Silence and the Word

by MaryAnne Mohanraj

  An hour later, Suneel is still cleaning, but Riddhi has woken up. She comes down the stairs in her purple pajamas with sleep still crusted in her eyes, hair falling tangled down her back. How many times her mother has told her to brush it with oil and braid it before sleep? She always forgets, like a child. His little one, his delicate angel. She looks just like her mother did when he married her; much the same age as well. So lovely. They sent her to a Catholic girls’ high school; both of them had agreed that it was best, after what had happened with Raji. But soon the boys will be swarming around her; even tonight, at the party, the sons of their friends will be drawn to her. His sweet innocent; if he could only keep her a child, safe, forever.

  She wraps her arms around his neck as he bends over the bathroom sink, scrubbing at a stubborn stain. “Good morning, Appa.” Oh, good morning, my daughter. Happy birthday. I hope you have a very happy birthday today… .

  Then she’s off to eat cereal before starting to help with the cleaning. Dutiful child, not like her sister who had always found some excuse to be out of the house when there was work to be done. Even today—where is she? Has Raji come home to help? No. She’ll take the late train from Boston, waltz in the door at four o’clock when the guests have arrived and the work is done. And he’ll have to count himself lucky if she comes alone.

  So far, Raji has at least kept her shameful behavior with her at college, not brought it home to their house. He’s not sure how much it matters, since she isn’t discreet enough to keep it a secret. Running around in broad daylight; holding hands and kissing. All of their friends know what she does at night, when her mother calls at eleven o’clock and she isn’t in her dorm room. One friend called them from Australia to tell them what she had heard—oh, how troubled she was, how concerned about their Raji. Sushila has pleaded with him to do something about it, has raged at him. But what can a father do? Raji has made her own choices. He will educate her, that is his duty; then she will be on her own.

  The heavy cleaning is done. Now there is just a little straightening left. Though soon Sushila will be up with an endless list of errands for him to run. He turns the sofa cushions in the family room, his fingers digging deep into the fabric, threatening to tear. She always has lists for him, and never mind what else he has planned; she never asks—that’s yet another of his jobs, after all. To run around after his wife. He deliberately relaxes his hands, breathes deeply, releases the cushions.

  He pulls open the curtains to let sunlight into the fading room. Suneel straightens the photos on top of the TV; so many of them. His beautiful wife, laughing at party after party. She likes parties, where she is always surrounded by her female friends. He can imagine the others not in the picture, the ghosts surrounding her. He is standing behind her, there to hold her up, catch her if she falls—the good husband.

  There is Raji, so tall and straight and serious. His studious one, always busy alone in her room with her books and paper and paint. He had such hopes for her…all gone, now. And Riddhi, his angel girl, like a flower. Riddhi dancing, like her mother, a twirling burst of colored flame. After her Arangetrum, her graduation dance performance, she stood up on the stage so seriously, and thanked her teachers, her sister, her amma and appa most of all. You could see in her face her sweetness, her love for her family; it was clear from the light shining out of it. You can see it still.

  There is a face missing from the photos as well, his son’s, Raksha’s—but the boy abandoned his family, and all the photos which contained him were thrown out long ago.

  It’s almost ten—time to wrap Riddhi’s presents. Sushila has chosen most of them. Pretty dresses, and one of them not to be wrapped, since Riddhi will wear it today. A white handbag. A dark green sari.

  Sushila wore green, the day after they were married. Sitting at the table with him, his mother, his sisters—he remembers how beautiful she looked in that green, how she smiled and blushed when one of his sisters teased her about the night before. His young bride.

  He had been so nervous the night before. His friends had been full of coarse advice; he was the first of them to marry; they knew nothing. One of his aunties had pulled him aside—he can’t remember now which one it was. She whispered to him: “The girl’s more scared than you are.” Then she stuck a chicken roll in his hand and went away. The older relatives never remembered that he had given up eating the flesh of animals the year before, when he became a Buddhist. But it was good advice. It had calmed him down, and let him be very patient and gentle with Sushila that night. She had been so vulnerable, so sweet and still as he unwrapped her crimson sari. Afterwards, he had fallen asleep with her small hand held tightly in his own. When he woke, it was still there. Suneel aches even now, at the memory of it.

  His fingers continue wrapping, creasing the delicate paper, tearing it, folding it over each gift. Lipstick. Blush. Eyeliner. Small gold earrings. He does not approve of the make-up. His daughter does not need to paint her face to be beautiful. But it’s not worth arguing with his wife. He learned that long ago.

  The earrings are good; a girl should have some nice jewelry, for beauty and security. He has been saving money; a little here and there put into a special bank account. He started when Raji was born—money for his daughters’ dowry, for their jewelry. Now who knows whom Raji will marry, if she ever does. Running around with American boys. Taking them back to her dorm room for anyone to see—and they run and tell her shamed parents, of course, and all their friends. Sushila screams at the girl, hits her, but it does no good. Violence never does. Raji will find her own path, away from her family, and the jewelry will go to Riddhi instead. It is just as well. A girl cannot have too much security.

  One present left, but he will wrap it later.

  At eleven, Sushila wakes. He brings her tea, and sits by the side of the bed while she drinks it. She has a list of instructions for him: buy chicken for the rolls, wine and beer, some large prawns; she’s decided to make another curry. It will be expensive, more than they’d planned to spend, but he can work late tomorrow and make up the difference. She does not ask what he thinks.

  She finishes her list, and gets out of bed. Sushila wears a thin white cotton nightgown. Her heavy breasts show through the sheer fabric, her waist and swell of hips, the darkness at the juncture of her thighs. Her long hair falls thickly down her back. He stirs at the sight of her; he often does.

  Riddhi is working in the front yard, trimming the roses, mowing the lawn. He can hear the roar of the mower through the open window, and knows that if he were to close the bedroom door and pull his wife back to the bed, Riddhi would not hear them. He considers it—if he did draw her to the bed, Sushila would not protest. She never protests; she is always willing, always available, the accommodating wife. But she will lie still beneath him, with her head turned away and her eyes closed. She will be still like a statue. It is the only time she is awake and not in motion—when he is moving in her, above her.

  On that first night, their wedding night, Suneel had been so gentle with her, but had not managed to coax a response from her. He had told himself that it would get better with time, that she hardly knew him, that he was a stranger to her. But it had not gotten better, and so only rarely had he let himself sink inside her. Once was a night when Sushila had gone shopping with her friends, and had come back late—so late! Nine-thirty at night, and while it was true that the mall was open until nine, he had not been able to believe that she had only been shopping.

  His anger had risen up in him then, and he had almost dragged her to their bed. He had wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, and he had come so close… . Yet he had remembered the words of the Buddha, and had restrained himself. He had taken her fiercely, but without causing her pain. He had stayed true to himself, to his beliefs, and she had never known how angry he had been. Sometimes he wondered if that anger had infected Raji, conceived on that night.

  Sushila raises her arms, stretches, displaying the dark thatch of hair under her arms, and he
bites his lip, drawing blood. He wants her. She is his wife, and he has every right to take her. But he knows that if he takes her back to bed now, she will not want him. She will not want him. He lets her go to her shower, undisturbed.

  He drives too fast on the highway. His family depends on him, he has a duty to them, and so he wears his seat belt—but he still drives too fast. A car speeds up, cuts in front of him, and he resists the urge to shove his foot down on the gas, rush forward and crash…that would be an extremely violent act.

  Suneel forswore violence thirty-four years ago, and since that day he has not eaten fish or meat, not killed a spider or crushed an ant. He has never raised his hand to his wife or children, even though there was a time when Sushila begged him to discipline their son.

  At sixteen, Raksha had fallen in with a bad crowd, taken to disappearing at night, climbing out windows and down trees, meeting with his friends. Eventually they’d heard about it, learned that the boy was spending his time smoking marijuana in a dark room with other teens, having sex with one girl or another, listening to music that preached revolution, revolution and sex, sex that they called ‘love’. Those children had no idea what love was, but they were everywhere that summer, smoking and drinking and running around late at night, singing. America had never seemed as alien as it did that year. Then came the rumors that Raksha had gotten a white girl pregnant, that she’d had an abortion or a baby, that she had disappeared or died—but maybe they were just rumors. No one seemed sure.

  They had confined Raksha to his room, they had argued with him, his mother had screamed and wept—but for nothing. Raksha had grown sullen and silent. Finally he’d left, just disappeared into the night like a thief, without even a note. Sushila has never forgiven her husband for not being harsher with their son. She hasn’t hesitated to discipline Raji, bringing the slim bamboo cane down on the girl’s back, but it has done little good.

  He has never hit anyone. He avoids harsh speech, and animosity of thought. All the Buddhism he knows he learned from a friend in school so long ago, and from what he can teach himself by studying books. He has learned at least a little after years of study, and knows that refraining from violent thought or action is essential if one wishes to reach the calm of enlightenment.

  He removes his foot from the gas pedal. He strives for a peaceful state of mind, though he knows it will not come.

  When he comes home, she screams at him. Sushila is a woman given to screeching, though he could never have guessed that when they married. He knew she had life and passion in her, but it seemed so joyous. She was sparkling then, like sunlight on river water. Laughter bubbled out of her. She even got his littlest sister to laugh once or twice, ugly Medha who had never managed to find a husband. Medha, who has ended up alone, living in a sad little house on the beach, battered by salty ocean winds, with only a maid for company. Without children.

  Perhaps Raji will suffer the same fate, since she has apparently turned away from their society. Perhaps she too will end up ugly and alone. Once the thought of his daughter in such straits might have tormented him, but he has been hurt too many times, betrayed over and over. His heart is closed to her; he cannot bring himself to care.

  The first step to enlightenment, perhaps, to serenity. When touched by happiness or sorrow, the wise show no elation or dejection; the wise become serene like unto a deep, calm and crystal-clear lake. He suspects that he will never find it, but he longs for that serenity.

  Serenity is difficult to find when Sushila is shouting that he has brought the wrong kind of chicken. Does he do this to her deliberately? Is he trying to torment her? His neck is taut with tension, his shoulders tight, but she cannot see that—he is much taller than she is. He bows his head until she is finished. Then he goes out again, to get the right kind of chicken.

  When he comes back a half hour later, with the chicken, she does not thank him. She is busy cooking again, and two of his sisters have arrived as well to help. Their husbands are working, and will arrive later. The women are laughing in the kitchen, gossiping and trading bits of cooking wisdom. They ignore him, but he is used to that. The house is clean; the food will be ready on time; she needs nothing more of him. He goes to wrap his daughter’s final present.

  He takes the photo from a manila envelope he’s kept hidden in a drawer. He arranged for it months ago; his wife has no idea. It’s a good photo. There is a frame for it as well, heavy silver. He slips the photo into the frame, attaches the back, tightens the screws. It will not slip away. For a moment, he hesitates. This is home that he is holding in his hands—but he has not been back in so long, and sometimes he hears disturbing news of strange events. There had been the riots, in ’58. And since then, scattered violence, here and there. Even some deaths. His gut twists for a moment, but then eases again. The violence is transient; it must be. It will pass. He knows what home really is, and what it isn’t. Suneel wraps the photo with steady hands in white tissue paper and places it in a box; wraps the box in shining red foil paper. It will glow from among the other presents in their decorous wrappings. Perhaps Riddhi will open it first—that would be a nice surprise.

  Riddhi knocks on the bedroom door, calling to him—”Appa!” He is startled, and calls to her to wait. Just another minute securing it with scotch tape—there. It’s done. He puts it with the other presents and goes to open the door. His daughter grabs his hand, drags him to the dining room window. “Look, Appa—it’s raining!”

  It’s true. The rain is slanting down over the lawn, spattering against the circles of metal folding chairs; it will be a large party, perhaps a hundred people. Too many to seat comfortably all in the house. He had spent at least an hour mowing the back lawn and setting up the chairs yesterday, and now his daughter is panicking because they are getting wet.

  “It’s just a summer shower; it’ll pass. Don’t worry. Go get dressed; people will be here soon.”

  Raji would have argued, would have wondered if they should make plans to bring the chairs inside somehow, would have at least pointed out that it was still two hours until anyone was due to arrive and that their friends were always an hour late in any case. Raji had never agreed with him; she had always argued. Once, he had thought that was good, a sign of a strong spirit. Now he knows better.

  Riddhi smiles in response to his words and says, “Okay.” She goes upstairs to get ready; she trusts and obeys him. He would do almost anything to preserve that trust.

  Suneel showers and gets dressed. He has trouble finding the tie he wants; Sushila has rearranged the closet again. He is looking for his favorite tie, the dark blue one with the thin white diagonal lines. It reminds him of river water, white foam on the darkness. He reaches back into the closet, and pulls out a handful of old ties, ties that he hasn’t seen in years. One of them is bright red, shockingly bright, even after all this time.

  His son was fifteen that day. Raksha had given him that tie on Father’s day. Raji was only four then, and Riddhi was just two. Raksha had been born a scant nine months after their wedding; they had waited a long time for more children. Sometimes he wondered whether Sushila had actually wanted children, if she had been taking something to prevent them; motherhood had never really suited her. Maybe she had, and then had become careless as the long years stretched past, stopped worrying about it, and so he’d gotten his girls at last. She had her secrets, his wife. He’d never know the truth of it. Let it go.

  Raksha had given him the tie on Father’s Day. Such a bright boy he was, and yet already in trouble. Already running around with the wrong crowd, but they didn’t know. His parents didn’t know—how could they? Suneel was working seventy, eighty hours a week at the store in those days, and he was so tired at night. Sushila kept the family fed, and cleaned up a little, but she was busy herself with two young ones after so long without. She didn’t spend much time on her son, who had already grown so tall. When Raksha had given him that tie, reached to hug him, had there been alcohol on his breath? Had there been mari
juana smoke thick in his clothes? If so, neither of his parents had noticed.

  When his grades started slipping, they had scolded Raksha, told him to try harder. Never doubted the boy when he said he was studying at the library late at night, trying to improve the grades. It had never occurred to the father to distrust his son. Adults could betray you, as he well knew, but children? Children were the light of life.

  He should have paid more attention to the Buddha’s example—the prince who walked away from his young wife and infant son to seek truth and an ending to false desire.

  When Raksha ran off, they’d been frantic with worry, called the police, their friends across the country. The boy was found in Chicago, months later; he’d hitched his way across the country. Raksha lived with white friends for a while, then eventually found a job, but refused to come home or answer their letters. He never told them why he had run away. They had given him everything, and he had thrown it all back in their faces. Finally Sushila, enraged, had demanded that they cut him off entirely, weeping with her frustration. He had quietly agreed. They were only acknowledging a separation that was already final.

  They still received reports from friends in Chicago. Raksha had settled down eventually, had even married a Tamil girl from a good family, a professional family. Married above him, actually; he had always been a handsome boy. There had been some trouble, but it was eventually sorted out. Suneel has picked up the phone to call him, a hundred times, but every time, he puts it down again.