
I missed the real point.
The choice I was given
three days ago
was not which
boy
to choose, but which
life.
Like Asha said,
it doesn’t
matter which boy wins.
The act of accepting the outcome
is a defeat
for everyone.
Was that what Mummy meant
when she said
I must be fair to myself?
Was she saying I must do
what I want?
Not here, in these Tests.
In this life?
Is that what Papa meant
when he said
I would die if I stood still?
Did they both know
my heart would tell me
to do
what they could not?
Did they name me Sudasa
not because they wanted me to obey,
but because they wanted to brand me
with a permanent reminder
of the fact that I exist
because they had?
That Koyanagar exists
because we all do?
That our wall stands
t
a
l
l
because we let it?
The director clears her throat.
I tuck my cousin’s words
inside my sari.
For a brief moment,
my hate for him evaporates,
leaving in its place
a thick sorrow.
How sad it is that he believes
that winning me
is a victory
for him.
for his gender.
for everyone in Koyanagar.
The director clears her throat again,
so I step over to Five.
I find him back
behind his mask,
and yet his pleading expression is as
naked
as it could be.
I open my palm.
In it he drops a folded square.
I wonder if,
like origami—
like him?—
it will sprout wings when
I set it free.
I close my fist for a moment.
Pretend I know
what it will say.
Please?
You promised?
Thank you.
Goodbye.
But when I unfold the paper,
I find not a plea.
Not a goodbye.
Nothing but these words:
The fish are at their best
when the sun meets the sea
at the place in Hun Market
where the bananas used to be.
—Kiran
The fish?
Why would he think I want—?
Unless—?
Could he mean Asha? Or girls like Asha?
Like me?
Girls who want a second option?
Who want to escape?
With him?
When the director clears her throat once more,
I remember where I’m
standing.
Realize what I may be
holding.
I scrunch my fist.
Freeze
my breath.
Freeze
my expression.
Freeze
my thoughts.
I pretend I’m thinking.
That I need time.
Time
to consider.
Time
to slow down.
Time
to STOP!
I tell time to become a feather
falling
d
o
w
n.
Swaying s i d e w a y s
in the warm breeze.
And before I know it,
I’m on the floor.
Voices calling—
calling my name.
32
My head is heavy. Motionless.
I open my eyes.
See a ceiling papered
like a swirling sky.
Swirls of blue looping
in out
and
in out
and
the blue
fades to
gray
fades to
white
fades
away.
My cheek is cold.
Wet.
I turn to see Mummy
holding a cloth against
my temple.
Her eyes are red—
wet—
and her chin quivers
like jelly.
I turn the other way.
See Papa holding
my hand.
Tight.
As if he’s protecting it.
Or protecting what’s inside it?
But he can’t.
He can’t know what Five—
what Kiran wrote.
I start to say, “What happened—”
but Nani cuts me off.
“Nalini,” she says, glaring at Mummy,
“this is your fault.
You were supposed to teach
duty,
not
insolence.”
The cloth on my face
drops down to my neck,
pressing the ruby drops
HARD
against my throat.
Mummy whips around
and her tiny voice
EXPLODES
like a firecracker
that has been trapped in a crate.
“I’m not the one
who made these Tests,
who decided that children
should have children of their own.
That was you
and your friends in State.
You took your pain
and your anger
and you turned it on her.
“You want us to protect our daughters?
Well, I’m protecting mine.
I’m protecting her from you!”
Mummy points
so Nani will look at me.
At what she has
done
to me.
But Nani remains
a statue of herself,
her eyes flickering slightly
like a candle
in a breeze.
“You don’t understand
what I have been through,” Nani says,
stepping into her martyr
costume.
“I chose to keep you
when everyone said to
get rid of you like the others.
Even your father tried to abandon you
in one of those parks,
but I went back for you.
I brought you home.
“He got his revenge
when he up and died and
I had to risk my life—
take charity from my sister—
to put food in your mouth.
“So yes, I fought to change things.
I wanted you to have
the luxuries
I did not:
Beautiful clothes.
A penthouse flat.
A husband who could put jewels on your fingers.
“Still, you do not repay me
with a little respect.
You take those luxuries
and throw them in my face!”
I hear Mummy’s breath
turn heavy and loud.
“Respect?” she yells.
“Is that what you call
these shackles you’ve put on me?
You might as well have locked
me in the safe
with your money and
your precious Registry.”
Nani’s eyes turn to slits,
but Papa speaks calmly
before she lets out her hiss.
“This tug-of-war must end here and now.
Sudasa’s not a wishbone
you can break
to get your way.”
He turns back to me
&
nbsp; and squeezes my hand.
“Beti, are you ready
to put this to an end?”
Something in his eyes
tells me he doesn’t mean my Tests tests.
He wants me to be free
of this backward system.
He’s not going to help me.
Or tell me what to do.
I must do it because I want to.
Because it’s what I choose.
Not
to spite Nani.
Not
to punish my cousin.
Not
to help Asha.
Just to obey me.
I sit up
and say, “I’m ready,”
and I know right then
my heart is, too.
33
The Choosing Ceremony
takes place outside,
on a raised platform
that all can revere
from the surrounding streets.
Rather than using rocks
to award the winners,
each girl gets a jade pendant
that hangs
from a velvet cord.
The jade was chosen
because it symbolizes love.
The round shape
because it symbolizes eternity.
They got one of those right, I suppose.
When it’s my turn,
the director calls my name.
She hands me the necklace
and says, “Please make your choice.”
With the black cord threaded
between my fingers,
I press the cold stone
in my sweaty palm.
I take a step toward Kiran
so I can see how it feels.
It feels right
in a way,
but wrong
just the same.
He made it clear:
he doesn’t want to win me.
But his poem—
could it meant that
he doesn’t want to lose me, either?
Did it mean that
anyone
could go to the market at sunset
if they were looking for an escape?
Or does
anyone =
me?
I search his eyes
for an answer—
a confirmation?—
but he darts his hard stare to the right.
And so I veer toward my cousin.
To where he stands,
his teeth a clenched vise.
He believes he has won.
It’s clear in his stance.