Asha had always known that Baba used to treat her like a son. Now, thanks to Grandmother’s outburst, it finally dawned on her that it had been Ma who had cut her hair short, Ma who had dressed her in shorts and pants, Ma who had obviously been trying to camouflage in public the fact that she hadn’t produced a son for her husband.
The room was quiet; by now everybody had taken in Grandmother’s meaning. Slowly, as though they’d rehearsed it, every head swiveled to Ma. She endured the scrutiny for only a few moments, and even then the Jailor didn’t let her run, or weep, or shout. Gathering her saree around her, she climbed the stairs with a slow, heavy tread.
“Poor thing,” Auntie said, but her voice didn’t sound sympathetic. “She’s never recovered from not giving Bintu a boy.”
“It’s not surprising,” Grandmother added, still angry. “She came from such an uneducated background. I told Bintu so many times.”
“And now look what’s happened to their daughter.” Uncle snorted, flicking his head in Asha’s direction. “Still pretending to be a boy, after all these years.”
“Eesh,” said Auntie, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
“Bas! That’s enough,” Grandmother said, ending the discussion.
Asha was a shrieking kettle on the verge of exploding, a fire about to send flames into their faces. She opened her mouth, but Reet’s groping foot found hers in the nick of time and pressed down, hard. Asha clamped her lips, repeating the promises she’d made to Baba in her head like a mantra. Take care of Ma. Take care of Reet. Don’t dishonor Ma. Pushing her chair away from the table, she excused herself and left the room.
Up, up, and up she climbed, out to the darkness on the roof. A few stars were shining feebly in the smoky sky, the heavy air promising another storm. There was no sign of Jay; his room was dark.
Asha let her hands travel across her slim hips and waist, curving up her body to the small rise of her breasts. She knew she wasn’t half as beautiful as her sister, at least not by Gupta standards, but she had always secretly liked her shape, the way she was blooming slowly, like a lotus flower. Now her flesh felt as stiff and unyielding as wood.
She fingered the bones of her face, her slim neck, the outlines of her skull. Nothing feminine about my head, she thought. No wonder it was easy to fool everybody. Next, she touched the jagged ends of her hair. It had taken a year and a half to grow that braid. She’d be eighteen, almost nineteen, by the time it was that long again.
The tears came, flowing freely. Asha knew why. It wasn’t her hair she was mourning. She was grieving the losses of a small girl, disguised so well that nobody recognized her. Not even herself.
SIXTEEN
ASHA CREPT DOWNSTAIRS ONCE THE HOUSE HAD QUIETED for the night, slipping under the mosquito net and retucking it under the mattress. Reet and the cousins were already asleep, but Asha found her corner of the hard bed and tossed restlessly.
She was even more furious now about the changes she’d had to endure once her period started. Both of her parents had treated her like a boy, and then in one day expected her to let go of the freedom that came with boyhood. It wasn’t fair. They should have readied her for womanhood from the start. Reet had seemed to survive the transition from girlhood just fine; for Asha it had felt like a death sentence.
Asha turned again and again, trying to find a more comfortable place on the mattress, her thoughts racing. The next thing she knew, Reet was stroking her hair to wake her up. “We need to talk,” she whispered. “Come into the bathroom for a minute.”
“The bathroom?” Asha said, blinking furiously as she crawled out of bed. Her eyes were stinging and puffy; she must have finally fallen asleep just before dawn. “Why do we have to go in there?”
Reet handed her sister a bag of chanachoor. “Privacy. Here, Raj got this for you. If you want to skip breakfast, I can tell them you’re not hungry and you’re not coming down. You can eat this instead.”
“Not in that bathroom, I won’t.”
It was too smelly in there to eat crunchy peanuts and fried lentils. Grandmother thought it was Auntie’s responsibility to supervise the woman who cleaned it. Auntie figured it was Grandmother’s. Meanwhile, the stink grew, and the girls usually ducked in and out as fast as they could.
Asha reached under the bed, pulled out her bag, and tucked the chanachoor inside it. She felt a surge of gratitude at Raj’s kind gesture.
Reet was waiting at the door. “Hurry, Osh. The twins will be back upstairs any minute to wash up before school.”
Asha followed her sister to the bathroom. She leaned over the sink and splashed water on her face to get rid of the salty taste on her lips. The cold water felt good against her hot cheeks and burning eyes. She dried her face and took a deep breath.
And almost passed out.
“Let’s get out of here, Reet,” she urged, fanning the air in front of her face.
“Tell me why you cut your hair. Whole story.” Reet was trying to hold her breath and talk at the same time, so her words came out sounding choppy.
“I cut it off so I could beat him. So he would hate us. And not want to marry you.”
“Oh, Osh,” Reet said, ending her breath-holding efforts with a huge sigh. “Thanks. But don’t you think I could handle getting him to hate me? Why’d you have to get yourself in trouble? And cut off your gorgeous braid?”
Asha looked into her sister’s kind eyes. How could anyone ever hate Reet? And besides, she hadn’t been sure that her sister could handle the situation. “At least I got to play tennis in India one last time,” she said, trying to grin. “And you got the chance to tell Uncle that you’re not ready for marriage.”
The girls abandoned the bathroom and headed downstairs. Thankfully, the dining room was empty. Only the photos on the wall greeted them. Overlooked for so long, they seemed prominent now.
Reet handed Asha a slice of bread. “Are you angry at her?” she asked.
Asha gripped the knife hard as she spread butter on the bread. “Wouldn’t you be? You didn’t have to live a lie for her sake.”
Reet shook her head. “I’m not too sure about that,” she murmured.
Her sister’s words hardly registered with Asha. The hurt of the night before had hardened into something worse. She never wanted to talk to her mother again. And what about Baba? Why had he just stood by and let Ma dress Asha like a boy—until the Day of First Blood, of course, when all of them had to face the truth? Asha Gupta was a girl, and there was no more hiding the fact from anybody, including themselves.
She swallowed the last bite of the bread and butter and washed it down with tea. “It’s a miracle I didn’t get ruined. At least I think I didn’t.”
“You’re the opposite of ruined, Osh,” Reet said. “In the long run, I think you’re better off, actually. You’ve had a certain kind of freedom to be yourself first, while I . . .”
Her unfinished sentence dangled in the air. She stood up and fingered what was left of Asha’s hair. “Anyway, you’re creative, sister of mine. Nobody can argue with that. Guess what? You accomplished your mission: I’m not going to have to marry the Y.L.I.! Hooray! When it grows out a bit, I can fix your hair in a new style I saw the other day—pulled to the side with a hairpin. It’s perfect for shorter hair.”
Asha stayed upstairs for the rest of the day, wishing the room had a door to close and trying to ignore Auntie’s “eesh-es” when she walked by the curtain. Ma didn’t come up and neither did Grandmother. After a couple of hours of sleep, Asha woke and stretched across the width of the whole bed. It was the first time she’d had the bed to herself in the four months they’d been there, so for once she risked taking out her diary in her room. She needed desperately to confess exactly what she was feeling.
Maybe Reet’s right, in a way. After all, during the first thirteen years of my life, nobody defined me first as a girl—not even myself. That did give me a strange kind of freedom. I remember thinking I could do anything, be anything, go anywhere . . . Perha
ps I should be grateful that I was able to become a person before I had to become a woman. Not every girl gets that chance. Still, it makes me sad, but I don’t quite know why.
Someone knocked on the wall beside the curtain. “Come in,” Asha called, stashing her diary and pen under her pillow, even though she knew it was Reet. Who else would take the time to knock instead of barging in?
Her sister brought in a tray of luchis and potatoes and cauliflower, along with a couple of slices of fresh lime. “I told them you weren’t feeling well,” she said. “So don’t eat all of it. Ma fixed the tray.”
“I’m not really that hungry anyway,” Asha said, but she sat up and took the tray on her lap. The luchis smelled delicious, and she squeezed the lime juice over the potatoes and cauliflower as she always did.
Reet watched her eat for a while. “Ma asked about you. She wanted to know if you were feeling better.”
“I don’t care.”
“Don’t lie to yourself, Osh, of course you do. And she cares about you. She’s just . . .”
“Thinking of herself first, as usual.”
Reet shrugged. “Maybe it’s better than always trying to make someone else happy.” Like Baba, Asha thought, popping another bite of potato into her mouth. And you.
“I have something to ask you, Osh.”
“Anything, Reet,” Asha answered.
“Don’t answer back to our elders if they keep talking about this, all right?”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Asha said. “Auntie especially drives me mad! Is this for your sake, or for Ma’s?”
“Both, I suppose. But does it matter?”
Asha sighed. “Not really.”
“You’d better come down for tea,” Reet said, picking up the tray, which was empty except for the slices of lime. “Your appetite’s obviously returned. Besides, if you cower up here, they’ll take even longer to stop talking about your escapade.”
Her sister was right, Asha thought. The best thing to do might be to pretend that she hadn’t done anything wrong, which she hadn’t really. She sauntered downstairs once she heard her cousins’ shrill voices and the shrieking of the kettle.
Raj stopped her at the foot of the stairs. “My friends are raving about your topspin,” he said. “Can you give me a lesson in the garden?”
Asha grinned. “Of course. I owe you a lifetime of tennis. But let’s wait a week or two, okay? I’d better not be seen with a racket in my hand until the fuss dies down a bit. And thanks for the chanachoor, by the way.”
After Raj’s request, Asha was able to walk into the living room with her head high. Ma was nowhere in sight, and Asha managed to sip her tea quietly while Auntie, Grandmother, and Uncle debated the possible social consequences of her actions. Asha tried to tune them out by remembering the thwack of the ball against the racket as she hit that last lob. Maybe what she’d told Reet was true; she’d endure a lot just to have experienced the sheer joy of playing tennis again. And winning.
Over the next couple of weeks, Asha somehow endured her disgrace without a word. Family cardplaying was put on hold, and she found herself missing the strategy discussions and teasing that accompanied it. Grandmother’s stern demeanor, Uncle’s disapproving glares, Auntie’s many “ eesh-es” aimed in Asha’s direction were all irritating, as was having to forsake playing with her cousins. But they didn’t compare to her mother’s glum, expressionless face, the sight of which made Asha’s nerves twang like a frayed sitar string. This time, though, Asha didn’t try any of her tactics to battle the Jailor. She was tired of fighting him, at least for a while, promise or no promise.
One afternoon, the relatives abruptly stopped discussing Asha’s “unwomanly” behavior. The college had posted midyear exam scores, and Raj was forced to disclose his failing marks in math. This new calamity proved to be a grand diversion. Now Auntie avoided interactions with the family, throwing angry looks in her son’s direction. Grandmother stopped glaring at Ma and clicked her tongue at Auntie instead.
Soon after that, at breakfast, Uncle patted Asha’s hand in an affectionate way that almost reminded Asha of Baba. “How’s the best tennis player in the neighborhood?” he asked. “I hear you upheld the family honor on the court quite nicely.”
Asha almost fainted.
“You should have seen her, Baba!” Raj burst out. “Those passing shots! That spin she puts on her second serve!”
“I’d like to learn the game myself,” Uncle said, stroking his rounded belly. “Maybe I’d lose a couple of kilos.”
Asha looked at Ma, who was pouring more tea into Raj’s cup. If Uncle’s brain had gone through some strange transformation, would the same effect take place in hers? But Ma’s face stayed vacant.
“Let’s have a game of twenty-nine tonight, eh, Tuni?” Uncle asked. “It’s been a while. I’ve missed it.”
After Ma and Uncle left the room, Asha turned to Raj. “What happened to your father?” she asked. “How did I make it back into the family again?”
“Now Baba’s sorry he even met with the Y.L.I.’s uncle,” Raj informed her. “Yesterday he found out that they have a distant connection to the Mitra clan. Our family’s despised them for generations.”
“Wonderful,” Asha said sarcastically, slumping back into her chair. “So I didn’t need my stupid plan after all. I could have waited until an Ancient Hatred returned to rescue my sister.”
“That guy needed to be put in his place,” Raj said. “And now the whole family has accepted how Reet feels about getting married. Baba might have started looking for another eligible fellow if you hadn’t given your sister the chance to say what she thought.”
Asha took another big bite of toast, feeling a new lightness of spirit. Raj was right. What else could she have hoped for? Reet had managed to speak for herself. And Asha had been given—or had taken—the chance to play tennis again. It had been worth it.
Now only two things were still worrying her. No, three. One was Baba, taking forever to find a job. The second was Ma, thoroughly at the mercy of the Jailor. And the third was Jay. He had disappeared; there had been no sign of him for days. Where was he? Why hadn’t he told her he was going to be away? The worst part about these three worries was that she had no Plan A or Plan B to deal with any of them. All she could muster was the energy and courage to wait, which was the hardest plan of all.
SEVENTEEN
WITH REET’S PROPOSAL GONE AND THE GLOOMY, QUIET MA back, Auntie wasn’t having as much fun. She entered the fray against the Jailor, urging Ma to try on sarees, sing, or go out shopping again. Halfheartedly, Ma finally agreed to a shopping trip, and Auntie commandeered Raj once again to hail the rickshaw and carry the bags.
Reet and Asha stayed home this time, sitting with their grandmother on the veranda and slapping at mosquitoes that nibbled their ankles. The house was quiet and dim; Uncle had taken the twins to the market, and the servants hadn’t turned on any lights before leaving for the day. This was at Grandmother’s insistence; the family always waited until true darkness came to use the expensive electric lights. Besides, mosquitoes swarmed the open gutters at dusk, and lights drew them into the house.
It was peaceful knowing that only three members of the family were at home, with no servants around. The shadowy figure in the corner that was Grandmother broke the silence. “I wish you girls could have known your grandfather,” she said. “He was a fine man, a good father and husband. My parents picked well. I’ll never forget our wedding night.”
Reet was about to speak, Asha could tell. She tapped her sister’s hand once in warning and Reet sat back, both girls waiting for their grandmother to continue.
“I was so scared that day,” Grandmother said. “I’d heard such horror stories from my cousins and friends about what happened on a girl’s wedding night. I was only fifteen, and your grandfather was twenty-six. He was already a professor, so handsome, tall, and strong.”
Again, Asha kept silent, and this time Reet followed suit witho
ut a hand tap.
“I haven’t slept well in weeks,” Grandmother said, and Asha worried for a moment, but their grandmother’s mind returned to the olden days. “Before my wedding day, I couldn’t sleep, either, I was so scared. The morning was a blur, the putting on of jewelry, the painting of my face with turmeric powder. And then, in the afternoon, after tea, the shouts came from outside: The bridegroom’s coming! He’s here! The bridegroom and his procession are here! I thought I was going to faint.” She made a small, tinkly sound, and Asha realized it was the first time she’d heard her grandmother laugh since they’d arrived.
“Later I had to leave my parents’ home. Oh, how I wept! I rode with his mother in a rickshaw, and she was talking the entire time. I didn’t hear a word she said. The house was full of strangers, laughing, staring, making comments about how I looked, touching my skin, saree, hair. They paraded us into the room that would be our living quarters, and I saw that the wedding bed had been decorated with sweet-smelling jasmine flowers. They left us alone, but I could hear them joking outside, eavesdropping on us.”
Asha couldn’t see her grandmother at all; it was now completely dark in the room. She pictured a petite teenager perched on the edge of an unfamiliar bed next to a strange man. She felt the girl’s terror shiver through her own body.
“Then he started talking,” Grandmother said, and her voice broke. “He told me that he’d waited so long for his bride. He’d wait longer, for weeks, or months even, until I was ready to accept him as my husband. He promised not to touch me until I wanted him as much as he wanted me. When we fell asleep that night, I remember feeling completely safe. And he kept his word.”
How long did he have to wait? Asha wanted to ask, thinking of Jay and feeling her cheeks get hot. How did it feel when you finally did want him as much as he wanted you?
But the telling of secrets was over. The girls could hear their grandmother blowing her nose, and the rustle of her saree as she stood up. “Turn on the lights, girls, will you? I’m feeling sleepy for the first time in days. I think I’ll go and try to rest.”
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