Secrets We Kept

by Krystal A. Sital

  The hospital staff was intimately associated with the Sital family from frequenting their store and rum shop, but also because Dharmendra himself worked there while on duty. The staff rushed to his side and crowded around, pushing the family back. They pumped his stomach.

  Now dey juss replenshin de fluids een e body, his mother told Arya. Why e gone and do someting like dis? E is ah happy boi, ah rheal happy boi. Arya froze. She thought the questions were for her, but realized they weren’t when she saw his mother looking to the heavens. Neither Arya nor Dharmendra offered any explanation to his parents after Dharmendra awoke, but they shared a new secret now, one that bound them ever more tightly together.

  IN RESPONSE TO HER TEST, to Arya, his was the ultimate ­display of love—the willingness to sacrifice your life for the one you love. But it could also be a trap, designed to force someone to stay. Despite it all, Arya and Dharmendra’s love story unfolded.

  One morning they arrived at work at the same time, something that rarely happened. There were rumors that they were an item, but for the sake of a good woman’s family name, Dharmendra was supposed to follow the correct protocol: fall madly in love with her without ever talking to her or taking her out, ask for her hand in marriage, and then whisk her away to live with him in his family’s house. Even though they both knew this, and even though prying eyes would follow them, Dharmendra convinced Arya to walk around the back with him, delaying their entrance to the building where they would part ways again and start their day.

  There was a vagrant blocking the rain-drenched walkway, someone they knew because this island was so tiny, even the beggars became friends. An acrid smell hung around him, his shredded clothing revealing more bone than flesh. He’d fallen asleep in the rain and was soaked through, mud melted away revealing a much younger man under the mask.

  Dharmendra was pressed and shined from the collar of his uniform to the tip of his steel boots. His hat sat smack in the middle of his head, perfectly aligned with his symmetrical features. He walked cockily toward the man, twirling his baton.

  Aye, Dharmendra said, yuh know dis here eh propahty foh yuh toh be lyin on. Goan move out de way. He gave the homeless man a stiff kick in the ribs, eliciting a deep groan that made Arya’s insides crumble.

  —E was showin off, Krys, my mother whispers, juss showin off to show off, no uddah reason.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him back with a soft Dharmendra, but that riled him up even more.

  Yuh doh see ah lady een yuh presence awah? Move nah yuh muddahcunt yuh. Is ah policeman yuh disobeyin, yuh know.

  Dharmendra, once her reprieve from the anger and violence at home, now rose before her to embody all she strove to escape.

  —E beat dat mahn foh no reason, Krys, my mother says, beat im and kick im like a dawg.

  A few days later Arya overheard some gossip about a vagrant dying. It was the man Dharmendra had beaten.

  —Ah doh tink e was de cause foh de mahn death, boh e din help, my mother says. Ah see dis violence een im dat day. When e tun dat on meh, it shouldah be no surprise, boh undah de circumstances, ah nevah tawt e wuddah evah do anyting toh meh.

  Omens and warnings were luxuries Arya couldn’t afford; she was following the only route available to her at the time, the only thing that could get her off that farm.

  A FEW WEEKS PASSED, and the memory of the vagrant, though still present, began to fade. One day after work, Arya and ­Dharmendra stopped at his parents’ shop. Arya knew the inside well. Whether she had the extra money or not, while trotting home from school as a little girl, she’d stop in to have a look. There was always a spread to choose from: digestive biscuits coated in chocolate and wrapped in shiny foil, coconut cakes, ­caramel ­layered wafers, currant rolls, fudge, pepper mango, cheese-flavored wheels, salted prunes, fried split peas, spicy cheese curls, plums and cherries preserved with peppers and lime, and sugared ­tamarind balls just the perfect balance of tart, sweet, and spicy.

  But Arya always walked past the array of soda bottles boasting the richest flavors of lemon, lime, cream, sorrel, apple, banana, ginger beer, and pineapple—past the wire mesh separating owner from customer—and stopped in front of a ball machine, its glass case stocked high with rubber balls of every color. They were waxy and bright and bounced high and fast, and for a nickel, a ball of a random color would shoot through the open slot at the bottom. If you weren’t careful, it would fly past your hands and ricochet off the glass counter and, if you were truly unfortunate, would bounce out onto the busy road, rolling into one of the stagnant drains and slowly sinking into black gunk.

  Usually Dharmendra’s youngest brother, Ram, was the one grudgingly stuck in charge for the day. He watched as Arya came in time after time, spun her nickel, caught the bullet, and frowned. A hot pink ball was the one on display and a hot pink ball was the one she wanted. Rebecca never dressed her daughter in pink and, deprived, Arya became obsessed with the color.

  One day Ram, in a magnanimous mood, jumped off his perch, unlocked the door, and walked around the counter. Look nah, juss tell meh which one yuh wahn, he said. Yuh always leavin hyah wid one sowah puss look on yuh face no mattah which one yuh geh. She pointed to the one on display. When he handed it to her, she just stood there staring at the luminescent pink marbled with curlicues and spirals, rolling it around in her sweaty palms. It glistened with perspiration. Ram slammed the top of the machine shut; Arya jumped. She stuffed her hand in her pocket and extracted her nickel. Nah, gyul, keep yuh money. Maybe now yuh goh buy someting since yuh geh yuh ball. But she bought nothing.

  When Arya arrived with Dharmendra that day, Ram wasn’t there. Another of Dharmendra’s younger siblings was working the counter downstairs.

  Nobody upstairs, Arya. Come wid meh lemmeh grab one ting nah. Though Arya was nervous, she was curious to see their home. On the second floor there was the familiar scent of garlic browning in oil. She turned to leave. We kyant go back dung now, it goh look bhad, Dharmendra said.

  In the kitchen, his mother turned to them, every inch of her dusted with flour, and said, Hello, beti, calling Arya the Hindi word for daughter. A warmth like fresh honey trickled inside her. Hello, Arya said, looking down at the floor.

  Allyuh wahn someting to eat? To drink? Yuh now comin hwome from wok, beta? she said to her son. Dharmendra made his way to the fridge, searching for a bottle of Pepsi; finding none, he volunteered to go downstairs for more. Gimmeh some mango takarie wid ah piece ah roti toh hold meh ovah till latah nah, Ma.

  His mother studied Arya. They’d only seen one another in passing a handful of times before, and Dharmendra was always at her side. Her scrutiny didn’t make Arya uncomfortable; her own clothing did. She knew that, from his mother’s perspective, she was not a good candidate for Dharmendra. His family, like all Indian families on the island, wanted a docile Indian girl who wore traditional clothing and jewelry, her long hair parted modestly in the middle and pulled to the back of her head in a ponytail or wrapped in a bun. Instead what his mother found in front of her was a young woman with tights suctioned to her long legs, and an even tighter top, towering over everyone in her high heels, with curls teased high above her head and lacquered nails that matched her handbag.

  Ma, Dharmendra said upon strolling back into the kitchen. He slipped one arm around Arya’s waist and gulped Pepsi with the other. Yuh know dese de gyul meh goan propose to? His mother didn’t react with more than A A yuh doh say? Four monts and yuh done know, disbelieving her own son.

  Arya replayed what he’d said in her mind. She didn’t know how to react because she didn’t know the meaning of the word propose. She said the line over and over again, hoping the meaning would reveal itself to her. She smiled ambiguously at both of them. The twinkling in Dharmendra’s eyes and the way his mother responded gave the word heft. Arya continued to nod and smile knowingly. She couldn’t ask because that would only anchor their opinion of her more firmly—ah uneducated country bookie from de bush.

&nb
sp; The rest of the evening passed without another mention of this word. The only thing on her mind was getting to the gilded Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary back home that someone had given to her father as a gift.

  Arya sped home in her blue Escort. She rolled the window down. Wind whipped her hair in between her lipsticked lips. Once home, she ran her index finger down the page.

  Dharmendra intended to marry her.

  A waterfall of emotions thundered down on her until it dissipated to the calm below the pounding water, in a pool where her thoughts rippled.

  —Krys chile, my mother says, meh eh hah no love foh dis mahn yet. Ah din evan know wah love was. Ah eh know nutten bout sex, me, dis innocent gyul from de bush, meh know how we society see we as uncivilize, so wah de ass dis mahn talking bout proposal aftah four monts only.

  Arya, aware of her attitudes and the restrictions of her culture, considered Dharmendra’s propostion. This respectable man could become her husband. She would leave her parents’ home the right way. This man from the city could take her away from a life of latrines and wells and kerosene lamps and cock’s crows, and give her one with indoor plumbing and electricity. A simpler, more refined life than she or her mother could ever have dreamed of. After waiting, after courting, after doing everything right, she knew he was her only way out.

  HOUSE

  —AH WANTED TOH get ahwhey from dey, my mother tells me while mashing some food she would later box up and send for my grandmother to spoonfeed my grandfather, who could now eat food after the three surgeries were done. Ah wahn ah house wid ah inside step goan upstairs, not dis oudside step we hah hwome dey. An ah dunno why, boh ah ahways see mehself married toh ah policemahn, somebody een authority. Ah mahn een ah uniform.

  Her dreams didn’t change much over time; the same things propelled her forward.

  Not long after Dharmendra mentioned his impending proposal, he took Arya away from Sangre Grande under the pretense of work. He drove them through a city Arya didn’t know, easing through the backroads, where it was quieter, to a neighborhood where the houses were spaced further apart. She watched as Dharmendra stopped to chitchat with one person after another.

  —E always hah ah way bout im, Krys, says my mother. Everywhey we goh, people like im and dey rheal like im. E could geh along wid anybody, anytime, rheal charismatic.

  Dharmendra eased their vehicle next to a house, and Arya recognized his older brother Prana and Prana’s wife, Nissi, sitting on the verandah in the front. They waved to one another.

  Ah come toh show she, Dharmendra said to Prana and Nissi. We goh link up een a bit.

  Next to his brother’s house was an enormous plot of land with an abundance of fruit trees and bamboo spanning far back to the horizon.

  Dis is we own, Dharmendra said to her, slipping his hand around her and resting his palm on the soft concavity of her ­bellybutton. Ah goan bill we ah house.

  Yet again he’d taken her by surprise, painting the map of their future in intricate patterns with permanent brushstrokes.

  Meh faddah gimmeh dis piece, he continued, and meh bruddah Prana geh dat own. E done bill up e house and we juss hah toh bill we own now. Ah done hah werkahs and dem line up toh come and staht de process while ah werkin an ting. It goh take some time, cuttin dung dese trees and dem een de front boh we goh do it. Right hyah is whey de house goh be and den—

  Ah wahn ah inside step, Arya interrupted, surprising herself with her own interjection, but she didn’t stop, sensing a moment ripe for the juicing. Ah inside step dat lead up toh de second floor. And ah front yard and ah backyard so de house shouldn’t be too close toh de road. Save as much as dem trees as yuh could, we goh need dem fruits and vegetables.

  She added her own flourishes to their map.

  Yes madam, Dharmendra said with that handsome grin of his, anyting yuh wahn dahlin. Is yours. Dis is all yours.

  Me eh wahn no bush, Arya said.

  Doh worry, when ah done, said Dharmendra, disentangling himself from her and spreading his arms, dis goh be yuh palace.

  Only nineteen and she could see it before her. He talked and she listened, her mind moving faster than his words till she no longer heard him and all she saw was what she’d always wanted: a house nestled in a plush, manicured landscape, close to other houses but on land all their own, never having to live in a remote place again. These things signified their legacy: a man in a uniform who exuded power, money and security, and a car that no longer smelled of bush and was sleek as the city she would live in.

  But Arya had learned from her mother’s mistakes and wanted certain things settled immediately.

  Ah doh wantah live wid yuh muddah, she said, interrupting both his chatter and her own dreams. This was Rebecca’s mistake, but it wouldn’t be hers.

  Wah yuh mean?

  When we geh married ah wantah move een hyah, Arya said, not hwome wid yuh parents.

  Because they both had jobs, it would take years for this place to come to fruition, and they both knew this. Yet ­Dharmendra agreed, giving Arya the security and stability she’d been ­searching for.

  As time peeled away around them, they continued to visit their future home together. They razored the trees level with the ground and burned the trunks and branches in a clearing. Because pathways and sidewalks were nonexistent, they replaced the wooden planks used for crossing over the open drains, and constructed a concrete bridge to get to their house.

  —Ah use toh run away any chance ah geh to come and see how de house progressin, says my mother. Ah suppose toh be werking and ting.

  When walls had been stacked and the cement floors poured, Arya and Dharmendra found themselves rolling around on the dusty ground. They explored the inside of one another’s mouths, Arya giving herself to him in these parceled-out moments, kisses and nothing more.

  During these visits, Arya met both Dharmendra’s close friends and his workers. These were men he’d befriended from the neighborhood, his charming personality attracting others who were always willing to help. They flocked to the foundation of their home after work, making wells of cement, into which they poured water and stomped up and down to mix the mortar. They labored shirtless, their brown skin ranging from cinnamon to mahogany. Sweat flew from their bodies as they drew close together, arms and elbows interlocked, sometimes falling into one another. They paused in their work to share a meal, toasting with bottles of beer, mouths full of food sent by Dharmendra’s mother. They refused compensation for their time and work, and were vexed if Dharmendra and Arya ever broached the subject. They helped them build this grand house that towered over their own meager dwellings in the poorer parts of the neighborhood.

  Dharmendra said to her, Doh worry, Arya, dey goh come up some day and we goh be dey toh help dem too. It was here in the span of these moments and words, when he taught her about others and even about herself, that Arya appreciated Dharmendra the most, thinking some day she would undoubtedly fall madly in love with this man.

  Arya unrolled the blueprints, and Dharmendra pinned them to a tabletop he’d constructed with two sawhorses. When he asked her opinion of their home, it was so earnest, she felt like she might cry.

  —Yuh tink somebody di ax meh opinion on tings before, Krys? my mother asks me. E wasn’t only axin meh nah, is design ah was designin dah house from day one. Yuh faddah bill dat foh meh.

  ACCIDENT

  TODAY THE AIR FELT DIFFERENT, the load of their work lighter. Everywhere she turned Arya envisioned sequins and feathers, languorous in the evening breeze, brown bodies shedding glitter from gyration.

  Aye Arya gyul, Chandini, the youngest, asked, yuh tink Mammy goh lewwe goh?

  Pooja shook her head.

  Meh eh know nah, said Arya. Depend on Pappy. Lewwe finish up we wok quick quick quick and check on dem. The trio bowed their heads under the sun, black curls gleaming, and resumed working.

  —Krys, it wasn’t any ole Tuesday nah, my mother says. It was Carnival Tuesday, chile. Dis was still de beginnin foh m
eh and yuh faddah. Everybuddy di looking forward toh gettin on bhad. And is plenty people yuh meetin from abroad—England, Canada, and America. It hah some ah de locals too, yuh know, from Guyana, Dominica, Jamaica, and ting, boh is de white people jukin up dey waist, tryin toh dance toh we music dat di send we inna fit.

  Arya, Amrit, Pooja, and Chandini—twenty, nineteen, eighteen, and seventeen—were the last four of the Singh clan left at home. Amrit was deep in the orchards working for the day. Still under the tyranny of their father, they yearned to join in the festivities but knew better than to ask. In baggy work clothes riddled with holes and spattered with mud and feces, with tools held on their shoulders and slung across their backs, they trudged back up to the house to check on their parents. Right before they reached the clearing near the back door, they heard the familiar drone of the jeep’s engine. They ran into the tall grass on the outskirts of the house and placed their tools down, far enough away that there could be no accidental clanging. They watched.

  Shiva drove up the hill. Dressed the same every day in a pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms, black pants folded and pinned at the shins, rubber boots twanging at the base of his knees, he maneuvered around familiar dips and bends, pulling into the bottom of the house within inches of the gate. He was returning from the banana groves and citrus orchards, from the chicken coops and cow pastures. ­Cutlasses and sickles rattled as he moved them from the jeep and over the gravel hillocks behind the house.

  From the moment Rebecca heard the familiar sounds of the jeep, she sped past their wandering hens and roosters to the stone sink. Clothes were still soaking, waiting to be scrubbed. She dumped them in a bucket, drained the water, rinsed the sink, and swapped the detergent for a bar of body soap. She scrambled back and forth between the barrels of rainwater and the sink, buckets of water sloshing as they swung back and forth on a rusty handle. The barrels had been warming in the sun as it crept over the house, its rays licking the sides of the hard plastic.