Nandita, on the other hand, was all business. “Come on, Frank, move,” she said, striking her stick smartly against his. “You’re dancing like a fucking mortician.”
They danced in a small circle for a few minutes and then were joined by the other westerners. They expanded the circle to let them in, but Ellie almost immediately lost interest, felt a kind of deflation. She also became aware that they had unwittingly formed a cocoon, their own private circle that excluded the villagers. As soon as she could, she stepped away and began to dance with some of her younger students. Frank followed her in a few minutes. She saw that he had abandoned his stiff posture and was genuinely enjoying himself now, sweating freely, loosening the buttons of his shirt. “Boy, do they ever let up and take a break in between numbers?” he grinned. “This is like dancing at one of those techno clubs.”
“Close your eyes,” she yelled back. “Just dance with your eyes closed. It’s a wonderful feeling.”
“And risk clobbering that old lady on the head with my stick? No thanks.”
“No,” she said, looking closely at him. “Just dance with me. You’ll be able to do it, you’ll see.”
So they did. For a full five minutes they danced with each other with their eyes shut. To their astonishment, they were completely in sync, never rapping each other on the knuckles with their sticks, never missing a beat. Ellie opened her eyes first. She took a step closer to him, and as if sensing that movement, his eyes flew open. “You see?” she said, as if she’d scored an important victory, transmitted some essential information to him.
“I see,” he replied. “And I love you. Very much.”
“You’re my guy.” She felt she was being maudlin, sentimental, about to cross that thin line between happiness and melancholy. But she didn’t care. It suddenly seemed like the most important thing on earth that Frank knew what he meant to her.
“I know,” he said quietly. And then, “Thanks for bringing me here. This is quite wonderful.”
She flung her arms wide open, smacking the man dancing next to her. “This is my India,” she said dramatically. “Now you see why I love it here.”
Even above the music she heard the envy in his voice. “You’re lucky. The India I deal with every day is nerve-wracking.”
“Don’t think about that tonight. Just…enjoy.”
A rocket whizzed over their heads and landed on the ground just past the dancers. Frank looked nervously over to where a group of teenaged boys were setting off the firecrackers. “I hope these kids know what they’re doing,” he said. “That was a little too close for comfort.”
Just then, one of the boys lit a cone-shaped firecracker. A shower of blue and red erupted from its mouth and came cascading down in colorful streams. “God,” Ellie shouted. “I love these fireworks so much more than the ones back home. These are so much closer to the ground and—I don’t know—this feels more democratic, somehow.”
Frank smiled. “Methinks you’re in love with India.”
She smiled. “I am.” She waved her arms again. “Look around. How could you not be in love with a country with so much color and vigor?”
Ramesh came dancing up to them. The boy was wearing a white cotton kurta and pajamas with a maroon vest. Ellie thought he looked more beautiful than she’d ever seen him. The boy was carrying himself with a self-consciousness that she knew came from wearing new clothes, and she was glad Edna had bought him this outfit for Diwali. She resolved to use Christmas as a pretext to buy Ramesh a bunch of new outfits. Now she turned her head and looked around for Edna and Prakash, but they were lost in the crowd that sat behind them. She had offered to have the housekeepers ride with them earlier this evening, but Edna had whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “No, thank you, miss. Prakash is in a foul-foul mood today. Better you go alone, only. Just take Ramesh.”
“I love this jacket,” she now said to the boy over the music, and was gratified to see Ramesh beam.
“It’s velvet,” he replied seriously, fingering the soft material.
“Yeah, you look like a young prince,” Frank said. His tone was light, teasing even, but Ellie could detect the pleasure in his voice as he inspected the boy dancing next to him.
“When I grow up, I want to be a prince,” Ramesh said. He cast Frank a mischievious look. “I know, I know. In order to be anything I wanting to be, I need to study today.”
Frank threw back his head and laughed. Behind him, a rocket soared into the inky black sky and then showered back to earth in splinters of color and light. Ellie caught her breath. Her mind photographed the moment—Frank with his head tilted back, his hair damp with sweat against his forehead, framed by a cascade of tiny lights, held in time and space by the loud, incessant pounding of the thunderous drums.
“Made you laugh,” Ramesh said. It was a new game between the two of them, their own version of tag. Somewhere, Ellie supposed, one of them was keeping score on who made the other laugh more.
Like someone breaking off a conversation in mid-sentence, the drumming stopped. Momentum kept Ellie’s body moving for a full second after the music ceased. She looked around and saw that some of the other dancers looked as dazed as she felt. Danceus interruptus, she thought to herself, and then giggled at her own silliness.
A thin, tall man whom Ellie recognized as the doodhwalla, the milkman who came to their door every morning, strode into the middle of the clearing. “Brothers and sisters,” he said in Hindi. “It is time to share a meal together.” The crowd stirred, but he silenced them. “But first, we must honor the guests in our midst.” Turning to where Ellie and Frank stood panting, he glanced at them and then sought out Nandita and Shashi. “Please,” he said. “You will lead us to the food.”
Ellie looked around for Nandita, who immediately came up to her side. “Shukriya,” she called out. “We are honored to be here.” She turned to Ellie and Frank. “They want us to be the first at the table. Come, let’s go.” Ellie smiled at the milkman, to ensure that he knew they understood.
The staff at the clinic had cleared the desks from the classrooms and set up a long dining table for the westerners in their midst. The villagers squatted on their haunches on the floor and were served on the traditional banyan leaves. Ellie watched in amazement as Mausi bent her ninety-two-year-old knees and squatted on the ground. She thought of Josetta, another therapist in her practice, who had had two knee replacements at the age of fifty-two. For a second she thought of suggesting that the rest of them join the villagers on the ground, but Frank and the couple from Germany were already seating themselves, and she thought better of it. Ever since the fight she and Frank had had at the July Fourth picnic, she was trying very hard to tone it down, not to put Frank on the defensive for being what he was—a middle-class white American. Besides, she was not sure that her untested knees could survive a long dinner spent squatting on the floor.
However, despite the best of intentions, she could not abide the thought of sitting next to the German couple for dinner. They were headed to Dharamsala in a few days to spend a couple of weeks at an ashram and talked incessantly about finding spirituality and enlightenment as if these were items they could buy from a catalog. When she’d first met them earlier this evening, she’d thought they were kidding, playing at being caricatures of the clueless Western tourist. But watching the carefully constructed blankness on Nandita’s face, it had dawned on her that they were serious about believing that they would leave India after two weeks having found what they were looking for. She much rather preferred the wry humor of Richard Thomas, the gay British journalist who was traveling through India. Now she looked around for Richard and, upon spotting him, lunged toward him. “Shall we sit together?” she asked, ignoring the frantic looks Frank was throwing her way, as he silently pointed to the empty chair beside him.
Richard arched an eyebrow. “Ingrid and Franz getting to you?”
She grinned. “Naaaawww,” she drawled. Next, she turned toward Nandita. “Get Shashi to go sit n
ext to Frank,” she implored. “I’ll owe you, forever.”
She dared not meet Frank’s eye as she sat down next to Richard. But a few moments later, her guilt at abandoning Frank to Ingrid’s earnest spirituality evaporated, carried away in the aromas of the steaming food she was being served. She bit into an onion pakora; tore a piece from a light, flaky roti; dipped the bread into a thick, spicy curry; cooled her tongue on some cucumber yogurt; picked up a tender piece of fish with her fork. She felt a little spiritual herself, swept up in a kind of rapture at the intensity of flavors. “How on earth can one country have so many wonderful foods?” she gasped.
“You asking me about good food?” Richard said. “I’m British, remember?”
She laughed. “London has some great restaurants.”
“Yeah, and they’re all Indian.”
One of Ellie’s older male students came to their table, carrying a large stainless steel tray full of glasses. “You will have a lassi, miss?” he asked.
She took a long gulp of the cool yogurt drink. “I think I’m having an out-of-body experience,” she said.
“Easy there,” Richard said. “Your husband’s boring holes into my back, anyway. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m the reason for this look of ecstasy on your face.”
“I like you, Richard. You remind me of my brother-in-law.”
“Your brother-in-law is gay?” Richard deadpanned.
Ellie spluttered, blowing lassi out of her nose. “Oh, stop. Look what you’ve made me do.” She turned to him, a pleading look on her face. “Can’t you stay with us here in Girbaug? I can talk Shashi into giving you a really good rate at the hotel.”
Nandita, who was sitting at Richard’s left and had been talking to Franz, turned toward them. “What on earth are you two gusspussing about?” She leaned over to face Ellie. “Frank’s going to kill you on the way home, darling. You pulled a really dirty trick on him.”
Ellie looked rueful. “I know. But I can’t deal anymore with stupid foreigners.” She glanced at Richard. “Present company excepted.”
“Who’re you calling a foreigner, you Yank? My people were here in India while yours were—”
“I know. Swinging from trees.”
“Something like that.”
“Nice to hear you two imperialists arguing about your claims to India,” Nandita said. Her tone was bemused, her eyebrows raised, and they all chuckled.
Frank came up to her as soon as dinner was over. “I’ll pay you back for this,” he said, but his tone was light, his eyes friendly.
“I’m sorry. I’m a rotten wife.” She shot him a look of sympathy. “Was it absolutely excruciating?”
“Well, it’s all a matter of perspective. I’m sure a brain tumor or hemorrhoids would be worse.”
She was still laughing when Nandita came up to them. “Don’t hate me for inviting them,” she said to Frank. “They insisted on getting the ‘full cultural experience.’ Poor Shashi had no choice.”
“I’ll forgive you for the price of a few invitations to dinner,” Frank said promptly. He stopped, a frown on his face. “Speaking of dinner, this was quite a lavish affair. How can these folks afford this, Nan?”
Nandita looked embarrassed. “Well, actually we, Shashi and I, we sponsor this celebration. I mean, it’s always been traditional for the villagers to have a communal feast. But in the last few years, well, the hotel is doing so well, that we offered to—chip in.”
Frank nodded. “That’s good,” he said vaguely. Then, “I tell you what. If I’m still here next year, I’ll make sure HerbalSolutions becomes a cosponsor of this feast. That is, if you will have us.”
Both women spoke simultaneously. “What do you mean, if you’re here next year? Why won’t you be?”
“Whoa, whoa.” Frank laughed, stepping back from them. He turned to face Ellie. “In case you’ve forgotten, babe, I’ve only signed a two-year contract. Everything has to be negotiated again soon.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Ellie said. “Pete’s not gonna refuse you if you tell him that’s what you want to do.”
Frank grinned and placed one arm around his wife. “I’m gonna have to pry this one loose when it’s time to leave India—and I’m hoping that won’t be for a few more years,” he added.
Nandita stepped closer to Frank and rubbed his back. “Glad to hear it,” she said. “I can’t imagine Girbaug without the two of you.”
“Likewise.” Ellie heard the sincerity in Frank’s voice and was glad for it.
But her mood had soured slightly. They lingered at the feast for another half hour, watching another fireworks display, watching the young people dance as Hindi film music blared from the loudspeakers. Nothing has changed, Ellie kept telling herself, you are here, be present, live in the moment. But just the talk of returning to America had cast a pall on the evening, made her realize the impermanence, the precariousness, of their life here. The thought of returning home produced nothing but a dull sadness in her. Just a few days ago, her mother had asked on the phone whether they had bought their tickets for coming home for Christmas, and she had heard the joy and anticipation in her mom’s voice and felt compelled to fake an enthusiastic response. The fact was, she was dreading the ten-day trip. She had already made it clear to Frank that she would not visit Ann Arbor. The plan was to fly into Cleveland and stay with Anne and Bob. Unlike past years, Scott and his mother were coming to Cleveland for Christmas. Frank would drive to Ann Arbor for a couple of days to check on the tenants they were renting their house to and to meet with the folks at HerbalSolutions. He would take Ramesh with him.
Yes, Ramesh. It had been Frank’s idea, of course, to take Ramesh home with them. When he had first suggested it to Ellie in early October, she had demurred but not put up much of a fight. She was counting on several things—the fact that it would be difficult to get a visa for the boy, the fact that Prakash would throw a fit at the thought of being away from his son for ten days, the fact that Edna, being a Christian, would want to have her son with her over the holidays, even the fact that Frank would realize the awkwardness of returning to his family in America with Ramesh.
What she had not counted upon was desperation. First, there was Edna’s desperation to provide her son with every opportunity that she knew that she and her alcoholic husband could not, her pent-up desire to give her son what she saw as his birthright—the love that his grandparents should’ve showered upon him and that he had been deprived of. Now, she saw Frank and Ellie as an unexpected answer to her prayers, de facto guardians of her son, with the means to offer Ramesh opportunities even her parents could’ve only dreamed of. Edna became a tigress, clawing at her husband’s resistance, chomping up his protests. “He’s going,” she declared. “My son will be first in Girbaug to go to America. No one will stop him.”
Then there was Frank’s desperation. Unable to face the long flight to America, with its echoes of that terrible flight from Thailand; unable to imagine sitting down for Christmas dinner without seeing the boy who was missing; paralyzed at the thought of going to the Ann Arbor house to check on the renters, knowing that the house would echo with the voice and laughter of his dead son; terrified at being under the same American sky, breathing the same chilly air, walking on the same hard ground, that his son had. So he had first gotten Ramesh a passport and then called Tom Andrews to request the embassy folks to issue the boy his tourist visa.
Finally, there was Prakash’s desperation. Unable to think straight, not knowing what this strange new force was that had entered his life in the guise of a tall white man who was obsessed with his son, he vowed every morning to stop drinking so that he could be sober long enough to solve this puzzle. But he reached for the bottle almost absentmindedly as the day, with its countless humiliations and chores and demands, ground him down. Stung and hurt by the venom with which his wife spoke to him, believing her threats to leave him if he didn’t give in to her demands, Prakash hovered between bravado and capitulation. The prospect of losi
ng Edna terrified him. So he reluctantly agreed to offer up his son to the Americans for ten days, in exchange for keeping his wife forever.
“What’s wrong?” Frank said to Ellie on the way home. “Your whole mood has changed.”
“Sorry.” She thought for a moment and then decided to come clean. “I’m nervous about the upcoming trip to the States.”
Frank sighed. “I thought so. I thought you got quiet after the conversation about leaving India.” He shifted in the car seat so that he could face her. “You really love this place so much?”
“I do. Though right now, it’s all mixed up with the dread of going home. Of facing everybody. I don’t know what to expect—on one hand, I’m dreading any reference to Benny, any expressions of sympathy. On the other hand, if my parents try to sweep it under the carpet, if they don’t speak his name, that will infuriate me even more. It’s like I’m not being fair to them, you know?”
“It will be almost two years since we were home, Ellie,” he said quietly. “We have to face up to what has happened to—to the fact that America is home.”
Easy for you to say, she wanted to say. I see how well you’re doing facing up to reality, losing yourself in the company of a nine-year-old boy we are practically stealing from his parents, unable to bear the thought of going home without having him by your side. But she could not, would not, say this out loud. She wanted Frank to retain whatever delusions brought him comfort, wanted to allow him to decorate his life with whatever streamers of hope he could.
“You’re right,” she said. She felt tired, unable to capture the thrilling excitement she had felt earlier this evening.
Frank put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. “Don’t worry, Ellie,” he murmured. “It’s only a short visit. And it will be good to be with family again.”
She rested her head on his shoulders, allowing herself to be lulled by the promise of his sweet lie.
The Weight of Heaven Page 22
