The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  She walked silently to my bedroom, and I followed, Danny now bawling in the background. Inside the bedroom, she waited until I had entered, before closing the door and turning to face me.

  ‘Why are you wearing this necklace, Sissy?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Even if we are staying in their house you mustn’t touch their things. It’s not polite.’ She frowned. ‘Sissy?’

  I tried to swallow but found that my tongue was over-large in my mouth. ‘It’s not theirs.’ I heard the voice, but it could not have been me who was speaking. ‘It’s not Ally’s or Mary-Anne’s. It’s mine.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  She looked nonplussed. ‘Where did you get it from?’

  For a second I thought to tell her that Bobby had made it at school, had given it to me as a birthday present. He had given me the wooden box, which lay just behind her on the chest of drawers, holding, as he had suggested, my three pairs of earrings. I would only be switching one object in lieu of another. But I found I did not want to lie on this occasion, for it would make me feel a shame over the gift I had been bestowed, make the gesture feel tawdry, when in fact it made me happier and stronger than I had ever felt before.

  ‘Jonah gave it to me. He made it for me. It’s for protection.’ Now I was chattering, the words pouring out with relief. ‘You see, he has one himself, from his mother, a Hand of Fatima it’s called. His mother was a Muslim. She gave it to him when she died . . .’

  My own mother stared at me as if I were a stranger, possessed by a strange babbling spirit, then opened the door and glanced outside. I could see Danny sitting with his back to the sofa, his thumb in his mouth, looking disgruntled but settled. She closed the door again.

  ‘When he came the other day?’

  I nodded.

  She shook her head, mumbled something to herself, her eyes fixed on the floor between us. ‘But he didn’t say anything to me. He could have given it to me, to give to you. And how’ – now she raised her head – ‘how did he know where we were?’

  I could have said: Grace told him, Mama. Just as I had told my father that Ezekiel had scared me that day. No. I was no longer that child. Now I found my tongue had shrunk, and it was easy to speak.

  ‘I asked him to come and see me.’

  ‘How did you ask him?’

  ‘I wrote him a letter.’

  ‘You wrote to him?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘How did he get the letter?’

  ‘I gave it to Grace.’

  She stood still, the necklace in her hand, the cord dangling from her palm.

  ‘Shall I take Danny out to the swing now, Mama?’

  I realised too late that the swing was a reminder of Jonah, of how he had reached up for her, tied the ropes around the branches for her, just as he had slipped the necklace around my neck. It looks beautiful on you. For the necklace was also a miniature echo of what he had made for my mother – the swing – and it was clear even then that he had made it for her – not Danny, nor my father.

  ‘Mama? Shall I—’

  ‘Wait.’ Then she said nothing, just stared, not at me, but through me, until I spoke again.

  ‘He’s my friend, Mama,’ I said.

  But she shook her head, suddenly, savagely, her voice full of exasperation. ‘I’ve told you before, Sissy! Grown men don’t make friends with young girls!’

  ‘I love him.’

  The words fell out of my lips, and by saying them I felt an immense relief; as if my whole being had been tensed and expectant, waiting for me to make this discovery, and now every cell in my body turned to the other and nodded. Ah, finally, she understands. My mother stood stock still, her face pale, her eyes dark hollows. Her lips were bleached, nearly white, and I thought how pinched, how colourless she looked when I suddenly felt blazing hot, full of life.

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Sissy . . .’

  ‘I do, Mama.’

  ‘You don’t, Sissy.’ She hesitated. ‘You just miss Papa.’

  I stared at her, furious. ‘Do you miss Papa?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘And does he miss us?’

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  We fell silent, stared at each other.

  ‘He’s my friend,’ I repeated.

  Her eyes ran over my face. She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again, closed it again. Then, finally, she said, her voice barely audible, ‘Has he ever touched you?’

  I was silent, thinking: you should ask, did Ezekiel?

  When she spoke again her voice was louder, almost harsh. ‘Has Jonah ever touched you like a man touches a woman?’

  I remembered the bare shoulder, I remembered the cook’s hip brushing against his and I felt a yearning and a longing; the warmth of his chest as I leant against him on his bicycle, the tips of my fingers brushing against his skin as I lifted the chain from around his throat, his palm briefly lying against my cheek, his fingers extending to the nape of my neck.

  ‘No, Mama,’ I whispered, and did not say the words on the tip of my tongue: but I would like him to.

  Her body slumped slightly, she stumbled, even though she had not taken a step. ‘Mol . . .’

  ‘Mama, he’s my friend.’

  ‘No.’ She was shaking her head, her voice was now strong, and there was a cold, sad smile on her lips. ‘No, Sissy.’ She swallowed, held her elbow with one hand so that her forearm crossed her body like a shield. ‘You are sweet and clever and you are a loving person. But no, Jonah cannot be your friend. He cannot.’ She held out the amulet. ‘I’m taking this now, and I will keep it. You don’t need it. You don’t need its protection. I am here and I will protect you.’

  Even then, as she turned away and I balled my fists against my chest in a rage, even then I knew that she could not. And even then I knew that she would not.

  Part Five

  19

  AND then, only two months after my pilgrimage to Zambia, I received a phone call one evening, and a voice, at once familiar, announced himself as Sanjay Tharoor, the professor who had interviewed me in front of his fire when I was not quite eighteen years old, this now nearly fourteen years ago. It appeared that he had contacted my old supervisor in New York, who had told him of my relocation to Boston. He had waited until he was sure he could see me in person before getting in touch. And now an opportunity had arisen; he was in Boston for a few days to give a lecture.

  I’ve been keeping track of your achievements, he said on the phone. I ordered your book for our library, The Wild Wind. I’m very pleased for you, Sissy, you see, I’ve not forgotten about you. Tell me, did you find anything more about your father?

  Well, I began, caught off-guard, and he interrupted.

  Forgive me for being so forward, don’t answer now. I meant to invite you for dinner and we can speak more then. I have someone visiting with me whom I’d like you to meet as well.

  The two months since my return from Douala-Lusaka had been disquieting and strange. The night of my return – after we had made love and were lying on top of the sheets facing each other, my fiancé stroking the small of my back, I had let the tears flow, down my cheeks, onto the pillow. For many minutes he said nothing, until: I think it was the right thing to do, Sissy. Maybe this is a catharsis, you know? Something you need to go through?

  It’s just – I wiped my nose which was snotty and red – it’s just that I feel like it was me who lost the baby. Seeing the name like that, I felt it was my child, not my sister. Isn’t that just so weird? Doesn’t that sound so self-indulgent?

  Well, you all lost something, didn’t you? he replied. That’s what you’re mourning, isn’t it? That loss, not a specific person as such.

  Should I tell her? I asked, and now I laid my palm on his cheek, feeling his stubble and his warmth, and outlined his lips with my thumb, his beautifully shaped mouth, as he trace
d my hip bone – each of us caressing a part of our bodies that we cherished. But, as well, I wanted to touch him so he would not think I had forgotten him, or the troubles he had survived, or the fact that I loved him. His face was scratchy and familiar, his eyes looked almost black in the dim light of the bedroom. Your mom? he asked. You don’t have to, you know. Or it might be something you talk about when you’re feeling a bit stronger.

  That other thing, I whispered. Are you sure?

  And he had smiled, his fingers massaging the base of my spine: of course I’m sure. I might do a better job second time around.

  We had talked about children. As we had always talked about his children, from the very first time we had gone out for a meal together. He had shown me photos in the restaurant itself, of his son playing chess in a competition, of his daughter in a school play, as if laying his cards on the table: this is what you’re letting yourself in for. I had worried that the shadows of his children would dog our every move, stare at us from the corner of every restaurant and cinema and park we visited, watch us if we ended up in the bedroom. I had worried that their existence would weigh on him, curb him, inhibit him so that our love-making would feel careful and restrained and respectable: it hadn’t. He was an adoring father, guilty about the break-up of his marriage to his children’s mother, but he was willing and ready to plunge himself into a new life and a new future – and me. But he was all too aware that he came with a lot of baggage, discounting the fact that I did too.

  Your mom is going to hate me, he said. I’m divorced, quite a bit older.

  Well, she’s divorced, I retorted. She’s on her second marriage. But you know what I mean, he persisted. One rule for yourself, another for your children. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly be over the moon if my daughter brought me home.

  You’re wrapping yourself up in a web, I chided. Your kids seem happy with me, which is what counts. You really don’t need to worry about my mother.

  But he was nervous, that first time. We were engaged by then; high time I introduced him to my family. I took him to meet my mother and stepfather over a weekend when Danny would be home from college as well. He tried far too hard, not doing himself any justice but further endearing himself to me for caring so much.

  Really, Laila, he said on shaking my mother’s hand, I would never think you were Sissy’s mother, you look like her sister. As my stepfather and brother exchanged a look, raised their eyebrows in perfect synchronicity, my mother replied, her tone dangerously noncommittal: well, I can assure you that I am.

  But it was only like that at the very beginning. It did not take long for everyone to see how much in love I was, my mother telling me later that it was the happiest moment in her life to see me so sure of myself.

  Danny hugged me before he drove back to his college: he’s a nice guy, Sissy.

  My stepfather held me in a tight embrace, overcome, then shook against me with laughter at the strength of his own emotions: never forget what a lucky man he is.

  An all-round success. Neither of us wanted a big wedding; a simple civil service at a date which suited his children’s schedules, and close family for lunch after. This the reason he surprised me with a breathtakingly intricate and elegant antique ring for our engagement – because you’re missing out on all the other stuff – ignoring my protests that I would never have wanted an ostentatious ceremony anyway.

  And then the trip back to Lusaka. From riding the crest of happiness, of looking forward, to scraping the detritus of the past, of days spent as if I had only recently suffered a bereavement. I called in sick for two days, something I had never done, ever, before. And just when I was emerging from the fog, another hand clawing at me, to take me back: the phone call from Professor Tharoor.

  He met me outside the restaurant downtown, on the street, greyer-haired, heavier, but otherwise not much changed, and surprised me by taking my hand in both of his and kissing me on both cheeks, as if we were old friends.

  Mol, uttered with great warmth and profoundly comforting. Then he repeated, forgive me, but really you don’t know how pleased I am to see you again. I was so disappointed you didn’t come to Haverford.

  I ended up going to Penn State, and doing Italian Studies instead, I laughed.

  Oh, I know, he replied. Like I said, I bought your book and enjoyed reading it very much. He looked me over, beaming. Really, I’m so pleased to see you again and you are looking so well. My friend is just waiting at the table, he said as he ushered me into the restaurant, and a man rose as we approached, late thirties I guessed, with brushed-back hair, of medium height and with strong shoulders.

  I held out my hand and he took it, laughing: Sissy, it’s nice to see you again.

  And I couldn’t help but gasp. Rahul!

  Professor Tharoor was laughing as well. Forgive me, he said for the third time. I wanted it to be a surprise.

  But how . . . ?

  Rahul is a visiting researcher in the medical department, but a colleague found out he was a Keralite so introduced me. When he mentioned he had grown up in Zambia, I mentioned you and then, there you are!

  Rahul was still holding my hand, and Professor Tharoor exclaimed: Irikku, irikku, mol! Let her sit down and recover herself, Rahul.

  He switched back and forth from English to Malayalam, as he would continue to do all through the evening, and it was with surprise that I found I could still understand.

  You know, the professor continued as we took our places, there is a big Keralite association here in Boston. Just tell me if you would like me to introduce you to some people. Then, noticing my hesitation, he waved his hands: of course, no matter.

  He had booked a table by the window, and depending on how the light fell from the passing traffic, the reflection the glass threw back at us was either unclear or distinct. I found my eyes meeting my own in the window, often: my figure between the two men, their bodies turned to me so I was at the apex of a triangle, commanding their attention. It was an unusual experience in my life as it had become: to be one of a trio of Indians, and Malayalees, in particular.

  We ordered, and as I was returning the menu to the waiter, Rahul pointed: a nice ring. I felt myself blushing.

  Excellent, excellent, Sissy! from Professor Tharoor, who seemed determined to see anything I had done as an achievement of great merit.

  And what does he do for a living? Rahul asked, with mock seriousness.

  He’s an engineer, I said, blushing further even deeper for some reason. Not a Malayalee, I added quickly.

  No matter, no matter – the professor was waving my bashfulness away.

  And are you married, Rahul? I asked.

  He nodded. We live in Bangalore, he said, and reaching into his breast pocket he withdrew a wallet and extracted a photograph.

  His wife was very attractive, with a chic haircut; she was holding a child in each hand, a boy and a girl. Rahul stood behind her, his arm around her shoulder.

  You have a beautiful family.

  He shrugged, but I could see he was pleased.

  And have you been in Bangalore long?

  For about ten years. Padma, my wife, works for the Bank of India.

  And your parents?

  Enjoying their retirement.

  That’s wonderful, I replied, remembering how his mother had rescinded the help her son could have offered my mother.

  And how is your family, Professor?

  Sanjay, Sanjay, please, mol. Oh fine. All grown up now.

  Our food arrived and the professor fussed over us, replenishing our drinks, ordering a jug of water for the table, before returning to talk of my thesis.

  You know, Sissy, he said, when I read your book, I was struck by a similar experience we share. Let me explain. When I was in fourth standard, in Kottayam where I grew up, we had to memorise a poem for a recital. It was an annual event but in those days often the school would choose Kipling or Yeats, or even a sonnet from Shakespeare. It was rare for a teacher to choose a poem in Malayalam,
but my teacher did. She introduced us to Kumaran Asan. Do you know him?

  We both shook our heads.

  Anyway, he was a contemporary of Joyce, and he wrote the poem ‘Veena Poovu’. Do you understand what that means?

  And I replied tentatively, the flower fell?

  The Fallen Flower, yes, excellent, Sissy. He was chuckling with delight. You see, if you go back home, your Malayalam, chaadi varum!

  We all laughed, and he took a sip from his glass of wine before continuing.

  Forty stanzas. Quite long for a kid to remember, but do you know I so enjoyed learning something in Malayalam, finding out about the rich literary tapestry of Kerala. But more than that, I enjoyed learning about the fellow himself. He was a revolutionary in his own right, because he swerved away from the well trodden route of religious poetry. He chose a very secular tone, with a recurring theme of our inherent humaneness, irrespective of our origins. Which family we were born into, which religion. Exploring his words, I felt a real buzz, you know? It’s my first memory of thinking that maybe that was what I wanted to do with my life. Breathe and talk and read and write about literature. And then when I read your book, I felt so affected by the narrative you wrote at the beginning, about why you were drawn to James Joyce.

  He turned to Rahul: I will stop talking, don’t worry.

  Rahul waved his fork in assurance, even though he must have been bewildered.

  Professor Tharoor turned back to me: you wrote about why Joyce had written the poem, didn’t you? Wait a moment, I actually copied it all down.

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper.

  Sanjay . . . I began, embarrassed, but he interrupted.

  No, really, mol, let me. Like I said, I was so impressed.

  Then he started reading my words out, so I could hear what I had written, coming from his lips, in his voice.

  Joyce penned the two stanzas soon after watching his brother Stanislaus compete in a boat race in the city of Trieste, then still part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It is a beautiful late summer’s day. The boatmen, on nearing the shore, start singing an aria from Puccini’s ‘La Faniculla del West’ in which Dick Johnson, about to be executed for his crimes, wishes that his lover Minnie think that he was freed and never learn of his actual fate. The rowers’ voices ring out with the optimism and passion of youth. The poet watches the young rowers, no longer young, but older and wiser. The refrain, ‘return no more’, can thus be interpreted as a lament for lost youth, And from his position of wisdom, with his experience of life, Joyce believes that the rowers’ celebration of love is in vain: for love passes like the wind through prairie grasses, gone in a whisper, never to return. The poem is hence, as well, a lament for lost love.