Sometimes she thinks that would have been better.
Dear Diego,
I need to talk to you. I have something to tell you. Meet me downstairs at Cobb, tomorrow, at… .
I don’t get further than that. I can write the words that I know will frighten him, insert the place, the date—all it needs is the time and my signature before I slip it under his door, down the hall, just four doors down. He’s waiting for it. Our notes have become something of a joke on the floor, but a friendly one. When I first admitted to my roommates how we’d gotten together, how I’d written him a note and slipped it under his door, like a schoolgirl, they’d laughed and laughed. But eventually Rose decided it was just too romantic, and Karly had agreed, and soon it seemed the entire floor had adopted us as their very own storybook romance.
Romance, hah! If they had seen how my hands were shaking all that night, how I tossed and turned, how little I slept, waiting, expecting him to sadly but firmly shake his head no, with a little hateful pity in those coriander-green eyes…well. They probably would think that romantic too. Idiots.
I admit, I had grown fond of the notes, these last four months.
Minal, meet me for breakfast?
Diego, I’ll see you at 8:00.
Minal, do you have time to visit the Museum on Saturday?
Diego, I’m skipping calculus this morning—join me?
We never wrote anything that seemed of importance in those notes—and yet I kept every one. I knew what they didn’t say, what they didn’t need to say. They didn’t say, ‘I’ll give you a dozen kisses if you get up early to eat with me.’ They didn’t say, ‘Let’s skip the electricity exhibit and go neck in the statue garden.’ They didn’t say, ‘Rose and Karly are going to their classes, so we have an hour—join me in bed?’ They didn’t need to say any of that—we knew.
And if I send him this note, if I finish it with a time and sign it and slip it under his door, he will think he knows what it means. He will think it means that this is the end, that I have grown tired of him, or that I have decided this was a mistake after all. And he will be wrong, but he will also be right.
This is the end of something.
October. Minal sits in the lounge past midnight, struggling with equations. Tea water is heating on the stove, heating, boiling, boiling over, hissing, and she swears as she jumps up, grabs the pot handle and lets go again, grabs up some of her skirt to help her hold the handle as she lifts the pot off the range and clunks it down in the sink, spilling boiling water everywhere and just missing scalding herself again—”Goddammit!”
“I’ve never heard you swear before.”
“What?” Minal swings around, her long black hair swinging with her, straight and smooth like a waterfall, and he bites his lip.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear. Do you need help?” He is leaning in the doorway to the small kitchen, taking up space—taking up so much space. Minal loses his name for a moment, then finds it again—yes, Diego. A second-year from four doors down. She has a little trouble understanding him; he has an accent. And his eyes are very green.
“Why would you know, or care, whether I swear?” She turns back to the sink, lifts the pot, pours the hot water into the mug with the tea bag waiting. She puts the pot back on the stove and turns off the flame.
“I’ve been watching you.”
She is startled, but will not look at him. The words could have sounded menacing, in another mouth, but from him they sound sweet, and slightly sheepish. She takes down sugar, and pulls out a spoon, and milk, before answering.
“Really.” She does not know how she means that—challenging, inviting? But it must have come out wrong, because he is pulling away, stepping back out of the doorway so the light comes spilling back in, walking away.
“Sorry. I should really get to bed. Good night.”
And he’s gone. Damn.
She writes him the first note that night, and slips it under his door, and doesn’t sleep until almost dawn.
Diego,
I’m sorry if I snapped at you earlier. Would you like to study together tomorrow night?
When tomorrow night comes, they share a table, and she helps him with his calculus. His hand brushes hers. Her hair falls across his leg as she leans in over his papers. His breath quickens. She feels it on her cheek. She turns, or he does. He leans, or she does. Their lips meet, and hold. Their tongues, tentatively, dance.
October 18
Amma,
Yes, my studies are going well. I am working hard, and getting all A’s. Do not worry. You asked what my days are like, here in America. I get up in the mornings and have breakfast—a bagel, which is a kind of bread, and cream cheese. I go to classes all day. I have lunch and dinner in the dining hall. If you could send some of your curry powder, then I could cook curries sometimes. The food here is very bland. There are Indian restaurants, but I do not have a car, so it is difficult to get to them, and besides, they are too expensive. The food is filling enough. After dinner, I study until bedtime. I spend many hours in the dorm lounge, working. If I am not in my room when you call, it is probably because I am in the lounge or the library, studying.
And kissing.
November. She recites poetry to Diego. In India, she had escaped the endless rounds of family gossip, the sisters tearing into each other and the aunts nagging, by reading her books. English books too, of course, but also the ancient Indian poets. She tells him the Ramayana, in pieces, in between calculus problems. It is a reward, when he solves a particularly difficult one. Minal recites translated poems until he knows them too, and can recite them back to her. Vidyapati, 15th century:
First Love
The new moon stirs pangs of love.
Scratches mar her proud young breasts.
Often hidden, sometimes they lie revealed
like treasure in the hands of the poor.
Now she has known first love,
desires flood her mind,
she trembles with delight.
Safe from the eyes of gossipy friends,
she studies her reflection in a jewel,
knits her brow, and oh
so tenderly
touches the blossoming
love-bite on her lip.
I cannot count the classes I have missed, for kissing Diego.
He is from Puerto Rico. Well, his family is. He whispers Spanish words to me while he kisses me. He starts at my toes, mi dedos de los pies, and works his way up, kissing and whispering, so soft I can barely hear it, barely feel it. Te quiero; tus pies. Tus rodillas. Tus caderas. Then he stops, and moves to the top of my head, and starts working down. Tu pelo, tu nariz, tus orejas. The first time he licked my ear, I felt a shock run through me, not so different from the time I stuck my finger in an unshielded outlet as a little girl. But now I am greedy. I do not want him to stop at my ears. My hands are on his hips, on his back, on his shoulders, pushing him gently, urging him down.
Te quiero; tu garganta, tus brazos, tus muñecas. Tus uñas, tu estómago, tu cintura. He would linger at my waist if I would let him, would play with my belly button, but I do not allow it. I urge him onwards—quickly, hurry hurry! We have only twenty minutes left, fifteen, ten before Rose and Karly return. And they are lovely roommates, such nice girls, and if they come back before you finish, I will kill them, and then you. So hurry, hurry, por favor, my darling.
December. They have settled down a little. They have started going to classes again, and her professors are relieved. The leaves have all fallen off the trees—Indian summer is long gone—but Minal is no longer cold.
She is blazing so brightly that she is amazed that others cannot see it. She is feverish with heat. She sits in class with her legs crossed and her coat tightly closed. She has slipped an arm out of a sleeve and with it caresses a breast, squeezes a nipple. She pulses the muscles of her crossed thighs, there in the large lecture hall, with Rose to her right and a stranger to her left, taking notes with one hand th
ough her eyes are almost closed and her ears are filled with the thundering of her own pulse and she is on fire. She will blaze up like a goddess, she will strip off all her clothes and burst into flame and dance along the desktops, with a dozen arms spread wide and one on her breast and one between her thighs—she will roast all of these pale-skinned people with her heat until their clothes turn to ashes and their skin turns to burnished gold and then they will jump up with her on the desktops and dance!
She takes a deep breath. Minal releases her breast, smoothes down her sweater and shirt, with slight awkwardness slips her hand into a sleeve. She relaxes her thighs. The professor is making his closing comments.
Minal resolves, again, to pay more attention in class.
Mahadeviyakka lived in the twelfth century, and left an arranged marriage to become an ecstatic devotee of Shiva. Did she believe that the god came down to her, that he pierced through her, giving her the courage to abandon everything?
On Her Decision to Stop Wearing Clothes
Coins in the hand
Can be stolen,
But who can rob this body
Of its own treasure?
The last thread of clothing
Can be stripped away,
But who can peel off Emptiness,
That nakedness covering all?
Fools, while I dress
In the Jasmine Lord’s morning light,
I cannot be shamed –
What would you have me hide under silk
and the glitter of jewels?
Would they have stripped her of her clothes and dragged her through the streets? Would they have proclaimed her shame to the village, to the kingdom, to the world? What did her mother think? Did she lead the procession?
Minal goes alone to the Women’s Clinic.
She tells them about the broken condom—it is hard to say the words. They want to discuss the situation; all she wants is for them to be silent and to please just give her the pills. Finally, they hand them to her, and a woman who does not believe that Minal speaks English repeats the directions over and over and over. Two with a meal. Two more later. She goes back to her room and takes off her coat. Removes her boots and places them carefully at the foot of the bed. Lies down, eyes open. Stares at the digital clock as the minutes click by. It is two hours until dinnertime. It is surprisingly cold in her room today, but the blanket is at the foot of the bed, too far away.
Twenty minutes before dinner, Rose runs in and out again, in a flurry of words. Among them, “I grabbed your mail too—looks like a letter from your mom! Here y’are! Gotta go!”
My darling Minal,
I have such news! Your aunt is a miracle-worker! Your father’s eldest sister, Bharati, has arranged such a match for you! A doctor from Delhi, the son and grandson of doctors, with a big practice of his own—now you do not need to become a doctor! So much better to be a doctor’s wife, with servants to cook and clean and fan you and take care of your babies. A life of luxury! Bharati Aunty says he took one look at your picture and said, “This is the girl for me!” No need to finish out the year—come home, we will have such a celebration. And we need to start shopping for the wedding saris, for the jewelry, for the shoes—I hope you have not put on too much weight eating that terrible greasy American food… .
And so, I write letters to my aunt that I will not send. I stare at the now-useless pills, left too late because I am a confused, weak-willed fool. They are enshrined in a small green glass on my desk, a testament to stupidity. I write notes to Diego and tear them up again. I look at the photo my mother sent. He is not bad-looking, this doctor. His skin is fairer than Diego’s. Maybe I should write to him and ask him what I should do. Maybe he will volunteer to perform the operation himself, and then we will be married, and all will be well.
At least I have learned something out of all of this. I have learned that while I like Diego very much, and I like his body even more, I do not love him.
Amma,
His skin, Amma, is like your milk toffee with almonds, creamy and soft. His eyes are a startling green, coriander-green, except when he is tired, and then they are the dusky darkness of curry leaves. His body is tall and strong, like a young palm tree, firm and unmarred. His fingers are supple, and his tongue is skilled, and when he touches me, I become water falling, a river coursing down the tumbling rocks, down into the waiting arms of ocean.
Amma, the poets spoke truly.
Amma, why did you not tell me that such pleasure existed? Why did you not warn me that it would turn my brain to water? You should have spoken clearly, sharply, like a knife, telling me exactly what would happen when he first breathed on my neck, when he cupped my chin in his hands and tilted it up, when he cupped my breasts in hands so broad that I disappeared into them, when I lowered myself onto him, and he thrust into me, like a young god.
How could vague whisperings of shame and family disgrace compare?
Amma, I do not even love him. Though for a little while, I thought I did.
That night, we were down at the lake, clambering across the shattered rocks at some hours past midnight, dodging the spray as the waves came crashing up, laughing. I don’t remember being cold as we danced on broken stones.
Diego was standing quite still when he did it, though. He stopped still on a rock and I stopped, facing him. He caught my hands in his and tipped his head back and shouted into the night, “I love you, Minal!” A great shout—his voice was usually so soft—I hadn’t known he had such a sound in him. And a blaze of warmth in my chest, and I was shouting too, shouting like an idiot into the night, shouting that I loved Diego. Laughing and then running across the rocks, chasing each other until he slipped and fell and bruised his side, and it could have been so much worse, there on the sharp, slippery rocks. That sobered us.
We went quietly back to the dorm, and down to the empty piano room, the only public room in the dorm that could be locked, and there we made love, very carefully at first, and then less so, burning in our fierce desire.
That night.
She puts down the phone, slowly. The clinic has told her that they can do nothing right now. That she must wait until late January, at least. That she should come in and talk to a counselor. That they can schedule the appointment now, if she’s sure. That there are other options. She was polite to them, though absent. It seems that some part of her brain is accepting the data, processing it, even though she cannot think about it at all.
It startles her a little, how competent she has been about it all. The pharmacy, the purchase of the little box, the ripping open of the packaging, the careful following of directions. The disposal of the final, damning, results.
It is Friday. Exams are over and her roommates are gone. Diego leaves for Puerto Rico tomorrow. She leaves Sunday, to spend Christmas in Connecticut. Raji Aunty has written, saying it is not nearly as cold there as it is in Chicago, and that there will be another guest at the house as well. That almost shook her resolve, but surely there will be a time when the guest is away, out Christmas shopping perhaps. Minal will talk to her aunt then. She will ask her what to do.
One might think, that under these conditions, I would be less fond of sex.
This is not true.
Was it greedy of me, not to tell him until morning? To take one last night, with his hands between my thighs, stretching me open for his tongue? To spend hours licking every inch of his body, yes, even those inches shyness had kept me from before? My mother always said I was a greedy child. I took more than my share of caramel pudding, of milk toffee. Well enough. I do not regret that last night. I will remember always the surprised look on his face when I took him deep in my mouth, the groan he gave, the tensing muscles beneath my digging fingers. I will remember his hands, above his head, clenching the pillow as he arched. I will remember later, the way my head fit so perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, the slowing beat of his heart, his hand stroking my hair. Poor Diego.
In the morning, I told him I was le
aving him. I think he had expected it. I hope so.
I didn’t tell him the rest. Perhaps I am a terrible person. Perhaps I will write him a letter.
Dear Diego,
You may soon have a son. Or a daughter. Sorry I forgot to mention it earlier… .
Perhaps not.
Minal waited long hours in the airport, through one delay, and then another. She paced, up and down the carpeted halls. The heating wasn’t working very well—despite the crowds of people, she felt quite cold. And when she finally got on the plane, her neighbor insisted on turning his air jet so it hit Minal too. Her right side slowly froze. She asked for a blanket, but there weren’t enough. She used her coat as a blanket, and unbuttoned the top of her long skirt, sliding her fingers inside. It only warmed her a little.
When she finally arrived, past two a.m., her aunt bundled her quickly into bed, with a hot water bottle for her feet and extra blankets. There was no sign of the other guest, but Minal was too tired to talk. The morning would be soon enough. Her aunt patted the blankets one last time before she left, turning out the light as she went. Minal curled into the blankets and quietly cried herself to sleep.
Silence and the Word Page 11
