Bindi

by Paul Matthew Maisano

  It wasn’t the book she’d originally wanted to write in graduate school. The one for which she’d even chosen a title: Parroting Madame Bovary: The Politics of Translation. The book whose proposal her adviser had shut down; instead, he firmly encouraged Nayana to focus on “what she knew,” which was the postcolonial experience, according to him. At first, she’d persisted with her ideas for Bovary, and her professors humored her for a while. “Yes, that idea is good, very good.” But sooner or later, she was advised that her idea might more productively be applied to South Asian writing. They may as well have suggested the title: Parroting the Queen’s English: Contemporary Indian Literature. Dismayed and dejected, but finally angry, Nayana yielded, if only to show them they were wrong. She’d wanted to outline Indian traditions in literature that defied colonization by the English language. She didn’t have all the Indian languages required to truly do the research, so she read Hindi or English translations and fudged it, pitting them against classic literature in English. Her plan was then to do the same comparison against contemporary writing in English. But this, it turned out, had not been her main impediment. Writing from a place of anger and retaliation had. Eventually, her desire to prove the academy wrong fizzled, deadlines came and went, and she finally submitted a thesis of which she was not proud and for which she was certain she would not have received credit if her professors hadn’t been eager to see the back of her.

  It was this book she’d come back to. The truth was she’d never had the French required to write the other, and she certainly didn’t have it now. But she was still convinced she could have made up for it with gumption if she’d had even a little support. This book, though it seemed to make an obvious point to her, felt just as important today as it had in graduate school. There was still no title, but she decided to start with a state-of-affairs introductory section—looking at the trajectory of writers from South Asia and the diaspora, from Sake Dean Mahomet to Saadat Hasan Manto to Raja Rao; from Naipaul and Rushdie to Ghosh and Mistry. She was debating whether to include a personal preface about her own experience as an Indian scholar of literature in England. She could compare the widespread presumption of inferiority she’d encountered so frequently as a woman in the academy to that of Indian writers writing in English, as though she’d been trying to access something that was not rightfully hers. As if so-called postcolonial literature, by definition, were inherently an adopted tradition and not something new entirely. Something that had long been produced by writers who were Irish, Scottish, American, Canadian, African, and, yes, Asian.

  But how could she write a word of that introduction without first responding to her sister? December’s letter never came from Aditi, and there was no message left on the answering machine Christmas Day. Nayana had started a dozen letters since, first as drafts in her journal, trying to weave words into a confession without hiding behind the happy news of her pregnancy. She read Aditi’s letter from November so often she could recite it from memory. The first line: On this last day of Diwali, I miss my sister as always. But it had yet to lead to a promising first line of her own. She had tried writing how happy they were about the pregnancy, how she and Ramesh hadn’t been this good together in years, and this was true. But nothing she wrote seemed true enough. She tried writing in no uncertain terms of her transgressions the year before, the way she had flirted with other men—not just Daniel—to feel better about herself, to feel, period. In one attempt, she admitted that the baby might not be Ramesh’s at all. Seeing this written down, even though it was only intended for Aditi, had shocked and scared Nayana. She’d torn that sheet from her journal and burned it over the sink in the bathroom. Ramesh was kind, thoughtful, a good husband. This had never been in question, and her straying had not been motivated by that sort of logic. There was no reason she could pluck from her life to explain her discontent or her betrayal. How can we be honest about the things we do when we don’t understand them ourselves? She took out a piece of stationery and wrote down this thought. It might be a start. She retraced the question mark, then addressed the letter to Aditi and wrote today’s date. But her eyes soon strayed from the page. It had likely been her reluctance to write Aditi that led to her renewed commitment to the book. It had been three years since Aditi had asked about it but much longer since the project had been abandoned. Aditi always had too much faith in Nayana. Now she perused her bookshelf, but the great names there offered no osmotic support or inspiration. What would dear Proust say to Aditi? How would he confess? Would it take another four thousand pages to do it, or could he manage with just one? It didn’t matter, she reasoned; there was no comparison. Besides, she wasn’t seeking perfection. She wanted only to be free to write her sister again, as she always had, unselfconsciously. Now she only felt blocked; it seemed impossible to find the right words. Of course it was. But maybe, she thought, all the examples we hold up, waving them about, canonizing as so many books of gospel—maybe those authors, too, wouldn’t claim to have found the right words. Perhaps they’d say they simply wrote long, and sometimes this helped the books come closer, as a whole. Maybe they’d consider the posthumous praise a disservice to their memories, to their own struggles to find the right words. Now she was just creating grand excuses for herself. Of those she had no shortage.

  She had plenty of excuses for not telling Ramesh’s family about the pregnancy, too. Raj would tell Tahira, or vice versa, and Jasmeen would overhear them and say something to her grandmother. Mrs. Bhatia would warm to the idea, but not to Nayana. She entertained a fantasy of flying Aditi over and sending her to Mrs. Bhatia in Nayana’s stead. Aditi could pretend to be her. No one could resist Aditi’s sweet charm. Not even Mrs. Bhatia. I need to channel you, dear sister. You’ve always been the strong one, but I’ve never felt weaker than I do now. She looked at a baby photo of Birendra she’d put back on her desk, next to his most recent photo, in his private school uniform. I have your darling Birendra here with me, at my desk. She wrote It gives me hope in your absence, but thought this might be taken as a criticism of the fact that Aditi had stopped writing in response to Nayana’s own neglect. Still, it hurt not to have heard from Aditi at Christmas. She erased the sentence and tried again. He gives me hope, as Ramesh and I expect a child of our own.

  The warm scent of peppers and tomatoes filled the room as the office door opened. She’d forgotten she wasn’t home alone, that it was a weekend and Ramesh was cooking.

  “Lunch is ready, Naya.” She stared at him blankly, not registering his words. “Jaanu?”

  “Do you think Aditi’s upset with me?”

  “No, my love. I don’t,” he said, moving toward her. He leaned against the desk and tried to take the pencil from her hand so he could hold it. But she jerked it away and, through her tears, admitted the extent to which their correspondence had ceased. He knelt beside her, favoring his bad knee. He said he understood, though he couldn’t, not really.

  “Is there someone we could call?” he asked. “A local business, perhaps? Should I call the police?”

  The word scared Nayana. “I told her to get a phone installed with some of the money.”

  “Then perhaps she’s waiting for the installation, jaanu. I’m sure it takes time down there.”

  “Yes, but she waited so long.” Nayana knew she sounded ridiculous through her tears. But she couldn’t stop herself. “I didn’t respond to her letter, and now she doesn’t want to talk to me at all.”

  Ramesh took her hands in his and kissed them. He was smiling, almost laughing at her, as though she were a child.

  “Why would you say that? You’re being silly, goose.”

  She wanted to believe this, to see with his clarity. To be the person he saw, the person he loved. He told her to come eat something and not to worry for now. He took a step toward the door, then stopped and attempted to lure her with details of the lunch he’d prepared for them: ratatouille, one of her favorites.

  “I have to go to India,” she blurted. At least, for his s
ake, she’d said India and not home. He joined her again at her desk.

  “Jaanu,” he pleaded, but she ignored him this time.

  “I could rest well there. You could visit when work calms down. I could write and come back in plenty of time to have the baby here.”

  Ramesh sighed deeply, and she allowed herself to hope in the momentary silence that followed.

  “It’s too big a risk, Naya.”

  “The doctor says I’m doing fine. She’s my sister, Ram. I miss her. I need her.” Admitting this made the feeling more desperate. “And now you’ve got me worried, talking about the police.”

  Ramesh lifted himself to standing. Despite his towering figure over her, he looked like a little boy, still holding her hands.

  “I’m sorry, jaanu. It’s just not possible.”

  “What if we went together?” she said. “I could wait a few weeks, until—”

  But he cut her off, exasperated. “You know I can’t go right now. Or anytime soon. There’s still too much going on at work. And you’re not going alone.”

  She turned away from him in the chair. She knew she would soften if she looked at him.

  “If Dr. Shah gives the okay—” He tried to interrupt, but she spoke over him. “If she does, I’m going. With or without you.”

  He sighed, frustrated by her obstinacy but clearly also deeply concerned, regardless of what the doctor might or might not agree to. And yet it felt good for Nayana to be unwavering about at least one thing. When he embraced her, she knew she’d won. He would find a way to join her when he could. She didn’t want to talk any more about it. She didn’t want to go to the table or eat the ratatouille he’d made for her. She wanted to stay like this, with her arms around him, the side of her face pressed against his sternum, breathing him in, and feeling the vibration of his voice in her ear. She was already transporting herself to a desk by a window in Varkala, hearing the crows in the trees, enjoying the warm southern breeze, knowing her sister was close. She hadn’t been listening to Ramesh, who was now pleading with her not to shut him out. He could forgive her for anything, he said, only she shouldn’t shut him out. She held him tighter in response. Her letter to Aditi was staring up at them from her desk, and she suddenly worried he’d catch her out in a lie. But then she read the words—as Ramesh and I expect a child of our own—and prayed to all that was good that it wasn’t a lie.

  XXI

  Edward had been enjoying regular after-school chats with Birendra, but he thought it might be better if they could spend some time alone together. For both of them. Questions had come up in their conversations that seemed best to discuss in person. The boy’s aunt, for one. As a kind of celebration for Birendra’s completing his second week at his new school, Edward suggested to Maddy that he pick his nephew up and the two of them hang out at Edward’s place. He said he knew she was busy with work but was silently thinking it would also be preferable to another taxi ride with her assistant. What kind of assistant didn’t drive in LA, anyway? They might finally catch that movie later as well. And dinner. Make a Friday evening of it. Madeline could join them when she finished work, and Jane would be out late with her girlfriends at a bachelorette party. But now that they were here at his place, Edward realized there was another reason: he wanted to know what it felt like to have a child around with no other adults present. To see if it struck a paternal chord.

  Birendra gravitated immediately toward the encyclopedia set Madeline had bought Edward as his graduation present. Watching him flip through the pages, Edward was tempted to give his nephew an early birthday gift. He’d found a beautiful set, and besides, it wasn’t like he could put the whole thing in a box and wrap it. But he decided to wait. Birendra’s birthday was only two weeks away. Perhaps he’d want to come over again before then.

  “What are you looking up?”

  “I wanted to see what a hedgehog looks like.”

  Edward moved closer and looked at the entry over his nephew’s shoulder. Birendra was like a sponge. He loved to read and learn new things. He was always asking questions, probing questions. He didn’t simply ask why something was the way it was and stop there; he always wanted to understand. Driving home today, they got stuck in traffic next to a nearly empty bus. Why was the bus so empty? Why did people prefer to drive? Why indeed? Edward didn’t think he’d had the same curiosity at that age. He wondered where it came from. His mother’s encouragement? Some biological imperative for those having suffered the incomprehensible? It seemed to Edward the boy had every right to be solemn, angry, and in pain, but he somehow managed to navigate his new life without ever manifesting such negative but understandable feelings. And at such a young age. It was remarkable. Edward hoped it wasn’t a defense mechanism, that all the bad feelings weren’t being bottled up to one day explode. Was Edward just projecting? He couldn’t stop thinking about this aunt in London. He wanted to broach the subject again, but it made him feel guilty. For Birendra, it might be a difficult subject, certainly a reminder of all he’d lost. And yet it seemed important that he feel able to share whatever he wanted to about his life before he was adopted and that Maddy and Edward know as much as possible about his past. Why hadn’t the aunt gone to him when her sister died? It didn’t sound like they were estranged at all. But it was his own sister he felt most conflicted about. Was it even Edward’s place to get involved? Did Maddy already know about the aunt? And if she didn’t, and Edward admitted to trying to learn more about her, would Maddy feel betrayed? Would she take it to mean he didn’t think she was ready for motherhood? Is that what was driving him? All he knew for certain was that he was compelled to learn more.

  “Last week, on the phone, you mentioned your aunt in London.” Birendra looked up from the encyclopedia and went rigid, staring at the wall in front of him. “I’m sorry. Do you mind talking about her?”

  Now he looked at Edward, but he couldn’t get a read. The young boy had never felt so beyond Edward’s grasp.

  “Have you been to London?” Birendra asked, either changing the subject or finding his way to it.

  “I have, yes. Briefly, with Jane, a few years after we graduated from college. I had wanted to go to London for many years.” He seemed to have his nephew’s rapt attention. London was going to be Edward’s big escape after high school. Maddy had New York; he would have London. What would that life have looked like? His mind flashed from one possibility to another, each version canceling out some memory he wanted to keep, and now those included his time with his nephew. Few involved Jane in recent years, if he was honest. If anything, he would have been relieved to efface the memory that came to mind, that very same trip to London. “I…uh…met an English girl in high school and fell head over heels in love with her. Or so I thought.” This made Birendra giggle. It had been ages since Edward had thought of his high school crush. “One day she told me her family was going back to London. I was heartbroken and promised I would visit her. I even thought I’d try to go to college there.”

  “But you didn’t go?”

  “No. Not then. Life has a way of surprising us. I met Jane the summer after I graduated from high school.” He realized he sounded disappointed and tried to enliven his tone. “We ended up going to college together here in California.”

  Years later, on that trip to London, Jane had been mysterious and quiet on the morning they went sightseeing around the city center, across bridges, through parks. Big Ben. Finally Edward had begged her to tell him what was wrong. He was sure she was going to break up with him, that it had taken traveling together for her to realize they weren’t right for each other after so many years. Then she collapsed into him, crying. “We fucked up,” she said, and her tone scared him. “I’m pregnant.” The words were so unexpected, so surprising and unbelievable—as though the connection between the sex they’d been having and the possibility of conception had never occurred to him—that she was already halfway across the street before Edward realized he was standing alone. What was he supposed to say
or do? What did she want him to say and do? Every response felt wrong in its own way. He wasn’t even twenty-five. Could he be a good father so young? But she wasn’t interested in his questions. She’d decided what must be done and insisted on returning home alone to do it, to have the abortion. She was right then—they weren’t ready. But he was ready now, or so he believed. He wanted a family. And spending time with his nephew had made that more clear than ever. He felt he truly understood Maddy’s decision to adopt. You can’t always wait around for what you want to happen. He might be waiting forever with Jane.

  The phone was ringing. Birendra had turned back to the encyclopedia. It was Jack calling, otherwise known to Edward and Maddy as that man. He’d never called Edward before, and this strange fact alone would have been enough to catch Edward off guard. Combined with the lingering memories from his trip and Jane’s abortion, he felt sick and sat down. As Jack spoke, Edward tried both to deflect the voice coming through the receiver and parse the terrible message that was being relayed. Who was gone? Why was Jack calling him?

  “What?” It was all he could say.

  Jack said it again. “She’s gone. I’m sorry.”

  And all at once Edward understood that his mother had died. He didn’t know how that could be. Was she so sick? Had they ignored some sign? And yet he didn’t ask Jack how she had died. He only managed to ask when, a single-word question, whose answer—earlier that afternoon—was meaningless in the end, for it didn’t matter when. It only mattered that now and forever after, the woman who’d brought Edward so much confusion, loneliness, and pain was gone. And when he remembered that Birendra was in the room, watching him, he instinctively wanted to protect his nephew from this news, from the event, but looking at him, Edward knew it was already too late for that. Maybe the boy even recognized and translated the look on Edward’s face. Here he’d been contemplating his life without a family, without his own children, only to discover that he was now an adult without parents.