That was the heart of the problem after all. Not worries about white boys seducing his daughter, or even concerns about how the British would treat the poor brown colonial; Shanthi was strong enough for either of those. Thani simply didn’t want to let his daughter go. To let her go so far, all alone. Shanthi was excited, eager for the opportunity. She would be changed, inevitably, when she returned.
Thani squeezed his wife, trying to reassure her, to reassure himself. “Uncle knows people in London, studying law. She would have family nearby. We would write letters.”
“But how would we know that she was safe?” Those words almost a wail, his wife’s hands pressed hard against his chest.
“We wouldn’t know,” he said heavily, his heart sore. It was so very far. There would be difficulties for Shanthi there—insults, slights, dangers, and hardships. “But can you tell her no?”
Bala was silent for a long time. Then she shook her head, as he had known she would. She was thinking of the same thing he was, he knew. You grew to know things like that about your wife, in a marriage. Thinking of their poor Chellamani.
Since the day she had returned to them, neither Thani nor his wife had been willing to take the chance of forcing another child down the wrong path. Did it make them bad parents, that in the end, after giving out advice, passing out as much wisdom as they had, arranging introductions, they had allowed the rest of their children to choose their own way? Many of their friends thought so, Thani knew. His own parents thought it hopelessly indulgent. Dangerous, to let children make such important decisions, decisions that could bring them such heartache. Thani’s own father had told him that he had taken a coward’s path, an abrogation of parental responsibility.
Perhaps. But it was the path they had chosen to take. They no longer lived in the village, safe in a thousand years of tradition. Their island was no longer isolated, if it ever really had been. The colonizers had come to Ceylon, and would someday go. The world was changing, and they were changing with it.
“It will only be for a few years,” Thani said. “She’ll get the degree, she’ll come home to us.” There were no guarantees, but he said it anyway, said it as if he knew.
There was a long silence. Then Bala asked, in a whisper, “After years in that country, with them, what will she be? Will we know her, when she returns?”
“We are her parents,” Thani said. “We will always know her.”
THE NEXT MORNING HE WOKE LATE, STUMBLED FROM BED FEELING exhausted, sluggish. Thani found his way to the washroom, splashed water on his face. Delicious scents perfumed the air—was it breakfast time already? Had he missed it?
Thani made his way to the kitchen, still in his pyjamas. There he found Shanthi, her mother, and Vidu, the cook, all bent intently over a simmering pot.
“What’s going on here?” Thani asked, bewildered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found his wife in the kitchen.
Bala turned, smiling. “Shanthi woke me this morning. You were fast asleep, snoring like a sick cow.” His wife was teasing him, still punishing him perhaps for his thoughts about the white nun. It was a gentle enough punishment, and deserved. “The girl said she wanted to learn how to cook.”
Shanthi grinned up at her father. “If I do go all the way to England, I need to have something decent to eat.”
Bala added, “I had to confess that I can hardly cook anything—so we’re both going to learn, together. Vidu has kindly agreed to teach us.” She reached out then, in a spontaneous gesture of affection, and pulled her daughter close. Shanthi looked startled, but then leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder.
Thani smiled slowly. His wife had never truly understood their youngest daughter, had never felt close to her. Shanthi was too bright, too quick, for Bala to be comfortable. Perhaps that would change now. This wasn’t a consequence that Sister Catherine had been anticipating, but Thani would take such blessings where he found them. He knew himself to be a lucky man.
He felt an urge to shake up his wife a little; she was growing too complacent. “Well, move over. I might as well learn, too.”
“You?!” Bala was startled, about to protest—but then she surprised him, smiling. “Why not? Might as well learn something useful, instead of just sitting around with those musty books all the time. Come—we’ll make room.” She and Shanthi took a few steps closer to the wall.
“Vidu was just showing us how to fry curry leaves in oil. “Tell Mr. Chelliah what you’re doing, Vidu,” she said in Sinhalese.
“I’m just frying the curry leaves, sir, with mustard and cumin seed.”
“He says that’s how he starts all our curries. I never knew that, but it does smell like home, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” It was Thani’s turn to pull his daughter close, to lean into the pot, their heads wreathed in scent.
He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, willing himself to record this moment, to fix this memory and hold it close, a talisman against the time when his daughter would be gone, far across the churning seas.
Seven Cups of Water
Jaffna, 1948
MY BROTHER’S WEDDING DAY. THE FEASTING LASTED LONG PAST DARK, AND I WENT TO BED EXHAUSTED. I PEELED OFF MY SWEAT-soaked sari, rinsing my body with cool well water before changing into the soft cotton sari I wore to sleep. The old women had consulted the horoscopes of my brother and his young bride, had pronounced that this day, in this month, would be the luckiest, in fact the only day that would not bring down a thousand curses on the young couple—never mind that it was also one of the hottest days of the year. There was no flesh left on the old women’s bones, nothing that could drip sweat; I was sure they enjoyed making the young ones miserable.
I thought that for once, I would be able to sleep. I’d been allowed a little arrack whiskey to celebrate Sundar’s wedding, had danced with the other unmarried girls. My sisters’ friends giggled and preened as they danced, flashing dark eyes and slim brown bellies at the young men who lounged by the door, drinking. I just danced; I had no interest in catching a man. Not that any would have spared a glance for me, too-short, too-plump Mangai with her coarse hair and flat chest. I danced for myself, not for them. Danced until my feet were aching, until my arms and legs were lead weights.
I danced until Sundar and his lovely Sushila were escorted to his bedroom, until the last piece of rich wedding cake was eaten, and the last guest had gone. Only then did I bathe and change, only then did I lie down on my bamboo mat, a few feet from my peacefully sleeping sisters. And still I could not sleep.
It might have been the heat. Our house is near the ocean, and usually cool breezes fill the small rooms, but that night it was so hot that it was hard to breathe. I kept thinking it would get cooler, but instead it got hotter and hotter. Sweat dripped in uncomfortable trickles from my neck to my throat, from my breasts to the hollow between them, pooling in my navel. My mouth was dry as dead leaves, and I finally rose to get some water.
The house was silent. I left my sisters sleeping, passed my parents’ room, and my brother’s. I passed the main room, where dying flowers and bits of colored foil testified to the day’s happy event, and finally entered my mother’s vast kitchen. We weren’t rich, but we did have one of the largest houses in the village. We needed it; I was the youngest of eight, and cooking enough food for all of us took many hands and pots. The moonlight streamed in the window, illuminating the rickety table where my mother worked, the baskets of onions and garlic and ginger and chilies, the pitcher of water that was always kept filled. It was one of my mother’s rules—if you drank from the pitcher, you refilled it from the well. With five daughters and three sons, she needed many rules to keep peace in the house. Not that we always obeyed them.
I stepped over to the pitcher, took a tin cup from the shelf, and poured myself a cupful. Then I saw her. Sushila huddled in a far corner of the kitchen, her back pressed flat against the baked mud walls, her crimson wedding sari pulled tight around her, so tight that the heavy sil
k seemed to cut into her fair skin. Folds of gold-embroidered fabric were wrapped around her fists, and those in turn were pressed tight against her open mouth. She looked as if she were trying not to scream, but she didn’t move, or make a single sound.
I stepped toward her. “Sushila?” I knelt at her feet. Her knees were pulled up tight against her chest, and I rested a hand on one. “Is something wrong?” It was a foolish question, and after a moment I understood that I didn’t deserve an answer. The cup was still in my other hand; at last I stretched it out to her. “Would you like a cup of water?”
She nodded, and slowly lowered her fists. I raised the cup to her lips and tilted it so that she could drink. Sushila took a deep gulp, draining half the cup. Her whole body shivered then, though the water couldn’t have been cooler than lukewarm, after sitting all night. She shivered again, and again, her arms now hanging loose at her sides, her eyes wide.
I didn’t want to ask my next question. “Did Sundar—did he hurt you?” The words almost choked in my throat. I knew that there were men like that in the world. But Sundar had always been the gentlest of us all. He had even converted to Buddhism almost two years ago, had turned vegetarian and mourned every time he accidentally stepped on an insect. He had never teased me like the others had; he’d protected me from the worst of our oldest sister’s rages. I didn’t want to believe my favorite brother had hurt his wife—but there she was, shaking before me.
Sushila shook her head. No. After a moment, the word came up and out of her throat—“No.” I was almost as glad to hear the sound of the word as the sense of it; there was a crippled child who lived in the alley nearby who could not speak at all. I raised the cup again, and she drained it in another gulp. I put it down, not sure what to do next.
She was still shaking. I leaned forward, pulled her into my arms. When she was completely enclosed in my arms, the white of my sari covering the red of hers, she turned her head, so that her mouth was against my ear. Her breath was hot against my neck as she whispered, “I’m bleeding…” Before I could speak, she reached up and took my right arm, her fingers sliding down to my hand, pulling it down between us, under the sari to the space between her thighs. Her legs were wet, and when I brought my hand up, the tips of my fingers were stained red. When Sushila saw the blood, she started to cry.
I wrapped my arms around her and held her tightly, letting her cry against me. My second sister had shared every detail of her wedding night with us; she seemed to enjoy our shock and fascination. I knew that Sushila was the oldest daughter in her family, that her mother had died years ago of a fever. But didn’t she have any aunts? I stroked her hair, so soft and fine, and told her quietly, “It’s all right…shh…” Her shaking eased, slowly, though the tears still fell hot against my neck, sliding down my chest and mixing with my sweat, an indistinguishable mix of salty waters. I held her, and rubbed her smooth back, and whispered the words, over and over, until she understood.
THE NEXT MORNING, OVER THE FIRST MEAL OF THE DAY, I ASKED HER if she had slept well. Everyone laughed, and Sundar’s face reddened. He had inherited my mother’s pale skin, and every emotion showed through. Sushila smiled demurely and assured me that she had. I was glad for her, but I hadn’t slept at all. I had drunk cup after cup of water after she’d left, then refilled the pitcher from the well. A breeze had finally picked up, and the ocean’s salt air filled the rooms, cooling my body stretched out on its mat, but still, I couldn’t sleep.
While cooking the midday meal, while eating, throughout the day, I watched Sushila, though I didn’t speak to her again. She was slender and fair, a perfect foil to tall Sundar, and she moved as if she were dancing. She was clever too, telling small jokes that made everyone laugh. If I could only look like her, talk like her…but I might as well wish for Lord Krishna to come down and carry me off.
That night I dozed for a few hours, but in the deepest hours I woke, sweaty and damp. I needed water. I got up and walked down the hall.
She was standing near the kitchen window, drenched in moonlight.
“I hoped you’d be awake,” she said, turning as I came in.
My tongue stumbled, but I managed to say, “I just woke.”
“Thank you, for last night.” Her face flushed, but her voice was firm and clear. There was no sign of the trembling girl I’d held in my arms; Sushila held herself straight and poised. “You must think I’m very foolish.”
“I don’t think you’re foolish.” The moonlight shaded the planes of her face, the delicate curves; it was almost like looking at a statue. I could have stood there, watching her, for hours. “Shouldn’t you be in bed…with your husband?” My brother.
“I was thirsty. I often get thirsty at night.” She was wearing white tonight, a thin gauze sari that barely covered her limbs. Sushila’s small arms and legs made her look almost like a child, but she was seventeen, a few months older than me. “I came for some water, but I couldn’t find a cup.”
The cups were in plain sight. I reached up, pulling down the same one I’d used the night before. It had a small notch in one side; you had to drink carefully or you might scratch yourself. It was different from all the others, and my favorite. I lifted the pitcher and found that it was almost empty. Someone hadn’t refilled it. I poured what water was left into the cup and held it out to her. As she stepped forward to take it from me, she stumbled, and her outstretched hand knocked against mine, spilling the water over both our hands, splashing onto the dirt floor.
“Sorry!” She seemed frightened, though it was only water.
“It’s all right—but that was all the water.” I could draw more from the well, of course.
Sushila sighed. I could see her breasts move under the thin fabric of her blouse. “I’m really very thirsty.” She lifted her dripping hand to her mouth then and started to lick the water from it. Her tongue was small and licked very delicately, with determination. She licked away every drop, slowly, as I watched.
“Still thirsty?” I asked. Sushila hesitated and then nodded. I took a small step forward, bringing up my wet hand, up to her opening mouth. She reached out a hand and gripped my wrist, surprisingly tight. She took the cup out of my hand and set it on the table. Then she brought my hand to her mouth and started to lick.
I shivered.
When she finished, having licked first the back of my hand, then the palm, and then taken each finger into her mouth, Sushila let go of my wrist. My arm dropped limply to my side. Her eyes were wide and still, her head cocked to its side like a little startled bird. She bit her lip, then said, “I have to go back. Sundar might miss me.”
I nodded, wordless. She turned away and stepped quickly and quietly down the hall. I heard her closing the door to their bedroom behind her. I picked up the pitcher and went out to the well.
THE THIRD NIGHT, I DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO SLEEP. I HAD NAPPED A little during the day, and my mother had called me a lazybones. Sushila was only staying three more days, and then she was getting on a train, leaving the north, going down the coast to Trincomalee, where Sundar had secured a good job with one of our uncles. The tickets were bought, plans had been made. This night, and then three more—that was all.
That night, I picked shoeflowers from the garden, lush and crimson, picked them with feverish haste until my arms were full. I arranged them in circles on my mother’s table, and in the center of the circle, I placed the filled tin cup. I was bent over them, straightening a crooked flower, when I heard her step behind me. Her arms slid around my waist and Sushila rested her face against my back. She whispered, “It’s dry in that room. My mouth and skin are dry; the air is like breathing chalk. The heat is outside and inside, burning. It hurts to breathe.”
I said nothing, feeling her slim arms around my too-solid bare waist, the heat of her cheek pressed against the bare flesh above my blouse. I felt dizzy with lack of sleep, exhausted and yet intensely awake. None of this seemed real.
“Mangai,” she whispered, “I’m thirsty.”
I picked up the cup, raised it to my lips. I filled my mouth with water, soaking the dry roof, my parched tongue. I turned to face her, still enclosed in the circle of her arms. I leaned forward, placed my lips on hers, and gave her water. She sucked the water deep down her throat, swallowed, and I felt the motion in my lips. I took more water from the cup and fed her water from my lips, making each mouthful smaller and smaller, each transfer taking longer and longer, until the cup was not just empty, but dry.
This was impossible, so impossible that it wasn’t even forbidden. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if my father found us.
Sushila released me and returned to her husband.
Three more nights.
THE FOURTH NIGHT, SHE TOOK THE CUP AWAY FROM ME. SUSHILA pulled down my sari, so that the sheer fabric fell to my waist, leaving my upper body dressed only in my blouse. I felt naked. She smiled and, scooping up half a cup of water in her palm, drenched my left breast.
She put her mouth to the fabric, sucking the moisture from it, the water mixed with my own sweat. I raised my hand to my mouth again, teeth closing down on flesh. Sushila started with the underside of my small breast, then circled up and around, spirals circling closer and closer until finally her mouth closed on the center and I bit down hard on the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, breaking the skin, drawing bitter blood. When she released my sore breast and lifted her mouth away, she smiled to see my bleeding hand. Her eyes dared me to continue. I could stop this at any time, could smother the fire and walk away. If I did, she would return to her husband; her body would lie under his, and he would bend to taste her breast.
I nodded acquiescence. She poured the rest of the cup’s water onto my right breast, and lowered her head again.
FIFTH NIGHT; ONE MORE TO GO. WHEN SUSHILA CAME INTO THE kitchen, I opened my mouth to speak, but she laid a soft finger against my lips.
Bodies in Motion Page 3
