The Girl in the Garden

by Kamala Nair

  Gitanjali, looking both concerned and grave, stood up and, cupping a candle in her palms, followed her mother into her room.

  Vijay Uncle and Dev emerged next, Dev with a spark of triumph in his eyes and that familiar bottle of whiskey squeezed in his fist. Vijay Uncle staggered as he approached the table, the rims of his eyes raw and red.

  “What is it?” said Nalini Aunty.

  “Janaki, f-f-f-fetch lime juice for the l-l-l-ladies, and two empty glasses for Vijay and m-m-m-myself.” Dev waved his hand.

  Janaki jumped up and ran into the kitchen.

  “Dev, I don’t know if this is a good idea. It is late. Perhaps it would be best if you… came back tomorrow,” Vijay Uncle mumbled, and stroked his beard.

  “Nonsense, Vijay.” Dev slapped his back. “We must c-cc-c-celebrate this joyous oc-oc-occasion first.”

  Janaki bustled back into the dining room with the drinks. I drew the cup to my lips and sipped, wincing at the sourness; Janaki had forgotten the sugar.

  An anguished shriek came from the direction of Gitanjali’s room.

  Dev, who was pouring whiskey into two glasses, glanced up and for a second the triumph in his eyes was blurred by a look of profound sadness.

  “Vijay, what has happened? What is going on?” Amma stood up and gripped the edge of the table. The blood had dried and crusted into a red petal just below her bottom lip.

  At the sound of Amma’s voice, the sadness vanished, and Dev’s mouth twisted into a smirk.

  “C-c-c-congratulate me, Chitra,” he said. “I have found the b-b-b-b-bride I was always meant to h-h-h-have. A young, beautiful g-g-g-g-girl, pure of heart, pure of b-b-b-b-body.”

  “What?” Amma turned to Vijay Uncle. “What is he talking about?”

  Vijay Uncle lifted the glass, tipped his head back, and drained it.

  “It is true,” he said finally, his voice strained, as if he were being choked. “Dev has asked for Gitanjali’s hand in marriage, and we have given him our blessing.”

  I dug my fingernails into my palms and pressed hard, the searing pain letting me know that this was not one of my nightmares.

  Meenu’s and Krishna’s faces were blank.

  Amma’s lips went white.

  “I am to be married to the f-f-f-f-f-fair Gitanjali.” Dev took a sip of his drink, set it down on the table, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It is getting l-l-late, so we shall continue the celebration in the coming days. I wish to make her my b-b-b-b-b-bride as soon as possible. I do not believe in long en-en-en-en-engagements.”

  Vijay Uncle, without looking any of us in the eye, followed Dev, saying, “I will fetch the torch and accompany you home, Dev. Perhaps I’ll nip by the toddy shop on the way back.”

  Nalini Aunty’s chin wobbled as she watched Vijay Uncle, shoulders slumped, leave the room. She, too, got up and hurried out.

  For a long time I had known something was “not quite right” about Ashoka, as Krishna had once told me, but the idea of Gitanjali marrying Dev was worse than anything I could have ever imagined.

  The room had sunk into silence. Only at one point was it broken, when the door to Gitanjali’s room swung open and Sadhana Aunty called out something unintelligible. Janaki went into the kitchen and came out with a small brown bottle and a spoon, which she brought to Sadhana Aunty.

  “What is that?” I asked Meenu, who was sitting beside me, but she did not answer.

  At last Sadhana Aunty came out of Gitanjali’s room and dropped into a chair at the table.

  “She is asleep.”

  For the first time that summer, Sadhana Aunty looked weak and insignificant, dwarfed by the frayed wooden chair into which she sank. She encircled her dry fingers around one of the untouched glasses of lime juice and drank it down in slow, measured gulps.

  When she had finished drinking, she cleared her throat, but before she could speak, Amma said: “You can’t do this. You cannot.”

  “Chitra, please do not interfere. Haven’t you already done more than enough?” Sadhana Aunty said in a sharp, cold voice. Amma flinched, then rose and left the room without a word.

  “I am well aware of what I am doing.” Sadhana Aunty addressed us now. As she spoke, her shoulders rounded and her spine straightened. “This is for my father and for our family. Gitanjali understands, or at least she will come to understand why this union is necessary. What you girls must realize is that family is everything and sometimes we must shoulder burdens and make sacrifices for the sake of our family.”

  “But why does Gitanjali Chechi have to marry Dev?” said Krishna.

  “Dev Uncle,” said Sadhana Aunty. “Soon to be Dev Chettan, your brother. You are all too young, it is too complicated, and it is not a story for children’s ears.”

  Meenu glowered at her mother. “You ask us to understand but you won’t explain anything to us.”

  “It is not my duty to explain, it is my duty to protect you and to protect this family. I have never wavered from that purpose. Gitanjali is young yet, but I am not blind. She has never cared much for her studies, and do not think I know nothing of that foolish boy from her class. Do you know that his father is a driver? A driver! If that is the future she dreams of for herself then I am saving her from a bitter fate. You may not like Dev, but he can take care of your sister in a way that I am no longer able, and he can ensure that the hospital remains in the Varma family. That hospital is our future, your future, it is your inheritance. Without it, you are just like everybody else.” Sadhana Aunty paused and sighed. “Gitanjali will still be nearby, you will still get to see her often, and—I admit this is not an ideal situation, I never meant for any of this to happen. It was a last resort, but now it is unavoidable. So Gitanjali must make a sacrifice for this family. She must be strong and bear it and so must all of you.” I had never heard my aunt speak so freely before with that defensive edge to her voice. She pushed her chair back, stood up, and began clearing off the table.

  “Go to bed now, it is late,” she said, dismissing us with a weary hand.

  A candle was still burning in Amma’s room. I pushed the door open.

  She was not in bed, but pacing back and forth across the room, whispering loudly to herself.

  “Savages,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. “They’re savages.”

  Nervous energy radiated from her skin, palpable as sparks. I leaned against the door frame, exhausted.

  “Amma?”

  “Rakhee.” Amma rushed forward and embraced me. “You’re still up?”

  “I don’t feel like sleeping.”

  “Me neither.”

  Amma held me, and with the side of my head pressed into her stomach it randomly occurred to me that school would be starting soon. Sixth grade. Middle school. But Amma had not yet mentioned anything about going back.

  For so long I had hated Plainfield and dreamed of escape, but now all I wanted was to wake up with Merlin’s silky black head nestled next to mine. I wanted to look out the window and see those familiar cornfields rolling off into the distance. I wanted the slippery ice beneath my feet and the sting of snowflakes on my cheeks. At least in Plainfield things made sense—I could run through the woods to the ravine and not be afraid of what I might find. In Plainfield, the lights didn’t go on and off at random; young girls didn’t have to marry old men; Amma took her pills and didn’t frighten me; Aba loved Amma and Amma loved Aba.

  I squeezed her waist. “Can we go home now?” I said.

  Amma disentangled my arms and gazed down into my face. Her eyes were huge and sad in the candlelight. “Come on.”

  Holding my hand very tightly, Amma brought me to her bed and laid me down on the mussed sheets. The mattress was softer than the one in my room. I rolled over onto my side and curled up into a ball.

  Amma lay down beside me, wrapped me in her arms, and kissed my hair. She smelled like sweat and lemons.

  “It’s going to be okay, molay, I promise. I have a plan,” she whispered,
and blew out the candle.

  Chapter 20

  Amma and I walked toward the hospital in silence, the sun radiating its merciless rays upon us. A dry leaf from an overhanging branch drifted down and crumbled on my hair; when I brushed the pieces away, it felt as if I had just pressed my palm against a hot iron.

  I gripped Amma’s wrist in my burning hand and squeezed. She looked at me but said nothing.

  That morning she had casually mentioned over breakfast that she was going to call Aba and would I like to talk to him, too.

  I told her yes, and butterflies began to soar and swoop in my chest. After that, I couldn’t eat a thing.

  Amma had transformed yet again. This plan, whatever it was, had given her a jolt of energy; she seemed nervous but at the same time happy. It reminded me of the way she had acted back in the spring when she first decided we were going to India. This worried me.

  Amma peered into Dev’s office, saw that it was empty, and smiled.

  “Wait here,” she said, and closed the door behind her so I couldn’t hear anything. Sitting on the grimy floor with my back against the wall, I wondered how they could fit a whole summer of silence into one phone conversation.

  Amma didn’t come out of the office for a long time.

  When she finally did, pink circles had appeared on her cheeks and her eyes were wet. I felt that sad, panicked feeling that wrenched my gut whenever Amma cried.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” she said, and hurried down the hall.

  I went into Dev’s office, sat at the desk, and picked up the phone. The receiver was hot and moist against my face.

  “Hi, Aba.” My voice quivered.

  “Hi, Rakhee, how are you?” Aba sounded cheerful, but in a forced way.

  “Ready to come home,” I said. “I really miss you.”

  “I miss you too, but I have some good news. I’ve arranged to take some time off from work so I can join you and Amma there. We’ll rent a cottage by the sea and relax for a few days before flying back. How about that?”

  I had never been to the sea before. I closed my eyes and pictured an endless blue expanse bordered by a smooth ribbon of powdery white sand. The air would be crisp and salty on my face, and I would walk safe and sound along that sand with Aba and Amma on my either side, Aba’s hand big and warm, Amma’s hand small and soft. A fragile bulb of happiness began to sprout inside me. “That sounds good.”

  “Great,” said Aba. “I will be there in a week or so.”

  “Can’t you come sooner?” I needed Aba, but I didn’t know how to tell him this. I hoped he would hear it in my voice.

  “Rakhee, I wish I could, but I just have so much to take care of at the lab. Even getting any time off at all was a tricky business. You’ll be okay for another week, won’t you? After all, you’ve done beautifully all summer. Amma says you’ve been having a great time with your cousins. I’d just be getting in the way, isn’t that right?”

  My stomach dropped. “Yeah,” I murmured. I didn’t have it in me to plead anymore. Aba thought I had been brave and I didn’t want him to think otherwise. “Aba?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will we be back in time for the first day of school?”

  “Yes, Rakhee,” Aba said. “Of course. We wouldn’t want you to fall behind, would we?”

  After I put the phone down, a couple of things occurred to me. One, that Aba had never taken time off from work for as long as I could remember; and two, that leaving this place meant leaving Tulasi behind. I had always known this fact, but somehow hearing Aba say that I would be back in time to start school made the prospect of our separation alarmingly real. If Aba found out about Tulasi, I wondered, would he want to help her? Maybe he and Amma could adopt her and bring her back to Plainfield with us. My fantasies began to run wild. Maybe we could adopt all of them—Krishna, Meenu, and Gitanjali, too. I wanted to take them away from this place, and if they lived in Plainfield with me, I knew I would be happy. I would be strong enough to face school because I would have something better than friends, I would have sisters.

  That evening Amma put on a deep pink sari that rustled as she wrapped it around her body. We were going to the temple to ask the goddess Lakshmi to bless Gitanjali’s upcoming marriage. Amma’s face was flushed and dewy from her bath, and with the sari on, she reminded me of a hibiscus, vivid and striking against the dull green bush upon which it bloomed.

  Beside her I felt like a ridiculous bird. Vijay Uncle and Nalini Aunty had presented me with a new dress, and Amma had insisted I wear it that night. It was made of a stiff, white material with red, blue, and yellow balloons embroidered across the chest, and a thick white sash that tied in a bow at the back. My skinny arms and legs stuck out from the mess of frills like bamboo shoots. It was clearly a dress made for a much younger girl, but I could not say anything without offending my uncle (I didn’t care what Nalini Aunty thought, and I had a sneaking suspicion that the dress had been her selection).

  The sun had set by the time we left for the temple, so we brought along flashlights. Clouds of insects hummed around our ears and in the treetops night birds just emerging from their nests whistled and cawed. The market had shut down for the evening, but all the shopkeepers were gathered in their little huts beneath fluorescent bulbs wrapped in colorful star-shaped lanterns. As we passed, they put down their cigarettes and playing cards, and gawked at our grand procession, especially at Gitanjali, whose tiny, stooped frame was enveloped in a stunning magenta fabric. She stared down at the ground as she walked, and Sadhana Aunty seemed to be dragging her along by the arm. For the first time I noticed a white stone on Gitanjali’s ring finger. It flashed coldly in the dark.

  At the temple gates I removed my sandals, but this time, as I stepped into the courtyard, my feet didn’t feel so exposed above the stones. A summer of running barefoot across rough sand had hardened my tender soles. I tasted the familiar musky scent of incense and hot oil I now associated with God on my tongue and in my nostrils.

  Craning their necks to look inside, a throng of people clogged the pathway directly in front of the shrine. A pair of insistent hands pushed me forward.

  “Can you see her, Rakhee? Can you see the goddess?” Amma’s voice was anxious and desperate in my ear. “This is the auspicious time.”

  “I can’t see.”

  Amma pressed down on my back so that I was leaning over the iron railing that guarded the long aisle leading up to the shrine. All around me people were shoving one another, hoping for a glimpse and a blessing. The scent of God now mingled with the stink of sweat.

  “You must look at her,” said Amma. “You must get her blessing.”

  With my body pressed against the railing, I stood on my toes and stretched my neck out as far as it would go, so that I was able to see into the shrine, where an intricately carved sandstone idol was surrounded by blazing lamps, garlands of orange and white flowers, and bowls overflowing with sumptuous fruit—bananas, apples, mangos. The thin, bearded priest, who was naked except for a frail white cloth wrapped around his waist, looked as if he were about one hundred years old. He was reciting verses in an unfamiliar language and tossing red petals into a spitting flame that shivered and bowed in front of the goddess.

  “Pray to her and she will bless you with good fortune and success,” said Amma. “Pray to her and she will keep you safe.”

  Next to me I could feel the heavy fabric of Gitanjali’s sari rubbing my arm. Someone had pushed her, too, to the front of the flock of worshippers, and she leaned against the railing as if it were the only thing holding her up. Black tears were running down her face, washing away the kohl Nalini Aunty had painted across her lids.

  I closed my eyes and tried to pray, but my mind and heart were blank. Maybe Aba was right; maybe there was no God. If there was a God, then he would do the right thing and save Gitanjali. If there was a God, Aba and Amma would adopt Tulasi and take her away from the garden. God, if you exist, then you’ll hear me. Please help us. I squee
zed my eyes shut and prayed for what could be the last time. If my prayer didn’t work, then maybe I, like Aba, would stop believing.

  The priest picked up the lamp and descended the steps of the shrine toward us. He held the lamp out. Amma reached over my head and swept her hands over the fire, then passed them across her face and hair, as if she were washing herself with the light. She instructed me to do the same.

  Gitanjali also waved her hands over the flame. She covered her face with her hands and left them there.

  Amma leaned over and whispered into her ear, “It’s going to be okay, I promise. I’ll see to it.”

  The priest handed Amma a small leaf with jasmine flowers and a clot of red paste folded inside. She dipped her finger into the paste, smeared it across my forehead, and tucked a jasmine flower behind my ear.

  Arms and elbows began to jostle me, and without moving my limbs I felt myself drifting through the bodies, like a wave on the river, until I had been ejected. Amma, Gitanjali, and the rest of the grown-ups had moved on with the crowd to pray to the other idols.

  I found Krishna and Meenu waiting nearby. I eyed their clean foreheads; no one had bothered to make sure they were blessed.

  “This is boring,” Krishna said, yawning.

  “Come with me, both of you,” said Meenu, the devilish look I hadn’t seen for a long time back in her eyes. “I want to show you something.”

  Krishna and I followed her through the shadows and past the various shrines, unseen by the grown-ups, to the decrepit brick wall that stood at the back of the temple courtyard.

  We stopped when we had reached the point where the wall came to a ragged halt, and turned into a grassy field, empty save for a crumbling old well covered in a tangle of vines, and an Ashoka tree, whose petal-encrusted branches rose up toward the bone-white moon like magnificent jeweled arms.

  “See that well? It’s haunted,” said Meenu in a whisper that made the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “It’s haunted by a yekshi.”