Karma (17 page)

Words

I've missed the movement of my tongue. The soft roll. Pushing the muscle between my teeth. And lips. One's tongue is crucial.

I've missed the consonants the most. An art of carving air into sound.

I whisper into Sandeep's ear.

My favourite sounds.

A word for every star above.

eggplant

mountain

mother

tertiary

bubble

rumplestiltskin

murmur

ephemeral

lunar

matriculate

mugwump

soliloquy

lunatic

Your voice, Maya

Is running water for the thirsty.

I want you to know

Who I really am.

I slid my body from his embrace. Lips lingering like magnets that must be pulled apart. The sound of the storm returned with rage. The silence broken with our parting.

It's time you knew the truth, Sandeep.

So much can be gleaned from two small books hidden in a secret pocket in a backpack.

(Blue covers stamped with a coat of arms.)

Amar Singh,
Sandeep reads from the passport.

Lion. Your father is Sikh.

(A lion and unicorn emblazoned in gold.)

Jiva Kaur,
he reads from the second.

Princess. Lioness.

(A British crown floats at the top.)

You're from Canada.

(
Desiderantes meliorem patriam.
“Desiring a better country.”)

You're lucky.

Happy birthday, Jiva

It's not my birthday, Sandeep!

It is for me. Jiva Kauer is born today.

And she is only fifteen. I thought you were older.

Fifteen and a half, actually.

I have a confession, Maya. Jiva.

What?

I searched in your backpack. While you were sleeping in the attic. But I didn't find these passports.

What would you have done if you had?

Honestly? I don't know. Can you tell me something? Was Akbar right? Did I encourage your silence to keep you near me? I'm sorry.

My silence was my own struggle, Sandeep.

Barindra was right. I had to choose to live.

I slip the passports into the backpack. A piece of paper flutters to the ground. A butterfly. A phone number written on the wings. And I never want to call it.

I don't know if my father's still alive, Sandeep.

Then we'll go to Delhi and look. And if Amma's gods are on our side, we'll find Amar Singh and reunite him with his daughter. Maya or Jiva?

I like the sound of Maya on your lips.

Remembering

I've been writing since the train departed Barmer for Jodhpur.

Words words words. Beloved words. How did I stay alive without them?

My new pen is magic. It leaps through the images:

A first glimpse of Sandeep.

(skinny, big ears)

The narrow streets of Jaisalmer.

(twisted, the inside of a shell)

Mina.

(light-skinned and frightened)

Barindra.

(gentle as a prairie river)

Will you write about Akbar too?
asks Sandeep.

Eventually.
When the pounding stops.

When the pounding stops. Akbar's voice is still a drum in my ear. A deep throb. Quickening like a storm.
You'll be mine, Maya. Don't bother running. I'll find you. I'll be the only one who can.

Pursuit

Do you think they'll come after us?

Akbar tracking Moomal's footprints. His stare reaching across the desert.

Barindra won't. He'll believe that fate has intervened. Though Amma will make his life hell for losing me. And Akbar? How deep is his vengeance?

But
I
know that's not all of it. Some was my fault. I had looked Akbar in the eye without the restraint of a good Indian girl. I couldn't help it. There was something familiar about him.

Let's not worry about him, Maya.

And I know something else too: Akbar had the voice of a snake that sounded like bells. He could make a girl falter.

And he thought my gaze was desire.

Sandeep's story

He tells me what the desert unveiled.

An older brother.

A young sister.

A plea.
Say my name.

His father's laughter A voice of bells.

Warning that the desert eats children who run away.

White bangles rattle.

A child's voice whispers.

But no faces.

Except Akbar's.

The same eyes.

He cries with the truth that the desert unveiled.

His family.

What is hidden

Sandeep, may I borrow your knife?

The appearance of the silver blade wakes the dozing passengers in the train. As if they've been poked with the tip. A dozen eyes blink while I slice open the bottom edge of my backpack. The seam splits, the black hand-sewn stitches, regularly spaced as railway tracks.

How many secret compartments do you have, Maya?

A mother on the opposite bench gathers two small girls onto her lap. A shirtless man wearing a woolen shawl leans forward as if to hear my answer. His Brahman thread clings to his chest with sweat. An old woman squints and mutters a prayer to Lord Shiva.

My old diary falls to the wooden floor. Two dozen eyes stare at the open pages.

Life is an illusion, I read. And as it turns out, so is death. What is real? What will remain when we all fade away? Two things: Love. Forgiveness.

I close the book and press it into Sandeep's chest.

Now you will know everything about me.

He holds the diary against his heart.

Dark eyes wet as ink.

My family is in there, I whisper. And the burning man. And my cut hair
.

For the first time since we found each other in the tent, Sandeep says nothing. He fills the silence with his weeping. He opens the book to the last page. His finger tracing the words:

“A dream doesn't mean it's not real.”

You must start at the beginning, Sandeep.

Four hours

Four hot sweaty hours to Jodhpur.

Sandeep turns the pages.

(Am I still the Maya of my diary?)

The train clicks over the track.

He doesn't speak.

The passengers go back to sleep.

Halfway through the book his hand reaches up and touches my hair.

I see two braids coiled on the hotel room floor.

The sacrifice.

The exchange.

(For one's life.)

The symbol.

(Of grief.)

A part of our body we can lop off and not bleed.

Sandeep reads

He is meeting Mata, Bapu, Helen. My home.

Can he see the barn, the mice, the golden fields?

Can he imagine the sky? Blue as a bird's egg, a vase, someone's eyes. Not eyes from here, but someone's eyes. Maybe Helen's.

Can he feel the wind? See it bending the wheat and the sunflower heads? It catches Mata's sari from the window. Beckoning.

And Beethoven. The sonatas. Can he hear?

Can he hear my feet on the gravel running up the lane? To the house, into music.

Can he smell the dark earth? Where I cling to the dry roots. Hiding. Can he hear me hiding? Breathing so softly?

Can he find me?

Mute

What was it like?
he whispers.

To be mute?

Like choking on tears thick as a river.

How did it feel?

Like phantom hands circling my throat and squeezing my sorrow.

Shhhh,
the voice said.

Stay quiet.

Don't speak.

Not a sound.

It is dangerous to be seen and heard.

Remember. No one should know you are here.

Without a voice, you'll be safe.

I heard it all

What they said. What they were going to do with me.

Stay away from my future wife, Sandeep.

After hearing Akbar's threat, I collapse inside the tent. Stare up at the rippling canvas. Is it my body that makes it shudder?

I imagine I'm somewhere else. Under a sky streaked with white banners of clouds. A prairie field half way around the world.

I am lying under the gnarled stalks of sunflowers. The harvest is finished. Mata's music gone. Bapu shouts at me,
Come out of there, Jiva! You can't hide forever!

Why not? Who will care if I disappear?

I hear Sandeep's voice:
Who gave you the right, Pita? To give away this daughter who is not your daughter?

A bride.

A betrothal.

To a stranger.

My mother's wish too, Bapu said.

The promise of my body, bartered. Or stolen.

My hands shake as if electrified.

Muscles moving by a separate will.

Is this what it is to be an Indian woman? So powerless?

I hear my fate being argued. Barindra. Akbar.

Sandeep. Their frustration and desire beating the air. Words like sticks across the canvas. Muffled thuds, strike after strike.

Why not just speak? they all wonder. Or write? My real name. My home. Why indeed? Because I cannot admit the truth. The absolute loss of the meaning of my life – my family. I am alone. And wish to remain so. Forever.

I close my eyes. Urge the mind to go back to the clouds. But they are thinning, lengthening into plain white saris. The widow's dress.

I crawl out of the tent.

Run

I run to the earth's curve where the horizon is broken by heat waves and clouds where something is fluttering in the yellow light in the shattered yellow light of a yellow mirage.

I throw my longing against sand and sky like a rope for a drowning man.

Jiva!
a voice calls.

I'm coming, Bapu.

Maya!

Wait for me.

Tears

Sandeep closes my diary.

Touches me.

A finger brushing across my cheek.

I'm sorry, Maya. About your mother
.

Your father.

About the Sikh man.

Even Helen.

His face is wet.

Mine too.

So many tears for those who are lost.

I hate to quote Akbar, but he was right about something: When we tell our stories, the gods hear our sorrows.

December 6, 1984

Others

You're not like other boys, Sandeep.

Like my “brother,” Akbar?

Well, yes. I mean, no. You're not like him. And that's a good thing.

You don't like tall? Carved cheekbones?

The way he growls and sings?

I was actually talking about the boys in Canada.

You mean they're not brown and funny-looking with elephant ears?

Your ears stick out only a little, Sandeep.

Ah, so you did notice.

I'm actually trying to pay you a compliment. You see, the boys at home are half asleep. Not at all like you.

I am half asleep riding this train. . . .

I mean they're dull. Or else loud and stupid. And they smell bad or they smell great and either way you want to faint near them.

Ah! Like the Indian movie star Anil Kapoor! Girls fall down when they see him.

I was thinking more like zombies.

Would you like to hear me grunt in Hindi?

You know, you talk a lot. Really a lot for a boy. And you joke. And you tease. And taunt. And argue like a lawyer. And you honey-talk.

Not true, O shaved head one!

So true! Even now you tease me.

Fine. How else am I not a white boy?

When you speak English, it's ridiculously proper.

Barindra insisted on correctness.

E-nun-ci-ate. E-ve-ry. Syl-la-ble.

A-ny-thing el-se?

You're serious.

Yet passionate.

I didn't use to be serious.

Not before you.

And passionate?

I didn't know what the word really meant. Not until you,
meri jaan.

A boy

I don't know how you wear this thing, Sandeep.

Twist this piece and fold it over here. Perfect!

But it looks like a giant diaper hanging between my knees!

You'll get used to the dhoti. Try not to walk funny.

The pale blue shirt belongs to him too. I slip my arms in and catch his scent. Spicy like black pepper. The sandals came from a man sleeping in a dark corner of the Jodhpur station.

Won't he be angry when he wakes?

I left him three rupees. He can get a new pair for that. He'll think the gods have blessed him with good fortune.

Sandeep trims my hair. The knife slicing close to my skull.

Are you sure you know what you're doing?

He left the front longer, hanging in my eyes, but the back almost bare. Now only stubble and a stubborn cowlick remain.

I run my hand over my scalp. Following the curve of my skull. Baby hair tickling my palm.

Sandeep gently pulls my hand away.
Boys don't touch their hair. Do this instead.
He shows me how to flick my head to the side and throw my bangs back.
Very manly.

You have no idea how lucky boys are not to have pounds of hair weighing them down.

Don't pout,
he says.
Just flick.

He takes my hand and we walk through the station. It's a guilty pleasure to touch in public. Between males it's considered normal in India. Hand-holding, hugging, sitting on each other's laps.

When I lean into him and whisper in his ear,
You're wonderful,
no one notices. Except for his blush. I laugh.

A prayer

Platform B for the Mandor Express. A crowded second-class car. The seats are already piled with bulky packages tied with string.