Kalyana Read online

  Perhaps Kirtan was right, and Angela was white on the inside. She would come to the defense of the British so easily, at the slightest provocation. I discovered that she had studied philosophy and religion at graduate schools there, and she had taught in universities that resembled castles. Her parents, she said, still lived in England.

  One day, while sitting under the shade of the crabapple tree, drinking limeade, I asked Angela what she thought about the atrocities the British had inflicted on Indian people, and the world. My mother had told me how the British had whipped my ancestors on the ship named SS Sangola, how they had raped the Indian women in banana patches and sugarcane farms, in the middle of the night and, sometimes, under the burning heat of a midday sun.

  Angela stiffened immediately, as if I had somehow insulted her. Then calmly, she said, “Those were crimes of men against women. It was not just British men who were responsible for the rape of Indian women. Indian men were also guilty of some of the rapes that happened on the plantation farms of Fiji.” She paused for breath, sighed heavily, and then added, “It seems women everywhere, in wars, in famines, in migrations, pay the price with their bodies.”

  Indian men were also responsible for raping women on Fiji’s plantation farms? It made me wonder what else my mother failed to tell me, teach me.

  Angela gazed at me gently. “The British did not go around just doing ill in the world, Kalyana. If the British had not intervened and made laws prohibiting Sati, Indian widows would still be burned alive with their deceased husbands in India.” She sounded sad. “An Indian woman’s life was worth something to the British. So they spoke against the practise of widow burning.”

  I supposed it was true; after all, if it wasn’t for the British, we wouldn’t have had our roads, our buildings, or even our school systems. Angela reminded me, too, that the British had been responsible for educating women in India, and giving them a voice.

  “But they did commit crimes!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, they did use force and manipulation to take over countries and try to turn the whole world into a Christian nation.” Angela focused intently on a rotting crabapple on the deck. “But, Kalyana, they did it because they wanted to share their truth, their heaven, with everyone.”

  Angela looked back at me. I smiled at her feebly, so she sighed and said quietly, “But the British have admitted to these faults and taken full ownership. They no longer bury the truth or rewrite history books to manipulate their legacy.” She paused and took a sip of her limeade. “Because of their history, Kalyana, European countries now champion multiculturalism. They advocate for the rights of minorities in all countries. So, out of tragedy and pain and suffering, a new era, a new way of thinking was born. Pain and suffering are a necessary precursor to change, Kalyana.”

  I took a small sip of my chilled drink. It tasted sweet.

  And yet I admired Angela for never hesitating to speak her mind, to express what she felt. Whereas my mother would pass on stories about gods and goddesses of ancient Indian lands, about our tortured past and our place in society, insisting upon them as written or unwritten fact, Angela was not afraid to question these same tales. She was not afraid to challenge ancient conventions. Angela brought to my life something new: She showed me the possibility of speaking my own thoughts, and the power of questioning tradition, and understanding the implications our beliefs and practises have upon women everywhere. It was something that my mother had not given me—and I wondered whether my grandmother had not given it to her either.

  My mother wrote me letters frequently, bringing me news both personal and political. Like a schoolgirl, she always used lined paper and wrote her address in blue ink on the right-hand corner. On the left, below the date, she would start formally: “Dear Kalyana.” She never used complicated language and always wrote in short, simple sentences. Sometimes it felt as though I were sitting in her living room while she relayed the gossip: news of the neighbors, of Father and Raju, and of her beloved topic, the government.

  Dear Kalyana,

  How are you and Kirtan? How do you like Canada? Your father, Raju, and I are fine and hoping that you are well on that side of the world.

  A new constitution came about in July of last year. It is a good thing that you have left with Kirtan. The new constitution does not allow us rights, even to own land. Even if an Indian is born here, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is if you are a Fijian. Too many bad feelings between Indians and Fijians now. Life is not good here at all anymore. But we’re surviving. Your father is working hard every day in the shop. Raju now goes there to help him every day. This is good, because one of the workers left for Canada just like you. So we’re surviving, bit by bit.

  Oh, I should tell you. There is more big news in Fiji. Dr. Anirudh Singh, from the university, burnt a page of the constitution. He made some group called GARD—

  With spaces and a different color of pen, my mother elaborated on the important name.

  Group Against Racial Discrimination.

  A real-life movement. Such an event.

  Army got the news of this movement. They captured him—Dr. Anirudh Singh—on the way to work one day. They blindfolded him and took him to the woods. He was beaten for twelve hours, they say. They left him there to die, but he is still alive. Sometimes movements end badly. I feel very scared now—

  All the political talk would anger me. Why could my mother speak of nothing else but the doings and undoings of the Fijian and Indian people? Nor did I care about the village gossip: boring news of neighbors’ daughters, sons, nephews, and nieces getting married; of people like criminals, their heads hung low in shame, escaping in planes, boats, and sometimes in high-riding automobiles that could travel on water. Perhaps I felt a certain amount of guilt when I thought of those left behind, those who were waiting for some movement the way drought-browned deserts thirst for rain.

  What I really wanted to hear was how well the flowers were blooming under the shade of a bougainvillea hedge, or whether the oceans were whispering loudly amidst the sparkle of the evening sun. Now I thought back to the radio she always huddled near, even when I was a child. Perhaps she saw herself as more of a news reporter than a poet. Sometimes, I would read her letters and picture her in the kitchen, chattering and waving a wooden spoon to mark her words. She seemed more wistful, more resigned, than I remembered.

  I could hear the plea underlining my mother’s voice at the close of each letter. “Write back, daughter,” she would say. And I did intend to write her back and send our wishes to her and Father and Raju. But every time I took out a pen and paper, I would sit by the kitchen table and stare at the blank page. Should I start with Hello? How are you? Or simply, I miss you, Momma. How is Father? Did Raju find his love? I wasn’t sure what my mother would like me to ask her, if anything at all. I didn’t know how to begin. So, after staring at the page for some time, my mind would wander and I would go into the living room and turn on the television set. Or sometimes I would simply phone Angela and talk about her impending trip to some exotic destination, far away. After that, I would forget all about replying to the letter, until the next time.

  Later that winter, when the crabapples died and shriveled up like raisins, Angela took me to an amateur monthly spoken-word event given by her writers’ group. At first I was hesitant to follow, without the comfort of Kirtan’s protection from the ills and uncertainties of this unknown world. But, in his usual light-hearted manner, Kirtan insisted that I go.

  “Come on, Kalyana,” Kirtan teased. “You do not need to uphold the Laws of Manu in this land of maple syrup!”

  Kirtan loved to quote from this ancient religious text of India, which said that women were nothing without the protection of their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons. It maintained that women should only walk in the shadows of their men. The same text also said that husbands must cherish their wives, and men must honor all women, for wherev
er women are loved and revered, gods dance and rejoice.

  “But in this household, you must worship me like I am your God,” said Kirtan mischievously. “Manu says, Kalyana!” He winked flirtatiously.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Didn’t Manu also tell husbands to give all their hard-earned money to their wives to do with it as they please, Kirtan? For Manu says it is the wives that run the household, and it is the wives who know where the money will be spent the best.” I paused for effect, and then added, “It is strange that men observe only the ancient teachings of scriptures that support their own selfish pursuits and that maintain their own prestigious status in their households and communities, and they gladly ignore all scriptural evidence that gives power to the women of this world! Despicable!”

  Kirtan appeared perplexed, but I detected a grin as he turned away. I smiled.

  So, ignoring the stern Laws of Manu, at the insistence of my beloved husband, Kirtan, I ventured out with Angela to my first spoken-word event. It was held in a small independent coffee shop that was attached to a store selling used books. The minute I stepped through the door, I left Angela’s side and lost myself in the narrow aisles. Books were stacked almost to the ceilings, hard covers and soft covers. Some looked brand new, unread, and others were dusty and dirty, falling apart.

  Once again, I was five years old; I was a tiny fish swimming in an ocean of books, free to dart through one aisle and come out the other. I could take out one book and shove it back on the shelf and then remove a second, flipping the bent or crisp pages or looking through the illustrations—just as I had done with my mother at Suva Public Library.

  I picked up a small book and looked at the cover intently; it had a young girl standing on a rooftop, wearing a red dress that was blowing in the wind. It made me think of a little girl, alone and lost. How long had it been since I had read a book? I was delighted that Angela had brought me here.

  Angela saw me standing at the cashier’s desk paying for the book, and hurried towards me, bringing with her a young man and a pretty blonde woman. She introduced them as Peter and Julie, the organizers responsible for welcoming new members and making sure that every event was successful. Julie was the master of ceremonies. I envied that: to be able to step on a stage when all eyes were on you, and to do it confidently and comfortably. It was a skill I knew I didn’t have.

  “Welcome,” Julie said, extending her hand. Peter smiled beside her. I shook Julie’s hand lightly, stepping back a little. In that moment, I wished I could disappear.

  “Should I book you time on the stage tonight?” asked Julie enthusiastically.

  “No. No. No.” My heart skipped a few beats, at the thought of having all eyes on me, as I stood mumbling underneath the heat of bright lights.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Julie. “No pressure. Whenever you are ready to read let me know.” Julie giggled like a teenager, then, spotting other newcomers, she grabbed Peter’s hand and left with him.

  For most of the evening I sat in a corner with Angela and watched the performances on stage. Emerging writers and poets of all ages and all races, and from all walks of life, had gathered here to showcase their works. Women like Angela eagerly awaited their turns, then strode towards the center of the stage, grabbed the microphone, and without fear of judgment or prosecution, read from their unpublished stories and poems. When Peter’s turn came, he jumped up on the stage and, without speaking a single word, through quiet gestures and dramatic actions, told stories of an old man and his dog. He made his small audience cry.

  I thought of my mother, telling stories to her small audience in her living room, and I remembered how much I had enjoyed them. Tears flooded my eyes. Even here, in a world so different and so far away, people gathered together, simply to hear each others’ stories.

  After that first time at the writers’ group, I became a devoted member and attended every monthly event with Angela. We met at bookstores, coffee houses, and sometimes simply by the rose garden in a public park. I followed Angela’s example, and tasted wine, beer, and cocktails for the first time. When I first drank wine, I scrunched up my nose at its bitterness, expecting it to taste sweet. Angela glowed, sipping from her long-stemmed glass. “It’s an acquired taste, Kalyana,” she said. “The more you drink it, the more you will like it.”

  I was not sure that I would ever like wine. But eventually, in time, I did, though I never did develop a fondness for beer. Every time I drank spirits, I thought back to my mother and Manjula, sipping alcohol through straws, claiming they must for the sake of their aching teeth.

  Sometimes Kirtan and Greg also accompanied us to the writers’ group. It was not long before the friendship between Angela and me developed beyond the writers’ circles, and our husbands followed us to many of the international restaurants that Vancouver had to offer. We shared exotic food and wines, conversations and laughs. We ate with silver forks and knives. We slurped soups out of ceramic bowls, and learned to use chopsticks with relaxed expertise. I often wondered what my mother would think if she saw me sitting here in a world so different, with my husband by my side, drinking wine in public, tasting foreign foods, and listening to stories.

  “We’ll get you on that stage too, someday,” Angela would say as we clapped and cheered our support for the emerging stars at every monthly writers’ event. But even though I always shook my head, I would remember the times when I had run home from school to write my own stories. What had happened to my imagination, my desire to create? When did I lose that passion to write? I vaguely remembered four old women, encompassing different colors and auras and strengths, beating drums and urging me to dream, in the far, far distance.

  29

  Nausea would not leave me. It haunted me from morning to night. The smell of anything pungent would send me rushing to the washroom. So Kirtan took me to the doctor. We sat in the waiting room, Kirtan holding my hand tightly. Grave concern marked his face.

  It was a while before the nurse called me in to see a gray-haired physician. Kirtan stayed by my side, the whole time. The doctor started probing me with a stethoscope, listening to my heart, asking question after question: When did I start feeling ill? Did I feel ill all day or certain times? What were the major symptoms? When was my last period?

  It was then that it occurred to me that I had missed my period. The doctor did a small blood test and confirmed what now I already knew: I was very pregnant.

  Kirtan was ecstatic. The moment the doctor stepped out of the room, Kirtan embraced me tightly, kissing my cheek. “We’re going to be parents!” he whispered in my ear. He sighed loudly; I was not sure if it was panic or he was just overwhelmed. We drove home in silence, yet we still held hands.

  As soon as I entered the house, I rushed to the phone and called Angela with my good news. To my surprise, she suddenly became silent, then, after a moment or two, she said quietly, “Congratulations, Kalyana. You have been given a gift. Congratulations.” Angela did not say much else about my pregnancy and the upcoming baby, but the next day she stood on my doorstep with a stack of baby books and two jars of pickles.

  “I hear pregnant women crave pickles!” she said, with the widest of smiles.

  She handed me both jars. Still clutching the manuals on all stages of pregnancy, Angela strode into my living room. She plunked down on my sofa and immediately started flipping through the books, cooing at the pictures of unborn babies and dishing out advice: I should rub oil on my belly, as dry skin could cause stretch marks; I must drink gallons of water every day, as dehydration could cause premature labor; I didn’t need to worry about the dark line on my navel, as it was a normal part of pregnancy and would fade with time; I should be careful of spending too much time in the sun, as it could cause brown patches to appear all over my skin. Angela arranged big pillows on the sofa and insisted that I keep my legs on them, as keeping them elevated would stop them from swelling and prevent varicose veins fr
om appearing.

  But pregnancy did not come with only warnings. It also came with its own perks: hormones caused my bosoms to swell, my hair to grow lush, and my skin to glow. Angela noticed and complimented me often.

  Kirtan also lavished all his attention on me during this time. Even though my stomach had not started showing the signs of a life growing inside, Kirtan still laid his head on my midriff, singing songs and bhajans in Hindi, talking to the baby. I never did crave pickles, but desired bright orange jalebies—Indian sweets—with an unrelenting fierceness. And Kirtan, even in the middle of the night, like my savior, would rush out and get them. At ultrasound appointments, Kirtan would stand close by me, and gently touch my hand. I had no doubt that he would make an excellent father. Already, I knew he loved our unborn child. I was happy to have both, Kirtan and Angela, on my side.

  Kirtan’s upstairs office had to be moved downstairs; the second bedroom had to be turned into a nursery; a crib had to be bought; a dresser had to be painted; our whole house had to be baby-proofed. Every minute was occupied with arrangements for welcoming the new arrival in our home. Then a letter from my mother arrived bearing news:

  Dear Kalyana,

  How are you and Kirtan? Raju and I are fine. Your father is not feeling too good these days. He’s saying that his eyes are thirsty to see you. He sits in the chair on the porch and looks out to the road. He has to take blood pressure pills now. Dr. Sudhir Singh gave him the prescription. Raju takes care of the shop completely. Business is not so good anymore, with all the rich Indians gone. People are still fleeing the country. Soon no one will be left here.

  I’ve got some good news. Raju has found a nice Indian girl to marry. We’ve already met a few times. She’s a big size, bigger than you. The wedding date is set for September 21st of this year. I will send you an invitation closer to the date. I hope you and Kirtan can come down. It would be nice to see you both again. It’s been too long. Your father will like that, too.