Kalyana Page 14

  When the winds had stilled and sunlight finally pushed through the cracks in the shutters, we went outside to assess the damage. Power lines had fallen on the ground, and my mother instructed me not to touch anything, especially the fallen wires. I nervously watched my step, staying safely behind her and Father. The neighbors came out of their houses and walked the streets. Some carried gossip, but some brought furrowed brows and creased foreheads.

  “Did you hear that the wind snatched the roof right off Kalwant Singh’s house and took it to sea?”

  “They ran out of their house in the pelting rain and stayed at Kunti’s house. Nobody got hurt. They are all okay, surviving.”

  “Thank God they are safe! But their belongings, not so good—the wind took everything out to the sea.”

  The villagers, all Indians, gathered together to collect money, clothing, and furniture to replace Kalwant Singh’s possessions. Each person in the village worked to pick up broken branches and fallen trees and to clear paths. Everyone had assigned duties.

  My task was to collect the limes that had showered to the ground beneath our lime tree, which was still miraculously standing. This was a good assignment, much better than picking up pieces of wood, my father said. He took the limes and sold them for three dollars a dozen to the Guajarati ladies who lived close to his shop. Then he took me to the bank, where we deposited the money in a savings account under my own name. We—or I, rather—made over $80.

  Our house and the lime tree had been spared by the grace of God; except for the fallen limes, both stood strong through the storm, unscathed and untouched. But Cyclone Elsa had ripped the roof and walls of the Chicken House right from the ground and carried them off into the blackened skies. The fence surrounding the coop remained where it had toppled to the earth. The remaining two chickens were never found.

  Raju helped my father clear what was left of the Chicken House, as my mother cleaned the back gardens, salvaging any undamaged produce and throwing the rest away to feed the birds. When I had finished gathering the limes, I sat and looked out upon the backyard. How strange it seemed without the looming structure that had housed my dark and painful secret, the vision that seared my mind each time I had looked outdoors.

  But although the Chicken House had disappeared, the winds of Cyclone Elsa had failed to sweep away the memory of my uncle. A mark had been made, and even though the visible reminders had been burned to ashes or swept into the wild winds, the effects of what had happened in that shack was to follow me though the rest of my days.

  22

  It was through these neighbors who worked together after Cyclone Elsa that my mother first learned of Roni. Roni, it was said, cleaned the house for Kathir. She finished her chores in Kathir’s house at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, and she only charged a small price for her housekeeping services. My mother’s eyes had bulged when she heard that, for ten to fifteen dollars a week, Roni could wash and iron the clothes, do the dishes, clean the windows, sweep the floors, and, on brighter days, shine the brass.

  Fifteen dollars a week was of no concern to my mother, for Father’s furniture-store business was booming. Everyone wanted a bed to sleep on and a chair to sit on. Cabinets were required, and school-aged sons and daughters now must have whole desks on which to complete their lessons. In fact, my father had been obliged put an ad in the local newspaper, seeking two employees to keep up with the customers’ demands.

  My mother, with me by her side, stood at the side of the road at a quarter to two the following Monday. We both craned our necks as a curvaceous Fijian woman emerged from Kathir’s house. She wore a flower-print wrap-around skirt and a light orange shirt: a traditional Fijian woman’s outfit. I stared at her vigorous afro that swept up to the sky. She had a bright red hibiscus flower behind her right ear.

  My mother waved her hand and signaled to her to come closer.

  “Bula,” the strange woman said warmly, flashing her bright set of perfect white teeth. While we Indians greeted each other with “Namaste” or “Ram Ram,” Fijian folk used “Bula” as a similar salutation.

  “Bula, bula,” my mother said, shaking Roni’s hand. I wrapped my mother’s petticoat strings around my fingers and stood there nervously, open-mouthed as I observed the business deal in progress.

  Roni tapped my head lightly. “Ah, big girl,” she said, smiling broadly.

  My mother and Roni had an instant chemistry, a harmonious chord seeming to pass between them. Even though Roni didn’t speak Hindi and my mother didn’t speak Fijian, both found common ground in simple English.

  “Wash clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Iron, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  Roni put her palms up in the air and gazed at my mother, waiting for her to suggest the wage.

  “Ten okay?”

  “Okay, Sister, okay.”

  “Five hours every day, three days a week?”

  “Okay, no problem.”

  “Maybe more hours?”

  “No problem.”

  Roni was agreeable to anything my mother proposed or suggested. She took my mother’s hand in both of hers and shook it lightly. She spoke with a humble gentleness and walked with charming grace. When the details of the arrangement were explained and agreed upon, my mother invited her inside our house to explain the household chores.

  I plopped myself on the living-room chair with a plateful of arrowroot biscuits. Even though I chomped noisily on my cookies and deliberately avoided the sight of Mother guiding Roni around our small house, my grim face displayed my shock. A Fijian woman, with skin the color of caramel, standing in the middle of our house in broad daylight!

  In Fiji at that time, the Indian and Fijian communities remained segregated. Fijian children attended only the Methodist schools in their villages, while Indian children studied in schools led by Hindu believers in larger towns. Yet here was my mother, bending all the rules to suit her personal selfish pursuits.

  When Roni left that day, I confronted her. “What will Father say about Roni ironing our clothes in the middle of our living room? She’s Fijian.”

  “She’s a woman first, Kalyana.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How do I explain this?” My mother thought for a while then said, “There’s not a woman in this world whom I wouldn’t welcome into my home. We’re all bonded to each other in one way or another, Kalyana. We all help one another in different ways, even in ways we cannot see.”

  I thought about what my mother had done on the day of Manjula’s wedding. I didn’t say anything.

  “Look at the American women,” my mother continued. “If they hadn’t caused a stir far away, none of us would have a chance. We would still be burning widows and killing brides at altars. And we would still be letting men decide on our future. We wouldn’t even be able to stand in line and vote, Kalyana.” She paused with a triumphant smirk, and I sighed a little, rolling my eyes.

  But my mother spoke gently. “A woman—regardless of her age, race, hair, skin color, or the rhythm of her heartbeat—will always be welcome in my home. It’s just the men who will have to stay out on the veranda.”

  The slightest smile creased the corners of my eyes.

  For a few dollars a week, Roni soon filled the empty hole Manjula had left behind in my mother’s life. Housework was no longer my mother’s biggest concern, and gradually she eased her nagging of Raju. He was no longer expected to bring home a bride, and Mother even stopped complaining when he continued his sexual misadventures with the older Fijian woman.

  “Boys sow their wild oats,” she declared once again. “That’s the way it is in this world. Raju is no different than any other boy. He’s not ready for marriage.”

  Roni filled another unspoken emptiness as well. As the days passed, it became common for me to come ho
me from school and find my mother sitting with Roni on our small veranda, laughing as they drank hot masala chai and ate Indian sweets. Soon my mother began to talk about Roni as though she were a distant member of our family.

  “I wanted to cook saina,” she would say, “but Roni prefers to eat sweet sticks. I should make some sweet sticks for chai tomorrow.”

  Or she would say, “Roni had the misfortune of being chased by wild dogs with long ears last week. The poor girl is so frightened of them now. People should tie up their animals when they know that they have raised them to be vicious. Poor Roni. She says her heart goes thump-thump-thump when she sees a dog of any color or size approaching.”

  On occasions when I stayed home from school, I witnessed my mother presiding over Roni like the Queen of England reigned over her country. She stood in the middle of the room, watching closely, giving precise orders on how to fold shirts or iron creases in pants. She hovered behind Roni as the Fijian woman soaped and rinsed the dishes in the metal sink. My mother was never shy to point out spots and stains missed.

  She let Roni know her preferences. She liked the dishes done twice; she took her chai sweeter than the other Indian ladies she knew; she didn’t like her panties ironed, a normal custom of Indo-Fijian households; and she liked the handkerchiefs folded in quarters, unlike Manjula, who had preferred to fold them in half. My mother would roll her eyes and shake her head as she pointed out this minor detail. The list of requirements she relayed to Roni went on for miles, it seemed, but Roni never challenged her or questioned her. She simply smiled and nodded her head, diligently following my mother’s instructions.

  Occasionally, Roni brought my mother produce from her communal garden. Dalo, cassava, tapioca, fresh bananas, papayas: “For you, Sister. I pick for you. All fresh. Fry banana. Kalyana like,” she would say.

  It was obvious from my mother’s expression that this gesture always touched her heart. She would hold Roni’s hands in hers. Tears flooded her eyes as she said simply, “Dhanewaad.”

  “Dhunwad?”

  “Means thank you.”

  “Aww. Dhunwad, Sister. Dhunwad.” Roni gave the Hindi word her own twist of iTaukei flavor.

  Roni’s mastery of the Hindi language quickly blossomed; and so did her friendship with my mother, buds opening their petals, drinking the light of the sun. Roni started telling my mother about the drama occurring in her own village, as my mother listened attentively, chuckling and laughing loudly. Lela’s son Vacemaca was found lying in bed naked with a neighboring girl, and her father chased him around the village with a dog-beating broom. Like a first-class coward he ran, shivering and crying, completely naked. “He was quite a sight,” Roni said, joining my mother in hysterical laughter. And then, just today, as she was walking to our home, Roni had spotted that same boy peeping through the young girl’s window. He must have known her father was at the market, selling fresh produce.

  Over the months that followed, Roni became an equal collaborator with my mother, telling stories and gossip like any Indian friend might have done. But occasionally she would also report matters that were more serious than the love troubles of the neighbors. Roni was the first one who delivered the news to my mother that a young girl from her village had flown to Australia to study in their university and become a world-class journalist.

  “What’s a journalist?” My mother was a little miffed that Roni would know an English word that she did not know or understand, and use it in her own house.

  Roni glowing with pride, now being given an opportunity to teach my mother a new English word, eagerly offered a definition. “A news reporter, Sister. A news reporter.”

  My mother had at first shifted her eyes, then looking far away, into the horizon, she had smiled then sighed. I remember now the delight in my mother’s eyes, delight at the thought that women everywhere were capturing opportunities, making waves, taking stands.

  23

  Roni almost never gave advice to my mother. In their conversations it was Roni who listened, nodded, and sympathized when my mother complained or gave voice to her concerns. And yet, as it happened, it was Roni who first suggested that my mother take me to a spiritual healer to cure me of the chronic breathlessness that had slowly started to take over my life.

  The sky would be soft blue, the air moist. I would be listening to the radio and transcribing Hindi duets, or finishing my homework, when without warning I would find myself clutching my chest. In the kitchen or the living room I would sit, gasping and squirming for even one full breath. The tight embrace of an invisible boa constrictor would wrap itself around my neck and my chest, slowly and determinedly squeezing the life from me like Manjula had squeezed the life out of the limes when she made lemonade.

  My throat would stiffen and close. Panting and struggling, I would whimper, “I can’t breathe, Mummy! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” As I struggled to fill my lungs with air, I would find myself falling, dropping to the ground like a lime breaking free from the branches.

  Doctor Sudhir Singh was frequently summoned. He always arrived at a confident trot, a stethoscope around his neck and a black briefcase in his left hand. He would listen to my heartbeat and lungs and then shine a light down my throat. He never failed to tap my knees and press on my stomach, though I could not understand how these things would help my breathing.

  Staring into my pupils, he would speak coolly and professionally. “Well, her eyes look normal. Her whites are clear and the pupils are steady.” He would plaster the cold stethoscope on my chest and ask me to take in deep breaths. Then he would shake his head and roll his eyes. “She’s not asthmatic. I can’t hear any wheezing in her lungs. Not even faintly.”

  “Nothing,” he would say to my mother, a tone of disgust creeping into his voice. “Absolutely nothing wrong. I can’t find anything wrong at all. I think she’s looking for attention, Mrs. Seth.”

  The doctor always seemed annoyed that he had been summoned in the middle of a scorching afternoon and yet could find no ailment that he could name. His shoulders would sag as he left the house. My mother would sigh and go back to stirring the pot of curry.

  One day, Dr. Singh had had enough; he took out his writing pad and prescribed small green pills. He didn’t look at me once while he scrawled vigorously on the white pad. “Here, give her these. She’ll sleep it off.” He snapped his briefcase shut abruptly and left in a huff.

  The pills made me fall asleep and momentarily forget my pain, but they hardly eased my affliction. Whenever their effects wore off, I would awake to find the four walls of my body closing around me once again. The color would drain from my face as I gasped for air. During my good times, I would lie in terror and await the next attack, horrified at the prospect of approaching my end at the mere age of twelve.

  Gradually, I found I could no longer swallow solid foods. The doctor still was convinced that nothing was wrong with me. “It’s all in her head,” he insisted. My mother had to prepare potato or carrot soups alongside the usual roti and curries she cooked for Raju and my father. She would sit by my bedside in the dimly lit room and feed me warm, buttery soup. Her lips were smiling, as always, but her eyes were pools of worry.

  Father and Raju were worried, too. Father would bring home red, blue, and green balloons, tying the bright globes above my bed. Perhaps he hoped that the sight of them floating above me might snap me out of the darkness that had overtaken my body.

  Raju, of course, would make jokes to ease the tension that had gripped our home. “Kali, get better soon because I have no one to punch!” he would laugh. Sometimes he would bellow “Kaaaaaali…Ka Ka Ka Ka…Ka…Kaaaali,” as though my name were a musical piece and he was a conductor.

  I missed months and months of school, and Kirtan surpassed me by two classes, or grades. He faithfully came to visit me each and every every month while I was confined to bed (and to the mercy of my mother’s care). Sometimes he b
rought me Archie comics, thinking that they might cheer me up. He looked pale and distressed, as if absorbing my condition.

  I would drift in and out of consciousness, like the ocean waves that rose and fell.

  Upon Doctor Singh’s orders, my mother took me to the hospital for chest and stomach X-rays. Blood was drawn from my veins and put in hollow tubes. Doctors listened to my heartbeat with intense curiosity. A crowd of men and women wearing white hospital gowns and stethoscope necklaces discussed me dispassionately, as though I was not even present. I was a caterpillar caught in a jar and placed on a windowsill for examination, but even these white-robed saviors could not help me change into a butterfly.

  My frailty became more and more obvious as my body began to wither away. My once-round belly flattened like a mattress. Dark circles appeared under my eyes, and my short hair grew thin and limp.

  A thought grew in my mind: admitted. Was that not what befell those people with ailments like mine? I began to wonder whether one day I would emerge from a deep sleep and find myself strapped to a hard metal bed in an empty room where the walls were white as ghosts and the windows covered with iron bars. A place where time moved, yet stayed still. The climax to my fears would come when, lying beside me, I would find my hysterical and laughing cousin Shilpa.

  “She’s only looking for attention, Mr. and Mrs. Seth,” Doctor Singh insisted to my parents again and again. According to the test results, I was healthy; there were no problems that could be found. “There’s nothing wrong with her. Nothing at all.” Doctor Singh, as always, would roll his eyes as though he had been terribly inconvenienced.