Death, which had been her mantra for a while now, was still ticking like an unstoppable alarm clock in her head. But along with the ticking were new sounds, the sounds of her father, her mother, G'ma, even Shobha. They were all there, tightly surrounding her, and even though it was suffocating, it was also rewarding. Someone gave a damn and when someone gave a damn, it was harder to kill yourself.
“So, you plan to stay silent… for how long?” Girish asked as Devi drove him home.
Devi knew he'd been trying to get her alone to talk to her. She'd heard him whisper with Avi as they both debated whether her driving back alone from Palo Alto to Sunnyvale could be dangerous. She was relieved when she heard her father say that he didn't think there was anything to worry about. Devi seemed normal, almost happy, and he felt that it wouldn't hurt for her to be alone for just a little while. A drive would probably do her good.
Devi couldn't agree more. It was a relief to get away. She looked forward to the drive back, the solitude, the ability to relax and to not worry about what was expected of her. And the opportunity to decide once again in the quiet corners of her mind, without any witnesses or watchers.
“I heard this joke,” Girish said watching her carefully. “It's a good one. Want to hear it?”
When Girish didn't get a response from Devi, he leaned back in the seat. “You know, it's not healthy to keep it all bottled in. So, do you want to hear my joke?”
No response.
“Well, I'm going to interpret your silence as a yes,” he said, his tone light and casual. He was putting it on, Devi knew.
“So, Dopey, Sleepy, and Grumpy went to a bar with the Pope. They talk about the weather and how the Lakers are doing and then after a couple of beers, Sleepy asks the Pope, ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns dress in black and white?’ The Pope says, ‘Yes.’ Then Grumpy asks, ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns have beaks?’ The Pope shakes his head. ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns have webbed feet?’ The Pope shakes his head again, looking very confused.
“Sleepy and Grumpy turn to look at Dopey, who is looking really uncomfortable, and start saying, ‘Dopey screwed a penguin, Dopey screwed a …’ Is this not funny?”
It wasn't the joke that was funny; it was the fact that this was the only joke Girish knew and the only one he told. But today Devi wasn't inclined to laugh, because today neither the joke nor the time and place of it seemed appropriate to her.
“I thought it was funny,” Girish said and sighed. “If you won't talk, this is going to be one long drive.”
They drove silently for maybe forty-five seconds when Girish blew air out. “You now, my wife thinks all my humor is sarcastic and now you won't laugh at my jokes. Things are not going all that well for me. Maybe I should climb into a bathtub and then fall silent. What do you think?”
Devi had half a mind to tell him that if he was planning to get into a bathtub, he should secure the deadbolt on the front door, just in case Saroj did a walk-in.
She kept silent, concentrating on the dark road ahead.
“How would you feel if I tried to kill myself and then turned around and never said a word?”
Oh, trying to make her guilty based on a hypothetical would work. Sure!
“My heart all but stopped when Saroj called,” Girish said; all humor had left his voice. “And it still hasn't started beating again. I'm scared. I'm scared to know why you tried to commit suicide. I'm scared of not knowing … actually, I'm just plain old scared … of you, of what you're doing to yourself and those around you.”
Devi gave him no response. Not even a shrug or a nod or a shake of the head. Nothing.
“If things were so bad, why the hell couldn't you just ask for help?”
Devi turned left into the street where Girish and Shobha's house was.
“We're all very worried. I'm very worried.”
Devi parked the car in their driveway.
“Damn it, Devi… you just don't give an inch.” His words were delivered irritably. There was anger, sprinkled with concern and helplessness. Devi wanted to say something then, because Girish rarely spurted out emotion like this, but her throat was closed, allowing no words to get by.
Girish didn't even say good night as he got out of the car and slammed the Jeep's passenger door shut behind him. Devi didn't wait to see him open the front door before hastily backing out of the driveway.
She started driving aimlessly on 280. It was pitch dark, but there were still cars, white lights and red lights, sparse, but companions in the dead of the night.
Devi had promised Avi with a nod of her head that she'd drive straight home after dropping Girish off. But even as she'd made the promise she'd known she would need more time alone. She knew her father had been tempted, despite his faith in her, to come along, just to make sure she wouldn't wander away. But Devi knew that he wanted to let go as well. How long could he keep his daughter, suicidal or otherwise, constantly in front of his eyes? Sooner or later he'd have to let go and this was the first step at showing her that he trusted her to live, to accept life and not slide away into despair again.
Devi took the Half Moon Bay exit and then got on Highway 1. She rolled down the windows and let the air run through her hair, making knots and coils that she would have to untangle later, if there was a later. She could smell the Pacific and she could, if she just closed her eyes for a second, hear the waves slamming against the rocks down below.
When Shobha first told Devi about Girish, she'd burst out laughing. It was preposterous. Shobha was not the arranged marriage kind. Actually, Devi wasn't even sure if Shobha was the marrying kind.
“So what's the catch?” Devi asked. Shobha shrugged and said, “It's time. I'm ready and this guy sounds right.”
“The guy sounds right?” Devi couldn't believe this was the same Shobha who had stood with her and voiced to Saroj (in an angry and loud voice) their low opinion regarding arranged marriage.
“Look, I'm twenty-seven years old and I don't have to give you an explanation,” Shobha said caustically.
Devi had been visiting Saroj and Avi and was not surprised to see Shobha's car in the driveway, but was surprised to see a car taking her own spot in the driveway. That car belonged to Girish. He was visiting, along with his parents and grandparents, to finalize the wedding date and make the engagement official with a small informal ceremony. Shobha had insisted Saroj not say anything to Devi until she did.
“How come I get to find out about this now?” Devi demanded as she peered from the kitchen into the living room to see her brother-in-law-to-be.
“It just worked out that way” Shobha said as she set out a tray with Saroj's prized white-with-pink-flowers kettle and tea set.
“You didn't want me to know because you're embarrassed,” Devi said smugly. “My big sister is walking into an arranged marriage with … and what does the suitable boy do?”
“He's a quantum mechanics professor at Stanford,” Shobha said, this with some pride.
“So you're marrying a simple buddhu professor?”
“He isn't a dumb professor. He plays squash,” Shobha said defensively.
“He plays squash?” Devi smirked. “Is that what you talked about when you spent… ah, what? Half an hour talking and figuring out if you'd make the right kind of couple? And what did you say about yourself when he said he plays squash?”
“I told him I ran,” Shobha said and then sighed. “Can you not be such a bitch about this?”
“Bitch? Come on, Shobha, you've got to—”
“This is what I want, can you respect that? I don't make comments or pass judgment over your innumerable loser boyfriends, now, do I?” Shobha turned to offense for results.
“I sleep with these losers, I don't marry them,” Devi pointed out.
“Regardless, that's your choice and this is mine,” Shobha said as she picked up the tray and then set it down. “Can you bring the tea? I'll feel like some country bumpkin if I carry it in.”
Devi picked up the tray. “Are you sure?�
��
“Yeah,” Shobha said. “We went out on a few dates and he seems nice. A little stiff but I think we'll get along.”
“Why?” Devi wanted to know as she looked once again at the man who would soon be part of her family.
He didn't look anything special. He had a decent face but it wasn't a traffic stopper or anything. He seemed reasonably tall, wore elegant glasses (not geeky ones). But what caught Devi's eyes was the stillness he wore on his face. He seemed calm, like a person who'd made his peace with the universe. He didn't seem to have the ability to have passionate outbursts the way Shobha did. He seemed stable, while Shobha had always been a little volatile.
“We're so different, I think we'll balance each other out,” Shobha responded. “He'll stay calm through an earthquake and I can lose it in paradise, so we should fit and work out.”
“But what if you don't?” Devi asked.
Shobha quirked an eyebrow and lifted her shoulders lightly before letting them drop. “I'll cross that bridge when I get there.”
That night, after Girish and his family left, Shobha and Devi found themselves emptying a bowl of homemade kulfi from the freezer while Avi and Saroj slept.
“What about you?” Shobha asked. “Do you think about marriage and children?”
“All the time,” Devi said, digging her spoon in to scoop out some kulfi. “But it seems like such a risk. You fall in love, you fall out, or worse, he falls out and you're still in. And then you bring children into the equation. I feel it's just too damned risky.”
“That's a fatalistic view of relationships,” Shobha commented, licking a big chunk of kulfi stuck to her spoon.
“Yes it is,” Devi agreed. “But I'd like to be a mother. I'd like a son, no daughters for me.”
“Well, gee, didn't think you were so old-fashioned. Want a son only? Want to propagate the world with more male specimens and the Veturi last name, huh?”
Devi grinned. “Not that way. Daughters just seem to be more trouble than sons. Look at how we relate with Mama and how she relates with G'ma. Disaster! I want a son, less chance of fuckups.”
“I'm afraid my children will grow up to be serial killers,” Shobha said, and Devi looked up from her kulfi, puzzled.
“Why?” she asked and then swallowed a big lump of ice cream.
“I don't know. I'm scared I'll be a terrible mother,” Shobha said, laughing a little.
“What's all this noise?” They didn't even notice Saroj until she was in the kitchen in a pink nightgown with little light blue roses. “Why are you both still up?”
“Oh, I'm going home,” Devi said, standing up. “How about you?”
Shobha nodded as well. “Yeah, me, too.”
“No, sit,” Saroj insisted. “I'm here. I'm awake. You ate all the kulfi}”
“It was very good,” Devi said.
Immediately Saroj smiled and said, “Yes, it was. Avi's favorite. Before we got married I made it for him all the time.”
“Trapped him with kulfi}” Shobha asked as she got up and started to look for her purse.
Saroj laughed. “What were you both talking about?”
“Children,” Devi said.
“Oh yes, I would love grandchildren. Shobha, don't wait too long, hanh} Have those children soon. Devi will probably never have children.”
“Why won't I?” Devi demanded and then the conversation became playful and loud, so loud that Avi came to investigate what was wrong.
Despite the various strains in their relationships, there were times and topics of conversation that brought them closer.
If she hadn't lost the baby, Devi wondered how it would've been. If by some stroke of luck, she'd been allowed to keep the baby and she'd touched the wrinkled face, held the little body, felt the small fingers. Would Saroj have accepted a grandchild regardless of its illegitimacy? And what about Shobha, how would she have felt?
Devi now knew what Shobha went through every day of her life. She'd only lost a baby. She knew that if she ever found a man worth being with again, she could have another baby. But Shobha knew, every morning, every night, all day that there would be no baby. Whose grief was bigger? Whose sorrow larger?
At least Shobha had some semblance of a good life. She had a career and maybe she could still repair her marriage. Devi had nothing. No career, no baby, no life. Shobha had prospects, Devi had none. She couldn't see anything bright and shiny in her tomorrow. She couldn't even see a tomorrow.
If only she could've kept the baby, all her tomorrows would've been alive, enriched by that little life. But she couldn't and no matter how many times her doctor told her that it wasn't her fault, that sometimes nature just decided to let a baby slip away, Devi couldn't help but blame herself. Like dominoes, one after the other, her world started to collapse.
The futility of it, the loss of it, frustrated Devi. She slammed on the brakes of the Jeep, then pressed on the accelerator again and took the first exit from the freeway.
She parked her father's car at a vista point where a big sign specifically said that cars couldn't be parked there after sunset.
She stepped outside and wrapped her arms around herself as the chill in the air penetrated her long-sleeved white shirt and jeans.
She pushed her sleeves up her arms and looked at her bandaged wrists. The bandages had become smaller. She went to see her regular physician every other day to have the wounds dressed. The cuts were deep, but they were healing. Her doctor had suggested reconstructive surgery for her scars but Devi shied away. If she lived she wanted to be reminded of the “incident,” and if she didn't, how would it matter?
She unwrapped the bandage on her left wrist first and felt the cool air slide against her rough wounds. She stuffed the bandage inside her jeans pocket and unwrapped the bandage on her right wrist. The cuts were angry, sore, and raw. They were healing, but slowly. There would always be scars, if she lived. And even if the scars on her wrists became less visible in time, she'd still know they were there.
She could see the Pacific roll onto the tiny patch of sand far below her and slam onto the rocks. The waves were white foamlike creatures dancing in the night down below. Back and forth they went, created and dismantled by the force of the water.
It would be so easy, she thought as her heart hammered against her ribs. So very easy. All she had to do was let go. Just walk to the end of the world and fly. Her feet seemed impatient to get to the edge. There was an itch in her arms. They wanted to rise up and seek the skies.
So she closed her eyes, spread her arms, and took a step forward.
•••
Avi called Girish five times and on the last call they contemplated whether they should telephone the police and let them know that a suicidal mute was on the loose in a green Jeep Cherokee. After a heated discussion, they decided to wait another half an hour before doing anything.
It had been ninety minutes since Devi dropped Girish off and for the past hour panic had sunk into her family.
“Did you have a fight with her?” Shobha demanded as she paced the living room, her feet clammy against the hardwood floors. Tension was making her back stiffen, and her heart was pounding.
“No,” Girish said and then sighed. “Well, I got a little frustrated with her.”
“So you had a fight with her?” Shobha accused.
“It wasn't a fight,” Girish said, sounding just a little guilty. “She's probably just driving down Highway One, soaking in the sea air.”
Shobha glared at him. “She's suicidal, not some rational fun-loving person who thinks how great the sea air is. What if she isn't soaking in the sea air? What if she's thinking about jumping off a cliff?”
“She's not going to jump off a cliff,” Girish said, but Shobha could hear the fear in his voice.
He was afraid. Would he be this afraid if it was her thinking about jumping off a cliff? Would anyone in her family worry about her this way if she was late getting somewhere?
“I should've come and pic
ked you up,” Shobha said as she sat down on the floor. “What were you all thinking? Letting her drive like this? Are you fucking nuts?”
Girish rose from the rocking chair next to the telephone rashly, and the chair creaked against the floor. “Her doctor thinks that she isn't suicidal anymore. She thought it'd be okay for her to spend a little time alone.”
“What the fuck does her doctor know?” Shobha demanded and winced because it sounded so much like her mother. Saroj never believed in doctors, never trusted them, maybe because G'ma was one.
“Now you sound like Saroj,” Girish pointed out and then shook his head. “Nothing is going to happen to her. People who cook don't kill themselves and that's a direct quote from the shrink.”
“I can't believe this,” Shobha muttered. “Devi was always nuts, a little flaky, but this? How can she? What the fuck happened?”
Girish shrugged.
“Have you ever thought about it?” Shobha asked suddenly, as the question crossed her mind.
“Thought about what?”
“About killing yourself?”
Girish went completely still for a moment. “No. How about you?”
“Never,” Shobha lied even though she could clearly remember wanting to end her life when the doctors told her she could never create one.
“Do you think something terrible happened to Devi?” Shobha went on wonderingly. “Do you think she got raped?” The idea was horrifying, but it was a possibility.
“Raped? Why?” Girish seemed flustered. “Where do you get such screwed-up ideas? Why would she kill herself if she got raped?”
“Because some women are not able to handle something that horrible,” Shobha explained. “Are you sure she's not standing on one of those cliffs waiting to jump?”
“I'm sure,” Girish said, not sounding sure at all.
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