Silence and the Word (10 page)

She put her mouth to the fabric, sucking the
moisture from it, the water mixed with my own sweat. I raised my
hand to my mouth again, teeth closing down on flesh. Sushila
started with the underside of my small breast, and then circled up
and around. Spirals again, circling closer and closer until finally
her mouth closed on the center and I bit down hard on the web of
skin between thumb and forefinger, breaking the skin, drawing
bitter blood. She sucked harder and harder, pausing at times to
lick or bite, sucking as if she meant to draw milk out of my
breasts, enough milk to finally quench her thirst. Eventually, she
gave up the attempt. She released my sore breast, lifted her mouth
away, and smiled when she saw my bleeding hand. Her eyes danced,
daring me to let her continue. I could stop this at any time. I
could smother the fire and walk away.

What would she think of me if I backed away?
I could guess, and could not bear the thought of it. If I backed
away, she would only return to her husband. He would have her for
the rest of his life. Her body would lie under his, and he would
bend to taste her breast.

I nodded acquiescence. She poured the rest of
the cup’s water onto my right breast and lowered her head
again.

Fifth night, and one more to go. When Sushila
came into the kitchen, I opened my mouth to speak, but she laid a
soft finger against my lips.

“You seem very thirsty,” she said. “You
should drink the water.” She filled my tin cup, filled it to the
brim, and then handed it carefully to me.

“I am thirsty,” I answered. “I’m burning up.”
I waited, but she just smiled. The next move was entirely mine. I
hadn’t slept — I’d been thinking all day and all night of how to
make Sushila burn. I needed to match her ingenuity, her ideas, to
push the game forward. I needed her to understand that this was
more than just a game. We couldn’t stop here, or even slow
down.

I put my hand on her shoulder and pushed down
gently; she obediently sank to sit cross-legged on the floor. She
seemed so patient; Sushila could wait forever, unmoved. I needed to
move her. The words pulsed through me —
one more night one more
night
. I didn’t have time to be patient. I needed her burning,
the way I was, a burn that spread from her center to her heart and
tongue and brain; a fever that kept her from thinking, from
playing, from leaving. I pushed down again; her eyes widened, but
Sushila obediently lay down, stretching her legs out straight, with
arms at her sides, her sari stark and white in the moonlight,
against the dark dirt floor.

I touched her eyelids, and she closed them. I
stood and picked up my mother’s chopping knife, cold and heavy in
my hand. I had always been clumsy; I had dropped it many times, and
had cut myself as I chopped. But tonight I would be careful.

I pulled over a basket and, lifting out a
handful of chilies, began to chop, as quietly as I could. The wind
whistled through the palm trees, and my father snored, but still… I
chopped the chilies finely, minced them the way my mother could
never get me to do when it was only for cooking. I minced them
until they were oil and ground bits, almost paste. Then I scooped
them into a tin bowl, my fingers covered in hot oil and slowly
starting to burn.

I knelt beside Sushila and placed the bowl
and cup by her still body. I pulled loose the sari fabric, pulled
it down so that her upper body was only covered by her blouse, as
mine had been the night before. Then I started to unhook her
blouse.

I expected her to protest, but she said
nothing, didn’t move. I don’t know what I would have done if she
had tried to stop me; stopped, I suppose. But she didn’t, and so I
unhooked each clasp. I peeled back the fabric, baring her breasts.
They were ripe and perfect, large dark mangoes bursting with juice.
I was so thirsty. I let down my sari and undid my own blouse,
freeing my small breasts. If we were interrupted now, there could
be no innocent excuse…and yet it wasn’t enough.
One more
night
. I smeared the chili paste in a weaving line, starting
with her navel, curving up over her belly, looping and swirling
until I reached her breasts, then circling in as she had done,
circling to the centers.

Chilies don’t burn at once, on the skin. They
take time. To Sushila it must have just felt like some slightly
gritty jam. Perhaps she thought I planned to lick it off — but
there was a whole cup of water to use up, and first, I wanted her
burning. When I finished drawing my patterns, I put down the bowl.
I sat back on my heels, and waited.

She felt it first on her belly, the slight,
growing burn. Sushila shifted a little, uncomfortably. I watched.
Her eyes started to open, and I placed a hand, the clean one, over
them. She kept her arms at her sides, but her body began to twist,
to raise up from the floor, to arch. It was useless. Her belly was
heated, her breasts. They were getting hotter and hotter. Soon it
would be unbearable.

“Please… .” The word broke from her lips. I
took the tin cup. I started with her navel, started rinsing the
chili paste away, caressing the skin with wet fingers, relieving
the pain. But there wasn’t very much water in the cup. I could only
dilute the chili essence, soften the intensity, and by the time I
reached her breasts, the water was more than half gone. And there
just wasn’t enough water left to do her nipples, their darkness
crowned by fiery red paste. I let Sushila open her eyes then,
raised the cup and showed her its emptiness.

There were tears in her eyes, but her arms
stayed perfectly still at her sides. I smiled down at her.

“Do you want to go back to your husband now?”
The water was gone.

“I’m burning, Medha. I’m burning up.”

My heart thumped. I lay down beside her,
moved my head to her breast and took the fire into my mouth. I have
never been able to eat very hot food. I swirled the chili paste on
my tongue; I savored the burning flavor of it, mixed with her
sweat. My tongue had been stabbed by millions of tiny pins. I
wanted to suffer for her.

I suckled at her right breast, feeling her
body shifting against mine, hearing her whimpers. I was afraid we
would be heard. I moved to the left breast, and her hand came up to
tangle in my hair, to keep me there. Her leg slid between mine, and
I began to suckle again, rocking our bodies together as I did. Her
breath left her in a tiny sigh, and at the sound, my chest
exploded.

I went to bed that night knowing that small
traces of oil undoubtedly lingered on her body, that she lay beside
Suneel still burning for me.

One more night.

They planned to leave the next morning. I had
been thinking all day, and when she came to me that night, I was
ready with my arguments.

I took her hands in mine, caressing her soft
skin under my rough fingers. When she smiled, I spoke. “Come away
with me.”

“What?” Sushila tried to pull away, but I
held on tight. Her eyes were suddenly wide and frightened, and I
held her fingers as tight as I could, trying to reassure her.

“Come away. Take the tickets; we can trade
them for another day and then leave together. We can go to the
city; I can find work.” I was whispering, but I willed her to hear
how much I meant what I was saying.

Her mouth twisted in a way I had never seen
before. “Work? Doing what? What can we do?” Her voice was low as
well, but scornful. “Should we end up washing someone’s filthy
clothes? Lose caste, lose family — lose the future?” She did pull
away then, sharply.

I wrapped my arms tightly around my body,
trying to slow my thumping heart.

“
You
are my future!” I wanted to shout
the words, and keeping them quiet was almost more than I could
stand. “It doesn’t matter what we do to survive. Nothing matters
but that you come away with me. I’m burning, Sushila.”

“You’re being foolish.” Her eyes were
disgusted, and my chest hurt. “I can’t leave Suneel — you have
nothing and I have nothing. I have the jewelry your family gave me;
would you have me sell that so that we can buy rice and
lentils?”

“Yes!” I was passionate; I was convinced.
“It’s not fair that we should be separated. It’s not right,
Sushila!” I reached for her hand, but she pulled away. She walked
to the window and stared out as she spoke. Her voice had grown so
soft that I could barely hear her.

“It’s not right to leave, Medha. The jewelry,
even my saris, belong to him, not to me. I belong to him. Would you
have me abandon Suneel, leave him alone and shamed, without wife or
the hope of children? Does he deserve that? Is that fair? It’s not
right to leave him. I have to go with Suneel.”

What had happened to my Sushila, who had
burned for me last night? She sounded so calm, so cold.

“It doesn’t matter what’s right or wrong.
What’s
really
wrong is that you should leave with him, that
you should leave me here, alone.” I didn’t know if I was making any
sense — I just knew that I was desperate to say something, anything
that would keep her. But she wasn’t listening to me.

Sushila turned back to face me. “It won’t
work. I’m sorry.” She sounded like the statue I had once thought
her, as if she was built of stone.

“But I love you! I love you!” My heart was
breaking. It had broken and she was crushing the pieces under her
heel. “Don’t you care for me at all?”

Sushila’s voice gentled, a little. “I do care
for you. But if they found us, they’d drag us back in shame. They
might do worse. I had a friend — her husband died and they said
she’d poisoned him with bad cooking…they burned her. They burned
her alive.”

I sucked in my breath, shocked that she would
think… . “My family wouldn’t… .” She cut me off before I could
finish.

“No, you’re probably right. They probably
wouldn’t. But Medha, it won’t work. You know it won’t. My place is
with Suneel. There’s no place for us out there. Just here, in the
kitchen, without words. Just for these six nights. Just you, and
me, and the cup full of water.” Her voice had turned soft,
persuasive, but I would not be persuaded. I wanted to surrender to
her, but there was no time for that now.

“The cup! Is that what matters to you? The
cup is
nothing
, Sushila. The cup is just a game, it’s
your
game. It doesn’t matter. You just want to play your
game and then go off, safe in the arms of your husband, leaving me
here.” Leaving me alone.

“Safe? You think I’m safe with Suneel?”
Passion was finally in her voice — but not the kind I’d wanted.

“He’d never hurt you.” I was sure of that, at
least.

She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight for
a long moment, then opened them again. “Oh no. He’s sweet, and
gentle, and kind. He will try to be a good husband to me, and I
will try to be a good wife to him. We will have children, if the
gods are kind.” There was the pain I felt, there in her voice. But
it wasn’t for me. “And after ten or twenty or thirty years of that,
I will have all the juices sucked out of me; I will be dry as dust.
I will die of my thirst and blow away on the wind. And that’s the
way it is; that’s the way it always is. You’re the lucky one,
Medha.” Sushila meant it, I could hear it, but I didn’t know
why.

“Lucky?” I didn’t understand her, didn’t know
her. Who was this woman with flat eyes, speaking of dust?

“At least you are still free, for a little
longer. Take what pleasure you can of it. That’s all we can do,
Medha. Take a little pleasure when we can.”

Sushila fell silent, and I did too, still
thinking that there must be some other argument, some persuasion I
could offer. I didn’t believe what she was saying — I couldn’t
believe that was all there was for us. But I thought for too
long.

“Come,” she said softly, “take up the cup.”
It waited, full, on the table. I knew that she was trying to save
what she could; it was our last night, the very last. But I
couldn’t do it. I grabbed the cup, held it in my shaking hands.

Then I turned it over, spilling every drop of
water to the floor.

I didn’t know what she’d do, if she’d rage
and shout, if she’d drag me to the ground. But Sushila just turned,
and walked away.

I let her go, let her walk down the hall and
disappear into his room. I had lost her entirely, and lost our last
night too. I had wasted a cup of water, for nothing.

I slept like the dead that night. Perhaps I
didn’t want to face the morning, hoped that she would just slip
away without my having to face her again. My mother shook me
awake.

“What, are you sick too? Get up, Medha — I
need your help. Sushila’s sick and they can’t leave today. I need
you to take care of her today.”

I dressed quickly. Not gone yet! Not leaving
today! I rushed to Suneel’s room, to find him standing over his
wife, his cheeks pulled in. Sushila’s eyes were closed, and she did
look pale.

“Medha, she’s nauseated. She’s been throwing
up all morning. Stay with her, will you? I need to go change our
tickets.”

I nodded, and he bent to give her a kiss and
then left the room. Once he’d gone, her eyes opened, and she
motioned for me to bend down. I did, and she whispered in my ear,
“I made myself throw up. I decided to give you one more chance.”
When I pulled back, Sushila was smiling, and I was too. Perhaps I
looked too happy, because all too soon she was saying, “Just one
more night. Suneel and I will leave tomorrow.”

“But… .” I had visions of persuading her, if
only she would stay a few more nights, a week, two… . .

“No, Medha. It’s too dangerous.”

My eyes were stinging, but I knew she was
right. Each night we’d gone further, each night we’d taken more
risks. If we kept this up, we would be caught, and if she wouldn’t
leave with me…then it was this, or nothing. I finally nodded
agreement. Just tonight.