The Weight of Heaven

by Thrity Umrigar

  The child had come home with the computer on Christmas Eve. Prakash remembered the day well. He and Edna had spent the evening watching television, looking up eagerly each time the wind rattled their open door, thinking it was Ramesh come home. Occasionally, the tinkling sounds of laughter and voices wafted over the courtyard from the main house, making them feel even more miserable and isolated in their single room, making them feel like underworld creatures, like mice or roaches, living in the dark, while light and laughter poured out of the big house where the Americans were having their celebration. With their boy as one of the guests.

  At nine o’clock he had asked Edna if she would go to a movie with him, but she shook her head. She was thinking about the Christmas Eves of her youth in Goa, he knew, and that recognition added to the closed-in, oppressive atmosphere of this single room. “Let’s go get Ramesh and go to cinema hall,” he proposed again.

  “Are you mad?” she snapped. “No manners? He at a party.”

  What did he know about manners and parties? He had never been invited to a party in his life. Diwali celebrations, Holi processions, were all community affairs, and when he was a child he would enter people’s homes uninvited, like a scrap of paper blown in by the wind. Most of the time nobody minded, and if they did, they let him know, chased him out with words or a raised hand. Edna’s childhood, he knew, was different, with family parties and dances and socials. How low she had sunk since her marriage to him, how isolated he had made her life. By marrying Edna, he had orphaned her, also.

  He was brooding on this long after Edna went to bed at eleven. But he was up, feeling trapped in the little house. He longed to go sit in the courtyard, feel some of the cool December breeze on his face, but was afraid of running into the Americans or their guests, afraid that they may think he was spying on them or worse, looking into the main house with envy. He sat on his cot in the dark and made himself miserable by counting the ways in which he’d made Edna miserable.

  So he was already in a foul mood when Ramesh bounded into the house at eleven thirty and turned on the light. “Turn off the light,” he snarled. “Your mother is sleeping.” But Edna was already rolling on her side and getting out of bed.

  Edna noticed the new sneakers immediately. “Let me see, Ramu,” she said.

  But Ramesh shook his head impatiently. “Look at this, ma. My new computer. Frank gave.”

  Prakash felt a flame of jealousy shoot through him. But before he could react, Edna squealed. “What? A computer? For you?”

  Ramesh nodded proudly. “Brand-new. For me. For school.”

  The way they had gone on that night, mother and son, you’d have believed Ramesh had been given a new car, Prakash now thought. And a car he would’ve known what to do with. He would’ve known how to repair it, drive it, paint it, wash it. But this computer was like a foreign god who sat smug and fat and incomprehensible in his house. One who controlled his son, one whose light shone late into the night as Ramesh bowed his head before it.

  Prakash now eyed the hated object. He was alone at home—the boy was at school; Edna had gone shopping with Ellie miss. He thought back to the evenings when he had wanted to take his son for a walk along the beach or to the cinema house. Ramesh would get a regretful look on his face. “I can’t, Dada,” he’d say. “I have so-much, so-much homework to do.” And he’d go work on the computer.

  Well, let the boy read his books instead. Prithviji, the oldest man in the village, who could recite part of the Mahabharata by heart, had told him recently these computers were tools of the devil, corrupting the village youth, filling their heads with dangerous ideas. And wasn’t Prithviji correct? Prakash saw pictures of America on TV every day—women walking almost unclothed on the streets, priests doing wicked-wicked things to children, soldiers putting black bags over naked Iraqis and making them do unnatural things. If he had his way, he wouldn’t even let the American teach his son. God knows what the man was saying to Ramesh during their morning runs or while helping with his homework.

  Nothing he could do about the homework—Edna would leave him before she would allow Prakash to break that tie. Beside, he worked for the Americans, and he had seen how Frank looked at Ramesh with big, needy eyes. No point in lifting the rock that the snake was coiled under. No need to bring Frank’s wrath on his head.

  The machine was a different story. The computer was a guest in his home. One he could ask to leave. He went to the corner where he kept his toolbox and picked out a screwdriver and a pair of cutters. He unplugged the laptop, turned it around, and deftly unscrewed the metal panel in the back. He stared at the miniature landscape of shiny chips and wires before him, so that for a second his fascination was stronger than his fury. Regret at what he was about to do nipped at him momentarily, but he shook it off. He began to work, systematically snipping whatever wires he could. He stopped after a few minutes, satisfied with his handiwork. Slowly, carefully, he screwed the silver panel back into place. Nobody would ever guess what had happened, what he had done. He plugged the computer back on and noticed happily that there was no light in the power cord.

  He walked toward the kitchen area, pulled down a bottle of cheap liquor, and took a long, lingering swig. Then he walked out of their tiny house. There was a lift in his step that had been missing for months.

  CHAPTER 27

  Arthur D’Mello, HerbalSolutions’ IT man, laid the laptop down on Frank’s desk, a strange expression on his face. “Someone has chopped the wires, sir,” he said, his voice reflecting the bewilderment he felt. “This is a deliberate job.”

  Frank glanced at the computer and saw the veracity of what Arthur was telling him. But his mind could not comprehend what his eyes were seeing. The machine was almost brand-new. Why would someone—? And who would—?

  Even before he could complete the thought, he knew the answer. Prakash. It had to be. The fellow had destroyed the computer. No one else would be that spiteful and that reckless. But why would the jerk do this? Did he really not care about his son at all?

  He had not been too concerned when Ramesh had showed up last night complaining that his computer was not working. “Can you repair, Frank?” the boy had asked.

  “I don’t know how to fix these things, bud,” he’d replied. “But I’ll take it to work tomorrow. I’m sure Arthur can figure out what’s wrong.” All the while thinking it was a simple software glitch, not sabotage.

  Arthur was eyeing him curiously. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked, and Frank realized that some of the fury he was feeling must have shown on his face. “Yeah, fine,” he replied, forcing his face into a neutral blankness.

  “Who would do such a thing, sir?” Arthur continued. “Why?”

  Even while his rational mind told him not to confide in a subordinate, Frank heard himself saying, “A total bastard, that’s who. A jealous, insecure jerk who’s afraid of his own child’s success. I’m going to kill him when I get home tonight.”

  Arthur took one step back. “No, no, don’t say that, sir,” the young man said appeasingly. “You’re just upset, sir, I understand. What to do, sir? So many stupid-stupid people in this country.”

  Oh, don’t even get me started about this country, Frank thought. He looked at the man standing next to him. He liked Arthur—he was a smart, competent guy, one of the best hires Frank had made. Also, he was from Bombay and had a level of sophistication, indeed, a rhythm that the small-town people who made up most of HerbalSolutions’ midlevel office staff lacked. Still, he’d seen how startled Arthur had looked when he’d lashed out against Prakash. Better to be careful. How could he expect a perfect stranger to understand the extent of Prakash’s vileness and perfidy?

  He made a visible effort to control his emotions. “Well, is it fixable?” he asked, nodding toward the laptop.

  Arthur made a face. “I could try, sir,” he began. He shook his head. “But to be honest, there’s a lot of damage done. Not sure if—”

  “Forget it,” Frank said, cutting
him off. “Let’s just junk it.”

  “We can save the hard drive and other parts, sir,” Arthur said. “After all, it’s brand new.”

  Didn’t he know it? He remembered the joy on Ramesh’s face on Christmas Eve and felt murderously angry all over again. He forced himself to focus on Arthur. “Whatever you wish,” he said. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “No mention, sir,” Arthur said. He picked up the ruined laptop and left Frank’s office.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon plotting what he was going to do to Prakash. By the time Satish picked him up for the ride home, he had come to a resolution: it was time to remind Prakash of who was boss. What he wanted from the man was a confession and a promise never to do such a thing again. If that meant threatening Prakash with filing a police report, he would.

  Prakash was in the courtyard pulling the weeds from between the stones when Frank got home. His distaste rose as he saw Prakash’s skinny, bent shape. Still, he ignored the man and went indoors.

  “Hi, honey,” Ellie called to him and he gave her a kiss before he went into the bedroom to change. He came out wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts. Ellie looked up. “You have a good day?” she asked.

  “Great,” he lied. He didn’t want any of the anger that he was feeling to be squandered in the retelling of the story to her. “I’m going out to the car for a minute,” he said and walked outdoors.

  Ramesh was in the yard, helping his dad with the weeds. Frank stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the boy, unsure of whether to confront Prakash in front of his son. But right then Prakash looked up at him and smirked. Frank took in the cagey eyes, the thin smile, and then he was almost upon the man, who was still crouching on the stones as he tugged at the weeds.

  “Get up,” he said. “Get up.”

  Prakash rose slowly. “Yes?” he said.

  Frank could hear the mockery in the man’s voice. “Why did you do it?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “When did you do it?”

  Prakash’s eyes widened. “Do what, seth?”

  Frank was dimly aware of the fact that Ramesh had risen, too, and was staring at him. But he was past caring. He would get a confession out of Prakash if he had to beat it out of him. Prakash had started this provocation, but he, Frank, would end it. “You know what I’m talking about. Destroyed the computer. Tore out the wires. Why did you do it?”

  Prakash opened his mouth, but Frank spoke first. “Don’t lie to me, you scumbag. Don’t. Because if you do, next thing you know you’ll be talking to the police, not to me.” He stopped, remembering something. “Or better yet, I’ll turn you over to Gulab Singh.”

  He had instinctively chosen the right weapon to fight Prakash with. At the mention of Gulab’s name, Prakash began to wail. “Maaf karo, Frank sahib,” he said, folding his hands in a pleading gesture. “It was my mistake. Too much to drink, sir. Please forgive.”

  Prakash’s wailing drew Edna out of her house. “What?” she said. “Frank sahib, what has happened?”

  “Dada broke my computer,” Ramesh yelled to his mother. “Purposely. Cut the wires, ma.” The boy was near tears, his eyes flashing with rage. And instead of feeling sorry for Ramesh or protective of him, Frank felt a raw satisfaction. Let the boy know what his father is made of, he thought. It’s time he knew his character.

  “Besharam,” Edna berated her husband. “Wormeater. Kutta. I curse the day I laid eyes on you.”

  As if to salvage his last remaining pride, Prakash turned on Edna with a growl. “Shut up, you whore,” he yelled and raised his hand toward Edna. “Get back to the house.”

  Frank moved. His right fist landed on Prakash’s chest bone at the exact moment that Ellie came into the courtyard to see what the commotion was about. Prakash staggered back five steps and then fell heavily on his butt. He stayed on the ground, moaning to himself, rubbing his chest with both his hands. The blow had landed harder than Frank had intended. He knew from how his knuckles stung.

  “Frank,” Ellie screamed as she raced toward where he was standing, towering over Prakash. For a full minute, she was the only one moving. The other four stood frozen, varying degrees of shock registering on their faces.

  “Oh, shit,” Frank said, staring at Ellie and then at Ramesh. “I didn’t mean to—. I thought he was going to hurt her,” he added, pointing toward Edna.

  Ramesh was staring at him, an expression on his face he couldn’t read. And then, still keeping his eyes on Frank, Ramesh went up to his father and sat down beside him, stroking his arm. “Chalo, Dada,” he said. “Get up. Come into the house.”

  Frank felt his cheeks burn. He wished Ellie wasn’t here to witness his shame, the obvious fact that Ramesh had sided with his father over him. He noticed the protective way in which Ramesh cradled his father, the careful way in which he was helping him get to his feet.

  Just before hobbling away, Prakash looked at Frank. The contempt on the man’s face took Frank’s breath away. It was a look that said that Prakash knew what Frank saw—that even in defeat, he was triumphant. Because Ramesh belonged to him. Because the ties of blood could not be severed as easily as cutting the wires on a computer.

  Edna, ever anxious to curry favor with her employers, must’ve dimly registered what had just occurred. “Thank you for saving me, sir,” she said. “Not telling what that drunkard would have done.” Getting no reaction from Frank, she turned toward Ellie. “He save me, miss,” she said. “That rat was about to—”

  “I know, Edna, I know,” Ellie said dryly, and Frank knew that she was not convinced.

  Ellie turned to Frank. “This is enough drama for one day, don’t you think? Let’s go in.”

  He followed behind her. As he’d predicted, she turned to him as soon as he shut the door behind them. “You hit him? Are you out of your mind? Can’t you find someone your own size to—”

  “Damn you,” he said in a low voice. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what he did. He’s a piece of shit. And I should’ve known that you’d side with that prick instead of with me.” But what he was really thinking was, Ramesh went to his father’s aid, not mine. Even after he found out what his dad had done.

  “Frank,” Ellie began, but he cut her off.

  “No. Not today. Save the social worker act for someone else. You don’t even understand or like these people. You—you just feel sorry for them, that’s all.” He turned around and left the room. He sat on the porch for a few minutes and watched the sea churning in the distance. But he was too agitated to sit still. He got up, crossed the front lawn, and ran down the steps to the beach. He tied one shoelace that had come undone and began to run along the water, the evening sun sinking to his left.

  But no matter how fast he ran, he could not run away from the image of Ramesh sitting beside his fallen father, stroking his arm. Stupid, stupid, he chided himself. Hitting the bastard in front of the child. Leaving the poor kid with no choice. Frank made a fist and slammed it into his left hand repeatedly, punishing himself for his violence, for his lack of control. A few fishermen drying their nets on the sand looked at him curiously as he ran along, punching and talking to himself. He barely noticed them.

  The sun had set by the time he got home, and he ran the last quarter mile in darkness. Ellie had left the porch light on for him. She was reading in the living room and looked up when he came in. He wanted to ask whether Ramesh had come asking for him but didn’t have the heart to find out. Besides, he was pretty sure he knew the answer. The boy was probably home with his father, who would soak up sympathy like bread in a bowl of warm milk.

  Pulling off his drenched T-shirt, he headed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 28

  Ramesh was gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Along with his father.

  Two days after Frank’s altercation with Prakash, the latter had left the house to go pick up Ramesh from school as he usually did. He had mumbled something to Edna about taking his son for an outing and that they would be home la
te. Edna, happy any time Prakash paid attention to his son, had been glad. But at eight that evening Mulad, one of the village drunks, had staggered up the driveway, knocked on Edna’s door and handed her a note. It was in Ramesh’s handwriting but was dictated by Prakash.

  Dear Edna, the note said, I am taking my son away for a while. The boy needs to understand where he comes from. And I am needing to know my son. You please do all the cooking at the main house while we are away. Don’t worry. We will return soon.

  Your husband,

  Prakash

  Edna read the note and then brought it over for Frank and Ellie to decipher.

  What caught Frank’s immediate attention was Prakash’s two mentions of Ramesh as “my son.” He looked at Ellie to see if she had picked up on the current of hostility that wound its way through the letter. But the expression on her face told him that she didn’t see what he did—that this was Prakash’s revenge for Frank humiliating him in front of his family.

  “Where could he have taken the boy?” he asked Edna.

  “That only I’m asking myself, sir. I’m thinking and thinking but not knowing. But the blue suitcase is missing. God only knows when Prakash took it out of the house.”

  Frank gritted his teeth. “Does he have any idea how it’s gonna set Ramesh back in school, this little—adventure?”

  Edna looked ready to cry. Ellie shot him a warning look. “I’m sure Prakash is aware of that, honey,” she said smoothly. “I’m sure they’ll only be gone for a day or two.”

  He barely heard her. He had just had another thought: What if the note was a ruse to buy Prakash some time? What if the drunken bastard had fled forever with Ramesh? In a country of a billion people, how would he ever find Ramesh again?