Bindi

by Paul Matthew Maisano

  It occurs to me we may need to forgive each other, not for anything we’ve done but rather for the parents we had in common. And because they are both gone now, maybe we can truly move forward as adults, which it seems we must do, for ourselves and for Bindi. If this aunt and uncle in London are awful, then we’ll forget them, right? But if not, well, couldn’t we all, especially Bindi, use every ounce of support, and love, available to us? I hope you’ll agree that it’s worth finding out. For B.

  With respect, and love,

  your brother,

  Eddie

  XXXIII

  As Edward left London behind for its western suburb, the winter sun was already setting, staining the white blanket of sky overhead here and there in blotches of purple and pink, a muted watercolor on the horizon. And when the taxi finally stopped it was dark and impossible to make out the house numbers on the doors from that distance. The street was a wall of brick, one house indistinguishable from the next, to Edward’s unaccustomed eye. He left the taxi and found the house on foot, in the middle of the block. On the front porch, he could already feel the house’s inner warmth against the cold night air, and when a little girl, smaller and younger than Birendra, opened the door, that warmth enveloped him, carrying with it a rich gust of spices that awakened his appetite.

  “Are you Raj’s daughter?” he asked, to which she nodded suspiciously. “I’m Edward.”

  “I know. I’m Jasmeen. You’re from America. You talk funny.”

  A woman he assumed to be the girl’s grandmother approached from a room off the hallway. She was drying her hands on an apron and nodding her head in a welcoming gesture. Her smile was free and wide and lacked any reluctance Edward had feared might greet him given the circumstances. He had been trying to imagine the situation in reverse, and he wanted to intrude as little as possible while making every attempt to do what he could for Birendra.

  “Welcome, Mr. Almquist. Come. Come. Excuse this silly girl.”

  She issued an order in another language to the girl, and they both watched her escape through the kitchen doorway. Edward followed the woman down the hall, past the kitchen, where the savory smells were strongest, and into the dining room. He handed her the bottle of wine he’d brought, and she looked at it, as though impressed and grateful.

  “Mr. Almquist is here, Ramesh,” she announced. “Look, a nice bottle of wine.” Then, turning to Edward, she continued a rather solemn introduction: “Ramesh—my elder son.”

  Ramesh was seated alone in the room, at the far end of a long dining table, which was covered by an embroidered tablecloth the deep purple-blue of irises. He seemed to be admiring it, lifting only his chin to acknowledge Edward but letting his tired eyes shy away. He looked like a man who’d forgotten what sleep was. There was undoubtedly a resemblance to Raj, but Ramesh’s features weren’t as angular; he was perhaps the mellower, slightly less handsome, older brother.

  “Thank you again for your willingness to meet me, Mr. Bhatia, and to you both for the kind dinner invitation.”

  “Please, join me, Mr. Almquist.” He gestured to his right. “I hear you bring news of our nephew.”

  Mrs. Bhatia retreated from the room, in the direction of a man shouting. It took a moment before Edward recognized that it was a kind of shouting he knew, the shouting of someone watching a sporting match of some sort. It was something he’d often heard coming from the pubs he passed, and it was probably Raj. He took a seat beside Ramesh.

  “Do you follow football, Edward? Or soccer, as you call it in America? May I call you Edward?”

  “Of course. And, no, not really. I’m more into baseball.”

  “Is that right? Do you play?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t do much in that regard.”

  “Really? You seem fit. How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty.”

  “Ah, still young. We Bhatias hold it all right here, front and center, where we can keep an eye on it,” said Ramesh, reaching for his stomach. When he removed his hands, Edward noticed where the shirt gaped to expose a soft belly, covered in black hair. He averted his eyes, though Ramesh still wasn’t looking at him. He appreciated the effort Ramesh was making to joke, though it was clearly the effort of someone in pain. He wasn’t sure what to say to make their meeting any easier. “Speaking of,” Ramesh said, “how do you feel about whiskey?”

  “Whiskey is a great idea,” chimed in Raj as he entered the room. “Arsenal, two to one. Your team will lose, brother.” He gave Ramesh’s shoulder a conciliatory pat, then turned and extended his hand to Edward. “Allow me,” he said, and removed three glasses and a bottle from the hutch.

  “Do you take ice, Edward?”

  “However you’re having it.”

  The drink helped loosen their tongues, and the conversation felt lighter with Raj in the room. They talked about what they did for work. Ramesh, like Raj, was in engineering and worked on the Channel Tunnel as well. He learned they had moved from Uganda to London as teenagers during the Asian purge there. Their father had been a banker but insisted on a more practical career in England for his sons. After their trouble in Africa, he wouldn’t count on the majority of Brits to entrust their money to the Bhatia boys. He’d since passed away, but the family was already settled by that time, and London was home. Edward said he wasn’t yet married. All this was a polite precursor to their meal. Raj’s wife entered with Mrs. Bhatia, each carrying a tray topped with several bowls. Jasmeen trailed behind with a small tray, still eyeing Edward curiously. He stood and greeted Raj’s wife. He looked for signs of his nephew in Jasmeen’s face but remembered that there was no reason he would find any. The table was laid with a dozen bowls and plates, each containing something different: stews and curries and gravies that he had never seen, certainly never tasted. Naan, hot and succulent, to soak up the flavors. And bowls of fresh chilies that Ramesh and his mother popped as if they were potato chips. They had moved on to beer with the meal. Ramesh refilled Edward’s glass after Edward made the mistake of eating a chili. He tried next to soak up the spice with more rice. By the end, he had eaten far more than he needed to and finally satisfied what he’d thought was an endless hunger. Only Raj was still picking at the food. And then his wife, mother, and daughter carried the empty plates and bowls out of the room the way they’d come. In his mildly intoxicated and deeply sated state, it felt theatrical, how efficiently they made everything disappear. Edward was alone again with the two men, and a sudden silence came over the room. Raj indicated, with a silent nod to Edward, that it was time. Ramesh’s eyes had returned to the table. He was sweeping some crumbs into a small pile with his hand. Edward was moved by the scene and by the kindness he was being shown despite the difficult situation. He had to continually remind himself that, for them, this was all still so fresh, including news of the death. He didn’t know if these men were even close to Birendra’s mother, but there was something going on, and it related to Nayana’s absence.

  “So, brother?” Raj said, breaking the silence. “This man has traveled pretty far.”

  Ramesh looked at Raj. His eyes were glassy and unfocused when they turned to Edward, but his smile was sincere.

  “Will you join me on the patio, Edward?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Ramesh didn’t hurry to stand, nor did he hurry as he walked to the sliding glass doors off the living room. They left Raj behind to finish his beer alone, but he made no objection. Ramesh closed the door behind them.

  The air was crisp but not as cold as it had felt when Edward was walking around the city center. There was no breeze here. He welcomed the cool sensation against his warm face. He was still sweating from the spice of the chili. Ramesh pulled a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and offered one to Edward, who refused.

  “If you do talk to Nayana,” Ramesh said, “please don’t tell her you saw me smoking. I gave it up years ago, and I know it would displease her.” Something in his tone indicated that Edward might not actually want
to have the information he sought. Ramesh exhaled a cloud of smoke into the darkness. “Things are complicated.”

  Edward nodded silently.

  “I’ve received a letter from Nayana.” He looked back toward the house. “The others don’t know the details, but I’m not sure she’ll be back. Or I should say she’s told me she won’t be back, that she’s left me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Edward said.

  Ramesh let out another long billow of smoke. “Yes, well, the problem is that she thought she was going to be with her sister,” he said. He was smiling, but it was a smile that indicated how deeply upset he was. “You see, Edward, she thought she had someone to go to. Someone to replace me, in a way.”

  “Aren’t you able to reach her in India?”

  Ramesh shook his head. His face was in shadow, but his kind eyes glistened and held Edward’s gaze in the darkness. With the cigarette deep in the webbing of his fingers, his entire hand cupped his mouth, as though he were preventing himself from speaking. His face glowed briefly red with his inhale.

  “Nayana almost miscarried a couple of weeks ago,” he said. Edward was still murmuring apologies when Ramesh spoke again. “It would have been our third miscarriage.”

  Edward fell silent. He was tempted to reach out and put a hand on Ramesh’s shoulder, but he didn’t do that, either. He leaned against the railing and waited to hear whatever Ramesh was willing to tell him, perhaps needed to tell him. Ramesh put out his cigarette in a planter and reached in his back pocket. He handed Edward a folded envelope. It seemed strange that he would want Edward to read Nayana’s parting letter, but it would have felt rude to refuse. He unfolded it and began to read. The writing was familiar. A child’s. This wasn’t Nayana’s letter at all. He glanced at the bottom of the page. It was signed from Mr. and Mrs. Nair, but there was a postscript: Written by your loving nephew. Here it was, his nephew’s tragic tale, written in Birendra’s own hand. Your blessed sister is with God. She died 16 November 1993. Edward looked at the date the letter was written. November 18. So much time had passed. And had Maddy really not asked about family? He felt like a thief and had to return the letter to its envelope, then back to Ramesh. They remained there on the patio a while longer in silence, the time it took Ramesh to light another cigarette. He cleared his throat and looked at Edward again. His sad smile was gone, and he just looked tired.

  “I’m glad to know the boy has found a good family,” he said sincerely.

  Edward, still choked with emotion, nodded, understanding only that Birendra was the one blessing in all this. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him to be a blessing to his aunt, especially. When he could, he said, “Won’t it be a comfort for Nayana to have news of Birendra, even though her sister is gone?”

  “I think it will be a great comfort ultimately. But I’m quite sure that returning to news of her sister’s death and the boy’s absence will have been more than Nayana could bear.” Edward could sense that the conversation was coming to a close. He still needed information, some way to reach Nayana. Ramesh must have read his anxiety. “I can give you her sister’s address. It’s all I have. There’s no phone.”

  “Will you go to her?” Edward asked.

  Ramesh took a last long drag on his cigarette, then put it out. The smoke that had gathered was burning Edward’s eyes. At last Ramesh shook his head.

  “She’s made that difficult just now. Perhaps we both need a little time. But I will be here for her when she’s done blaming herself.”

  Edward felt the pressure of the note in his pocket all the way back to the hotel. It was, of course, the address in India where Birendra had lived with his mother, and it was the only hope he had of contacting Nayana. Feeling as though he’d traveled back in time, he wondered if a telegram would be possible. How did one even send a telegram? Someone at his hotel would know. But he was spent and wouldn’t be able to find the words for that conversation just now. He carried on to his room, extracting a tiny bottle of whiskey from his minibar. From his window, his eyes went from one shadowy patch to another, treetops in Hyde Park below. He pulled the note from his pocket and studied the address. He said his nephew’s name softly, as though a prayer, even though he did not pray. It was a reason, really, not a prayer, which is what Edward was seeking. A reason to carry on with the journey of a lifetime. Too much time had already been wasted. Birendra’s aunt was already there, devastated and alone. And shouldn’t Edward see where his nephew was born and had lived his whole life, if only to have a better sense of the place Birendra had called home? It would bring them closer. He would find Nayana and put a face to the awful situation, perhaps even provide a shred of the solace she needed to help her through this grief, perhaps even give her some hope. It was as he’d written to his sister. For wouldn’t Nayana realize that Birendra needed her in his life as much as she needed him?

  XXXIV

  There was a house, and it was the right house, but it was also wrong. It was dark, and it was empty. And there were her sister’s neighbors, and there were words, but they were the wrong words. Impossible words, yet they’d been spoken. And then there was anger, so much anger, and it was the one thing that was right in all this, the one thing that was maybe strong enough to overcome Nayana’s grief. She harnessed it. She brought it with her to the police station in Trivandrum, where she was told it wasn’t necessary, the anger, and to the orphanage, where a man told her he was sorry, but it wouldn’t change the facts. The anger. And they all told her there was nothing to be done, with eyes that spoke a yet more pressing truth: she was an outsider there and a woman. What had she expected them to do for her? England, India—would this ever not be the case? And there were tears, some of which she shared with the neighbor woman but most of which she saved for Aditi’s pillow, her mother’s sarees, her father’s tie, all of whose absorbent company she welcomed, until the tears were gone, the anger was gone. Nayana, too, all but gone.

  * * *

  Lions roar in the morning, sweet sister. I’m told they were marooned on an island at the center of the man-made lake that hugs this sanctuary in which I find no peace. They were brought here at some point from some other land, made a spectacle of. Each morning they roar at the water, at the new day, at their hunger, at their lost kingdom. Do they persist out of anger, I wonder, or desperation? Could it be boredom after so many years? And why do I carry on speaking to someone who is no longer here?

  The bell rang throughout the ashram, as it did every morning at five forty. Nayana, as she had been the day before and the one before that, was awake for it. The mosquito netting that framed the unyielding single mattress on which she lay glowed softly in the moonlit darkness of predawn. She would have been content to remain in this temporary bed, quiet with her thoughts, but she was not alone, and she could not do as she wished. There was no privacy in the ashram, where even those in mourning had to abide by the rules.

  The German Swiss woman with whom she shared this room slept only three feet from her. If they each reached a hand out while lying on their respective beds, they would be able to touch fingers through their nets. They shared, as well, the single desk, beside the door, and the single window above that desk. Judith rose promptly at the bell, with Swiss precision, and immediately left the room to take her shower. When she returned, she quietly asked if it was okay to turn on the light, though they followed this same routine every day. Nayana, with the sheet pulled over her face, mumbled her assent and listened to the sounds of Judith preparing for the day: hands moisturizing skin, the gentle scratch of the brush passing along her scalp, the snap of a band securing her ponytail, the pull of fabric against skin. Above them the whir of an overhead fan and the growing buzz of the fluorescent light.

  Satsang began at six, and attendance was not optional. The path to the main hall was dark when she left her room. She disregarded the rows of matting that lined the hall and found a spot against one of the supporting beams to the side. In the darkness, she would merely be a shadow to those entering th
e room until satsang was over. Both sides of Nayana’s midspine ached from the effort of so much sitting with a straight back. The pain prevented her from concentrating. The clarity of mind promised by the director shimmered in the distance like a mirage in her desert of hopelessness. Using the surface of the column, she massaged either side of her spine, pressing each ache into the wood. Then she tried to do as they told her, to shift her inner gaze to her third-eye center. When she finally succeeded in this, she felt a pulling sensation there and noticed a red light, like a backlit tornado, spiraling away from her, promising an escape. She wanted to be sucked into it, leaving her body behind, every part of it. But she could never hold the gaze. The funnel just as quickly fell from view. And Nayana remained anchored in her flesh.

  There they were, on cue. The lions roared at a high hollow pitch that traveled across the lake’s surface and through the gates of the ashram. She pictured three anxious lionesses pacing a tiny island at feeding time. Were they caged as well as stranded? Insult on top of injury. She imagined herself swimming to their shore, exciting their hunger on the other side of the iron bars, then lowering herself into their captivity and assuming this same cross-legged pose before them, eyes closed, no longer in pain, finally at peace. She would give herself to these beasts, leave her body for them—an offering—to be torn limb from limb, devoured entirely. Violently set free.

  She opened her eyes and was crying again. Guilty after this vision, in which she held no regard for the future life she carried. There was more daylight outside the hall, and she could see their numbers had grown within. New guests had arrived, yet Nayana was still the only Indian in the room who wasn’t working there. A man alone, not far from her, with hair as long as hers had once been and perfect posture was among the new arrivals, yet he was clearly a veteran of these places with posture like that, his hands in mudra. She tried to prevent the slouch in her own back. And then an extended guttural “om,” repeated twice more, announced the conclusion of morning meditation.