Silence and the Word

by MaryAnne Mohanraj

  Raksha has a daughter now, Chaya, a girl who will never know her father’s parents. His son is lost to him. For the sake of oneself, one should not long for a son, wealth or a kingdom. He had never truly wanted wealth or a kingdom. He places the red tie back on the rack, finally finds the dark blue tie, soberly knots it around his neck.

  Sushila has showered, is dressing now. He straightens the bedroom, pretending not to watch her, listening to her talking nonsense. She slips her arms into a dark purple blouse, and calls him to hook up the back. His fingers do not linger on the soft flesh exposed there; he is deft and quick, after so many years of practice. Thirty-two years of marriage. He married her when he was twenty-two and she was sixteen; he is fifty-four now, a good age for a man to ease back, to rest in the comfort of his family’s love and affection.

  She tucks one end of her dark green sari into her half-slip, and he takes the other end in his hands, holding it taut as she folds the fabric in front of her, making the pleats that will allow her to walk freely, to dance later. She will call him to dance, and he will gently refuse, as always. He does not dance. She will dance with her friends, his sisters—not immodestly, of course. Only with women; never with men. But she will laugh freely, will be flushed with pleasure, will lean towards the women and whisper silly secrets in their ears, making them blush and giggle. Exuberant, yet unobjectionable, as always. But the public does not always reflect the private, and he has always known what really goes on.

  Suneel is not sure when he first realized that his wife, his beautiful, innocent-seeming Sushila, was betraying him. The first clue was undoubtedly in bed, but he was so ignorant then; how long was it going on before he noticed? Before he realized that while she was willing, she was never eager for him? Before he realized that there was more than maidenly shyness in her lack of response to him?

  In another kind of woman, perhaps that would have been normal, but not his Sushila, who laughed with her whole heart, who sometimes had taken the children out to dance in the rain, and who bit her lip and crossed her thighs as they watched the romantic scenes in American movies, the woman in soft focus, lips parted, clasped tight in strong arms. Somewhere in Sushila was a response, but not to him. Never to him.

  He had never caught her at it. Never caught her sneaking out, or inviting someone in. He hadn’t tried, hadn’t wanted to. If he had caught her, he would have been tempted from the path. If he had caught her, he might have swung a heavy fist at her lying face, might have beaten her lover into a bloody pulp. And so he always called first if he were coming home unexpectedly early, or in the middle of the day. He had trouble sleeping at night, and so took pills so that he would not know if she ever slipped out of their bed. Suneel had done his best to never know the truth. He had no real evidence; he had tried not to know—yet he was sure. He knew.

  He would have done better not to love her at all, not to desire her. Let no one cherish anything, inasmuch as the loss of what is beloved is hard. But after thirty-one years, he has not managed it. Sushila is still his wife, and beautiful to him, and every night he fights his desire to reach for the woman who was the first to betray him.

  She pulls the fabric from his hands; she is done pleating it. Sushila wraps it once around her body, and then crosses it up over her full breasts, over a shoulder to drape across her back and bare waist. He pins the heavy fabric in place at her shoulder, and she walks out of the room, still chattering about something, words which he can make no sense of.

  The rain stops, and he goes out with a dishcloth to wipe the chairs dry. No one has arrived yet—they will start arriving at 4:30, 4:45. They will eat the appetizers, they will drink the wine, they will have a roaring good time. Eventually, they will go away, leaving a scattering of presents behind, and then the family will sit down with Riddhi to open them. It will be late—maybe eleven, or twelve or even later. Riddhi will be tired; they will all be. Their reactions will be muted, which is really a shame. He wants to see the looks on their faces as she opens his present. He wants it badly. He does not want to wait.

  Maybe he won’t.

  By five, the party is going strong—all of their close friends have arrived, and only a few more people are straggling in. Riddhi is lovely in a pale cream summer dress, with slim straps baring too much of her skin. The boys cluster around her, and she tilts back her head and laughs, delightedly, at what they say to her. What are they saying to her?

  Suneel cannot wait any longer.

  “Everyone—everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

  His voice is not loud—it never is. But the word is passed along, and slowly the crowd turns to face him, gathering across the lawn, brown faces cheerful in the sunlight.

  “I have an announcement—but first, I have a special present for my daughter.” They gather closer, drawn by the word, ‘present’, wondering what it could be. Everyone loves getting presents. Riddhi comes to stand next to him, and Raji and Sushila are near as well. Sushila looks puzzled, but not worried. Why should she be? He has never given her reason to worry.

  He pulls the red foil wrapped present out from behind his back, hands it to his daughter. The crowd murmurs. Riddhi smiles and takes it. She starts peeling off the tape carefully, slowly, and Raji shouts, “Just tear it!” Riddhi continues slowly, though, slipping the foil off and then letting it fall to the fresh-mown grass. She opens the box, slides the frame out of it, unwraps the tissue paper. Riddhi looks at the picture of the handsome young man, bewildered.

  Her father raises his voice now, louder than any there have ever heard it before. He wants to be sure everyone hears this.

  “You’ve come to celebrate my daughter’s birthday, and I thank you! Now, please, join me in celebrating her engagement as well!”

  The murmurs have grown louder, and Raji is looking furious. She knows that Riddhi has known nothing of this, but the crowd is not so certain. Surely they would have heard something of this before? Some rumor? But he is a very private man, after all, and the family has had such trouble in the past…maybe he wanted to keep it secret until it was all settled. But how nice to have the girl settled so young; how lovely! The whispers fly through the crowd; he keeps talking.

  “She will not be going to school in the fall; instead, Riddhi will be traveling this summer to Ceylon, where she will marry Ashok, the son of one of my good friends, a cloth merchant in Colombo. Ashok is twenty-two, just the age I was when I married my own wife. I know he and Riddhi will be very happy—so please, join me in wishing them every joy and happiness!”

  The crowd is caught up in his fervor, his excitement, and they begin to cheer, to press forward and congratulate Riddhi, shaking her hand, exclaiming over the handsomeness of the photo. The noise grows louder and louder, and he slips away in the confusion.

  He sits alone on his marriage bed, drinking a glass of whiskey. It is the first taste of alcohol he has had in thirty-two years. He doesn’t like it, but he drinks it down. His hands are shaking.

  Later he will have to face Sushila, but he will convince her easily. Ashok’s family is quite wealthy,

  and the boy is a very good catch. Riddhi would never have made a good student, and Sushila will be happy enough to be finally done with raising children, once she gets past the shock. Besides, all the agreements are made; the family is preparing in Colombo for the wedding. All that remains is to ready the bride and buy their plane tickets for the wedding. Sushila won’t back out now.

  Raji will rage, but she no longer has any power in this family. She gave that up herself. If Riddhi supported her, then perhaps, but otherwise… .

  The door slams open. Raji storms in, as expected.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She is almost screaming, almost wailing. It is strangely satisfying to see so much emotion in her; to know that he has caused it. When Raji was younger, she was always bursting into the store, full of some scheme or another, but she has been distant for so long now, wrapped up in her life away from them. This is the passionate daughte
r he remembers.

  “I’m doing what’s best for Riddhi.” He could chide her for her tone of voice, but chooses not to. Why bother? It has been a long time since she has shown any respect for her father.

  “What’s best for Riddhi?? What’s best for her is to go to school, to learn to support herself, to stop being dependent on you! Not to be packed off to Ceylon and married to a total stranger—she doesn’t even speak Tamil!” Raji’s hands are balled fists on her hips, and she leans forward, as if she longs to hit him.

  He weighs twice what she does; he could flatten her with one slap across her insolent face. He sits still on the bed, and keeps his voice calm. “She’ll learn, and they speak English. She’ll be well taken care of there.” It’s a good family; of course they’ll take care of Riddhi.

  Raji looks furious, as if she is about to explode. “She doesn’t need to be taken care of, Appa—she needs to learn to take care of herself!”

  For a moment, he wonders if this is true, if he is making a mistake. Could Riddhi be happier with an education, with the ability to take care of herself? A few more years as a child… . And yet, hasn’t he seen what that leads to? If he doesn’t take care of her now, won’t she simply ruin herself, and break his heart in the process? For a moment, he isn’t sure—and now Riddhi is quietly entering the room. She stops by the door, looking so pale, almost white. He could have been wrong.

  But Raji keeps shouting, “You’re just tired of taking care of her—you just want to get rid of her. You got rid of Raksha, and you’re happy to be rid of me. All you want is your precious serenity—all you want is to be left alone!”

  What nonsense. Doesn’t she know that he has always loved them more than he has loved serenity and wisdom? Wasn’t that his first mistake, and his last? “Be quiet, Raji. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Suddenly Suneel is weary; tired of dealing with this child, this stranger. What has happened to his fiery daughter, the girl who used to stretch her arms wide and say that she loved him this much? This girl in front of him—she understands nothing. “If Riddhi tells me she doesn’t want to go, of course she doesn’t have to.” He gestures, and Raji turns to see her sister in the doorway.

  “Riddhi, you can’t let him do this to you!” She is shouting at her sister now.

  Riddhi sighs. “Raji…go talk to Amma, okay?”

  “But… .”

  “Please?”

  Raji looks like she wants to stay, but what can she do? She casts one more angry glance at him, and then storms out of the room. Riddhi stands still, framed in the doorway.

  “Appa?” There is a question in her voice, but he doesn’t know what she wants to say.

  “Yes, Riddhi?”

  She doesn’t say anything. After a short silence, he beckons her to him. She comes to sit at his feet, leaning her head against his knee. He strokes her hair, brushed smooth and oiled so that it flows like dark river water down her back.

  “Do you trust me, Riddhi?”

  She does not pause. “Yes, Appa.” The others would have paused, at least.

  “Will you trust me when I tell you this is for your own good, that I would never do anything to hurt you?”

  “Of course, Appa. But… .” She trails off.

  “But what?”

  “It’s so far away… .”

  “Well. That’s true. But we’ll visit, and once Ashok gets established, you’ll be able to visit us here. You’ve always enjoyed our summer trips to Ceylon. Do you remember—that summer when you were twelve, you said that you never wanted to leave. You’ll see—you’ll be happy there.”

  “Yes, Appa.” She is a good girl. He had known that she would not fight him on this. They sit together, and he continues stroking her hair; after a little while, she presses his hand, gets up, and goes back out to the party.

  She really will be happy there; he knows it. He would never hurt her, his sweet one, his darling daughter. He loves her more than is wise; he has never mastered the release of affection, of caring, that leads to true peace. He has to send her away, as far away as possible, perhaps to a place where she will not learn betrayal, if there is such a place left in this world.

  Listening to My Daughter

  My daughter said to me last night,

  “You aren’t doing a very good job

  of bringing me up.” I said I knew,

  but it was hard, harder than

  it looked, and I was trying.

  She said, “Okay, fair enough.”

  We took a bath, and then went

  for a walk, in a not-so-great

  part of town. Bullets were

  whizzing past; cars kept crashing

  into telephone poles. She held

  my hand, and I shielded her

  with my body, and we almost

  died, several times. Finally

  we found the park, where the sun

  shone down on roses and jonquils

  and bright daffodils. I told her

  that some people called them

  daffydowndillies, but she wasn’t

  listening. She was rolling down

  a hill in the tall grass, laughing.

  I laughed too, and my chest hurt.

  Minal in Winter

  Dear Raji Aunty,

  I hope you and Vivek Uncle are well. How is the painting going? The painting you sent on my birthday—of the women bathing at the waterfall—hangs over my bed. I think my mother would be shocked, but my roommates are very impressed that I have an aunt who paints such things. The women in their bright saris remind me of home… .

  All my letters to my aunt start like that, and never finish. I have written twenty or thirty of them in the last week. Words and lines and paragraphs of politeness, all true and all lies. I cannot write what I am really saying. I cannot write that I am in terrible trouble, and I don’t know what to do. I cannot write that I want to leave here, leave school, leave Chicago and flee to her in Connecticut, that I want to hide in her guest bed with the covers pulled up over my head until it all goes away. I cannot write and ask her to fix everything for me. I cannot do anything but write and write and write these letters that say nothing and that I crumple up and throw away before starting again.

  Dear Raji Aunty,

  I hope you and Vivek Uncle are well. I am not. How is the painting going? The painting you sent of the practically naked women, with the water coursing over the bared necks and pointed breasts and arched backs, makes me think that maybe you might understand and be able to help me. Didn’t you have a scandalous youth, once upon a time? The aunts always fell silent when I entered the room, but I heard bits, fragments, perhaps just words I wanted to hear. A scandalous youth, and an white man for a lover—but now you are married to a nice Indian man. You are married married married. How can I talk to you?

  Minal barely notices when her roommates come back, when they ask her to join them for dinner, when she shakes her head no, when they leave again. The snow is falling outside their window, and she takes her unfinished letter to Rose’s bed, to sit near the window and watch the snow fall on the highway and the lake, watch the waves crashing up and down, higher each time, the wind whipping them up until the white ice of them crashes up and over the thin strip of snow-covered park, reaching to the deserted highway. It is terrifying. The monsoons had been hard and fierce at times, had uprooted trees and drowned the fields—but they had never been so cold.

  She has been cold for months.

  She had arrived in September, fresh off the boat from India, with a full scholarship for the sciences and plans to be a doctor. Her mother had insisted Minal wear the warmest clothes she had, so she had sweltered in the layers of heavy sari and warm sweater on the long plane ride, and still, when she stepped out of the airport and into the brisk wind, she had instantly been cold, chilled through. Her mother’s sister, Raji, had flown from Connecticut to Chicago to get her settled, had taken her shopping for more appropriate clothes, had made sure that she drank hot tea and soup an
d even fried samosas for her in the dorm kitchen—and Minal was still cold, deep inside. The chill had deepened when her aunt left, leaving her alone with her roommates, who seemed nice enough but who were so terribly pale and alien.

  She wore turtleneck, shirt, heavier shirt, sweater, stiff new blue jeans, two pairs of socks, and a thick wool coat. She shivered in the unforgiving stone buildings that wore the artificial heat like a thin blanket over grave-cold bones. Calculus class, high on the third floor of a grey gothic building, was the coldest. The first weeks she spent huddled in on herself at her desk, only raising her head long enough to copy down the equations on the board. Minal would practically race back to her dorm afterwards, to strip off all the clothes, turning the water on with shaking hands and chattering teeth, waiting until the tiny bathroom was full of steam before taking off the last layers, stripping to the skin and climbing into the blessedly warm water.

  The water covered her toes, her feet, her ankles, her calves—and then she sank down into it, so that it covered her stomach and ribs and small, pointed breasts, lay back in it, so that her hair was soaked in water, spreading out around her like a night-black fan, lay back until only her nose and mouth lay on the surface of the water, disembodied. Steam filled the room, her bones warmed, she was happy—but eventually, always, the hot water would run out, and she would have to climb out of the tub, dry off, wrap her thin body in a robe and step out into the chilly air that hit her face like a slap.

  Sometimes she thinks that if it hadn’t been for Diego, she would never have warmed at all, just slowly frozen into a thin icicle of a girl, so cold and hard that even when they shipped her back home, she would not melt, not even when her mother’s tears rained down on the ice.