Kalyana Page 10

  “My mother told me all about American women going mad and starting a movement while being under the influence,” I offered. “What did you get?” I added in a low voice.

  “Pardon me?” he said.

  “Your lunch,” I said, leaning over. “What did you get?”

  “Potato, onion, and masala. And you?” He leaned over to see what my mother had packed.

  “Green cabbage and roti.” I scrunched up my nose. “I hate cabbage. I like potatoes better.”

  “Here,” he said. “You eat my lunch, and I’ll eat yours. I don’t mind cabbage.”

  And that was the beginning of Kirtan and me, our story. We traded lunch under the shade of a bougainvillea hedge and talked about being revolutionary. The sun shone and the grasshoppers skipped, the flowers smiled and butterflies rose all around us. I was no longer alone.

  14

  To my disappointment, the next time Uncle Baldev came over he didn’t bring ripe mangoes or raw sugarcanes. I pouted in a corner and blamed my mother for opening her mouth and telling him that I was too fat.

  Instead, he brought a small, brown cardboard box that was covered with a translucent blue material. It smelled like dung. My mother was horrified when she came out to greet Uncle Baldev. Manjula followed close behind her, looking curious.

  “Go on,” said Uncle Baldev. “Look inside, Kali-yana.”

  I did, and a thrilling sensation soared through me the moment my eyes rested on six yellow, fuzzy creatures. They looked up to me with piercing black eyes and then wobbled around the box, using their tiny beaks to peck at grains of food or drink water from a pink plastic bowl. I picked one little chick up and caressed it, bringing it close to my cheek. Its down felt soft against my skin.

  “Baby chickens? Oh, Baldev ji!” My mother waved her hands, upset. “What did you do now? Kalyana can’t take care of them. The task of looking after them will fall only on my head.”

  I tugged the end of her sari, begging to keep them. “Please, Mummy. Please.”

  It was Uncle Baldev who persuaded her. “Sumitri, I am sure Manjula would help,” he said pointedly. My mother remained unconvinced. “It’s not like Manjula is getting married tomorrow.” He winked and smiled mischievously. My mother nodded her head hesitantly and sighed, but dropped the subject.

  Uncle Baldev looked over to me and smiled again. Since the last time I had seen him, he had lost one of his front teeth. He looked even more homely than before, but I ran over and hugged him tightly. I was getting used to the whiskey breath and the stale stench of cigarettes on his clothes. Even the feel of his whiskers brushing against my cheeks was becoming less repulsive.

  Uncle Baldev went back outside to the front porch and moved a sack of shavings and a bag of chicken feed into the living room. My mother shrugged and put her hand on her head. Manjula stood by the doorway, expressionless. Was she offended by the careless words? Perhaps she was simply remembering what she had done in Uncle Baldev’s living room, all that time ago. Nonetheless, I was happy. I had two friends, Kirtan and my uncle, and now six baby chickens of my own.

  I was in love with my new pets. I took turns patting all of the baby chicks, stroking their heads, rubbing their backs, and tickling their bellies.

  “Every day, Kali-yana,” said Uncle Baldev in Hindi, “you have to take them out of the box and change the newspaper lining the bottom. Use fresh, clean newspaper and a few handfuls of shavings. Put water in this bowl and food in this one.” He always spoke Hindi, like my father. I think that, like my father, he also read the newspapers by looking at the pictures.

  “No problem, Uncle,” I said.

  Manjula rolled her eyes.

  “How about that?” said my Uncle Baldev.

  How about that!

  I did change the newspaper lining and give the baby chickens food and water as Uncle Baldev had instructed me—for the first few weeks, at least. After that, I left the care mostly to Manjula, although I continued to pet them and cuddle them every afternoon when I came home from school. Two months later, the chickens were too big to stay in a cardboard box, so Manjula went to the far corner of our backyard, close to the cemetery, and with Father’s help, built a small wooden shed, surrounded by a metal fence. She called it the “Chicken House.”

  “The Chicken House is far away enough from our house that we won’t be able to smell their poop,” she declared confidently.

  The Chicken House stood less than five feet in height and was only six feet wide and seven feet long. My father covered the ground with hay and put a round tire in the middle of the wooden shed.

  “The little house will keep the chickens warm and dry in a rainstorm,” he said. “They can jump on and off the tire and keep themselves amused, Kalyana.”

  I told Kirtan about my new pet chickens. He wanted to see them, so I invited him down to our house. “Kirtan?” said my mother, right before his father dropped him off on the front porch steps of our house. “What kind of name is that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and looked up to the ceiling. “That’s what he says his name is. So that’s what it is.”

  “Kirtan is not a name. It’s a song of devotion.” Manjula limped into the living room. “You haven’t even finished primary school and you’ve got a boyfriend already,” she said, smirking.

  I stopped smiling. I didn’t want Manjula to tell him that he was my boyfriend; Kirtan might never come to visit me again. “He’s not my boyfriend. He is my friend,” I said forcefully.

  “Whatever you say,” said Manjula. She turned abruptly and walked away, and thankfully my mother also stopped questioning me.

  Yet when Kirtan stood at my door, looking sharp in khaki shorts, a crisp white shirt, and a red striped tie, my mother still smirked. “Is Kirtan hungry?” she asked.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Seth. I already ate.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Seth. My mother gave me a glass of almond milk before I came.”

  My mother shook her head, smiled, and told me to go and play outside with my little friend.

  I took him out to the backyard, to the Chicken House. We squatted side by side and watched the chickens graze and peck on seeds. They made noises that neither of us could understand, but they looked peaceful and content.

  When we got tired of visiting the chickens, we went and sat underneath the lime tree and played house. I brought out my most treasured possession, the stainless-steel stove, and shared it with Kirtan. We stirred rose petals and lime leaves in plastic toy pots. We decorated mud pies with scrunched-up marigold flowers and jasmine petals. He never complained once, but happily went along with all the games I created for us.

  When the make-believe dinners were eaten and the dishes rinsed in water, we sprawled under the lime tree on a thin blanket and pretended to sleep side by side like real husbands and wives. I knew then that one day I would grow up and ask the pundit to chant Sanskrit over the open fires, joining Kirtan’s hand with mine. But I would wear pink, not red like most brides, and I would look ahead instead of down to the ground, disobeying my mother’s well-meaning advice. Should I change my last name to Singh? I had come to like being called Seth.

  Perhaps even after all those years, Manjula would still be waiting for the arrival of her groom. Would she plant a joyous smile on her face and carry on with my wedding chores, as if it were her true calling? Perhaps she would take to bed and nurse her bleeding heart and count her sorrows one by one. Manjula or not, on the day I married my Kirtan, the four old women would beat the drums with their bare hands and bellow songs out of tune. I knew they would dance like hurricanes under the giant yellow moon, and I couldn’t wait for this day, my day, to come.

  15

  Unexpectedly, Manjula’s day arrived more quickly than mine.

  A gentle Christian man, a lonely widower who was only forty-five years old, was seeking a good wife
to care for his two teenage sons. We knew very little about them, but my mother said that Peter was an Anglo-Indian: half-British and half-Indian. She called him an effect of colonization. Mother also said that he was from the land where maple leaves grew bright red, like the color of blood. It was a place where buffalo used to roam wild, where buildings now scraped the skies.

  Buffalo?

  Mother didn’t know exactly what they were. “He’s from overseas,” she explained. “From Canada. A big Canadian city called Toronto.”

  This intrigued me, for this place called Toronto was close to America. Some even said that, in actuality, it sat right on top of America itself. To think that Manjula could marry a half-gora and make her way to America! Who knew what might happen then.

  The gossip was that Peter had moved there from the Fiji Islands with his entire family when he was only five years old, soon after the Great Depression had ended. Since he grew up in Canada, he was Western in his thoughts and values, the villagers said, some disapprovingly. Most importantly, though, he was forgiving of small flaws such as limps and gray hairs and slight wrinkles. The word in the village was that he was already impressed that Manjula knew how to drive and read in English, as these skills would create one less headache for him.

  For one month before their meeting, Manjula religiously arose before dawn and started pacing the house. Over and over, she practiced walking slowly and gracefully. After a few hours of pacing, she would stop and ask my mother, “How’s the limp looking? How am I doing?”

  My mother would shake her head and say, “Just keep practicing, Manjula. It’s looking a little better. But keep practicing.”

  So Manjula would go back to the slow, controlled pacing. She concentrated on every step, every sway of her hips. On the weekends, I watched her go up and down the living room for hours on end. I couldn’t tell whether she was walking better; at least from where I was sitting, it didn’t appear that she was limping any less. The limp was part of Manjula, after all. It was the life of her, like the milk of the coconut or the juice of the mango. Or as Manjula might have to say now, the sap of a maple.

  This time the meeting was to take place in the comfort of our own living room. When the day arrived, my mother came to Manjula and dropped kajal in her hair again. Manjula wore the same gold sari with the maroon border that she had worn for Rabir. She rouged her cheekbones and once again put maroon lipstick on the curve of her lips. She looked beautiful as she sat stiffly, awaiting her second suitor.

  He arrived right on time, in a beaten-up car. Unlike Rabir, however, he didn’t have a pregnant belly or a mole on his cheek. Instead, he had a square face, similar to Manjula’s but with masculine features. Covering his graying hair was the most charming black hat, one that he took off the moment he entered our home. Later, I learned that it was called a fedora.

  I thought he was such an attractive gentleman that Manjula would be no match for him. Surely he would turn my aunt down, destroying her dreams once more. And yet he smiled at Manjula when he sat down in front of her. All this I observed from my perch on the chair across the room.

  This Peter came with his older sister, who was nothing like Rabir’s sister-in-law. She was humbly dressed and had gray hair oiled and tied back in a ponytail. She said little, choosing to sit silently through the process. She did not look down her nose at Manjula or my parents.

  My mother served Indian sweets and deep-fried goodies, with ginger chai in real china cups. She only brought these out on special occasions. “Have some more bhajiya, Peter ji. Manjula woke up before dawn to prepare all of this for you. Come on, have some more.”

  After a few casual exchanges with my father, Peter looked directly at Manjula. I think she believed that humiliation was imminent. Sitting at the edge of her seat, she clutched the armrests in nervous anticipation.

  But her suitor didn’t ask her to show him how she walked. Instead, he reached in his pocket and bought out a pamphlet. Leaning over, he handed it to her and said, “I hear you are learned in English. I couldn’t believe it. Could you, please?”

  “Sure. Sure,” said Manjula, shocked into speech. “No problem.” After a small pause, she read slowly, careful not to make a mistake. “For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

  Peter clapped his hands together and smiled, brightening up the entire room. “Fabulous! Fabulous!”

  I nudged my mother’s sari and whispered, “What does that mean, Mummy?”

  “Shh!” warned my mother.

  “Do you drive as well as you read?” Peter paused, and then answered his own question. “You probably do. Very progressive! Fiji has come a long way since my family and I left. Good to see!”

  He clapped his hands again, looked at his sister, and said, “Shall we?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Sure. Why not? She’s very pretty.”

  Peter put his palms together, looked to my father, and said, “I am leaving in two weeks. But I’ll be coming back to Fiji in three months. I would like to take my wife with me at that time.” He looked over to Manjula and said, “If she agrees to have me as her husband.”

  Manjula looked at the ground shyly, batted her eyes, and smiled. It sickened me to see my aunt flaunting herself so shamelessly in front of these strangers. I pouted unnoticed in a corner.

  “Three months?” said my mother. “How can that be possible? Indian weddings can’t be put together in three months. There’s saris to be bought, henna to be painted, food to be planned, decorations to be hung, halls to be rented, sheds to be built, invitations to be sent. Oh, my God! Three months!”

  “Don’t worry, Sister. We were hoping for a small wedding. And we are more than willing to help with any costs…”

  “We’re a prosperous family, Peter. Cost is not an issue,” my father interrupted. He sounded mildly insulted. “We can put it together in three months, if you so wish.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Peter. He leaned closer to my father and said, gently and softly, “We were also hoping for a Christian wedding in a proper church, if it’s not too much to ask.”

  “Christian wedding?” said my father sternly. “No woman from my home will leave without a proper Hindu ceremony.”

  Manjula flared her nostrils. My mother tilted her head and pursed her lips, sealing them tightly. I wondered whether Manjula would leap out of her seat, saying the wrong thing or defying my father in front of these foreign guests who wore hats and came from a land where leaves turned red. She certainly looked mutinous.

  Manjula’s suitor leaned back in his chair, frowning. I was sure that he would stride out of the room, leaving Manjula to wait another five years for an offer to come. I sat gripping the arms of my chair, envying Raju for not being present.

  Peter hemmed and hawed. Then, looking at Manjula sitting calmly, he smiled and said to my father, “Tell you what, Mr. Seth. You put on an Indian wedding. When I go back to Canada, we’ll do a small church ceremony.”

  Manjula looked to the floor and smiled more brightly than the small bulb on the ceiling. My mother relaxed in her seat; I heard her sigh under her breath.

  So it was settled. But I felt like as though I had been struck with a hammer, a blow that blurred the thoughts stirring in my head. Perhaps I had truly gone mad, like Shilpa, for I must be hearing things that weren’t being said and seeing things in different shades. Manjula, our Manjula, was going to get married! And not just once, but twice! Could that really be?

  And yet it was. The final date was set for December 15, in the heat of the blazing Fiji sun.

  As Peter and his sister were walking out the door, my mother whispered to him, “You are aware that she walks with a limp, Peter ji?”

  He looked at my mother’s concerned face. “God made her as she is, Sister. Why should I think that He went wrong? I am sure
she is as He intended her to be. I hear she’s a virtuous woman—still untouched. In Canada, you can never be sure if a woman is virtuous or not.”

  Taking my mother’s small hand in his, he tilted his head. “She is all that I am looking for, Sister.” Then he bowed and tipped his charming hat. “Good day to you, Sumitri ji,” he said. “I am sure we’ll be in touch!”

  Winking at me, he put his hat back on his head and went out the door and out of sight, his sister following close on his heels.

  As soon as he was gone, Manjula sprang up from the chair and screamed at the top of her lungs. I sat frozen in time, still and silent. Manjula, our Manjula, the Manjula who walked with a limp and had a temper that rose and fell like the ocean tides, the Manjula whom Rabir had rejected those many years ago, was getting married at last!

  Father put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. My mother shook her head and exclaimed, “We all find our princes one day! It’s fate! Destiny! What else would it be? My beloved sister is getting married!”

  Manjula was getting married.

  Oh, my God!

  16

  Peter returned unexpectedly right before he left to return to Canada. He sat and talked with Manjula under the lime tree. They looked charming together, and I suddenly thought of Cinderella in the fairy tale. Manjula glanced at the ground often and blushed, as her suitor sat there staring at his bride-to-be under the tree. Once, I even saw her whisper something that made him chuckle loudly.

  I wished I knew what they were speaking about.

  When he left, Manjula disappeared into a dream world. She sat in silence for hours, staring at the ceilings and her bedroom walls, smiling the whole time. My mother said that she was madly in love, that’s all.

  I started singing romantic songs every time Manjula passed by. I would sing one song in particular: “My heart is beating. It keeps on repeating. I am waiting for you…” The Hindi movie Julie had not even been released, but the radio was already playing its theme song. Just like Manjula was not yet married, but I was singing of her love.