The Body Myth

by Rheea Mukherjee

  I was the only one who saw Rahil flinch. I caught that microsecond, with time stopped, and I counted the number of new lines that popped on his face in worry. And then, like the perfect husband, his face relaxed into sweet acceptance. A mellow, friendly encouragement that was meant just for Sara.

  I knew Sara was right, it was the most honest I could get with Appa. Although he had found it in himself to be truthful about my mother, how many other memories and secrets was he still holding back? Surely there were many, enough to keep him company in the nights and in the long mornings he had to himself. We were each entitled to our own stories, our own memories, and how we made them.

  I called Appa back to tell him it would be me, Rahil, and his sister Sara for dinner.

  “Sara,” Appa said. “I’ve always loved the simplicity of that name.”

  On Saturday, Appa welcomed us with exuberance. Perhaps it was the realized hope even the most feminist of fathers still holds on to: that his daughter will find a man to love her, to take care of her.

  He wore brown tailored pants and a button-down off-white shirt. He ushered us into the living room, where the coffee table was laden with namkeens and chili-powder-freckled potato chips. He had glasses of Thums Up poured out with small ice cubes floating on the top, just beginning to melt.

  “Ah, so, Rahil, I finally meet you, but let me get to know your beautiful sister first.”

  Sara blushed, pulled her hair back, and charmed the pants off my father. She said she had recently divorced and had moved from Delhi to take a break for a year and live with her brother. The ease of her lies made me uncomfortable, only because Appa believed them. Why wouldn’t he, after all? Appa’s earnest interest in everything Sara was saying forced envy to swell in my chest. She asked him questions about his life, particularly about his work with the residential committee. Sara said she had heard he was a history buff and asked him to share a list of books with her, books that he thought she ought to read.

  Rahil sat on the side, half nervous, but half, I suspect, at peace. Sara had an uncanny ability to take control of a situation, to be an accessible enigma, and everybody—even my father—wants to be as near as possible to an accessible enigma.

  Suitably impressed with Rahil’s career credentials, Appa asked him questions about his head of sales position. And he asked about Rahil’s parents.

  “My grandfather was from Agra, my mother from Delhi,” Rahil said, and then proceeded to give Appa a quick summary of his background.

  “Ah, so your grandfather was a spice trader. Agra, what a special spot in this country!” Appa was about to give us a historical anecdote, I could feel it. He cleared his throat. “The rumor is that Shah Jahan died in Musamman Burj. It was a tower, and from the balcony you could see the Taj Mahal.”

  Sara enthused, “You’re a walking encyclopedia.”

  “Oh, not me—Mira used to be one. She has gotten dusty in the last few months, those kids at school distracting her with silly music and bands, eh, Mira?”

  The room ran into silence. Rahil and Sara looked at me expectantly. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Appa, I resigned from my job at Seven Seeds.”

  He didn’t say anything; his forehead was a map of lines, frozen, waiting for me to go on.

  “I just needed a change, that’s all, don’t worry. I might apply to some schools next month again.”

  Appa shrugged his shoulders. He smiled at me, and his smile held me in place. “Well, Mir-Mir, whatever makes you happy.”

  In this moment, I almost wanted to tell him the truth: that I hadn’t resigned, that things had happened. I know he would have been proud that I had pushed the students to think, and think critically. But of course, that wasn’t really the truth either. And my own interest in pushing, in fighting for critical thinking, was leaving me. The grief I had felt for Ketan, it was leaving me too. All I wanted was Sara, Sara and Rahil and our house.

  We sat to dinner; Appa had asked the cook to make fresh appams and vegetable stew. There was also a host of other dishes: chickpea curry, sprout salad, onion raita, and capsicums stuffed with spiced basmati rice.

  “Mira might have told you; I am quite a strict vegetarian,” Appa said. “If you see how the animals are treated today, you’ll know half the fear and pain in this world is consumed and rebirthed.”

  Sara’s eyes lit up again. She was quite the Christmas tree with Appa. “You know, you are right, Uncle, absolutely, we’ve all become unthinking robots. No wonder we have become apathetic to blood, and war, and whatever else is thrown our way in those newspapers. When we fill our stomachs with the deaths of thousands, what else do you expect from us? I have been thinking about going vegetarian myself.”

  Appa put a piece of his appam down in surprise. “Yes, exactly my thoughts.”

  I rolled my eyes. The urge to needle was fierce. “Well, if it’s about violence to animals, you ought to give up dairy, it’s terrifically cruel. And might I add the beef industry in India relies on the dairy industry, all those milked-out cows go right to the slaughterhouse.”

  Samina had pumped me with this information. She had tried to go vegan, but her parents hated the idea. I already knew Sara would say she didn’t use milk anymore, but she did eat meat. And Appa had yogurt at every meal, along with plenty of milk in his coffee. I liked the conflict I had created even though I had no interest in examining my own food choices. Appa cleared his throat. I sensed his answer would be vague even before he said anything.

  “Ah, well, Mira, one grand expulsion of everything violent in this world would render us insignificant to the universe. After all, we all have spiritual leaps to make. Or scientific leaps, if that makes you happier to say it that way.” Appa clasped his hands in uncertainty. “Well, as Mahatma Gandhi once admitted, I too am a creature of habit, but I appreciate the fact that you are thinking about these things, Mira. I’ve always said fear and food are linked.”

  “A habit is just a thought,” I said, and winked at Sara.

  I felt stupid as soon as I said it. Appa and Sara were on the same page. Sara just giggled in response: a rising sharp laugh that was directed at Appa. He was both flattered and weary at the same time, I could sense it. But wasn’t that what we all were when it came to Sara?

  Rahil had been nodding along to everything everyone said, as if he had entered our minds, agreeing with each opinion and phrase at its authentic source. Who was Rahil? Was he spineless or just accepting? Neither. He was the lifeboat that kept us all afloat as we created crashing walls of water. He was Sara. He was me. And tonight he was Appa too.

  By the time we had been served two gulab jamuns in glass bowls for dessert, Sara had managed to rope Appa into a conversation about Sufism. Appa, of course, had to get his bit in, and he went right into a story, looking at Rahil, Sara, and me for equal amounts of time as he spoke:

  “Now, many countries in the Middle East want to claim Rumi as their national poet, hah! But these countries didn’t even exist in Rumi’s time. Anyway, what many people don’t talk of is Rumi’s own inspiration. Rumi’s friend, or master, or what some may like to call his greatest influence, was Shams Tabrizi. Rumi met him in his thirties. Their relationship was complex, intense; it was the reason that Rumi became a true mystic, if you ask me. But then Shams was killed, some say by Rumi’s jealous disciples. Rumi wrote thousands of poems in grief, love, and pure ecstasy for Shams. That was his golden work, the Diwan-e Shams-e Tabrizi. You know what I say? When I look back at my life, I’d say these are the only kind of relationships, or friendships, worth having. Ones that change who you fundamentally are, ones that push you to be a waltzing, wandering, mystical fool.”

  We laughed. I felt like a waltzing, wandering, mystical fool.

  My heart filled my chest with its thudding. Whether Appa sensed anything or not, his anecdotes and depth of knowledge in something that wasn’t politics or history surprised me. I barely knew Appa at all. And yet, I knew him well enough. Rahil had managed to ask him about his fascina
tion with the World Wars. Appa started to respond but his voice faded. I couldn’t hear anything beyond a calm buzz. A happy Sara, an engaged Rahil, and a very excited Appa in a circle of conversation, their voices a murmur. I could have watched them all night.

  XXI

  How

  Did the rose

  Ever open its heart

  And give to this world

  All its

  Beauty?

  It felt the encouragement of light

  Against its

  Being,

  Otherwise,

  We all remain

  Too

  Frightened.

  —Hafiz

  I hadn’t looked for a new job. I was occupied by life, truly I was. I didn’t need to convince anyone. I was breathing occupation: I read poems for Sara in the morning; we watched trash TV in the afternoon; we discussed work and politics with Rahil on Saturday; and we took long drives out of the city on Sunday. Drives where buildings quickly dropped in size, became the same height, and the coffee thicker with chicory. We were insular, we were pristine, we were fucking lovely.

  Some Sunday afternoons, when Sara slept, Rahil came to me. We found the time to inhale our caresses and exhale them right back. Our sex was calmer now, easier, and more loving. And Sara, with her internal body clock and her heightened soul, always awoke after we were done. She always remembered the tea, the dried chamomile blooming in the heat of the water. There were times, before dinner, when Rahil would go into Sara’s room and casually shut the door. I didn’t know if they had sex—if they did they were awfully quiet. Suddenly alone, I’d pick up my laptop and focus on trying to feel casual about it.

  At first I was troubled by my lack of memory of what I used to be. After Ketan. Before Ketan. I was troubled by the fact that I’d forgotten the names of the philosophers who used to be on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t remember which famous philosopher had supported the Nazis, although I was certain his name started with H. I couldn’t remember if Plato came before Aristotle. I feared loss at a cellular level. I was aghast that I didn’t even feel the need to google these simple answers. But my memory was all right. I knew this because I could remember things from years before, but they were all smells, visions, and expressions. I could no longer recall inferences, contextual references, or pedagogy. Knowledge was no longer my anchor. Instead it was the simplicity of nothingness. It was the sturdy calm sips of tea I took. My reliance on books had evaporated when I lost them, but the knowledge had still been there, a safety belt that had explained my world. Now that no longer mattered either.

  Sara’s sickness had been lifted. She refused to do too much outside, insisting she needed her rest. But she was rarely tucked away in bed for more than an hour in the daytime. She meditated now, the room closed, the trail of music wandering cautiously out to the living room, where I sat surfing the internet or reading tweets from people whom I used to know. She was detangling her thoughts and making new ones. It urged me to deconstruct my own thoughts too.

  When I was in bed with Rahil, though, I felt the empty beauty of not thinking at all. The understanding that my peace came from something so very simple was equal parts humbling and infuriating.

  I woke up, sweat sticky on my palms, after one of my nights spent with Rahil. I had a dream: Samina locked in a room. She had not eaten as a result of a punishment her parents had given her. In the dream, I understood that Samina’s parents had asked me for a suitable punishment for their daughter and it was I who had recommended starving her. She looked up from her bed, eyes pleading with me.

  I shot up straight in bed, and just as quickly Rahil’s arms were around me, his prompt support feeling so authentic, like something he’d do for Sara.

  “I had a dream about Samina, it’s all my fault,” I mumbled without thinking. But Rahil didn’t probe. He held me for another ten minutes. Right before I fell off to sleep his words appeared thick and warm in my ears: “I know, I know.”

  In the morning, nothing was discussed. I didn’t know what Rahil knew or thought he knew. Regardless, one thing was clear: Rahil was born to take responsibility of someone. To inherit ownership of whatever card life decided to deal.

  I was making sure I was a part of his hand.

  Ten days away from flying to her parents’ home, Sara said, “Once I am in that house, they will track my every move, but when I am here with Rahil, it’s almost like I don’t exist to them.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” Rahil said drily.

  “Well, more like they use whatever is around them to project their fears, maybe it’s on their house help, Shanta. She lives full-time with them, poor girl.”

  Later, Rahil told me it was the most critical thing Sara had said about her parents in her life, or at least in front of Rahil. He sounded happy about this, but he looked unsettled too. Typical Sara effect. It was the same effect that drove me to her. Sara held truths about the world; she didn’t need to apply them to herself in order to make you feel like the ignorant one.

  I was nervous about her departure. It would only be for ten days, but it would be ten days of me in the house without her, without a job, waiting for Rahil. What would I do with my time? I could read again. I could visit Appa more. I could get a job. I could do a lot, but I didn’t want to. I wanted the calm of my new life. I wanted not to think about anything that demanded interaction with the outside world.

  That afternoon, Sara talked about Rahil with clinical precision, the kind that comes with years of observation and unconditional love.

  What Sara Told Me About Rahil

  When the quintessential middle-class family gives birth to a son, there is an unsaid demand. The child will be at the very least above average in school. There will be plenty of childhood memories, ones that can be passed off as mischievous at worst, like Rahil peeing on the watchman’s head at age four from the terrace. These stories will vary in detail at first, but soon enough they will congeal as one story the adult son will tell his wife and pass down to his children. The son as a teenager will be studious enough and have a reliable hobby: music, cricket, movies.

  He will have many friends, and the friends will be similarly disciplined. The adult son will go to college; if the family is lucky, he will finish a master’s degree abroad. The ideal son comes back, finds a reliable job with steady promotions, gets married: a same-region, same-caste love marriage is most acceptable, even preferred in some urban scenes. Otherwise a modern arranged marriage is expected by the time he is twenty-seven, thirty for those who have created a blazing fire trail with their career. A child within two years, and the parents can finally sigh with relief. They have successfully brought up a straitlaced nice Indian guy. The one who will not be too political. The one who will latch on to anything the government does with technology and New India. The one who will read a few books here and there, but limit the amount they can move him. The one who will say, “My daughter’s career comes first,” but will inevitably squirm the moment she is twenty-five and single.

  “The thing is, procreation is reliable, scientific, and easy, and that’s the result they want for the next thirty years too. Maybe there is nothing wrong with it, but can we just say it’s dreadfully boring?” Sara said to me, as she broke a wheat cracker into tiny bits.

  Rahil’s mother, it turned out, was a gynecologist who gave up practicing after Rahil was born. His father was a reasonably well-off businessman who had inherited from his grandfather’s spice trading fortune. Now he had his own factory. Rahil had ticked off most of the boxes to become a straitlaced nice Indian guy. With self-effacing humor, he could recite his standard childhood memory of peeing on top of the watchman’s head from the terrace. He was studious enough to take the exams to get into the Indian Institute of Technology but hadn’t made the cut. Surprise came in the form of him wanting to study in Delhi, for a degree in business. His parents weren’t happy and only became more concerned when he fell in love with Sara. When he got his first job and moved up on luck and ta
lent, they called it a win. After all, he had a steady job and was married.

  Both Sara and Rahil were only children, but unlike Sara’s, his parents weren’t obsessed with his well-being. And they had no relationship with Sara; it was only Rahil who visited them once a year in Agra. Sara was inarguably a disappointment as a traditional wife so, for all practical purposes, they treated him as a bachelor son. Despite this marital failure, he maintained the straitlaced nice Indian guy image in their eyes, making good money, living life like any other successful son.

  “You’d think there might be more to him, more of a story, but really he loves what he does, and it’s the small things that make him happy: coming home at a predictable time, drinking a beer on a Friday night, watching movies, cuddling, reading the news, and, once in a while, socializing with his work friends. Everything about him is predictable except his love for me, and now us.”

  “He won’t ever love me the way he loves you, and he can’t love you the way I do,” I whined. “We really don’t talk about how odd we are—”

  “That’s the thing, it’s normal because we simply are this way.”

  “I’m not sure any of our parents would agree with that logic.”

  “Mira, you think too much. You need to intellectualize it, or find a way for it to be ideal. The thing is, it is just another relationship—its ideal nature is never going to be the reality. Forget obsessing over us.”

  “It’s hard not to,” I said quietly. I was hoping she’d indulge me, say something magical that would make me feel completely and unquestionably loved. Sara’s conviction in her words was only making me panic. “So you just think this is fine, we’re nothing special, just our version of normal?”

  Sara shook her head gently as she got up from the couch and straightened out a crinkle on her cream tunic. She looked down at me; I couldn’t tell if her eyes offered pity or compassion.