Valmiki's Daughter (11 page)

The waiting people chatted easily among themselves, even the ones who were clearly strangers at the stand, about the environment, the rain, the heat, the price of tomatoes, the morning's newspaper headlines. Viveka felt unable to engage with them, and while the others watched her, no one but that woman had addressed her directly. Viveka looked across at the promenade to see if she might catch a glimpse of Merle Bedi. Cars passed between where she stood and the promenade, and she willed her vision to leap over the traffic, to zip through the rainfall all the way across the road, into and under bushes. She saw no one resembling her old high school friend and happily entertained the thought that Merle Bedi might have been taken back into her parents' home.

The combination of rain and heat intensified the pollution caused by exhaust from the jam of cars. The hospital's incinerators spewed their noxious gases into the sodden air. The nearer smells of urine, unwashed bodies, and too highly perfumed ones produced a dizzying cocktail that finally got the better of her. She was about to act as if she had just remembered something and quickly head inside the gates to one of the wards to which her father sometimes sent his patients and where she knew several of the nurses. She would call her father and tell him that the taxies were running late, and ask if he could, after all, send the chauffeur for her. Just then, the taxi that went from San Fernando to the stand in Curepe, near enough to the university, arrived.

Thank heaven for air-conditioning in the maxi-taxi in which she travelled. The low-lying land on either side of the road just outside of the city bobbed in a stew-like concoction of rain and the debris its flood waters had dredged.

As the taxi arrived in the central part of the island, the rain ceased, and the sun came out in a sudden burst for the first time in about ten days. The distant tree tops instantly glistened. The vehicle inched forward through a jam of traffic that stretched the length of the Sir Solomon Hochoy Highway, the island's north-south corridor.

Viveka stroked the case that held her cd player and a new cd she had won in a late-night radio contest. The contest had been held almost six weeks before, but she had only days ago received the prize in the mail. The night of the contest the Krishnu house had been in darkness, Vashti asleep in her room, and Viveka's parents in theirs some hours ago. Viveka was unable to sleep, as usual, and had her cd player tuned to Radio Antilles. She was plugged into it with earphones. The host had offered a cd of rock's greatest hits to anyone who could identify the last five
songs that had been played, in order. Contestants had to mail in their answers by a certain date. She had never entered contests before, but in one of her usual impetuous moves she decided to enter and was shocked to hear her name, and her region in Trinidad, called on the air in the middle of another night ten days later. She had listened to the cd only once before today, and was more thrilled at having won it — won anything — than with the music itself. Now she wanted to listen to it again, to give it a second chance, but she did not want to offend her fellow passengers by shutting out their congenial chatter.

The four rows of passengers — twelve in all, resigned to their cramped seats in what was essentially a mini-van — and the driver were used to travel delays. When they first saw the queue of traffic up ahead, before the car had slowed to a crawl, one of the passengers had sucked her teeth and whispered, “Man, if it ent one thing, is another.” The driver, by way of apologizing, but not accepting any fault for this delay, offered, “Years I driving, and every time it rain is the same thing. The swamp lands does flood and it does overflow onto the road. And nobody would do anything. They could make a levee or fix the drainage. And when the same road dry, if you see how it mash up because of all this flood. You could believe this island have a lake that bubbling pitch day and night?”

The woman just behind the driver sighed audibly. She was an Indian woman with skin the blue-brown colour of sapodilla seeds. She wore her oiled black hair tightly pinned into a bun at the back. She wore, too, a scent reminiscent of oleander that was so strong it was as if a vial of it had spilled in the vehicle and spoiled in the heat. She said, “Is only skylark in this place. The people who could fix this road don't have to use it. They only fixing-fixing the airport. And who you see using the airport?
Not me. Only in Trinidad, yes!” At the back a man raised his voice. “Fire the whole lot of them. Tout bagaille. Bring in fresh blood. This country good only for government officials and white people. Is they who does get everything, and people like we? Nothing, nothing, nothing.” Then, “But you know, don't make a mistake about this: it don't matter the colour of the skin of government — white, black, Indian — all of them, once they get in, would be the same damn thing.” An older black man with grey hair and a hoarse British-accented voice commiserated, “It's all about power. Power corrupts. No one embarks with bad intentions, but it is the nature of power. Power corrupts, I tell you. What are you going to change anything for, then? You must, of course, know the saying: better to stay with an evil that you know rather than a devil that will surprise you.” There was a moment of silence after this man's interjection. Viveka wondered if the people in the car had been caught out by his accent or his inflected sagaciousness. Then the rumblings in the car piped up again, with the Indian woman offering, “Well, at least the rain holding up. I glad for the sun, too bad. The roads go dry out by this evening, God willing. But all you, look how this island small, na. Look over to the Central Range. The sun shining here, and over there you could see the rain falling hard-hard still.”

Viveka looked toward the Central Range. It was where her father and his friends hunted. What a weird man he was, she thought, killing things for sport. He was sort of brave, she supposed, going into the forest as he did. She had met his friend Saul, and of all her parents' friends she was most drawn to him. Well, he wasn't her
mother's
friend. Why her father didn't bring him around to the house she couldn't understand. She could only put it down to the facts of Saul's race and class. Saul seemed
so unassuming, so unlike most of the men in their more regular social circles. Her father really was weird. Brave on one hand, a coward on the other.

THE SOUND OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS' CHATTER LULLED VIVEKA.
She felt no draw to contribute, but still a thrill to be in this closed-in space, privy to ideas and ways of speaking and being that were not part of her family's everyday. She slipped the cd player between her thighs, rectitude washing over her, intent on being part of the travel experience. This feeling drew the morning's quarrel with her parents to her mind, and without realizing it, she soon left the passengers behind with their chatter. That morning, after storming out of her parents' room, she had gone into Vashti's and plunked herself down on the bed as Vashti dressed for school. Vashti tried to placate her. “Last night Mom and Dad said that playing volleyball would just make you rougher than you already are.” At this, Viveka was on the verge of bursting with anger again, but she knew that if she controlled herself Vashti would tell her more. She feigned calmness and said, “Rougher?”

“Well, face it, Vik, you're not like other girls. You walk so fast, and you don't stay still, and you don't dress up or wear makeup. You don't even talk about boys. Are you still friends with that boy, Elliot?”

“Yes, and Elliot is
just
a friend. Why is it that every time a girl has a boy friend, I mean a friend who just happens to be a boy, everyone gets so excited or concerned? You haven't said anything about him to Mom and Dad, have you?”

“No. You told me not to.”

“So you think I am rough, too?”

“Well, not really. A little, I suppose. It's just that you wear the same ‘uniform' day in and day out.”

Vashti was sounding like their mother, but Viveka still needed to hear more, so she held the volatile responses accumulating in her head.

“When we have to go to a party or to dinner,” continued Vashti, “it's always a major harassment because you only have one dress that you will wear and it's not even dressy. Everyone else enjoys deciding what to wear, what will match with what, but you end up sulking and . . .”

Viveka listened. It was good, in one way, to know what they all thought. For the length of a sigh she wished she were more like Vashti. Then she answered, “They will see. I will be successful regardless of what I wear or look like. I will be strong, not flabby like Mom ...”

“Mom is not flabby,” an indignant Vashti flashed back.

“Well, she is not strong — I mean
independent —
either.”

“Mom said playing sports will make you muscular.”

“What did Dad say?”

“He agreed with her.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was just listening. Nobody ever asks my opinion.”

“Well, I am asking for it.”

This made Vashti smile. “Okay, Vik, just stand in front of the mirror.”

“So?”

“So, look at the way you stand.”

“I'm looking. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Well, look at how you push out your chest, and how your arms stick out from your side.”

“What! Well, so what? This is how I am.” That boxiness, as she thought of it, had served her well in her physical training classes in high school.

“But you look like one of those body builders in those weird competitions on tv. We females don't stick our arms out so much. And walk with our chests so high in the air. Drop your chest a little.”

Viveka did so, and Vashti followed with, “Now, tuck your arms closer to your sides.”

Viveka didn't dare say it, but it flattered her that Vashti thought she looked like a body builder. She sucked her teeth and relaxed her body; her chest rose and her arms sprung out again. “Vashti, what does this have to do with anything? It doesn't feel natural for me.”

“Okay, you do look kind of tough for a female.”

“Christ! Say girl or woman, but not female. That makes it sound as if you're talking about a cat or some other animal.”

“Whatever. I am trying to say that you have a tendency to be muscular. I mean, really: do you want big calves and harder arms — which you will get if you play sports? That's so ugly on a . . . whatever. It makes us look mannish. Mom says
you're
sort of mannish.”

That was enough. The word
mannish
was unacceptable. Not wanting her parents to hear them, Viveka kept her outburst as low as she could. “Well, I just don't want to have someone carry two bags of groceries from the cashier to my car, like every other woman we know does. It's not just about strength. It's about exploiting others. And about not realizing one's full potential. It's not like we're incapable, you know. Do you see those women walking on the side of the highway with bundles on their heads and heavy bags in either hand? They can't pay others to do it for them, but they are women, and have no choice but to be strong. Tell me they are mannish! All this dependence we are taught is not natural, it is class related. I don't know why it is admirable
in our little claustrophobic world to be pretty, weak and so dependent.”

Vashti looked perplexed. She said, “Vik, sometimes you sound like you're not really talking to anyone in particular, just lecturing.”

Viveka said nothing, but she was still chewing over the word
mannish
.

“Look, it's getting late, I have to hurry. Please let me dress now,” Vashti pleaded. “Should I wear these earrings or these?”

Viveka pointed to one pair and said, “In my day”— at which they both smiled —“we couldn't wear any jewellery to school. Now look at you, with eyeliner. I hope you study as well as you look.”

But just as Viveka got to the door, Vashti said, “I saw Merle Bedi yesterday.” Viveka stopped. This information, immediately following a conversation about mannishness, made her feel ill.

“So?”

“She asked me for money.”

Viveka yearned to know more, for the state of her old friend distressed her. But she couldn't bear the thought of being judged unfairly through association. “Where did you see her?” she asked casually, as if barely interested.

“On the promenade. At lunchtime.”

“What were you doing on the promenade?” asked Viveka harshly. She tried to suppress the memory of Merle confiding her love for their science teacher, Miss Seukeran. When they were in fourth form, Viveka had had a long conversation with Merle, trying to make her understand that what she felt was admiration, the desire to be whatever Miss Seukeran was. But Merle had eventually told Viveka that sometimes she felt like she wanted to hold Miss Seukeran in her arms, and kiss her lips, and that these thoughts made her whole body tingle and shake. Viveka's heart
had pounded. She didn't know if this was from anger and embarrassment at being party to the knowledge of such a thing or from the fear that she knew something of what Merle felt.

For Viveka, it was Miss Russell. Miss Sally Russell. But the feeling hadn't lasted. Miss Russell had been her and Merle's physical education teacher two years earlier. She had just arrived from England. She was tall, very thin, and angular for a woman. She had longish hair that was parted on one side. It was mostly kept back in a bun, but strands would hang down over her face and cover one eye, and she was always having to push them back behind her ear. Sometimes when she was lost in thought she would take some hair between her fingers and, as if she had made a paint brush, she would swipe, softly, back and forth along her lips. Viveka had studiously tried to make a habit of that very action, but for one thing, her hair wasn't long enough. The other students used to try to describe the colour of Miss Russell's hair to each other. It was auburn; no, it was blonde; no, it was honey-coloured. It was more like hay. As if they knew the colour of hay. Actually, it was golden. Rays of sunshine itself. And Miss Russell, her face was the sun. Everyone was taken aback by her eyes, which were a kind of blue, a shimmer to them like the iridescent blue side of the wings of a morpho butterfly. Her leanness was envied, yet no one would really have wanted to be so thin for fear of being called meagre or sick. It looked good on Miss Russell, though. And the way she moved about — swiftly,
mannishly
, they said, quickly adding that, regardless, she was more feminine than most of the other teachers on the staff. The other teachers in comparison were motherly and grandmotherly. Girls came to school with their hair piled on their heads just like Miss Russell's, and wearing long dangling earrings like hers, and even Miss Russell was obliged to tell them to remove those
earrings as jewellery was not part of the school uniform. Girls brought a salad to school for their lunch and ate that instead of doubles and rotis, hoping that they might lose a little of their roundness. But emulation peaked there. Miss Russell confused everyone. They all agreed that she was unusually glamorous for a teacher, but in the next breath she was criticized for being too strong, too serious, for walking the grounds too fast, even during lunchtime and recess when everyone slowed right down. And there were days when her leanness was questioned. “What it have on her for a man to hold?” they asked.