Secrets We Kept

by Krystal A. Sital

  Dharmendra leaned against one of the desks, arms folded, ankles crossed, and he gulped her in as she walked away—her ­stilettos clicking and clacking on the tiled floor, black fishnet stockings stopping mid-thigh where her skirt began, a skirt suctioned on tight enough it looked impossible to peel off, and the scalloped neckline of her blouse revealing just enough cleavage to drive a man insane. Her lips were painted the same shade of pink as her nails, and her hair was styled in bouncy curls, unfurling around her shoulders and down her back.

  —Krys, my mother tells me, e use toh walk ahrung wid e heavy boots makin dis noise ‘tok-tok-tok’ and dat use toh aggravate meh toh no end. And e was loud. Loud and obnoxious, callin toh every Tom, Dick, and Harry befoh e evan entah de buildin. And e always hah dem oman and dem swoonin. From de time dey hear e comin is ooooh dis and oooooh dat. Moh reason toh ignore im.

  Arya cleared her throat and sat at her desk, smoothing her hands over her skirt, dusting off her blouse, aware his eyes were still on her. He picked his way in and around the office, making his way to her station. Dharmendra hailed everyone, even those he didn’t know.

  —Yuh faddah was boisterous, my mother tells me, no uddah way toh put it. Loud and obnoxious. Ah couldn’t stand im. Ah just wanted im toh leave meh alone and foh so de more ah try toh geh rid ah im de more e followin meh.

  When he reached her desk he said, How yuh doin today, doo doo dahlin? Her response to this question was a fierce look in her liquid brown eyes and the whip of her curly mane over her shoulder. This did nothing to deter Dharmendra. He gave her a boyish grin, a stray lock of hair falling across his forehead. He swept it away, whipped out his police baton and twirled it in his hand. Arya turned away from him, positioned her fingers over the typewriter and hammered away. He didn’t have to slink away in shame because she ignored him; someone was always ready to strike up a conversation with him, and before he moved away from her, he always said something to the effect of Oh Gawd dahlin, yuh look even nice-ah when yuh vex.

  At the end of the day, all the secretaries organized their desks, scrawled reminders for the next workday, and gathered round one desk or another to make plans for the weekend. All except Arya.

  —Dey din like meh nah, my mother confides. Ah was de youn­gess one dey. Young and hot hot hot in meh miniskirt and tight pants. I din care what nobody tink. And dem hen an dem only peckin cause is always de Sital boi dis and de Sital boi dat. Oh, who goh geh im. Dey eh like it atall dat ah gettin all e attention now specially since ah was new nah.

  What these women didn’t know was that Arya had gone almost all her life without friends. With constant work to do on the farm, she just didn’t have any time. If she did get away, it was in secret with her sisters, and that was always more than enough—knowing they would all share the blame if they were caught.

  Arya strode out the door without saying good day to anyone. They followed her out of the corners of their eyes and ignored her as she ignored them. No waves. No smiles. The brisk island wind tunneled around her.

  At her car, she unlocked and opened the door to release the pent-up heat from the day’s sun. The Escort still smelled brand-new. She breathed it in, still proud to be the only Singh child to have a vehicle. It didn’t even matter that her father only gave it to her after giving it to Rahul first.

  Arya ran her index finger on the dashboard. It needed another cleaning. Though she scrubbed the Escort down inside and out twice a week, she wanted to stay on top of the dust accumulation. Sweat beaded on her forehead, stuck her back to the seat. She rolled the window down and leaned forward, pressing her forehead on the steering wheel. It had been a busy, monotonous week of issuing monthly checks to pensioners and helping poor people fill out paperwork in hopes of getting checks of their own.

  A sharp rap on the half-rolled window made her jump. Dharmendra filled the gap with a grin. He leaned his crossed arms against the windowpane, the black hairs on his light-complexioned arms pressed against the glass.

  How yuh doin, dahlin? he asked.

  He stuck his head into the car. Arya slapped her palm against his sweaty forehead and pushed him back out the window. After he stuck his head into the car again and started with A A oman, wah wrong, Arya rolled the window up, pumping her arm as fast as she could. His chin got caught, and she pinched it with the window. The grin on his face never faltered, not even as he massaged the red spot on his handsome face.

  —Krys chile, e di like how spicy ah was, my mother tells me. Ah wasn’t like dem uddah oman an dem bowin dey head an playin de ass shy shy shy when e tawkin to dem, giggling like lil schoolchilren when e tell ah joke. Me? Ah wok on fahm land day een and day out no mattah wah kinda job meh hah durin de day. Ah coulda stand up like ah man and is so ah do.

  Dharmendra smiled at her as though he had her all figured out. He had a small mouth with small teeth and the straightest, most even smile she’d ever seen. Like most other Indian men on the island, he’d taken to chewing tobacco—she hoped it was just an interest an elderly family member had sparked that would soon die down. Though not quite yellow, his white teeth were already losing their shine. Everything else about him was trimmed and proper, from his daily clean-shaven face to his starched uniform and shined shoes, though she realized he couldn’t bring himself to tame his full black hair. When he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, she glimpsed the little jolt of pleasure it stirred in him. He had the head of an Indian movie star, and he knew it, with his high cheekbones and light complexion.

  —Ah di undahstand why dem oman and dem trippin ovah deyself foh im, my mother says, boh not me.

  Cocking his head, he knocked on the window again and motioned for Arya to roll it down. She did, but only a crack. Dharmendra wedged his thick fingers into the space, pressing the window down. Aye gyul, yuh is someting else, yuh know. Without air circulation, Arya started to sweat. Her breathing was ragged. She needed water.

  Ah eh know wah yuh doin, Arya said. Leave meh alone. Clearly meh eh interested, boh you eh know nutten about gettin de message. She squeezed his fingers in the window. He winced but kept smiling. Oh Gawd dahlin, roll it up ah lil moh nah, it eh hut meh nuff yet. Arya laughed. Sensing he’d broken the barrier between them, he dove in. So wah bout yuh name, dahlin? Ah eh looking foh nobuddy toh tell meh. Ah wahn yuh toh tell meh yuhself. Ah wantah hear it from dem sweet lips. And oh Gawd, what ah color yuh paint on dem lips. Wah is de name at dat color, eh doo doo dahlin? Burgundy? Rose petal?

  Meh name is Arya, Arya said.

  Yuh look like an Indian star gyul. Preety juss like dem. Prettier evan.

  Look boi, meh eh hah time foh dis nonsense. Ah hah tings toh do.

  So wah people does call yuh? R foh short? Ya-ya?

  Arya.

  Yeah, is ah rheal nice Indian name.

  Tank yuh, boh doh tell me wah ah ahready know.

  Ayayai gyul, yuh eh easy nah. How bout one ah dese days we goan get some lunch rung hyah.

  —Yuh know, Krys, my mother says, Grampa di make sure all ah we di hah we raasi name, we Indian name. We doh choose dat, yuh know, de pundit does choose dat foh yuh. Big name ceremony and ting each time.

  She rolled the window down and deliberated a moment. An angry red line ran across the back of his hand where it had been trapped. He tried to fill the quiet between them, afraid she’d decline. Oh Gawd gyul, is lunch meh axin foh. And watch meh hand nah, is trap yuh trap meh foh so long and is because ah de sweetness ah yuh voice meh eh feel no pain, boh if yuh say no now meh goh feel everyting. Her face brightened at this obvious palaver but never before had she heard sweet-talking with such intensity, such sincerity. No one had ever told her over and over that she was beautiful. After the growth spurt that earned her the nickname Tin, Tall, and Terrible, her sisters would introduce her as An deez Arya, she de ugly one. Her outgoing sisters would enjoy themselves while Arya slunk to the back, feeling exactly as they described her—ugly. Only after a couple of them had abandoned home and she’d started working, spending
more and more time away from the farm, had she started to buy pretty things with her own money—skirts, heels, stockings, blouses—but never did she let Mr. Shiva happen upon any of them.

  Arya dipped her head in agreement.

  Dah is ah yes, gyul? Is yes yuh sayin? Yuh kyant take it back now yuh know. Oh Lawd Gawd, is smile yuh smilin on meh today.

  Ahright ahright ahright doh push yuhself now befoh ah change meh min. Lemmeh goan now. Is wok meh hah toh wok when meh reach hwome.

  You goh head, doo doo dahlin sugah plum plum, reach hwome safe, and ah goh see yuh tomorrow foh lunch.

  Arya shook her head as she pulled away, only smiling when he could no longer see her, inhaling the sweet names he’d called her like a heady fragrance. Somewhere on a deserted road, long before she reached home, she pulled over and changed into clothes her father would find more suitable to work in and wiped most of the make-up from her face.

  They went out to lunch the next day and the day after that. It soon became an everyday affair. Arya told no one at home, afraid this would somehow be ripped away from her if she did.

  —Doh evah tell yuh faddah meh tellin yuh dis, my mother warns, boh ah was goin foh de food. And papa yo de places e use toh take meh, chile! Rheal nice. Doh mind e hah toh tawk toh Tom, Dick, and Harry everywhey we go, boh dem places was niiiice. Ah wasn’t goan give dat up too easy nah. Yuh tink ah coulda afford places like dat? Ah guess somewhey along de way meh staht toh like im back, doh mind ah din wantah admit it because ah di hate e guts so much in the beginning.

  PROPOSE

  DHARMENDRA DOTED ON ARYA. He took her out to the finest restaurants on their lunch breaks. They sipped wine from goblets and water from stemmed glasses. Arya unfolded linen napkins to place them on her lap and fingered multiple utensils as he told her what each was used for, though she never remembered. She listened as he told her of his travels throughout the Caribbean islands, South America, England, India, America, Canada. He traveled thanks to the money he saved but also because he had no responsibilities and could. At only nineteen, she was impressionable and marveled at the majesty of these places, having never even set foot in many parts of their own island. She wondered if she would travel half as much by the time she was twenty-seven like him.

  Coming from a father who was a policeman, and being a policeman himself, Dharmendra had inherited many connections and fostered many more of his own. Through him, Arya met the elite of Trinidad—ministers and politicians, musicians and entertainers. They all greeted Dharmendra with an air of comfort and refinement. This was the life she craved, to be in the midst of a thriving city, to mill around and shop, have the power to bargain for items, dine out when she pleased, to mingle, to laugh; to remove herself from the toils of the farm. But Trinidad was but a speck on a map, ah drop ah oil, and there was only so far she could go.

  —Patience Krys, my mother explains, ah wait cause meh hah toh do everyting de right way, de traditional way.

  Posing as her brother’s friend, Dharmendra started making regular visits to the farm. To support their ruse, Amrit sat and talked with Dharmendra. Shiva sometimes joined them.

  Arya, Shiva called.

  Yes, Pa? she asked, already running wet fingers through her curls, dabbing her face with a kitchen towel, and running her hands over clothes she would never wear off the farm.

  Bring we some watah and metai.

  She set the water glasses on a tin tray and arranged the Indian sweets around them to cover up the blackened parts where the silver was chipped. Shiva was never one to buy new things if the old things were still functional. Her sisters pointed and giggled at her. Dharmendra never seemed to notice her ragged appearance. Never once did he show displeasure with the difference between her home and office attire.

  Everyone could see how enchanted Shiva was with ­Dharmendra. He was a young, light-skinned Indian boy who came from a prominent family, a perfect addition to his household. This boy would elevate his status in society. And ­Dharmendra didn’t shy away from religion; he conversed for hours, openly talking about being a devout Hindu often delving into beautiful renditions of the stories of various gods and goddesses on the Hindu spectrum.

  They talked about weather, farming, religion. But when ­Dharmendra brought up politics, Arya and Rebecca stiffened in the next room, for politics was divisive in Trinidad, and they were nervous that this topic would cause a rift between the men. ­Inching closer to the door, mother and daughter together craned their necks to better hear, but Shiva said something much too soft for their ears. Then the silence was broken by a chortle from both men. Arya hadn’t realized she’d been clutching at her heart and holding her breath. Right then she understood how much her father’s complete approval of Dharmendra meant to her.

  Ruby. Shiva beckoned his wife next. He ordered her to make them some cutters, and she retired to the kitchen to fry or chunkay something fresh—saltfish akra, sehena, pulorie. Rebecca fried the balls of fishcakes, dollops of spinach and dough, and ground split-pea patties to a golden brown and then blended and seasoned some mango chutney as a dipping sauce.

  Arya, Pooja, and Chandini scrambled to the second floor to peer from the holes in the floorboards. Shiva and Dharmendra did not always agree on everything they talked about, but with Dharmendra’s jovial manner, there was no antagonism. Amrit remained silent most of the time, staying only as long as necessary, for he had chores to do. Arya could see that her father was smitten by how he allowed Dharmendra to smoke his cigarettes downstairs while they talked. Her father threw his head back and practically unhinged his jaw when he laughed, which frightened her more than anything, having only seen him laugh a handful of times and only when spying.

  —E use toh go huntin every Sunday, my mother tells me, leave late Saturday and come back Sunday evenin. Wid some friends, just ah couple, and one ah e cousins. Dey use toh goh on de rivah and bade and ting. Dat was de only time ah evah rheally see im laugh. Wid dem.

  When Shiva was leaving, Arya circumvented her father by walking around the back of the house to get to Dharmendra. Her mother and her siblings kept an eye out for her. Plopping herself down on the seat her father had just vacated, she popped a fritter in her mouth and gulped water from one of the tumblers. So, Arya said, plucking one of the topics from the day’s conversation and dangling it in front of Dharmendra, making fun of both him and her father. They kept their laughter low as they rocked back and forth on their chairs. They both cherished these short moments together, and in between meetings, Dharmendra sent handwritten love notes along with one of her sisters whenever he could.

  Yuh faddah reach back, Rebecca’s words bustled in before she did. Come come come Dharmendra, goan home now, yuh goh see she tomorrow. Nuff foh today, and she shooed him out the front to where his car was parked. Mother and daughter smiled as he drove away, Rebecca as smitten with him as her husband.

  —Yuh know yuh faddah was de only one toh do dis, my mother reminds me. None ah meh bruddahs and sistahs de hah courtship and ting. And Shiva dint wahn nobody comin rung de house like dat. No blessin and celebration. Not-ting like dat. Krys, yuh parents’ ­blessin is everyting. Remembah dat.

  IN THAT WHIRL of expensive restaurants, bouquets of flowers, and boxes of chocolates, Arya and Dharmendra spent their free time eating, dancing, and drinking. Their special song was “Red Red Wine,” and in true Caribbean spirit it was the rendition by Bob Marley and the Wailers. Who cared who originally sang it as long as theirs was a West Indian lilt they could jam to.

  —It was we favorite song because yuh faddah was always drunk, my mother tells me. Meh nevah know de mahn sobah. And, depending on when she told the story, her tone shifted to Krys, e use toh drink too much. Wasn’t no joke why dat was e favorite song nah. Sometimes e couldn’t even walk an ah hah toh pull e drunk ass een de cah juss toh reach hwome een time.

  After some time, Arya told Dharmendra they were not ­working out. There was no one reason, but his constant state of drunkenness didn’t help. She also wanted
to test him to see what he would do if she tried to leave.

  Dharmendra professed his love to her on his hands and knees, flinging his arms wide.

  —Yuh know yuh faddah had ah ting foh Shakespeare, my mother tells me, so is rheal drama foh dis one. Ah never know if e know ah was testin im, yuh know.

  Arya pushed him away. Able to do it once, she did it again. His words followed her home. Arya, if yuh leave meh ahgo keel mehself. Ahgo keel mehself, Arya!

  Later, deep in the Cunaripo bush, she heard word of ­Dharmendra being hospitalized. With Rebecca’s help, Arya slipped out of the house undetected to go and check on him. When she got there, Dharmendra was unconscious, hooked up to an array of machines that bleeped and clacked. His mother was weeping over him. She held his shoulders and cried out, Oh Bhagwan! Meh boi, meh Dharmendra boi, meh sweet sweet boi. Oh Bhagwan, why yuh do this? His father, in his starched policeman’s uniform, was sitting in a chair next to his son’s bed.

  —When ah tell yuh, Krys, my mother says, rheal Indian movie ting gone on dey. Poor gyul, rich boi, muddah bawlin. Boh dem movie and dem always hah ah happy endin right?

  Dharmendra’s father noticed Arya and stood. She sidled in. His mother looked up. Her face was splotchy. She said, Come, meh know e go wahn yuh hyah. Arya stood next to the bed, not sure what to do; she interlaced her fingers with his mother’s and asked what happened.

  Dharmendra’s mother had found him in his room at dinnertime. She’d been calling for him, hollering about the roti being done. When the roti got stiff, she decided to go up and check on him herself. He was on his bed, a large empty pill bottle next to him. His mother knew the strength of the pills—they were hers. Her screams brought her husband up, and with his son draped over his shoulder, he raced to the hospital across the street. Dharmendra’s father waited for no one.