Inheritance (15 page)

Still. I sighed to the trees and sighed over the grass and sighed over the gate of our house. I felt rejected and dejected, far away from the comfort of anyone I knew. At this time, I began to ride the bus. I would buy a ticket and ride round-trip without getting off at any stop. I’d wait for the bus to start its journey again. I lost interest in everything at home, even my mother.

My great-uncle returned from wherever it was he’d gone, and entreated me to play cards or join him and my grandmother in Parcheesi. We called it “Dayakatum.” I would quit before the game concluded. I began to practice distracted Yoga and uneven Tai Chi Chuan. I continued reading the poetry I found in my mother’s room. When I tried to sleep, I couldn’t.

One night, I took my sleeplessness to the verandah.
I peered into the darkness, not sure what I wanted to see, aside from Richard striding across the courtyard coming back to me. Perhaps it was my state of mind, or the shadows of the trees made by the watchlight. I thought I saw my mother in the arms of a ghost. I saw her embrace a shadow. Was it my father? I looked closer. Was he wearing a cowboy hat? I watched my mother in her sari twirl around with this stranger in her arms, watched them execute steps like Nargis and Raj Kapoor, movie stars in motion. The ghost held her close, his arm about her waist, the other holding my mother’s arm. Her sari glittered white, and were it not for the fact that they hovered in midair, I might have been seeing something real. I became afraid. I felt out of control. A dread seized me, sucking out my breath so that I gasped. A convulsion gripped my heart. I drew away and remained awake the rest of the night. In desperation, I wrote to Jani.

Dear Jani
,

What I am about to tell you will probably shock you, but I feel you must know. I think I saw a ghost. It was a vision of my mother. Also I have known a man here who is actually quite old and is more than a friend. When you left I began to see him more and more, and now he has left the island and I do not know what I can do about it. I know it was wrong of me, but he was like a beckoning Krishna, and like any gopika, I danced toward him. Don’t laugh at
me, Jani. Now he has left, and I am inconsolable and seeing things. What shall I do?

Your loving cousin
,
Sonil

When dawn came through my window, I sealed the letter and searched for a stamp. I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and found Vasanti muttering in the kitchen. My mother had been found drunk on the front steps that morning, and Vasanti had had to bring her in.

“What did her sandals look like?” I asked.

Vasanti threw me a distracted glance.

I remembered the story of the Dancing Princesses who would steal away each night to visit their dream lovers, their worn-out shoes the only clue to their disappearance. Leaving Vasanti, I went to the foyer to check on the sandals, but I couldn’t find her pair. My grandmother was watering the lawn, and something about the line of her mouth kept me from asking any questions. I spent the day inside, idly reading, thinking of Richard now and then. I looked at more poems by the poet.

Three days later I received this letter from Jani:

My dear Sonil
,

I admit your news was a bit surprising, but do not despair. Young love is powerful, but it is just that: young. Perhaps you were also taken advantage of, in your innocence
and inexperience. But your heart is very strong, and soon you will be able to put this business behind you.

I assume that there were no lingering attachments on his part. I think it very advisable to come visit me for a month or two weeks. You will be able to relax and get away from the town, and after that, you will be headed back to school. I am sure our grandmother will like this idea. Why not ask her and then write to me immediately?

Yours always
,
Jani

I was very happy at the offer. It seemed the best thing to do. Going away might help me regain my balance. But when I asked my grandmother, she said no. Why ever not, I demanded. And then my grandmother said that my mother would miss me.

“But she doesn’t even care about me!” I said.

“Nevertheless, you are her daughter, and you cannot leave when any minute things might change.”

“What things?” I demanded.

My grandmother was cryptic and refused to say any more. But I persisted.

“When you were born, you were as tiny as a teacup. We were so afraid you wouldn’t live. I said prayers daily, and Mrs. Narayan walked to the temple for us every day, as well. You wouldn’t accept milk, so we had to feed you with formula through an eye dropper. Slowly you gained strength and weight. You no longer felt like a dry leaf in my arms.”

“Did you hold me a lot?”

“I could hardly bear to put you down.”

“And my mother?”

“She suffered a great deal. The loss of your father was a hard blow. I think you inherited his mouth, because she could not look at you without crying.”

“So she avoided me.”

“Not like that. But it was too much for her, and we decided to send you to Shalani and Leila as soon as you were old enough.”

“So she could have her affairs in private.”

“Sonil—it may be hard for you to understand, but your mother did her best for you.”

“So why did she neglect me? Why does she get drunk at night and meet strange men? Why does she disgrace us?”

“I don’t think she meets men. I think most men are probably afraid of her. She is strong in her own right—the only thing that she is afraid of possibly is you.”

“Afraid of me?”

“You have so much anger toward her. You must learn to be more generous.”

I stared past my grandmother.

I missed Jani and after watching me mope for three days, my grandmother relented and off I went.

The travel by rail was fun in that I was setting off for a part of Pi that I had never seen. The convent was fifty
miles away to the east, in a sleepy town. I sat next to a man who was a singer from California, who told me that he was also a Buddhist monk. He was delighted that I was going to the Sacred Heart Convent because he thought it a very good sort of place. He said he came to Shankar Nagar three months every year just to meditate, which, considering his very busy schedule, was impressive. He showed me his computerized date book, and I saw that he had events planned as far as five years ahead.

We both got off at the same station, and he steered me toward the convent. The convent was a white building enclosed by a wall with a garden in front of it. Several nuns were pulling out carrots and gathering them in a large basket. In my pocket I had the name of the Californian, the monk whose latest recording was a series of devotional prayers set to wind chimes. I planned to purchase the disk when I went back to Madras. He bid me a cheery farewell, and off I went to seek my cousin.

Finding her was not a problem. I asked the gardening nuns, and they pointed me toward the gate. As I walked toward it, a bell began to ring, announcing that it was two in the afternoon. The gate was ajar, and I wandered in. To my surprise, I found a very nice house with a verandah where a group of nuns was sitting around a girl who was playing a guitar. It was so bucolic, so serene, I just stared for a long while. Then, becoming self-conscious, I walked past them, uncertain as to whether to interrupt them and ask where Jani was or just to go into
the house. I decided to go into the house. The nuns listening to the strumming smiled benignly and began to sing. I started to giggle; I mean, it was rather funny, singing nuns in a cloister, and me, a young girl who didn’t know where she was going. Luckily, I noticed a pump gurgling with water, and realizing I was thirsty, I seized the moment to take a drink.

The water was cold, and it cleared my head of silliness. Inside, there was a waiting area and a large notebook for visitors. There was a bell that one could ring for assistance, and ring it I did.

“May I help you?” asked a woman who seemed to materialize suddenly.

“I am looking for Janaki Visnuwath,” I told her.

I met Jani in the back, hanging her wash on a line in the courtyard. She smiled as I ploughed into her arms.

“I know three things,” she told me. “Poetry can move your heart. Solitude can grant you wisdom. And love comes from a peaceful mind.

“Let me write it down for you,” she laughed, as she saw my moody mouth pointing downward.

“Isn’t love about passion?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Jani. She looked past me, seeing something I couldn’t see. Jani was like Joan of Arc, I thought. I never had to save her with a sword. She had worn one all along.

I was given a cot in a room for visitors. I slept under a photograph of Mother Teresa. I awoke early, took a bath at a communal shower, having walked down three flights of stairs clutching my towel and soap. I joined the other nuns for a simple but filling breakfast (idlis, juice, beans-curry) and then either followed Jani as she did her chores or read while she prayed. Nearly every day we went for a long walk, and when we couldn’t because of rain, we stayed in and helped make chapatis. Jani helped out at a class teaching calisthenics, and I exercised alongside the schoolchildren, stretching up and down. These children were orphans whom the convent supported with help from the government. I talked with Jani most when she did laundry.

I asked her how it was she chose to be a believer in Christ, and if that meant she had to be solitary.

“I mean, you haven’t even given love a chance.”

“But my Lord tells me to have only love in my heart.”

“I meant boys, Jani.”

“I would rather remain single, give my life in the service of God. This way I can help others while helping myself.”

“But what about kissing?” I asked. “Aren’t you curious about it?”

She looked at me with amusement, which I must confess infuriated me. How could Jani know that sex and marriage were not for her?

“Sonil, once I was in love with someone in Delhi. Her family moved to Bombay, and she never answered my letters. Later, I found out that she had died. I went to the tiny garden Auntie Roja has and wondered what to do. As I was thinking, I saw an angel, who came toward me and smiled. I was filled with such light, such happiness. This is how I began to believe in God. Even more than mortal man.”

“Can’t you also love God and man—woman—at the same time?”

“No, I cannot.”

She said it with such sad certainty, I wondered if she wasn’t being a martyr, suffering silently. Then again, given my own unhappiness, maybe she had stumbled upon a truth, and love in God provided her with a barrier from the world of mortals.

“But in fact,” said Jani, reading my mind, “I am not hiding myself from the world. We teach children, go to the market, and sometimes even go on holiday to the seashore. We aren’t locking ourselves in the convent all day and night. But a certain amount of solitude is necessary for contemplation and peace of mind. We then become stronger to help others.”

She was convinced of her words, but I wasn’t. She was missing out, I knew that much for certain. And this girl in Bombay, that sounded like something from a story. I doubted there was a girl, only fear. But if a person is truly fearful, then one has to placate one’s fears and do whatever is possible to cure that timidity. Jani did not
look fearful; she looked calm, collected, steady in her thoughts. Whatever made her a nun was whatever made her who she was from the start.

And again I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have followed in her footsteps, become a devotee of God. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have suffered over Richard. I could have preserved my honor as well as my pride. But there was Radcliffe and all my plans. Maybe that was selfish, too, the desire to go overseas and become a great scientist. A great anything smacked of hubris, and I became very doubtful. Everything one could want in life I had: air, food, shelter, strength. But then I had found an even greater contentedness, at a cafe with a man whom I loved. Maybe it was the wanting that led people astray. Maybe it was like acquisition; one always strives for more. If happiness, then more happiness. Didn’t Madonna have a song about this? I decided to give the matter no further thought.

“I don’t think it’s wrong to love a girl when you are a girl. One thing the nuns might disagree with, but still. I loved Asha, I was infatuated, I strove to be like her. And she loved me. Maybe if she’d lived, we could have lived together, and I could have borne the world better. But God called her, and at the same time He called me.”

I listened to Jani, idly playing with a piece of grass. Loving girls, she couldn’t love boys. Loving Asha, she
couldn’t love C.P. I drew the blade across my knee, liking the tickling, then suddenly feeling self-conscious as I remembered kissing myself. I wanted to kiss Jani, pull her toward me, make her leave the convent. Who needed boys anyway? But Richard was too strong, too present, too new. Jani looked eternally sad. Asha and Richard. They had kissed us and marked us and left us. They had conquered and retreated and declared checkmate.