Kalyana Read online

  The guests: There were so many, and they sat where they pleased. Some sat on the wooden benches we had prepared, and a few took the chairs that had been set in far corners of the shed. Others sat on the mat on the ground, and still more found their places on the porch steps. Our front yard was overflowing with vibrancies: bright saris, printed dresses, and colorful suits.

  Manjula was led out of her room by a group of young girls. She came out slowly, with her eyes cast down and a red and gold dupatta covering her head. When she was seated next to Peter, his hand was placed underneath hers and a red ribbon was pinned at the ends of her sari and joined with Peter’s kurta. We sat around the bride and the groom as they adorned each other with the garlands I had made. The pundit was chanting prayers I could not understand.

  Now that the great event was finally happening, I was suddenly bored. I sat in a corner, on the wooden seat that my father and Raju had erected, and watched the smoke of the small fire escape into the humid air. A traditional Hindu ceremony went on for hours, it seemed, and I fidgeted on the bench. I wished that Kirtan were there. He could make the time pass like a swift, cool breeze.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle Baldev standing at the side of our house. He took something yellow and small out of his pocket. Winking, he flashed it quickly towards me, making me smile. He discreetly put it back in his pocket, and I suddenly became curious. What was it that he was hiding? Another baby chicken, or perhaps a baby duck this time? I had never owned a duck before. It could be a yellow toy. Or perhaps barfi—my favorite Indian sweet? He motioned for me to come to him.

  Nobody cared what I did. This was Manjula’s day, like my mother had said; all eyes were on her alone. I was not used to being ignored, and I really wanted to know what was in my uncle’s right jacket pocket. I nudged my mother. “I got to go soo soo, Mummy.”

  “Ssh!” she hissed.

  “I really have to go, Mummy.” I looked back at the house. Uncle Baldev had disappeared.

  My mother glanced at the house briefly. “Fine, fine, go, Kalyana,” she hissed. The pundit, still chanting, reached over and placed sandalwood paste on the foreheads of both bride and groom. Then Manjula bent her head forward and Peter lifted her bindia and dropped a pinch of vermilion powder in the part of her hair.

  I got up from the bench in the shed and walked slowly to the main door. Then I ran through the house and slipped out the back door. I ran straight to my Uncle Baldev, who was loitering among the tall vines and swaying trees.

  “My big girl,” he said, gently grabbing my hand. He rubbed my fingers. “Was the wedding boring?”

  I nodded my head. My Uncle Baldev understood me better than my mother, I thought, and I snuffled a little. I kept eyeing his right jacket pocket, but I didn’t want to ask him what he had hidden there. He might think I was forward and rude and choose to give me nothing.

  “Kali-yana!” He sang my name as he led me away, holding onto my pinkie. “Let’s go see the chickens.”

  We walked towards the Chicken House. The pundit’s chants grew fainter and fainter as we moved further from my father’s house. Soon all I could hear was the clucking of the chickens and the rustling of the coconut leaves in the distant cemetery. Hot air blew through my hair and the blazing afternoon sun beat down on my skin. I fixed my eyes on Uncle Baldev’s jacket pocket.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said in Hindi. He laughed, dipping his hand in his pocket, and brought out a fat, ripe mango. His big fingers squeezed the fruit as he handed it to me. Reluctantly, I took it from him. I loved fruit, but I had hoped for a different treat: some fuzzy, living creature, perhaps.

  Holding the mango in my hand, I stirred the saliva in my mouth. I gingerly bit the top of the fruit, and then sucked the juice vigorously. Rivulets of juice streamed down the sides of my cheeks, making them moist and sticky. Uncle Baldev stood there silently, watching.

  When I finished eating the mango, I threw the skin in the Chicken House. The chickens flocked to it the moment it landed on the ground. I noticed Uncle Baldev quickly look back over his shoulder, towards the back of our house. I turned around and followed his gaze. The curtains in the back windows were drawn and the backyard was bare. The house stood alone, silent and still.

  “Come,” said Uncle Baldev, motioning for me to enter the wooden shack of the Chicken House. I felt a knot building in the pit of my stomach.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to miss the rest of Manjula’s wedding. I better go back, Uncle. Mummy’s probably looking for me.”

  “Your mother knows you’re with me,” he said smoothly. “She told me to take you to the Chicken House.”

  I looked up at him, confused. Why would my mother tell my uncle to take me to the shack? I told her I was going to the toilet, didn’t I? It made no sense.

  “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and led me inside the shack. I didn’t want to disobey my mother or my uncle, so I meekly followed his lead.

  The chickens scurried away as we entered. Uncle Baldev sat at the edge of the tire and placed me on his lap. The smell of whiskey on his breath and the stale cigarette stench on his clothes seemed more pronounced in this small space. He kissed my cheek and rubbed my head. “Very pretty,” he said. “Very pretty.”

  My stomach felt hollow and sick. I couldn’t understand why my mother had wanted me to come to the Chicken House with Uncle Baldev.

  “Your mother told me that you have a boyfriend,” he said, stroking my back.

  My spine tingled strangely, but I shook my head. “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  “He’s a boy and a friend, so he has to be your boyfriend.” His smile was strange, twisted. Chills shot through my plump body, making the hair on my arms rise.

  The strong stench of the chickens’ dung filled my nostrils. Uncle Baldev’s hands slipped under my red dress, up my thighs. His hand burned a hole in my skin and yet turned my body to ice.

  I started to cry.

  “Don’t cry,” he ordered. His sweet tone had turned curt and cold, like the ugly ogre who sat below the bridge. “Sit still or else I will beat you like I was going to beat Manjula that day in my house. You remember, Kali-yana?”

  I hated being called Kali-yana. I had always hated it. I nodded my head but could not stop crying.

  “See this?” he said. He showed me his pocket knife. It had a red handle and a pointed blade that flashed in the dim light. He twisted the knife in his hand. “If you tell anyone, I’ll take your eyes out like I take the eyes out of a pineapple.” My uncle’s face was cold and hard.

  I shuddered in his tight embrace. The shack became blurry. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. It was so hot, yet I shivered constantly. I could feel his breath in the hollow of my neck. The mango juice churned and bubbled like acid in my stomach, leaving a pungent taste in my mouth.

  His weight on top of my small body muffled my cries. Snot and tears ran down my face. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, but I did not make a single sound for fear of having my eyes taken out like a pineapple’s. I was quieter than a dead snake as the first burst of pain exploded in my small body.

  In the hollow darkness of my mind, I saw roses turn to ash and fall to the ground. I saw the four old women rise from the earth and circle the shack, like dead spirits circling the grave. The first one blew in like a mighty hurricane. The walls shuddered with the force of her wind. The second one, like a fierce rain, fell upon the shack with a violent might, making the ground flood and the chickens drown. The third woman brought fires, like lightning that struck from the skies. My father’s shack was enveloped in choking black smoke. Then the last old woman, the Mother, appeared. She was the mightiest of them all. The earth shook and trembled as she stood over it like Goddess Kali stood over Lord Shiva. The shack, like a stack of playing cards, crumbled to the ground, and the fourth old woman swallowed us whole.

  I o
pened my eyes.

  In the distance, I heard my mother’s voice calling my name. Uncle Baldev grunted, “Pull up your undies, Kali-yana. What’s your mother going to think?” I did as he asked, without question or arguments. He carried me out of the shack in his arms, that same horrid smell of whiskey on his breath. The stale cigarette stench on his clothes was now on mine.

  “I found her sleeping in the shack, Sumitri,” he said smoothly. He smiled then, a horrible grin that exposed his missing front tooth. His skin smelled like dog’s urine.

  Squinting, my mother snatched me from his embrace and pulled me close. “What was she doing in the Chicken House?” Her voice hid a tiny shiver.

  “No idea, Sister.” Uncle Baldev’s face was smooth, expressionless. He shrugged his shoulders and turned away. I buried my face in my mother’s chest, smelling the lavender scent on her clothes and jasmine in her hair. I could hear the same coconut leaves rustling in the warm breeze. The clouds floated away, taking foreign shapes and forms in the pale blue sky. I never wanted to leave the warmth of my mother’s bosom.

  My mother carried me, I do not know how, across the backyard, through the door, and into her bedroom. She set me gently on her bed and stood back a moment.

  I had seen the look of horror flit across her face and then the odd chill, a forced casualness, that followed it. Her tight face and lips insisted wordlessly that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Everything else was the same in her room: The dresser stood in a corner, the bed was made without a wrinkle, and the nailpolishes stood in a straight row on the dresser. My reddish-purple color was a little off from the center.

  My mother took my bloody underwear and discreetly shoved it underneath her mattress. She looked over her shoulder once. The room was still empty; the guests, along with my brother and father, were outside, celebrating the propitious occasion.

  My mother said that she would burn my panties in the fire later. They would turn to ashes and become part of the earth, burying my secret. Nobody could know.

  “Later?” I croaked. It was as though my voice had disappeared, although I was sure I hadn’t screamed.

  “Yes, later. When the guests are gone, Kalyana. When the guests are gone.” She was busying herself around the room, not looking at me.

  I could hear the pundit chant Sanskrit prayers as he rang the bell. “Svaha,” he said over and over again. I could hear the fire crackling as he dropped the offerings on the burning wood. Was that the smoke of incense I could smell from far off? I hid my body underneath my mother’s blanket.

  “There are some stories in this world that should never be told, Kalyana.” My mother said this calmly, as if someone had just burned milk and it had overflowed, staining the stove. I didn’t say anything.

  “You hear me, Kalyana?” she said. “You hear me?” I nodded my head weakly. “I feel shame. I feel a tremendous amount of shame,” she sighed, shaking her head. Her eyes were empty vessels. I retreated further under the covers.

  I had shamed my mother.

  “You can’t tell it to Daddy.”

  Then I would shame my beloved father.

  “Daddy will kill him, and then the police will come and take him to jail. How would we survive without a man? Do you want your daddy to go to jail?”

  Then I would shame my entire family, cousins and all.

  “Promise me that you won’t ever tell him. Promise?” She took my hand and placed it on her head. It was a symbol of a true word given—a promise that couldn’t be broken. She smiled faintly. “You can’t even tell it to Raju or Manjula or your teachers. You can’t tell this to anyone.”

  “Kirtan?” I broke my silence.

  “You especially can’t tell it to Kirtan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wouldn’t want you if he knew.”

  She paused. “Listen carefully,” she said. “This is the curse of being a woman, Kalyana. We are blamed for everything that goes wrong. For every child that dies in birth or in the womb. For every child that loses his way. For every time a man lies with a woman, we are blamed. For every heart that breaks. For every unfaithful man who strays. It is not the man who carries the blame.”

  I began to cry, and my mother sighed and stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. “You can cry,” she said. “Maybe in secret.”

  One day my mother had cried alone; but it was not in secret, for I had heard her. I cried now, sobbing helplessly until I had fallen asleep in my mother’s bed.

  I did not awaken until all the guests had departed and my blood-soaked panties had become part of the earth.

  18

  I tried to transform my feelings into characters, and my pain into words. But the paper before me, remained blank; the black chalkboard in front of me remained bare. Days passed. Nights turned chilly. Flowers died and then bloomed again. Rain splattered on the tin roofs. Coconut leaves continued to rustle in the wind. But then the sun’s rays emerged from behind the clouds again. Yet I remained unchanged. I remained cold.

  On my first day back to school, I took a tensor bandage and wrapped it tightly around my right arm. I frantically covered the blood, the pain, and the cuts that were not there.

  Kirtan was horrified to see me with this injury. During lunch, when he was sitting by my side under the bougainvillea hedge, he asked me about it outright. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Cut it, Kirtan. That’s all.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “How did you cut it, Kalyana? You have to be careful.”

  “My uncle cut it.”

  “Your uncle cut it?”

  “Yes.” I looked to the ground. Kirtan noticed. I looked away to the side.

  “Does your Mummy know?”

  I could not tell Kirtan that Mummy knew. Kirtan would wonder why Mummy did not beat Uncle Baldev for hurting me. He would think that she did not love me. I could not let him think that, so I shook my head. Quickly, I invented an excuse. “Uncle Baldev said not to tell anyone.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.” I paused. “He did it on purpose, that’s why.” I blurted out forcefully, suddenly angry.

  Anger seeped into Kirtan’s eyes, too. He stood up abruptly and kicked and punched the tree, hurting his knuckles. “I’ll kill him!” he yelled.

  I smiled contentedly.

  “Where does he live? Tell me.” He was full of energy and passion.

  “Nausori.”

  “Nausori? I don’t know how I’ll get there. My father will have to drive me there. I’ll cut his arm first before I kill him.”

  “I love you, Kirtan.”

  He sat back down and relaxed. We rested there, basking in the sublime quietness of the warm afternoon, and I wondered whether Kirtan indeed would have his revenge. I hoped that he would keep entertaining such thoughts. It gave me tremendous pleasure to picture it in my mind’s eye.

  19

  Manjula remained in Fiji with Peter for a full six weeks before flying away to Toronto. During her final week, she stayed with us.

  My mother never left her side. They spent the afternoons talking in my mother’s bedroom, eating Kit Kat chocolate bars and mint ice cream and oiling each other’s hair. I had heard my mother tell Manjula that, on the night of her own wedding, she sat sobbing at the foot of the bed as my father soundly slept. She was sure that Manjula, a hungry tigress without any fear or womanly shame, had pounced on her groom. Manjula had smirked while my mother’s laugh rattled the windows and shook the curtains.

  I sat in my room, staring at the bare walls. I had longed for Manjula’s departure, for life to resume its normal course. I had anxiously awaited the day when our bedroom belonged solely to me. But now, I dreaded having to sleep alone.

  On the final night, Manjula went out to the sea and collected crabs for the las
t time. Peter also came for the feast. As always, my aunt wore her best frock, but this time, the whole family dressed finely. All except me. I sat and watched as the strangers around me laughed and gabbed well into the night.

  While usually I abhorred Manjula’s crab feasts, this time I devoured four bowls of crab curry and three platefuls of rice. Every breath was a struggle and every movement difficult. I lay in a corner on the floor with my legs apart and my stomach swollen.

  My mother sat shaking her head. My father ignored the whole matter, and Raju just laughed like an underaged child. But I said nothing.

  Peter and Manjula sat side by side, holding hands. They gleamed in the evening light. I had never seen my mother and father sit so close or look even half as happy as they did.

  “Newlyweds!” said my mother. “That’s what they are. The glow fades with time.”

  I was hunched in the corner when Manjula came to bid her farewell. Kneeling down beside me, she said, “Kalyana, my baby. Always keep your head up high. Whatever you do and wherever you go, remember this. Okay?”

  I heard what Raju whispered in Manjula’s ear before she left. He said, “Bring me back some Canadian cigarettes and beer, okay Auntie Manju!”

  She winked at him and kissed his cheek and forehead. She then thanked my father for his generosity, for keeping her in his house and making her part of his family. My father leaned back in his chair and, putting his hands behind his head, he watched her say her departing prayers. I thought his manner cold. He could have at least said, “Good luck, Manjula,” before she left.

  Perhaps my mother said “goodbye” for both of them. She broke into a fit of tears first, soaking the ends of her sari as she cried shamelessly. The neighbors, hearing her loud wails, came out of their houses to see.

  Manjula pulled her close to her heart and squeezed her back. They stood there holding tightly to each other, filling buckets with their tears. Then Manjula finally broke away from my mother. My aunt and her husband walked out of the door and out of our lives.