Kalyana Page 3

  3

  If snakes haunted my nights, my brother Raju troubled my days. My mother said that he was trouble even in her womb. He would kick, roll, and tumble inside her belly, making it difficult for her to catch even a wink of sleep. It was only when he slid out of her womb gently and easily that Raju gave my mother a moment’s respite. Her blood didn’t come in buckets that day, but only dribbled like a leaky faucet. From that day onward he was her baby Krishna and she was his Yashoda, the devoted mother who never saw the mischievous ways of her divine son.

  Raju was about six years older than me, but definitely not wiser. His full name was Rajendra Seth. It was my mother who had first begun calling him Raju, and somewhere along the way his long name had disappeared. All that remained in memory was the twisted and shortened version: Raju Seth.

  Raju tried to shorten my name too: from Kalyana to “Kali.” He always hung out his tongue right after he bellowed “Kali!” and his antics inevitably sent Manjula into hysterical laughter. My mother would simply shake her head and tell Raju to take the rubbish to the bins outside.

  Kali! Of all the words he could have chosen.

  In Hindi, “Kali” signified two things. First was the Goddess of Destruction, a terrifying being who showed no mercy when she slit the throats of men and used their heads as her throne. She had blue skin and always hung her tongue outside her mouth. What was even more troublesome was that she wore a skirt of dismembered hands; in one of her four arms she carried a severed head with fresh blood dripping to the ground. Shockingly, she was often shown standing on the prostrate body of the powerful Lord Shiva himself.

  My mother said that being called Kali was not a curse, for Mother Kali was symbolically a destroyer of ego. This, she said, was why Kali carried a sword in one of her four hands and a bowl of sweets in another. To those removed from the illusion of ego and immersed in the pursuit of spirituality, Mother Kali appeared sweet and affectionate, overflowing with a mystical love. My mother also said that Kali hung out her tongue because she enjoyed all of the world’s tastes and cuisines—just as I did. She would then grab my fattened cheeks and squeeze them, causing me to scream and wriggle away.

  Talk of the mighty Goddess Kali drew four peculiar old women to our living room for some telanwa—good, old-fashioned Indian gossip, though without the usual fresh scones, jam, and bubbling pot of tea—though only I could see them. My mother called them my imaginary friends—a symbol of my childhood, my innocence.

  The first old woman blew in from the East like a strong, cool breeze, plunked herself in the hollow of the sofa, and sat there, strong and sturdy. The second, moving with the fluidity and clarity of water, eased comfortably under the window. The third, burning hotter than the flames of fire itself, shuddered wildly like a fakir in the middle of the floor. And the fourth old woman, the one possessing the knowing confidence of a matriarch and bosoms large enough to feed ten dozen newborns, stood hunched at the entrance like the mighty Kali herself, carrying the weight of the world upon her shoulders. I called the fourth old woman “the Mother.”

  Each of the four old women tossed Raju’s teasing comments back and forth in the air like a football, the colors of their auras—yellow, blue, red, and green—mingling into one form. Our small living room seemed to glow fiercely with their energy. The old women remarked enthusiastically that Shiva was Kali’s husband, and yet she stood upon the powerful God himself, dissolving his power. Raju was a mere fool. The first old woman would poof her cheeks, urging me to blow hot air onto Raju’s face, and when I followed suit it would make the other three women roll over on the floor, laughing hysterically.

  Even though their lively presence would make me crack a smile, however, I could never see past the tongue, the blood, and the severed head, and refused to embrace the name “Kali.” But some nights, trying not to hear Tulsi’s piercing screams penetrating the quiet village, I would secretly wish that the spirit of Mother Kali would possess her body across the street. For how else could she find the courage to mightily step on her husband’s head and dissolve his power?

  The other thing the word “Kali” signified was not much prettier than the first; it simply meant “dark-skinned.” Whenever a child left her mother’s womb and entered this world, the first question on everyone’s mind was, “Is the child fair?” Not fair like the British, but sweetly brown like caramel. If the child was born with dark skin, like black olives of the Mediterranean, midwives circling the new mother would sigh and say, “What a pity!”

  Fiji Indians practiced their own system of caste differentiation. While in India the levels were based on a family’s occupation, in Fiji classes came to be defined by the shade and tone of the skin. Those with fairer skin were at the top of the chain and were, like the British and the Americans, a symbol of soaring superiority.

  I put my arm up against Manjula’s once, to compare our colors. She pushed my hand away abruptly and swiftly, shaking her head and frowning angrily. “Fool,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What a pity!”

  I am sure that’s what the four old women said when Manjula was born. She did not look like any one of us; her skin shade was darker than all of ours put together. Often I would wonder if Manjula’s fate was tied to her skin and not her limp.

  The white men made the decisions, had always made the decisions, it seemed. Whether in India or Fiji or especially in Africa, men with lighter skin had delegated futures, choices, and even life and death to those much darker than they. We were fairer than the Africans, and perhaps that is the reason that we escaped the branding and the shackles, but not the ill treatment.

  I also knew that white men had done things that we could only marvel at. They had landed on the moon. The moon! They had landed on that white, round sphere itself. My mother said she was stirring custard on the kerosene stove when the news came that an American man had landed on the moon. Soon after his feet touched the rocky surface, this man declared, “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  For mankind he said, but this was hard to imagine. The American man—my mother didn’t remember his name—had traveled to the moon, and here we were, still fighting for independence from British rule.

  I did not want to be called “Kali.”

  What I wanted made no difference to Raju, however. He would hop about on his two thin legs, both fists up in the air, shouting “Kali!” and punching my arm.

  I was sure I would be black and blue the next day. “Ma!” I would scream. “Look at what bhaiya is doing!”

  Mother would come running. “What are you doing, Raju? Why are you tormenting your sister?”

  Raju would continue jumping around like a fool, tight fists punching the air. Jokingly he would tell my mother that when I was older and married like every other respectable woman—at this point he would slip a sly look towards Manjula, who would purse her lips and leave the room—then I would stand strong and take my husband’s beatings.

  I told Raju that my husband would never beat me. If he dared, then I would deliver one swift kick to his buttocks and he would go sprawling down the porch steps into a muddy puddle. I would morph into a beautiful butterfly and fly away.

  Raju looked at me, confused, as my mother chuckled and shook her head. “It would be one small step for you, and a giant leap for womankind,” she said.

  Raju still looked puzzled. “Then you would be divorced like the goras.”

  The gossip in Fiji was that after these women in Britain and America started wearing pants and going out to work, they began painting flowers on their faces and living with men who were not their brothers, fathers, or husbands. Sometimes they were divorced and took another man, and sometimes they would even enjoy all the sinful pleasures of marriage without any marriage at all! The villagers would cluck with disapproval, and it baffled me, too. To live with a man without the pundit chanting Sanskrit prayers over an open fire, with
out receiving your father’s blessing, and without watching your mother’s tears of happiness? To miss the feasting and celebrating with the whole family, yet to live in harmony and bliss, without shame, with a total stranger? My mother called it “shacking up” or “living in sin,” but sometimes she called it “a movement.” A movement? My mother said that’s what the goras called it. She must have heard that on her transistor radio, too.

  The four old women cohesively agreed that it wasn’t a movement, no indeed. This had happened because the women in America and Britain were under the influence of clear liquids and magical herbs that made lions appear in streams, flowers sway in the winds, and walls heave. The four old women said that sometimes these magical substances made people dream that they could fly; some poor souls, thinking that they had wings, jumped right off the roof and cracked their skulls into a million pieces.

  I never wanted to touch these strange liquids and herbs, let alone taste them. Still, what was this movement? I was curious.

  The only day Raju didn’t torment me as he usually did was on the full moon of the first monsoon month. This was when we would observe an ancient Hindu festival symbolizing the bond of protection between brothers and sisters. It was called the Raksha Bandhan.

  On this day, Raju would awake with my interests in mind. When he broke a twig from the tree to clean his teeth, he would snap one for me as well. The twig was five inches long, and my brother would also bring me a lump of charcoal and leave it on the dresser by my mattress. When I awoke, I would chew the tip of the twig, shredding it and using it to brush my teeth. I would then take the block of charcoal and give my teeth a polish, making them flash whiter than a jasmine flower. When I was older, the twig turned into a toothbrush and the lump of coal into toothpaste, but Raju would leave them on the same dresser. The twig and coal could only be used once and thrown away, but the toothbrush and toothpaste would last for several months to come.

  Raju would put on a crisply ironed flowery shirt and brightly-colored bell bottoms. He would don a flashy tie that Mother had bought for him just for this occasion. Then, sitting on Manjula’s sewing chair, he would swing his legs and wait.

  Legend held that when Krishna cut his finger in the war against an evil entity, Draupadi, a mortal woman, tore off a strip of cloth from her sari and wrapped it around Krishna’s finger. Krishna, touched by her warm gesture, vowed to protect her like a brother. And years later, when her five husbands lost her to their archenemy in a roll of the dice, Krishna fulfilled his promise. When the evil Karavas attempted to unravel Draupadi’s sari in the middle of their courtyard, shaming her husbands and challenging her honor, Krishna divinely elongated the sari to spare her from any indignities. On Raksha Bandhan, my brother must imitate this compassionate, brotherly side of the usually mischievous deity Krishna.

  In anticipation of this yearly ritual, I would place incense, sweets, sandalwood paste, and a diya on a clean brass tray. Lighting the incense sticks and diya, I would circle my brother, who would sit through the ritual, gleaming at this unusual attention. I would put down the tray and tie a store-bought rakhi or Raksha Bandhan on his wrist, asking him for his devotion and protection. He would place his hand on my head, blessing my request with a silent acceptance. I would end the ceremony by putting some sandalwood paste on his forehead and offering him the sweet Indian candies he loved best. Then he would pull out a wrapped box from behind him.

  This part of the ceremony was always my favorite. When I was younger, he would buy me dolls, pots, pans, and cars. As I grew older, the gifts turned more elaborate; I would unravel gold and silver earrings, necklaces, bindia, bracelets, and anklets with dangling bells that tinkled when I walked. Mother told me that he never accepted her contributions, but rather always insisted on buying these gifts with the money that Father would pay him for helping out in the shop.

  Manjula would often stand at a distance, both hands behind her back, and watch me tie the rakhi on my brother’s wrist. But when I opened my gift she would balloon her cheeks, walk away, and start sweeping the floors or shining the windows. Carefully, deliberately, she would keep her back towards Raju and the whole rakhi affair.

  The seven brothers of my mother and Manjula never made the journey down from Ba, a rural town on the other side of the island. And yet my mother never seemed to care about their absence. Only one time did Uncle Chatur, my mother’s oldest brother, came for Raksha Bandhan. My mother did not join the ceremony. She stood glumly in a corner and watched a beaming Manjula tie the rakhi on Uncle Chatur’s wrist and feed him gulab jamun and sugar sticks.

  After he left, my mother fell silent and took to bed. She slept curled tightly together, complaining of severe stomach cramps for days. Her eyes appeared swollen and reddened as though from frequent rubbing. Manjula sat at the edge of the mattress and stroked her back. My father told her to end her madness and cook some dhal.

  Uncle Chatur never came for Raksha Bandhan again.

  4

  Unlike many of the Indians in our village, I had chestnut hair, lightly tanned skin, and light brown eyes. My mother would proudly declare to relatives and guests that I looked just like my father.

  “Kalyana looks just like her father,” she would say, one hand casually resting on the curve of her hip. The other hand usually bore a tray of fried foods—bhajiya, saina, dalo, and cassava. My mother was always the perfect hostess.

  The relatives would nod their heads in agreement. “Yes, Sister. She looks much like her father.” They sat on our sofa, chairs, and even cross-legged on the floor, for frequently the guests would outnumber the available seats.

  Sometimes, one mischievous guest would smirk and say, “She looks like the British. Yes. Sumitri?” That one clever individual would pause, gazing around for effect. Some of the guests squirmed, but others boldly snickered or broke out in fits of laughter. My mother would roll her eyes, grasp the tray, and gently place it on the coffee table. She would lower herself onto the sofa and assume a stiff, unforgiving pose. For the rest of the evening, she would merely inject a curt “yes” or “no,” into the conversation, giving only the impression that she was still paying attention.

  After they left, my mother would take to bed, cursing and complaining about the insensitivities of the relatives. Look how her hard work was rewarded! She had even risen early in the morning to cook them not just two, but four types of fried dishes.

  Manjula would stroke her back again, listening, offering advice like a plate of sweets. “Rajdev was born long after the system was abolished. Long after. It is not possible,” my mother would complain.

  “I know,” offered Manjula sympathetically.

  “There’s no way that his mother suffered the fate of Surya. No way. No way at all.”

  “I know.” Manjula nodded again.

  Everyone in the village knew what had happened to Surya. Beautiful, as bright as the sun, and yet cursed, for she attracted the eye of a stranger. Surya, sweet Surya, whose honor was stolen in the looming shade of a sugarcane tree. He unraveled her sari and sliced her petticoat to threads. Surya, whose stomach swelled to the size of a pumpkin, whose ill fate took a physical form. When the child was born, there was little question; the village midwives pronounced her to be of British descent. Surya wrapped her naked baby in a soft white blanket before flinging herself and her newborn into the sea, choosing the bed of the ocean floor and the embrace of the warm waves over the endless scrutiny of the villagers and the words and stares that would follow her and her child all their lives.

  “Just don’t listen to what they say, Sumitri. You know how people are. They like to gossip about unnecessary things. You know how they like to cause trouble.”

  But my mother would not let it go. She would frown, speak angrily. How can they not honor Surya? For was it not after her death that they found their freedom from the British rule? Was it not her death that stirred an uproar in Great Britain, America, and India
? That caused a movement? How can they forget?

  “They have small minds, Sumitri. Just let it go. Do what I do. Go about your own business.” Manjula would rub my mother’s back, soothing her as though she were the mother and my own mother her unhappy child.

  I was caught yet again in the word “movement,” and I had questions of my own. A movement must be a powerful, mighty force that could cause such change. Was it like a hurricane that had the strength to raise the ocean waves and topple mighty ships like toys? Or was it more like a fire that started with a small spark and slowly grew in power, spreading over the hills and through the valleys? But then again, perhaps it was cooler in nature, a flood that swept through the towns, slowly sinking homes and fields. After all, my mother had said that the movement had traveled the world, even as far as our small island. And it had brought great change and rebirth, for it abolished all laws and all injustices against the Indian indentured laborers.

  I chucked back the single remaining bhajiya on the silver tray as I sat contemplating the curiosity of it all.

  I had no care in the world that my father looked like a British man. He was good man, and a respected man above all. When I was younger, he would pick me up and swing my legs over his shoulders and we would walk down to the ocean. When I grew older, he would simply take my hand. We would stroll to the sea, basking in the first rays of the morning sun.

  Whenever my father strode along the dusty road, young boys looked to the ground or scurried to hide behind the trunk of a large mango tree. Once one of the boys, out of respect, even discreetly shoved his burning cigarette butt in his pants pocket when he spotted my father coming towards him. “Loafers,” my father had called them under his breath. “Useless skins.” I felt tall, walking beside my father.