The Journey Prize Stories 28 (14 page)

“I don't need to see how sad the world is,” she explained. It was a difference between us that didn't take long to become noticeable. The fact I wanted to see things for what they were, while she wanted to pretend they were something else.

I was walking around the tanks, holding the plans of the experiment, checking again the procedural details, when the phone rang. “Dr. Santosh Mistry speaking,” I said.

I received in reply a rush of wind. I glanced at the lawn through the window: the leaves on the trees were stiff and rested. “Hello?” I repeated.

“It's Sapna!”

I was frightened by the excitement in her voice. “What's wrong? What's that noise?”

“Nothing's wrong. The doctor just called—my test results are clear.”

I was too surprised to answer immediately. Not by the news, but by her calling to share it and the giddiness in her voice. It was a tone she used with her friends, when they visited, or with her brothers, whom she video-chatted with every few weeks, not a voice I was used to her directing at me.

“That is very good news,” I said. The wind whistled louder—maybe she was in traffic, maybe she was even in the minivan, finally making use of it. I pressed the receiver hard against my ear.

“We can talk about it more later,” she said. The giddiness was beginning to recede, as if she had remembered I was on the other end of the line.

“More?”

“Yes. I have to go now. The light's changed.” The phone call ended. I wondered where she was going.

That night, before we went to sleep, Sapna brought up the “more” that she wanted to talk about. She wanted me to join her at the temple on Saturday morning. Even though the baby would not be born with a major disorder, the doctor said there was still a fifty percent chance he or she would be a carrier, like me.

Praying was a habit of Sapna's, but not mine. After we married and she moved in, she set up a small shrine in the kitchen. She said she was used to waking up to the smell of sandalwood and the music of religious song, a claim I found dubious. “You did this at university?” I asked, but she didn't like that I pressed. It was a fair question: it was hard to imagine her praying in her dorm room at Queen's, which had a reputation as the biggest party school in Canada. Her experience at a university with a more relaxed culture was something Sapna and I shared in common: we had both grown up in Delhi but completed our schooling here, which was why our parents thought we would be a good match.

When she brought up the subject of the temple, I tried to formulate the kind of calm, reasoned argument that could rid Sapna of the notions of auspiciousness and inauspiciousness that she had inherited from her mother. The trouble was seeming sympathetic at the same time, which I always meant to be, but she never believed it to be true. Whatever came to mind had upset her in one way or another in the past, and after assessing the situation, I decided the best thing to do was to go along with her request as an exception.

“I'll go to temple if that's what you want,” I said. The effect was immediate. She closed the physical distance between us, tucking her rounded belly into my side. She fell asleep quickly,
but I stayed awake, so unusual was the feeling of her body touching mine.

There were many temples to choose from in Brampton, but the one Sapna attended was thankfully the most discreet, a low building that could be mistaken for an event hall. Sapna led me to the room that was used as the main prayer space. The men and women were not separated, as it was done in some temples, but sitting together in families. The room was more packed than I expected or hoped. Sapna made a path for us among the worshippers who were seated cross-legged on a large rug. A young mother was forced to lift her toddler to her lap so we could get around. “Shouldn't we just sit down?” I whispered.

We sat down at the front edge of the rug, just slightly to the right of a low stage, so that we had a clear view. The platform was about a foot off the ground: low enough for us to gaze upward respectfully but not painfully. At the back of the platform, sitting in an arc, was a family of gold-coloured statues that included Lord Krishna and Maa Saraswati. Did religion appeal to Sapna because of her education in marketing? It was, I suppose, an example of successful advertising.

The pundit arrived shortly after us, dressed in a simple yellow tunic and white pants made of cotton. He was less flashy than I had expected. He settled himself at the edge of the stage, so that his toes stuck out—if I stretched my arm forward, I would be able to touch them with my hands. An attendant leaned down to speak to him.

During that time, I surveyed the room and realized I recognized one of the men seated near the middle of the group. I couldn't remember his name, but I knew he worked at the university as well, in another department—the arts, I thought. I returned my attention to the pundit. He had started to speak.

“We are proof that God is inside each of us. And the light of God, the goodness of God, has brought us here today. Together, we will draw upon the God that is within each of us, even those who are not yet born.” Sapna rested a hand on her belly.

“Together, with the combined power of our voices, we will pray for the health of the Mistry family. Their child, like all children, is a blessing that will soon be a part of us. Let us pray for the health of this child and let us give his parents strength through our prayer.”

To my credit, I did consider the possibility that the pundit did not mean us, and that there could be other Mistrys present who were also expecting a child. The pundit had said “his” when speaking of the baby, and we didn't know the sex of our child, so I had more than one reason to believe this. But when I saw the soft way Sapna's hand rested on her belly and the shine in her eyes, I knew I was wrong.

Two men and a woman joined the pundit on the stage, sitting behind him with instruments. Their voices light, they began chanting, and the rest of the room joined them, hesitantly at first but then surely. The hall began to sway with singing and with bodies rocking side to side in rhythmic motions. A long time had passed since I had been inside a temple and since I had heard such collective prayers. It conjured a memory not from more recent years but from
childhood: the many religious processions that had blocked my way home from school. I passed through them while afraid I would be trampled in the fervour.

The chanting and then more prayers and then some words from the pundit lasted two hours. The crowd dispersed from the rug and began to mingle. The adults stretched their legs and backs, rubbing their various limbs for circulation, while the children escaped to the foyer outside, from where every now and then came a delighted scream and the skidding of running feet.

I was proud of the control I managed. I forced myself to move as slowly as I could. I brought out the car keys from my pocket without jangling them and signalled to Sapna that it was time to leave, but she placed a hand on my forearm. She was smiling, but for the audience, not me. I found her smile nothing but cruel toward me. The pundit approached us, along with an attendant carrying a tray of prashad, food blessed by the gods.

A line began to form. I intended to move out of the way, but Sapna wrapped her hand around my elbow and held me fast. The line of congregants began to offer us their good wishes and blessings while the pundit, next to us, distributed the prashad.

The academic I had recognized from earlier approached. “Wishing you the best, Mistry,” he said. I still couldn't remember his name. “I didn't know you were dealing with…but I hope the worst will come to pass without much ado.” I nodded in thanks, as I did with the others.

When the crowd had cleared, the pundit led us through a door at the back. “It is very nice to see you with us finally,
Santosh,” he said. “Sapna has been keeping us updated on your situation. You are always in our prayers.”

I nodded again. Both Sapna and the pundit—whose name I realized I had never learned—stared at me, and I knew I was expected to speak. I nodded again.