Mango trees and palms dipped with the wind, and sometimes you could hear the thud of fruit falling. The monkeys would claim it, take a bite, and throw it away. They were wealthy here and had more than enough to spare.
Jani arrived on a Saturday. At once I sensed something wrong. Usually she would fling her bags down and cover us with kisses. But this Jani was different, distant, her motions contained, her arms passive. She smiled and said everything was fine, only she was tired, could she go to bed? Grandmother and I were astonished.
Grandmother decided to go ahead and inquire for possible marriage partners for Jani. Through friends and relations, she located one, C.P. Iyengar. From his photograph, he seemed to be a likable young man, with a smooth face and smiling eyes. He played tennis, swam regularly, and had his degree in biotechnology. He also wrote poetry. I was impressed, and thought Grandmother might be right. He was visiting the island by chance (cosmic circumstance, my grandmother said), and I was eager to meet him, this tennis player from India.
Jani refused to talk about him, though. She simply shrugged her shoulders when I asked her how she felt about meeting him. I thought she was still tired.
Instead, I rattled off the many good things to look for in possible husbands, such as an interest in sports and dogs and tropical fish, a preference for Coca-Cola, and a good dress sense. I told her I would draw up a list she could use for reference, but she was uninterested.
With much reluctance, my cousin agreed to meet the family of the suitor Grandmother had selected. On the afternoon of the first visit, Jani dawdled in her room. She had put on her favorite blue sari, made of soft georgette with a simple dark blue border, but Grandmother thought it too plain. “You look like a schoolmistress,” she said, advising a Benares silk. “But it is so hot,” complained Jani, and the two of them argued for a long time. Finally a pink and white cotton was chosen, very fashionable but comfortable. My mother slipped out early.
If Jani had been going to a picture, she’d have outlined her eyes in dark pencil, piled silver bangles on her arms, and dabbled on perfume secreted from my mother’s bureau. But for this afternoon, she just scrubbed her face and lingered in the room. When the visitors were announced, Vasanti merely crying loudly, “They’ve come!” my grandmother and I went to meet them. We ushered them in and settled ourselves in the drawing room. I sat on the sofa, opposite the sister-in-law. Only she and his brother came, preparing the way for a later visit from the parents and the boy himself. His brother looked a lot like him, and his wife had a big pink mouth and a blaring orange sari. She was from Bombay and spent a long time talking about her former home. They spoke almost in chorus, completing each other’s sentences, and praised C.P. He was an engineer, very capable of securing a promotion and possibly would be offered a position in Canada. Grandmother frowned a bit over that, and sensing her hesitation over having Jani so far away, the wife assured us that it would be several years before that could come to pass. Vasanti brought us tea and cakes.
It was a pretty tray, with almond and silver frosted cakes, thick pieces of shortbread, Mysoor halvah, spicy nuts, murruku, and water biscuits. The tea was strong and hot, and Grandmother poured with grace. She gave me several pointed looks, for Jani still hadn’t come down, but I ignored her. If my cousin needed extra time before meeting prospective in-laws, I was not going to hurry her. Instead, I reached for a second slice of cake and examined our guests. They were polite, spoke English with British accents, suggesting educations or vacations abroad, and were conversant on contemporary films and dance recitals. They questioned me on my studies, asked me what subjects I particularly liked, and were not surprised when I said science. We then spoke of favorite books, and I slouched a little, enjoying our talk. I liked these people, especially the wife, and thought that perhaps with a drink or two, the brother might not be so bad either. It was while I was thinking this that Jani finally came down. She was wearing the blue sari and her glasses, which she doesn’t really need except for reading. She entered the room shyly, and at the last minute, tossed her head with indifference. Her face was settled into a mask, her eyes lowered, and her smile tight, as if acknowledging she was on display and that it wasn’t going to affect her.
Conversation was awkward, with Jani answering their queries in monosyllables, and myself and Grandmother making up for the difference. When at last the sweets tray was taken away, and the silver dish of paan and slender cigarettes offered, the visitors seemed to suggest that they could not stay much longer. The wife invited Jani to tea at their house, “A simple affair, of course, but we might hear V. Lakshmi sing. Her singing is such a pleasure, don’t you think?” I agreed heartily, although I hadn’t any idea who V. Lakshmi was, and Grandmother glared at me while Jani for the first time seemed to smile. Grandmother accepted the invitation at once. I worried that their interest in Jani would fade if she didn’t respond more enthusiastically to their queries. But even still and quiet, my cousin projected a powerful if somewhat guarded picture, and I think they were impressed. Stubbornness is a quality that runs deep in our family, the very quality that Grandmother warned us would leave us husbandless and sorry.
They finally left. We promised to come for their musical afternoon, and courtesies and compliments were paid. Grandmother was very excited.
“I think they like you very much, my dear,” she said, giving Jani a little hug, “and you know, the blue is very becoming on you. Imagine them inviting us over so quickly; usually, they’d wait for a second interview. And the boy is very handsome, I hear, much better-looking in real life than in photographs. And did you hear her speaking so sweetly of her mother-in-law—yes, they are of very good family.”
And Grandmother would have replayed the entire afternoon word for word, if Jani had not complained of a headache and gone to her room. So Grandmother talked to me as I retrieved the sweets tray and attacked the remaining cakes with relish.
“Not every family would be so open-minded about us. No male in the family, no parents. But our name is very good. Your grandfather was one of the most respected men in this town, renowned for his designs. They still speak of the Forest Building with respect.”
My grandfather had designed the Forest Building for a Swiss corporation that was later taken over by Pepsi-Cola until it was banned from the island. It featured trees as pillars in the front and was now a government housing agency.
Grandfather had been an inventor as well, constantly busy with his hands. He developed a self-cleaning stove once but could find no backers. He said that women were destined to be chained to their housework if inventions were not created for them, but we all had servants to do the work and no one paid attention to him. Design those funny buildings, he was told, don’t try to change the world.
On the day of the singing soiree, Grandmother made sure we dressed up and had fresh flowers for our hair. I adjusted Jani’s jasmine and had her try on three saris until she chose the cream with flecks of gold and a border of large abstract mangoes and peacocks. It was an enchanting sari. Her bodice was long in the sleeve and cut attractively about the neck and back. She looked like a princess with her large bindhi—the mark on her forehead—and her regal stance. I was certain C.P. would flip over her. My mother, of course, wasn’t coming. I don’t think my grandmother even asked her.
We took an old rickety bicycle rickshaw because my grandmother didn’t trust the motorized ones. Slowly, we pedaled our way to the other side of town, where the brother lived with his wife. C.P. was visiting them from Bangalore, where his parents had a large home. His father was in the timber business, managing ways for construction companies to locate and extract timber to house temporaries, people who visited the country on government business and departed quickly. He then went to do the same in other countries, and he made his way around Indonesia. The use of timber to build houses in India was very uncommon, since most architects preferred stone and concrete blocks. But timber was cheap, especially if it came from Thailand, and his was a thriving business.
The brother’s house was built of concrete, a modern flat in a compound called Ashoka Gardens. It was painted pale pink, and the avenue it faced was lined with tall palms. We took our sandals off in the patio where we were greeted with a lush scent of incense that hinted of both tranquillity and money. About ten people had been invited, not counting us, and the parlor was filled with rustling silks. The flat was nicely decorated, in cool cream shades (thank goodness Jani’s sari had a border or she would have melted into the background!) with large paper lamps and tasteful Mogul miniatures. A long couch wound its way round in a vague semi-circular fashion, and the coffee table was teak, ornate, British Raj influenced. The apartment had an aura of spaciousness and quiet, typified by a large statue of Buddha in one corner.
“Are they Buddhist?” I asked my grandmother who merely frowned a negative. Hindus, then, like us, but the family shrine was housed in the kitchen, off limits to the guests.
C.P.’s parents came forward and cordially introduced themselves and then introduced us to the boy himself. He looked like his photograph and seemed vaguely embarrassed by the proceedings. The mother was warm and effusive, the father jocular, and C.P. became unreadable.
We had some drinks (Grandmother again frowned as I reached for a cupful of wine) and ate canapés made of foreign ingredients—French cheese and apples. I spilled some wine, Jani refused to eat, and Grandmother all at once looked tired. Wiping up, settling down, we watched as C.P.’s brother brandished a shining CD. He popped it into a Bose stereo system, all sleek and silver, and soon the melodies of classic Carnatic flute filled the air. V. Lakshmi’s voice was very high and lulling. It was almost like being at a concert. I began to dream of Jani and me running across a field, pursued by someone playing a flute. The field was endless, the sky a vibrant blue, and our running effortless. The flute player fell away and now we were running toward someone. Grandmother nudged me awake. People were applauding, and for a moment I thought it was for me.
Yawning, I got up and selected a plate at a table brimming with desserts. I chose chum-chums and badhushas, which were sweet and delicious, a perfect way to awaken. I met a young cousin of C.P.’s, about my age, who spoke of the test-match scores for the games between India and the West Indies. I didn’t follow cricket, but I liked talking to him, or rather, hearing him talk. He was cute, and I began to think this might be a very good family to marry into. I didn’t have many friends who were boys, but I liked talking to them. I guess I was a bit of a tomboy, even though I read a lot. I liked playing at games but coughed a great deal if I overexerted myself. Anyway, this chap went on about cricket, and I listened, but my gaze wandered. Grandmother was talking to C.P.’s parents, possibly discussing jewelry, and C.P. was speaking to Jani. I couldn’t tell if Jani was engaged in their conversation; my cousin was inscrutable.
The boy was no longer talking of cricket, and I said something about the music.
“Boring, no?”
“No, I like it.”
“You listen to pop?”
“I like some.”
“I’ve got the Doors and Culture Club on CD. What about you?”
“I don’t have any CDs, but I like the Beatles. And U-2.”
“You like the B-52’s?”
“Of course.”
“Shall we put on some music?”
“They won’t object?”
“Why should they?”
“Maybe they would.”
“Do you think we shouldn’t?”
“We should do it.”
“Okay.”
So we found a Beatles album and put it on, and no one minded, and this young boy and I sat down and listened to the music. I wanted to dance but thought Grandmother would have a fit if I did. Some of the guests did begin to dance, though, and since there was a crowd, the cousin, whose name was something I didn’t catch, and I joined them. It was fun, the music was “Please Please Me,” and I lost myself in its beat. C.P. asked Jani to dance. But stupidly, she wouldn’t, and I wondered at this, thinking if Jani wouldn’t dance with him, she wouldn’t marry him either.
I remember thinking his family doted on him. They had served him food first and later listed his favorite foods to my grandmother. At one point, his father asked me what the young miss wanted to do when she grew up. I said I wanted to be a zoologist. He smiled indulgently.
“You like pop music too much to study seriously, perhaps? Would you not say that is the case?” he asked.
For some reason, I began to list colleges that Western pop musicians had gone to: Harvard, the London School of Economics, Rhode Island School of Design. His son came over and said John Lennon had gone to art school. His father then pointed at a backgammon board that C.P. had made, handsomely marked with triangles in light and dark wood.
“Janis a lovely girl,” said the father. We looked at her talking to the sister-in-law.
“They’re discussing sari shops. Think of it, two honor students talking of fashion,” said the father. C.P. and I smiled. I told C.P. that I was reading Russian novels, and he told me to read The Brothers Karamazov. Guests began to disperse. Grandmother thanked our hosts, and we left for home.
Six
Jani refused to talk about the party. My mother read a book while I complimented C.P., hoping to get a reaction from both of them. I could tell that Jani and my mother did not get along. At least, if my mother had participated in a conversation like a normal human being, they wouldn’t have gotten along. Jani dismissed my mother but never said anything to me directly, to save my feelings. But I could see it in the way Jani regarded my mother, the way her mouth would tighten, and her eyes, too, holding back, as if she were a snake, a hiss.
Animal behavior was a subject I liked. I remember reading about cats and birds. Cats don’t like heights, things like that. Birds at a young age are inherently afraid of hawks and not afraid of geese. If a cardboard cutout of a goose is passed over their baby heads, they do not mind. But they are terrified by a fake hawk. Jani, I think, thought my mother was a hawk, and instinctively, her back went up, ready for a fight.
I think Jani saw my mother as selfish; at least she was alive and could talk to her daughter, that sort of thing. Jani missed her own mother terribly, I knew, for I had noticed how suddenly sometimes her eyes would become distant and full of sorrow. No one said that Jani was an orphan—in India, I don’t think parenting is so exclusive that other relatives aren’t involved in all aspects of raising a child, so the child is part of a community from the first—but she was sensitive, and felt the loss. When we’d see films about death and dying, her cheeks would wet with tears. Quickly, she’d try to dry her eyes in the cinema dark with the hem of her sari border but I noticed. In grieving for her mother, Jani also grieved for me.
My aunts did not do a bad job of raising me. There wasn’t enough room, and we were in one another’s way sometimes, the children and I. Usha practiced singing, which sometimes interfered with my homework assignments. I’d be trying to memorize species subgroupings, and there would be Usha trying to sing in Sanskrit. And Usha would want to turn the lights out to sleep before I did, because I wanted to read a novel in bed. So I used a flashlight, a tiny one no bigger than my elbows, and tried to read. But it was uncomfortable and threw the wrong shadows, and I wondered if it was worth the effort. But then I got used to reading in the semi-dark.
There were the occasions of illness. Bronchitis was the most common, followed by stomach flu, head colds, ringworm, hives, mononucleosis, and laryngitis. I got the measles, the mumps, and the chicken pox, despite the inoculations. They thought I was dying on at least two occasions. My aunt daily checked my temperature and always gave me an extra blanket; this made me sweat, and I think added to the odds of my getting sick the next day, due to the flux of sweat and chill in the air, I was always sleepy, or not at all sleepy, and my own body wearied me. But one of my doctors (I had three) told me early on not to succumb to depression and to keep myself engaged and alert, even when bedridden. T
hat’s why I read novels and studied a bit of zoology on the side (it wasn’t offered at my school, but I picked up old textbooks from the book vendors).
We had one dog and two cats, but they were strays who had adopted us, and they slept outside. I liked them because if I missed school, they were my companions in a nearly empty house. I’d let the dog jump on my bed while I read and would try to fluff out the dog hairs from my bedding before my aunties realized the infraction of the no-dog-on-the-bed rule. The cats roamed at will. But all that was at my aunts’ home in Madras.
Here on Pi, at my grandmother’s house, I found myself rapidly becoming bored. Jani spent her time quietly reading. I had already gone through all the activities I had planned. Twice, I collected wildflowers and pressed them between the pages of the old Pears Cyclopedia in the hall. Twice, I sat with my watercolors, straining my eyes at the garden, trying to paint delicately and faithfully. I peered into the Italian grammar and studied for a full half hour. I read through all the “Humor in Uniform” and “Life in These United States” bits in the back copies of the Reader’s Digest stored in the closet. I picked at a collection of abridged Dickens and longed for something to do. I took to wandering around the compound and making a nuisance of myself. Jani responded only in grunts to my whining. No one would play cards with me. My great-uncle was unavailable. I tagged behind my grandmother until she got tired and told me to make myself busy. Even my mother, usually good for an hour or so of spying upon, was boring; she was stretched out on a chaise longue, giving herself a clay mask treatment. The world was dull, dull, dull.
Inheritance Page 4
