“What are you talking about? You are a Ksatriyana. Indiri told me.”
Pram shook his head. “I am a … sutra.” I tried to think of a way to frame my next question, but it wasn’t necessary. Now Pram’s words flowed out of him like pus from a ruptured boil. “You see, I am adopted,” Pram continued. “That I knew. What I did not know is that I am illegitimate, and that my real mother was a sutra. Therefore, on two counts, I am a sutra. Dr. Dev Reja discovered this because he has access to the birth records of all the Indian exchange students. He had no reason to tell me until he found out that Indiri and I intended to marry. It was only then that he felt the need to warn me.”
“Warn you?” The words stuck in my throat.
“A sutra cannot marry a Ksatriyana. It would not be right.” I started to speak but Pram cut me off, closing his eyes and shaking his head as though in great pain. “I cannot explain,” he said, squeezing the words out through lips that had suddenly become dry and cracked. “You must simply accept what I tell you and know that it is true. I know why Dr. Dev Reja called me a candala; he thought I had gone to you to discuss something which has nothing to do with someone who is not Indian. It does not matter that it was said in anger, or that he was mistaken in thinking it was me who had come to you; he was right about me being a candala. I have proved it by my actions. I have behaved like a coward. It is in my blood.”
“If you want to call yourself a fool, I might agree with you,” I said evenly. “Do you think Indiri gives a damn what caste you come from?” There was a rage building inside me and I had to struggle to keep it from tainting my words.
Pram suddenly looked up at me. Now, for the first time, life had returned to his eyes, but it was a perverted life, burning with all the intensity of a fuse on a time bomb. “Having Indiri know of my low station would only increase my humiliation. I have told you what you wanted to know, Dr. Frederickson. Now you must promise to leave me alone and to interfere no further.”
“You haven’t told me anything that makes any sense,” I said, standing up and leaning on the side of the bed. “A few days ago you were a fairly good-looking young man, a better than average student deeply loved by the most beautiful girl on campus. Now you’ve refused to even see that girl and, a few hours ago, you tried to take your own life. You’re falling apart, and all because some silly bastard called you a name! Explain that to me!”
I paused and took a deep breath. I realized that my bedside manner might leave something to be desired, but at the moment I felt Pram needed something stronger than sympathy—something like a kick in the ass. “I’m not going to tell Indiri,” I said heatedly. “You are. And you’re going to apologize to her for acting like such a … jerk. Then maybe the three of us can go out for a drink and discuss the curious vagaries of the human mind.” I smiled to soften the blow of my words, but Pram continued to stare blankly, shaking his head.
“I am a candala,” he said, his words strung together like a chant. “What I did was an act of pride. Candalas are not allowed pride. I must learn to accept what my life has—”
I couldn’t stand the monotonous tones, the corroding, poisonous mist that was creeping into his brain and shining out through his eyes; I struck at that sick light with my hand. Pram took the blow across his face without flinching, as if it were someone else I had hit. The nurse who had come into the room had no doubts as to whom I had hit and she didn’t like it one bit. I shook off her hand and screamed into Pram’s face.
“A name means nothing!” I shouted, my voice trembling with rage. “What the hell’s the matter with you?! You can’t allow yourself to be defined by someone else! You must define yourself! Only you can determine what you are. Now stop talking crazy and pull yourself together!”
But I was the one being pulled—out of the room by two very husky young interns. I continued to scream at the dull-faced youth in the bed even as they pulled me out through the door. I could not explain my own behavior, except in terms of blind rage and hatred in the presence of some great evil that I was unable to even see, much less fight.
Outside in the corridor I braced my heels against the tiles of the floor. “Get your goddamn hands off me,” I said quietly. The two men released me and I hurried out of the hospital, anxious to get home and into a hot bath. Still, I suspected even then that the smell I carried with me out of that room was in my mind, and would not be so easily expunged.
“He’s changed, Dr. Frederickson,” Indiri sobbed. I pushed back from my desk and the Indian girl rushed into my arms. I held her until the violent shuddering of her shoulders began to subside.
“He’s told you what the problem is?” Pram had been released from the hospital that morning, and it had been my suggestion that Indiri go to meet him.
Indiri nodded. “He’s becoming what Dr. Dev Reja says he is.”
I didn’t need Indiri to tell me that. I knew the psychiatrist assigned to Pram and a little gentle prodding had elicited the opinion that Pram had, indeed, accepted Dev Reja’s definition of himself and was adjusting his personality, character, and behavior accordingly. It had all been couched in psychiatric mumbo jumbo, but I had read Jean-Paul Sartre’s existential masterpiece Saint Genet, and that was all the explanation I needed.
“How do you feel about what he told you?” I said gently. Indiri’s eyes were suddenly dry and flashing angrily. “Sorry,” I added quickly. “I just had to be sure where we stood.”
“What can we do, Dr. Frederickson?”
If she was surprised when I didn’t answer she didn’t show it. Perhaps she hadn’t really expected a reply, or perhaps she already knew the answer. And I knew that I was afraid, afraid as I had not been since, as a child, I had first learned I was different from other children and had lain awake at night listening to strange sounds inside my mind.
4
I burst into the room and slammed the door behind me. My timing was perfect; Dev Reja was about halfway through his lecture.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I intoned, “class is dismissed. Professor Dev Reja and I have business to discuss.”
Dev Reja and the students stared at me, uncomprehending. Dev Reja recovered first, drawing himself up to his full height and stalking across the room. I stepped around him and positioned myself behind his lectern. “Dismiss them now,” I said, drumming my fingers on the wood, “or I deliver my own impromptu lecture on bigotry, Indian style.”
That stopped him. Dev Reja glared at me, then waved his hand in the direction of the students. The students rose and filed quickly out of the room, embarrassed, eager to escape the suppressed anger that crackled in the air like heat lightning before a summer storm.
“What do you think you’re doing, Frederickson?” Dev Reja’s voice shook with outrage. “This behavior is an utter breach of professional ethics, not to mention common courtesy. I will have this brought up—”
“Shut up,” I said easily. It caught him by surprise and stopped the flow of words. He stared at me, his mouth open. My own voice was calm, completely belying the anger and frustration behind the words. “If there’s anyone who should be brought before the Ethics Committee, it’s you. You’re absolutely unfit to teach.”
Dev Reja walked past me to the window, but not before I caught a flash of what looked like pain in his eyes. I found that incongruous in Dev Reja, and it slowed me. But not for long.
“Let me tell you exactly what you’re going to do,” I said to the broad back. “I don’t pretend to understand all that’s involved in this caste business, but I certainly can recognize rank prejudice when I see it. For some reason that’s completely beyond me, Pram has accepted what you told him about himself, and it’s destroying him. Do you know that he tried to kill himself?”
“Of course I know, you fool,” Dev Reja said, wheeling on me. I was startled to see that the other man’s eyes were glistening with tears. I was prepared for anything but that. I continued with what I had come to say, but the rage was largely dissipated; now I was close to pleading.
“You’re the one who put this ‘untouchable’ crap into his head, Dev Reja, and you’re the one who’s going to have to take it out. I don’t care how you do it; just do it. Tell him you were mistaken; tell him he’s really the reincarnation of Buddha, or Gandhi. Anything. Just make it so that Pram can get back to the business of living. If you don’t, you can be certain that I’m going to make your stay at this university—and in this country—very uncomfortable. I’ll start with our Ethics Committee, then work my way up to your embassy. I don’t think they’d like it if they knew you were airing India’s dirty laundry on an American campus.”
“There’s nothing that can be done now,” Dev Reja said in a tortured voice that grated on my senses precisely because it did not fit the script I had written for this confrontation. Dev Reja was not reacting the way I had expected him to.
“What kind of man are you, Dev Reja?”
“I am an Indian.”
“Uh-huh. Like Hitler was a German.”
The remark had no seeming effect on the other man, and I found that disappointing.
“Dr. Frederickson, may I speak to you for a few minutes without any interruption?”
“Be my guest.”
“I detest the caste system, as any right-thinking man detests a system that traps and dehumanizes men. However, I can assure you that Pram’s mentality and way of looking at things is much more representative of Indian thinking than is mine. The caste system is a stain upon our national character, just as your enslavement and discrimination against blacks is a stain upon yours. But it does exist, and must be dealt with. The ways of India are deeply ingrained in the human being that is Pram Sakhuntala. I can assure you this is true. I know Pram much better than you do, and his reaction to the information I gave him proves that I am correct.”
“Then why did you give him that information? Why did you give him something you knew he probably couldn’t handle?”
“Because it was inevitable,” Dev Reja said quietly. “You see, Dr. Frederickson, you or I could have overcome this thing. Pram cannot, simply because he is not strong enough. Because he is weak, and because he would have found out anyway, for reasons which I think will become clear to you, he would have destroyed himself, and Indiri as well. This way, there is a great deal of pain for Pram, but the catastrophe that would otherwise be is prevented.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Pram was going to marry a Ksatriyana. Don’t you suppose Indiri’s family would have checked the circumstances of Pram’s birth before they allowed such a marriage to take place? I tell you they would, and then things would have been much worse for everyone involved.”
“But he could have married her and lived here.”
“Ah, Dr. Frederickson, he could still do that, couldn’t he? But I think you will agree that that does not seem likely. You see, what you fail to understand is that Pram is an Indian, and his roots are in India. Pram’s adoptive parents are extremely liberal and far-seeing people. Not at all like most people in India, in the United States or, for that matter, in the world. Pram himself failed to learn the great truth that was implicit in his adoption. I know that if Pram were to attempt to return to India and marry Indiri—as he would most certainly have done if I had not told him what I did—he would have been ridiculed and derided by Indiri’s family, perhaps even stoned for even presuming to do such a thing. In other words, Dr. Frederickson, Pram has the same options he had before: to marry Indiri or not; to live here or in India. I’m sure Indiri is as indifferent to Pram’s origins as his own family is. He is not able to do this because, as you say, the knowledge that he could come from sutra origins is destroying him. You see, in effect, Pram is prejudiced against himself. I had hoped that telling him the truth as I did would give him time to adjust, to prepare himself.”
I suddenly felt sick at the image of a young man doing battle with shadows. Pram had had a glittering treasure within his grasp and had ended with an empty pot at the end of a fake rainbow. And all because of a label he had swallowed and internalized but which, for him, was no more digestible than a stone.
“I didn’t know you’d said those things to him,” I said lamely. “But now he’s obsessed with this candala thing.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take the responsibility for that, Dr. Frederickson.”
“You said it.”
“In anger, without thinking. You felt the need to repeat it.”
I could feel a cloak of guilt settling over my shoulders. I made no attempt to shrug it off for the simple reason that Dev Reja was right.
“It doesn’t really matter, Dr. Frederickson. Even without you the problem would still remain. However, now I am curious. What would you have done in my place?”
I wished I had an answer. I didn’t. I was in over my head and knew it.
“All right,” I said resignedly, “what do we do now?”
“What we have been doing,” Dev Reja said. “Help Pram the best we can, each in our own way.”
“He has a psychiatrist looking after him now. The university insisted.”
“That’s good as far as it goes,” Dev Reja said, looking down at his hands. “Still, you and I and Indiri must continue to talk to him, to try to make him see what you wanted him to see: that a man is not a label. If he is to marry Indiri and return to India, he must strengthen himself; he must prepare an inner defense against the people who will consider his love a crime.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think I see.” It was all I said, and I could only hope Dev Reja could sense all of the other things I might have said. I turned and walked out of the classroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
Pram’s soul was rotting before my eyes. He came to class, but it was merely a habitual response and did not reflect a desire to actually learn anything. Once I asked him how he could expect to be a successful sociologist if he failed his courses; he stared at me blankly, as though my words had no meaning.
He no longer bathed, and his body smelled. The wound on his throat had become infected and suppurating; Pram had wrapped it in a dirty rag, which he did not bother to change. His very presence had become anathema to the rest of his class, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I managed to get through each lecture that Pram attended. Soon I wished he would no longer come, and this realization only added to my own growing sense of horror. He came to see me each day, but only because I asked him to. Each day I talked, and Pram sat and gave the semblance of attention. But that was all he gave, and it was not difficult to see that my words had no effect; I could not even be sure he heard them. After a while he would ask permission to leave and I would walk him to the door, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to beat him with my fists.
The infected wound landed him back in the hospital. Three days later I was awakened in the middle of the night by the insistent ring of the telephone. I picked it up and Indiri’s voice cut through me like a knife.
“Dr. Frederickson! It’s Pram! I think something terrible is going to happen!”
Her words were shrill, strung together like knots in a wire about to snap. “Easy, Indiri. Slow down and tell me exactly what’s happened.”
“Something woke me up a few minutes ago,” she said, her heavy breathing punctuating each word. “I got up and went to the window. Pram was standing on the lawn, staring up at my window.”
“Did he say anything, make any signal that he wanted to talk to you?”
“No. He ran when he saw me.” Her voice broke off in a shudder, then resumed in the frightened croak of an old woman. “He was wearing two wooden blocks on a string around his neck.”
“Wooden blocks?”
“Clappers,” Indiri sobbed. “Like a candala might wear. Do you remember what I told you?”
I remembered. “In what direction was he running?”
“I’m not sure, but I think Dr. Dev Reja’s house is in that direction.”
I slammed down the phone and yanked on enough clothes to keep f
rom being arrested. Then, still without knowing exactly why, I found myself running through the night.
My own apartment was a block and a half off campus, about a half mile from Dev Reja’s on-campus residence. I hurdled a low brick wall on the east side of the campus and pumped my arms as I raced across the rolling green lawns.
I ran in a panic, pursued by thoughts of clappers and corpses. My lungs burned and my legs felt like slabs of dough; then a new surge of adrenaline flowed and I ran. And ran.
The door to Dev Reja’s house was ajar, the light on in the living room. I took the porch steps three at a time, tripped over the door jamb and sprawled headlong on the living room floor. I rolled to my feet, and froze.
Pram might have been waiting for me, or simply lost in thought, groping for some last thread of sanity down in the black, ether depths where his mind had gone. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Pram’s eyes were like two dull marbles, too large for his face and totally unseeing.
Dev Reja’s naked corpse lay on the floor. The handle of a kitchen knife protruded from between the shoulder blades. The clothes Dev Reja should have been wearing were loosely draped over Pram. The room reeked with the smell of gasoline.
Candala. Pram had made the final identification, embracing it completely.
I saw Pram’s hand move and heard something that sounded like the scratching of a match; my yell was lost in the sudden explosion of fire. Pram and the corpse beside him blossomed into an obscene flower of flame; its petals seared my flesh as I stepped forward.
I backed up slowly, shielding my face with my hands. Deep inside the deadly pocket of fire Pram’s charred body rocked back and forth, then fell across Dev Reja’s corpse. I gagged on the smell of cooking flesh.
Somewhere, thousands of miles and years from what was happening in the room, I heard the scream of fire engines, their wailing moans blending with my own.
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 26