Silence and the Word (15 page)

She is blazing so brightly that she is amazed
that others cannot see it. She is feverish with heat. She sits in
class with her legs crossed and her coat tightly closed. She has
slipped an arm out of a sleeve and with it caresses a breast,
squeezes a nipple. She pulses the muscles of her crossed thighs,
there in the large lecture hall, with Rose to her right and a
stranger to her left, taking notes with one hand though her eyes
are almost closed and her ears are filled with the thundering of
her own pulse and she is on fire. She will blaze up like a goddess,
she will strip off all her clothes and burst into flame and dance
along the desktops, with a dozen arms spread wide and one on her
breast and one between her thighs—she will roast all of these
pale-skinned people with her heat until their clothes turn to ashes
and their skin turns to burnished gold and then they will jump up
with her on the desktops and dance!

She takes a deep breath. Minal releases her
breast, smoothes down her sweater and shirt, with slight
awkwardness slips her hand into a sleeve. She relaxes her thighs.
The professor is making his closing comments.

Minal resolves, again, to pay more attention
in class.

Mahadeviyakka lived in the twelfth century,
and left an arranged marriage to become an ecstatic devotee of
Shiva. Did she believe that the god came down to her, that he
pierced through her, giving her the courage to abandon
everything?

On Her Decision to Stop Wearing Clothes

Coins in the hand

Can be stolen,

But who can rob this body

Of its own treasure?

The last thread of clothing

Can be stripped away,

But who can peel off Emptiness,

That nakedness covering all?

Fools, while I dress

In the Jasmine Lord’s morning light,

I cannot be shamed –

What would you have me hide under silk

and the glitter of jewels?

Would they have stripped her of her clothes
and dragged her through the streets? Would they have proclaimed her
shame to the village, to the kingdom, to the world? What did her
mother think? Did she lead the procession?

Minal goes alone to the Women’s Clinic.

She tells them about the broken condom—it is
hard to say the words. They want to discuss the situation; all she
wants is for them to be silent and to please just give her the
pills. Finally, they hand them to her, and a woman who does not
believe that Minal speaks English repeats the directions over and
over and over. Two with a meal. Two more later. She goes back to
her room and takes off her coat. Removes her boots and places them
carefully at the foot of the bed. Lies down, eyes open. Stares at
the digital clock as the minutes click by. It is two hours until
dinnertime. It is surprisingly cold in her room today, but the
blanket is at the foot of the bed, too far away.

Twenty minutes before dinner, Rose runs in
and out again, in a flurry of words. Among them, “I grabbed your
mail too—looks like a letter from your mom! Here y’are! Gotta
go!”

My darling Minal,

I have such news! Your aunt is a
miracle-worker! Your father’s eldest sister, Bharati, has arranged
such a match for you! A doctor from Delhi, the son and grandson of
doctors, with a big practice of his own—now you do not need to
become a doctor! So much better to be a doctor’s wife, with
servants to cook and clean and fan you and take care of your
babies. A life of luxury! Bharati Aunty says he took one look at
your picture and said, “This is the girl for me!” No need to finish
out the year—come home, we will have such a celebration. And we
need to start shopping for the wedding saris, for the jewelry, for
the shoes—I hope you have not put on too much weight eating that
terrible greasy American food… .

And so, I write letters to my aunt that I
will not send. I stare at the now-useless pills, left too late
because I am a confused, weak-willed fool. They are enshrined in a
small green glass on my desk, a testament to stupidity. I write
notes to Diego and tear them up again. I look at the photo my
mother sent. He is not bad-looking, this doctor. His skin is fairer
than Diego’s. Maybe I should write to him and ask him what I should
do. Maybe he will volunteer to perform the operation himself, and
then we will be married, and all will be well.

At least I have learned something out of all
of this. I have learned that while I like Diego very much, and I
like his body even more, I do not love him.

Amma,

His skin, Amma, is like your milk toffee with
almonds, creamy and soft. His eyes are a startling green,
coriander-green, except when he is tired, and then they are the
dusky darkness of curry leaves. His body is tall and strong, like a
young palm tree, firm and unmarred. His fingers are supple, and his
tongue is skilled, and when he touches me, I become water falling,
a river coursing down the tumbling rocks, down into the waiting
arms of ocean.

Amma, the poets spoke truly.

Amma, why did you not tell me that such
pleasure existed? Why did you not warn me that it would turn my
brain to water? You should have spoken clearly, sharply, like a
knife, telling me exactly what would happen when he first breathed
on my neck, when he cupped my chin in his hands and tilted it up,
when he cupped my breasts in hands so broad that I disappeared into
them, when I lowered myself onto him, and he thrust into me, like a
young god.

How could vague whisperings of shame and
family disgrace compare?

Amma, I do not even love him. Though for a
little while, I thought I did.

That night, we were down at the lake,
clambering across the shattered rocks at some hours past midnight,
dodging the spray as the waves came crashing up, laughing. I don’t
remember being cold as we danced on broken stones.

Diego was standing quite still when he did
it, though. He stopped still on a rock and I stopped, facing him.
He caught my hands in his and tipped his head back and shouted into
the night, “I love you, Minal!” A great shout—his voice was usually
so soft—I hadn’t known he had such a sound in him. And a blaze of
warmth in my chest, and I was shouting too, shouting like an idiot
into the night, shouting that I loved Diego. Laughing and then
running across the rocks, chasing each other until he slipped and
fell and bruised his side, and it could have been so much worse,
there on the sharp, slippery rocks. That sobered us.

We went quietly back to the dorm, and down to
the empty piano room, the only public room in the dorm that could
be locked, and there we made love, very carefully at first, and
then less so, burning in our fierce desire.

That night.

She puts down the phone, slowly. The clinic
has told her that they can do nothing right now. That she must wait
until late January, at least. That she should come in and talk to a
counselor. That they can schedule the appointment now, if she’s
sure. That there are other options. She was polite to them, though
absent. It seems that some part of her brain is accepting the data,
processing it, even though she cannot think about it at all.

It startles her a little, how competent she
has been about it all. The pharmacy, the purchase of the little
box, the ripping open of the packaging, the careful following of
directions. The disposal of the final, damning, results.

It is Friday. Exams are over and her
roommates are gone. Diego leaves for Puerto Rico tomorrow. She
leaves Sunday, to spend Christmas in Connecticut. Raji Aunty has
written, saying it is not nearly as cold there as it is in Chicago,
and that there will be another guest at the house as well. That
almost shook her resolve, but surely there will be a time when the
guest is away, out Christmas shopping perhaps. Minal will talk to
her aunt then. She will ask her what to do.

One might think, that under these conditions,
I would be less fond of sex.

This is not true.

Was it greedy of me, not to tell him until
morning? To take one last night, with his hands between my thighs,
stretching me open for his tongue? To spend hours licking every
inch of his body, yes, even those inches shyness had kept me from
before? My mother always said I was a greedy child. I took more
than my share of caramel pudding, of milk toffee. Well enough. I do
not regret that last night. I will remember always the surprised
look on his face when I took him deep in my mouth, the groan he
gave, the tensing muscles beneath my digging fingers. I will
remember his hands, above his head, clenching the pillow as he
arched. I will remember later, the way my head fit so perfectly in
the hollow of his shoulder, the slowing beat of his heart, his hand
stroking my hair. Poor Diego.

In the morning, I told him I was leaving him.
I think he had expected it. I hope so.

I didn’t tell him the rest. Perhaps I am a
terrible person. Perhaps I will write him a letter.

Dear Diego,

You may soon have a son. Or a daughter. Sorry
I forgot to mention it earlier… .

Perhaps not.

Minal waited long hours in the airport,
through one delay, and then another. She paced, up and down the
carpeted halls. The heating wasn’t working very well—despite the
crowds of people, she felt quite cold. And when she finally got on
the plane, her neighbor insisted on turning his air jet so it hit
Minal too. Her right side slowly froze. She asked for a blanket,
but there weren’t enough. She used her coat as a blanket, and
unbuttoned the top of her long skirt, sliding her fingers inside.
It only warmed her a little.

When she finally arrived, past two a.m., her
aunt bundled her quickly into bed, with a hot water bottle for her
feet and extra blankets. There was no sign of the other guest, but
Minal was too tired to talk. The morning would be soon enough. Her
aunt patted the blankets one last time before she left, turning out
the light as she went. Minal curled into the blankets and quietly
cried herself to sleep.

I haven’t been in my aunt’s house before.
It’s embarrassing. I know my mother would want me to write and tell
her all about it, but what do I say? That my uncle’s medical
sketches of the human form are hung up right next to my aunt’s lush
oil paintings? That while either might be innocent separately, they
are clearly lascivious together? That when I sat in the kitchen
drinking my breakfast tea, waiting for my aunt to wake up, a nude
reclined before me, a brown-skinned woman basking in the sunlight,
her sari a discarded crimson puddle around her, her face caught
with an unmistakable smile? Oh, Amma would love that.

Raji Aunty comes down, Vivek Uncle behind
her. Is his hand on her back, or her buttocks? Is that faint scent
perfume, or her own musk? Must I see sex everywhere? Is there
something wrong with me? He says it is good to meet me, and that he
is sorry he has to rush. We’ll talk at dinner. Then it’s a kiss, a
long kiss, for his wife, and it’s off to the hospital. That’s
it—I’ll ask
him
to perform the procedure. That’s
perfect—just keep it all in the family!

Ah, one of these days I’ll say the wrong
thing and get myself into real trouble.

There is no sign of another guest. I ask my
aunt when they’ll be arriving. She tells me, with a little smile,
that the guest was already here. She’s pregnant, it seems. She had
been having a little joke with me. They just found out. The baby is
due in July.

If there are gods, they must hate me.

Raji and Minal sit at the kitchen table,
sipping morning chai. Raji’s eyes are sharp, focused on Minal’s
face. Minal is sure she is noting each new line, realizing that it
has only been a few months since they last met.

“Are you well, Minal? You look a little
tired.”

Minal bites her lip before responding; it has
been bitten raw. Her fingers tap the table, click click, click
click. “Well enough.” She tries to smile, but does not manage to
pull it off.

“So. Your mother has written to me, about
this doctor. A brilliant match, I hear.” Raji’s tone is careful,
inquiring. Minal’s lips purse, just slightly, but enough. Raji
nods, and says, “Your mother…she’s a passionate woman. But she
isn’t good at admitting when she’s made a mistake. Ever since she
moved back to India, she’s become more Indian-than-thou.” She
pauses, but Minal says nothing. Raji continues, gently. “Maybe it’s
the right thing for her; she does seem to love it there. Even your
father’s behavior wasn’t enough to bring her back home. But maybe
you aren’t ready for marriage, or at least for a traditional
arranged marriage; maybe India isn’t the world for you… ?”

Minal’s fingers tap, but her eyes are fixed
on the tabletop, and her lips stay shut.

Raji falls silent as well. They continue
drinking their tea, and after a while, she reaches out for a pen
and a long pad, starts to scribble on the paper—a shopping list.
Cauliflower, eggplant, fresh chilies, more paper, Cadmium Blue. She
asks, “Do you think we need anything else?” Minal hesitates, then
takes the paper away from her aunt, and writes something on it. She
pushes it back, and Raji reads it. Pickles and ice cream. She
laughs. “I haven’t been craving either of those, but thank you for
the thought.” Minal doesn’t laugh. She says, quietly, “I have.”
Raji stops laughing. They are silent for a while. Minal counts to a
hundred in Spanish, and then back down again. She wishes she’d
learned more of it. Her chest is aching.
O, mi corazón!

Then her aunt leans forward, and whispers,
“Pickles and ice cream? Really?”