by Amrit Chima
“Please go be with Livleen,” he told his wife.
She nodded, then nervously left the room.
Manmohan remained there in the living room, alone, listening to Lehna crying and Mohan banging on the door, begging forgiveness. After a time there was the creaking sound made by their bodies descending the stairs. Then silence.
Secrets in the Rafters
1962
Family Tree
Pathogens deployed and probed for weaknesses along Manmohan’s spinal column, slowly yet triumphantly conquering vertebra by vertebra. But they affected more than just his back. The disease was contagious. It transcended his body, reaching outward to infect his children, bending them forward under a great downward pressure that he himself had brought upon them.
The doctors told him to have hope, but he could sense the uselessness of his electroshock therapy sessions. The time he spent on that vinyl hospital table was wasted. It had blinded him to the catastrophes taking place within his household. Events had escaped him.
He sat now on his bed in his undershorts, slumped with an unwillingness to dress, hugging his naked shoulders, his hair loose, his turban on the dresser.
“It was an obvious place,” Junker Singh told him, holding up a pair of trousers. “Anyone searching for that sort of thing would have found it.”
“I never thought she would go up there,” Manmohan replied weakly. “I never knew she was looking.”
“What is important is that she is fine now.”
“She is not fine.”
“She is alive.”
Manmohan closed his eyes, the sound of his bare feet slapping on the wooden floorboards last night still sharp in his mind, the brush of the walls against his shoulder as he skirted down the hallway, his breath heavy and quick.
“Get a handle on yourself,” Junker Singh said firmly.
Manmohan rubbed his sore knees. “If you had been there, you would not assume things to be so easy.”
Junker Singh traversed the room to the window. He rested his elbows on the sill and cupped his cheeks in his palms, staring pensively outside. He crossed one ankle over the other so that his large body looked like it was balancing on one foot.
Manmohan flexed his toes, focusing on them, trying his best to remain calm, to put it out of his head.
“Gharwala!” Jai had called out the previous evening, tearing his attention from the book he had been reading. “She is not breathing!”
Jumping from his chair, rushing around the corner from the library and stumbling through the living room, he had fallen once, his hands slapping ape-like on the floor for balance. Running into the kitchen, he flung himself hard onto his knees next to the unmoving figure of Livleen sprawled on the floor, her head in Jai’s lap, the corners of her mouth heavy with white, foamy spittle.
A pillbox of his arthritis medication, an unmarked bottle of alcohol, and an empty tin tumbler were on the floor nearby. He remembered thinking how strange it was that those items had been so neatly placed, the pillbox positioned next to the bottle and tumbler as though she had been arranging trinkets on a dresser or flowers in a vase. The ladder had been set under the wide open door to the rafters.
Flexing his toes again, Manmohan scratched his beard, his fingernails rubbing hard against the skin underneath, trying to shake off the images. “We had to hold her upside down to get it all out,” he murmured to his friend. “We hung her by the ankles over the balcony until she threw up.” He remembered the coughing, retching sounds Livleen had made, the vomit in her hair when they pulled her back onto the deck.
Junker Singh listened, his body rigid.
“When it was over, I told her it was stupid,” Manmohan said.
“Well, it was.”
“She apologized.”
The mechanic pushed off the window, and after a moment he turned around. “Get up,” he said, handing over the trousers and a clean shirt.
“This is not a joke,” Manmohan said. “I want to stay here.”
“I love that girl, too, but being depressed and hopeless never fixed anything. It will not fix her.”
Manmohan reluctantly slipped into his trousers and put on the clean shirt. Junker Singh led him to the kitchen and picked up the pillbox and the unmarked bottle that were still on the counter, holding them out, one in each hand. “Put them back.”
Lugging the wooden ladder from the wall to set it under the rafter opening, Manmohan reluctantly complied. He was aware of how heavy the ladder was, how dense the wood, how weighty the metal bindings, and of how determined a ten-year-old girl with aching joints had to be in order to move it. He climbed the ladder and shoved up the swing door, laying it down carefully. Using his palms on the rafter floor to steady himself, he hefted his weight through the opening and sat on the edge, his feet resting lightly on the top rung of the ladder.
“Here,” Junker Singh said, extending his arms. “Take them.”
Manmohan reached down to receive the pillbox and bottle. He then held them together in his lap, scanning the crawl space. Rays of sunlight beamed through the walls, and sparkles of dust floated languidly in the dim light. He reached up to touch the hot, corrugated iron ceiling with his fingertips, already feeling the perspiration on his upper lip from the heat. He could see the chimney toward the back, the shaft running through the rafter floor and up through the ceiling, everything blanketed with cobwebs. There were tin cans scattered about, some empty, some filled with forgotten flour and spices, Jai’s old spice grinder before she got the Steinfeld, the gramophone, his box of LPs, and the broad rectangular shape of the cabinet radio farther to the rear. He momentarily lifted Duke Ellington’s LP from the box, then tiredly let it fall back.
Baba Singh’s chest and the plywood box were to his left. There was a tarnished tray to his right, another unmarked bottle of bourbon resting on it, and the remainder of his arthritis medications, the only items Livleen had disturbed. Wiping the dust from the top of the plywood box, he found himself wishing for more evidence of her presence here, that despite her mission she had been curious enough to delay it and examine the objects of his life. He wished she had seen them as he saw them now: a record of Toor history, hidden away, perhaps tragic but still powerful and passionate.
He put the empty pillbox and bottle on the tray. Spinning the screw top off the other bottle, he took one sip of bourbon—always only one—then lifted it to admire the amber color of the glass as he held it up to the muted light. Thinking of Mohan, he felt it was peculiar that the substance used to alleviate his physical aches and pains was also the thing that could damage people when they applied it to their sorrow.
“Hi Junker Uncle,” Manmohan heard Darshan say from below. He peered down between his knees to see his son curiously looking up at the open rafter door.
The mechanic extended his hand for a shake, pulling the young man into a bear hug.
Darshan laughed. “Good to see you, Uncle.”
“You are home early,” Manmohan said.
Darshan glanced up, his smile faltering. “A little.”
Setting the bottle on the tray, Manmohan descended the ladder, hands empty. “Chandan needs help,” he said. “The inventory.”
“Okay, Bapu,” Darshan said, waving as he went out. “I will take care of it.”
“He is a good boy,” Junker Singh said, watching him go. “You will make him very happy when the Falcon arrives.”
Manmohan pushed the ladder off to the side. “Yes.”
Junker Singh helped fold the ladder and lean it against the wall. “You have something to say to him, I can see it. Giving him a car is not the same as talking to him.”
“I do not have anything to say.”
The mechanic sighed. “Okay, ji.”
Manmohan wiped his dusty hands on his shirt.
“Perhaps it is inappropriate given the circumstances,” Junker Singh said wistfully, “but a tall drink of whisky would be nice. I always knew the Muslims had more willpower than us Sikhs. Islam says
a man cannot drink, and so they do not drink. We are not supposed to either, but half the Punjab stumbles around like newborn calves, slurring all the time like babies.”
“Don’t say that. It is bad,” Manmohan muttered. “It is a very bad thing.”
Junker Singh shrugged. “We should drink, you and I, put on some music and sing on the balcony, serenade our wives. They would grumble at us for being so wild at our age, but they would also smile because sometimes they really like us that way. It does not have to be bad. It does not always have to be only this way or only that way, so black and so white. Sometimes a thing means sin and death, but other times that very same thing means virtue and living.”
~ ~ ~
Manmohan pushed through the dense growth of taro plants clumped at the bank of the river. The plants flourished here in this small section at the narrowest part of the waterway where he had not cleared them. He made his way toward the bridge that Darshan had built to replace the old one, seizing a clump of the broad, deep green leaves to steady himself. He squeezed, feeling moisture from the plants released into his palm, stopping momentarily to glance up the hill on the other side of the river. Puffing with exertion, he hated that he now had to pause to regain strength for something that had once been so easy.
Taking one more deep breath, he moved on, finally reaching the edge of the bridge, noting as he always did when crossing it how sturdy the frame felt beneath his feet. The narrow structure was well built, with rails that angled up and out, creating a slightly wider space for the body and providing easy gripping while crossing.
Following the footpath leading to the crest of the hill where a clump of coconut trees grew, he slowly climbed, occasionally stopping to catch his breath. It started to rain, beginning with a sprinkling of large droplets that quickly thickened into a cascade. He welcomed the relief of water soaking his clothes and washing away his sweat. When he reached the top, he looked down, shielding his face from the thick sheet of rain, noting with distaste how small he had once thought this hill was, how trivial this walk had once seemed. It was much steeper than he remembered, the house and his garden below appearing so insignificant in the span of jungle around him.
He regarded the cluster of coconut trees on the hill. Wiping the water from his eyes, he then followed the path to the tallest one. Peering high up, he saw Darshan’s bare, long-toed feet dangling from the tree’s palm tuft. “Darshan,” he called, his voice a roar above the storm that was now pummeling the jungle. “Darshan!”
The boy’s feet froze, and he poked his head through the tuft. Manmohan gestured at him to climb down. Grabbing hold of the narrow trunk, Darshan gripped the bark with his feet as he sidled downward, landing lightly on the ground.
“We have deliveries,” Manmohan said. He studied his son’s face, always so full of apprehension in his presence. He admired the almond shape of Darshan’s eyes, the brown of his water-streaked skin that was very similar to Jai’s, the soft feathery look of his mustache that had recently grown in, the turban they had practiced tying together. His son had chosen a navy blue fabric, had faced the mirror with a subdued acceptance of his manhood, obediently watching and learning. The turban was now wrapped precisely as he had been taught.
Holding his palms up into the rain, Manmohan said ruefully, “But I suppose deliveries will have to wait.”
“Whenever you are ready, Bapu.”
Indicating the tree, Manmohan asked, “Don’t you think you might fall one day?”
“It really is not bad,” Darshan said a little too earnestly, bending to retrieve a fallen coconut, clearly not sure if he would be punished.
Manmohan looked up at the tree, wondering if he should say more about it. He imagined the view from that height: the volcanic ranges toward the island’s center, the thick jungle fanning out toward the ocean, the city of Suva like a vast clearing in the verdant thickness, made of tall buildings and buses releasing exhaust from tailpipes. He believed it was beautiful up there, quiet, and he was tired of so much conflict, so he said nothing.
Darshan tossed the coconut up, catching it deftly. The way he held it, for one moment Manmohan believed he intended to offer it to him, but he let it roll off his fingers and back to the ground. A little regretfully, Manmohan watched it land with a splash in the mud and tumble away.
“Your mother made lunch,” he said loudly over the storm, waving Darshan onto the path. “Let’s get dry and go eat.”
By the time the two of them had begun to descend the hill, the river was already swollen, licking at the logs strewn haphazardly along the bank nearest to the clearing. Manmohan steadied himself on the trail that was now slippery with mud, making a mental note not to keep the logs so close to the water next time.
Without warning, Darshan swiftly brushed past him and sprinted down the path.
Startled, Manmohan called out, “What happened?”
Already far ahead, his son could not hear him above the roar of rain.
Manmohan watched as Darshan skirted over the bridge and ran toward the logs, soon realizing what the boy intended to do. “No, Darshan! Don’t!” he cried, sliding and skidding down the hill, forgetting his aches and earlier fatigue.
Jai had also seen, bolting from the main house and darting through the garden, frantically waving her arms. Manmohan could hear the muffled sound of her wail in the distance.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he futilely called out again, but Darshan had jumped into the water, his lean body slamming into a log that had finally been loosened from the bank and was floating downriver. The boy went under for a moment, his legs pushing upward in the current. Pausing, Manmohan held his breath, waiting. After several moments, Darshan came up, sputtering and coughing, his turban lost. Incredulous, Manmohan watched as Darshan then reached out with his free arm to grab at another log, but unable to retrieve it he instead paddled hard, edging his way to the bank where Jai was waiting for him.
Running now, Manmohan crossed the bridge in two wide strides, racing through the rain toward his son.
“Bapu, I saved one!” Darshan shouted triumphantly over the storm, his face streaming with water and blood. He dropped to his knees, coughing, and Jai pounded him on the back.
Manmohan grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him up to standing, and swung his arm wide around, planting an open-handed slap on Darshan’s behind, the smack through the wet shorts hurting his hand more than his son’s bottom. The boy’s eyes widened in shock.
Jai roughly seized Darshan by the arm. “One log?” She put a finger up for emphasis. “One log?”
“I was trying to help.”
“You could have drowned!”
“Is that what you think?” Manmohan asked. “That your life is worth one log?” Water was streaming from his turban onto his face and into his beard.
“No,” Darshan said. “I—”
“We would never ask you to risk your life for even a hundred logs!”
“But—”
Manmohan furiously turned away, “No father would be proud of such stupidity.”
Darshan chased after him, the mix of water and blood from the cut on his head trailing onto his white shirt. “I thought you would want—”
Manmohan stopped, and with an exaggerated shrug, the gesture heavy with scorn, he said, “I do not understand why you do not know what I want, why it is so difficult to be your father.”
~ ~ ~
“What do you want?” a voice asked.
“I thought it was obvious,” Manmohan replied, turning over in his bed, staring at the calm face of his sleeping wife.
“Each man is a different universe, separated by light years and matter and darkness.”
“What are you talking about?” Manmohan asked.
“I don’t know. Didn’t you read that somewhere?”
“Maybe,” Manmohan said. “What does it mean?”
“I thought you knew.”
“But I don’t.”
“That is too bad. I was hoping for so
me answers.”
“Is this what happened to him? Will I be with him now?” Manmohan asked.
“What are you talking about?”
An itchy, scratchy feeling rose in Manmohan’s throat and he sat up, coughing. He clasped his hand around his neck and bent forward. Tears welled up in his eyes, his vision blurring.
Jai woke and began to firmly pat his back. “I’ll get water,” she said and climbed out of bed.
He nodded, unable to speak.
She returned with a cup and he drank, first just one small sip, then a gulp, and another until he was tipping the tumbler upside down over his mouth. Jai removed the cup from his hand and set it on his nightstand.
“It is just the fever,” she said, touching his forehead. “It is almost passed. Lie down and sleep some more.”
~ ~ ~
The sticky residue of stale sweat coated Manmohan’s entire body. By the incandescent light trying to press through the windowpanes, he knew the sun was strong outside. He sat up, placing several pillows behind his back. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he took a deep breath, his joints throbbing.
“Bapu?” Darshan asked. “How are you feeling?”
Removing his hands, Manmohan saw his son tentatively peering at him from the corner of the room.
“How long have you been in here?”
“Not long,” his son replied, moving forward out of the shadows, trepidation on his bandaged face. “I am really very sorry, Bapu.”
Manmohan waved him over. “Come sit here.”
“I don’t want to disturb you,” Darshan said, heading for the door. “I am just glad you are getting better.”
Manmohan reached out a hand. “Wait. Don’t go. Sit.”
Hesitantly making his way to a chair positioned near the bed, Darshan slowly lowered himself into it.