Bodies in Motion (15 page)

Sundar cannot wait any longer.

“Everyone—everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

His voice is not loud—it never is. But the word is passed along, and slowly the crowd turns to face him, gathering across the lawn, brown faces cheerful in the sunlight.

“I have an announcement—but first, I have a special present for my daughter.” They gather closer, drawn by the word
present,
wondering what it could be. Everyone loves getting presents. Kuyila comes to stand next to him, and Raji and Sushila are near as well. Sushila looks puzzled, but not worried. Why should she be? He has never given her reason to worry.

He pulls the red foil–wrapped present out from behind his back, hands it to his daughter. The crowd murmurs. Kuyila smiles and takes it. She starts peeling off the tape carefully, slowly, and Raji shouts, “Just tear it!” Kuyila continues slowly, though, slipping the foil off and then letting it fall to the fresh-mown grass. She opens the box, slides the frame out of it, unwraps the tissue paper. Kuyila looks at the picture of the handsome young man, bewildered.

Her father raises his voice now, louder than any there have ever heard it before. He wants to be sure everyone hears this.

“You've come to celebrate my daughter's birthday, and I thank you! Now, please, join me in celebrating her engagement as well!”

The murmurs have grown louder, and Raji is looking furious. She knows that Kuyila has known nothing of this, but the crowd is not so certain. Surely they would have heard something of this before? Some rumor? But he is a very private man, after all, and the family has had such trouble in the past…maybe he wanted to keep it secret until it was all settled. But how nice to have the girl settled so young; how lovely! The whispers fly through the crowd; he keeps talking.

“She will not be going to school in the fall; instead, Kuyila will be traveling this summer to Ceylon, where she will marry Ashok, the son of one of my good friends, a cloth merchant in Colombo. Ashok is twenty-two, just the age I was when I married my own wife. I know he
and Kuyila will be very happy—so please, join me in wishing them every joy and happiness!”

The crowd is caught up in his fervor, his excitement, and they begin to cheer, to press forward and congratulate Kuyila, shaking her hand, exclaiming over the handsomeness of the photo. The noise grows louder and louder, and he slips away in the confusion.

 

HE SITS ALONE ON HIS MARRIAGE BED, DRINKING A GLASS OF
whiskey. It is the first taste of alcohol he has had in thirty-three years. He doesn't like it, but he drinks it down. His hands are shaking.

Later he will have to face Sushila, but he will convince her easily. Ashok's family is quite wealthy, and the boy is a very good catch. Kuyila would never have made a good student, and Sushila will be happy enough to be finally done with raising children, once she gets past the shock. Besides, all the agreements are made; the family is preparing in Colombo for the wedding. All that remains is to ready the bride and buy their plane tickets for the wedding. Sushila won't back out now.

Raji will rage, but she no longer has any power in this family. She gave that up herself. If Kuyila supported her, then perhaps, but otherwise…

The door slams open. Raji storms in, as expected.

“What do you think you're doing?” She is almost screaming, almost wailing. It is strangely satisfying to see so much emotion in her, to know that he has caused it. When Raji was younger, she was always bursting into the store, full of some scheme or another, but she has been distant for so long now, wrapped up in her life away from them. This is the passionate daughter he remembers.

“I'm doing what's best for Kuyila.” He could chide her for her tone of voice but chooses not to. Why bother? It has been a long time since she has shown any respect for her father.

“What's best for Kuyila?! What's best for her is to go to school, to learn to support herself, to stop being dependent on you! Not to be
packed off to Ceylon and married to a total stranger—she doesn't even speak Tamil!” Raji's hands are balled fists on her hips, and she leans forward, as if she longs to hit him.

He weighs twice what she does; he could flatten her with one slap across her insolent face. He sits still on the bed and keeps his voice calm. “She'll learn, and they speak English. She'll be well taken care of there.” It's a good family; of course they'll take care of Kuyila.

Raji looks furious, as if she is about to explode. “She doesn't need to be taken care of, Appa—she needs to learn to take care of herself!”

For a moment he wonders if this is true, if he is making a mistake. Could Kuyila be happier with an education, with the ability to take care of herself? A few more years as a child…And yet, hasn't he seen what that leads to? If he doesn't take care of her now, won't she simply ruin herself and break his heart in the process? For a moment, he isn't sure—and now Kuyila is quietly entering the room. She stops by the door, looking so pale, almost white. He could have been wrong.

But Raji keeps shouting, “You're just tired of taking care of her—you just want to get rid of her. You got rid of Raksha, and you're happy to be rid of me. All you want is your precious serenity—all you want is to be left alone!”

What nonsense. Doesn't she know that he has always loved them more than he has loved serenity and wisdom? Wasn't that his first mistake, and his last? “Be quiet, Raji. You don't know what you're talking about.” Suddenly Sundar is weary; tired of dealing with this child, this stranger. What has happened to his fiery daughter, the girl who used to stretch her arms wide and say that she loved him
this
much? This girl in front of him—she understands nothing. “If Kuyila tells me she doesn't want to go, of course she doesn't have to.” He gestures, and Raji turns to see her sister in the doorway.

“Kuyila, you can't let him do this to you!” She is shouting at her sister now.

Kuyila sighs. “Raji, go talk to Amma, okay?”

“But—”

“Please?”

Raji looks like she wants to stay, but what can she do? She casts one more angry glance at him, and then storms out of the room. Kuyila stands still, framed in the doorway.

“Appa?” There is a question in her voice, but he doesn't know what she wants to say.

“Yes, Kuyila?”

She doesn't say anything. After a short silence, he beckons her to him. She comes to sit at his feet, leaning her head against his knee. He strokes her hair, brushed smooth and oiled so that it flows like dark water down her back.

“Do you trust me, Kuyila?”

She does not pause. “Yes, Appa.” The others would have paused, at least.

“Will you trust me when I tell you this is for your own good, that I would never do anything to hurt you?”

“Of course, Appa. But…” She trails off.

“But what?”

“It's so far away…”

“Well. That's true. But we'll visit, and once Ashok gets established, you'll be able to visit us here. You've always enjoyed our summer trips to Ceylon. Do you remember—that summer when you were twelve, you said that you never wanted to leave. You'll see—you'll be happy there.”

“Yes, Appa.” She is a good girl. He had known that she would not fight him on this. They sit together, and he continues stroking her hair; after a little while, she presses his hand, gets up, and goes back out to the party.

She really will be happy there; he knows it. He would never hurt her, his sweet one, his darling daughter. He loves her more than is wise; he has never mastered the release of affection, of caring, that leads to true peace. He has to send her away, as far away as possible, perhaps to a place where she will not learn betrayal, if there is such a place left in this world.

Colombo, 1979

THE HOTEL BATHROOM ONLY HAD TWO TOWELS. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A FIVE-STAR HOTEL. KUYILA HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN IN A
hotel before, much less a five-star one, but she was pretty sure they normally had more than two towels in the bathroom. Maybe the standards for a five-star hotel were lower in Sri Lanka than in America. It was possible.

Her sister Raji had not only used one of the towels, but had also splashed water all over and then dropped her towel on the floor; it was soggy now, disgusting. Kuyila dried off quickly with the remaining towel and wrapped it around her, cold hair dripping water onto her neck, down her spine. She went out into the room and grabbed her underwear, avoiding her big sister's eyes. Raji sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to finish getting ready. Kuyila ducked back into the bathroom, removed the towel, and wrapped it around her head, tucking it up and back as she straightened, getting the mass of long hair tightly inside in a single swift motion.

She paused for a moment, contemplating her nude figure in the wide mirrors above the sink. Her body was slender, small-breasted.
Kuyila's skin was a light brown; she had always listened to her mother and worn sunscreen when going to the beach, or even just outdoors on a sunny day. Raji's skin was much darker—in the summer, she got dark enough that guys catcalling on the street thought she was black. Kuyila sometimes wished she had larger breasts, like Raji's, rounder hips and ass. Her body was more boyish than she'd like—it mostly looked fresh and healthy, in a seventeen-year-old sort of way, instead of sexy. Kuyila felt a brief shiver climb up her spine, wondering what her new husband would think of her body when he removed her clothes, her underwear. That thought was enough to make her pull her bra and panties on—white cotton, the only kind she'd brought with her, the only kind she owned. No one but her sister would see her underwear today, but she was still grateful for its pristine sensibleness. It reminded her of who she was today—a modest young bride-to-be, about to meet her fiancé and his parents for the first time. She couldn't have faced them if she were wearing black lace. That was more Raji's style.

The first time their mother had found a pair of lace panties in Raji's duffel bag, when Raji had come home from her freshman year at college, there had been a screaming fight. It had made Kuyila's head hurt, and she could only imagine how the noise level would have climbed if Amma had found the birth control pills that Raji kept in the side pocket. The fight had gone on for over two hours, and downstairs in the living room, Kuyila and her father had silently watched a soccer game on TV. Appa's forehead had scrunched up tightly, and Kuyila could almost see the new lines forming, the grey hairs sprouting from his head. There was nothing she could do for him then.

Kuyila loosened her hair from the towel and quickly blow-dried it—she wondered whether it was worth keeping the blow-dryer with her. Would there be outlets for it in the bathroom at her new husband's house? She braided it, a long braid reaching down the length of her back, past her waist; most of the girls she'd seen on the way to the hotel from the Colombo airport had had their hair braided. What about makeup—did she need it? Kuyila considered her face. Eyes, a lit
tle small. Nose, too wide, and lips, too thin. The cheekbones were all right—at least she'd gotten Amma's cheekbones, and she was careful about her weight, which helped her face. Kuyila had hardly eaten in the last week anyway, not wanting to put food into the churning pit that was her stomach. Overall, it was a pretty face. Only pretty, though; no one but her father would ever call her beautiful. Raji had inherited all of their mother's fine features, her lush frame, and even a few extra inches of their father's height—without trying, she turned heads in the streets, at parties. Kuyila had to work twice as hard and never looked quite as good. But soon someone would be looking entirely, only at her. She needed to look her best for him.

Her face looked a little pale. Pale was good—here, fair was beautiful. But too pale might be a problem. Amma had told her not to wear any makeup tonight, but perhaps a little powder…Kuyila was just reaching into her bag, pulling out some face powder, when Raji opened the door.

“You don't have to do this.” Raji's voice was soft, but the intensity hit Kuyila like a slap.

“Raji, I'm busy.” Kuyila kept her eyes fixed on the mirror as she brushed powder gently across her cheeks, her nose, her forehead.

Raji reached out and took her wrist, too tightly. “Kuyila—please.”

Kuyila stood still for a moment and felt her sister's hand around her wrist; Raji wouldn't go away until she'd had her say. She turned toward her sister, tugging her wrist free as she turned. She saw them then, the pieces of paper in Raji's other hand. Plane tickets.

Raji spoke quickly, the words tripping against each other in their rush: “I got them before we left—there wasn't time to talk to you…” Kuyila was already tuning her out, knowing too well what her sister would say, eyes fixed on the tickets. It was so like Raji to do this, to make the grand gesture now, after all the transatlantic phone calls, the sari shopping, the commissioning of the thali necklace. After Kuyila and Ashok had exchanged cautious letters, after her family had flown halfway across the world. And now Raji offered this escape—to what?
Kuyila hadn't even gotten into a real college; no matter how hard she'd worked, Kuyila hadn't gotten more than a handful of As all through high school, not like Raji, who snuck out of the house, screwed around every night with boys, and still managed to win scholarships. Kuyila would never be a lawyer, an engineer, a doctor. Ashok, her soon-to-be husband, was a doctor. Kuyila would be a doctor's wife—a slender, pretty, perfect doctor's wife. That she could do, at least.

When she was just a little girl, she'd sneak out of bed and watch as her parents threw parties for her father's business associates; lying low behind the railing, she'd see Amma smiling, laughing, dazzling their guests. She'd be in one of her good moods, and when Amma was in a good mood, she was magic, like the princess Sita from her father's
Ramayana
stories. She could laugh and tell jokes and tease until you forgot there were worries in the world. Those good moods were painfully rare; Amma got tired, with the cooking and cleaning and taking care of Raji and Kuyila—and Raksha—until he went away. If they'd just stayed in Sri Lanka, Amma could have rested more. She would have had servants, and she could have simply stayed beautiful, laughing, perfect all the time.

Her sister had stopped talking, fallen silent. Kuyila turned back to the mirror, brushed powder across her face. “I want to do this, Raji.”

Raji put an urgent hand on Kuyila's bare shoulder, startling her so she spilled powder across the counter. “You don't love him—you don't even know him!”

“I know enough. He's a good man, from a good family—Amma and Appa approve of him.” Kuyila shook Raji's hand off her shoulder, then carefully brushed the powder into the sink, washed it away. She doesn't know how Raji can stand it, knowing their parents will never approve of the white boys she dates. “And you know what the aunties always say—‘Love will come.' We'll grow to love each other, over time.”

“Kuyila, you can't be sure.” Raji sounded plaintive, lost, the plane tickets now forgotten in her limp left hand.

“Raji—enough. Okay? Just…enough. Let it go.” Kuyila considered her face one more time in the mirror, then put the powder down. She was wearing enough; any more would just look like she was trying to hide behind a mask. Kuyila stepped past Raji, out into the hallway, leaving her sister standing there still in the bathroom. Kuyila felt a pang of pity, or perhaps love. “Come on, sis—it'll all be okay. I promise. I'm going to live happily ever after.” Kuyila wondered when she'd turned into the big sister.

Raji put down the tickets on the counter, but then just stood there, waiting, until Kuyila was finished dressing. Then she followed her sister out the door.

 

THE CEREMONY WENT BY SO QUICKLY. ONE OF KUYILA
'
S GIRLFRIENDS
had told her that the wedding ceremonies were very long here. But maybe that was the Hindus or the Buddhists. It was a good thing that his family was Catholic, like hers—but maybe a slightly longer ceremony would have been better.

The dinner went quickly too, and the reception. Then Amma and Appa were saying good night, Raji was off getting secretly drunk in a corner somewhere, and Kuyila was smiling, hugging her parents good-bye. Her mother was crying. Ashok's mother came to lead her off, taking her to the bedroom. Other women, Ashok's aunts and sister, gave her advice she didn't hear, while fussing with her hair, her face. Kuyila kept smiling through it all, and Ashok's mother told her what a good girl she was. Kuyila hoped the smile was right—she wasn't sure if she was supposed to get upset, to cry. She could do that; it wouldn't be hard. But since she wasn't sure, she thought it might be better to smile. Kuyila bit the inside of her cheek, since she couldn't bite her lip, and smiled.

Then they were gone.

He came in, looking shy and scared, not quite looking at her. That helped.

“We don't have to do anything tonight.” He said it so fast, she almost didn't understand him.

It was a gift, and one that made her like him more. Kuyila was tempted. She could put this off for the night, the night after, for weeks and weeks. But in the morning, someone would ask. Not directly, but with a hint, a look, a joke. She had heard stories of brides who refused their husbands—one aunt had confessed that she had hid under the bed for three nights running, and screamed when he came too close. Kuyila didn't want to be that kind of bride. So she smiled again and stepped forward. She tilted her head up, and when he still didn't kiss her, she raised up onto her toes and kissed him.

Ashok didn't taste like American boys, or at least not like Stephen, the only boy she'd ever kissed. Stephen tasted like mint and bubble gum. Ashok tasted like cardamom, like cloves. Strange, but not bad. They kissed for a while; then her legs started to hurt, and she came down from her toes. “Sorry—”

“No, no, I'm sorry…” he interrupted, still speaking too fast. “Please come, sit down.” He led her to the bed, parting the white mosquito netting so that she could sit down. He sat down beside her, the netting falling closed, wrapping them in their own private world. Kuyila wasn't sure if she should kiss him again, wasn't sure what she should do after that, either. She'd seen the movies, but the furthest she'd gone herself was with Stephen in the shed last spring. It had been cold and cobwebby and pitch black except for a thin edge of sunlight around the door; Kuyila hadn't let him turn on the light. In the dark they'd kissed and kissed—then he'd unbuttoned her blouse and touched her breasts, but she had felt nothing. If Ashok was relying on her, then she was afraid they were in trouble. But then he leaned toward her, kissed her again, pulled down the sari fabric, and unhooked her blouse, his hands moving quickly now, just a little too rough.

It wasn't exactly like the movies.

 

KUYILA STOOD NEXT TO ASHOK AT THE COLOMBO AIRPORT, WAVING
good-bye to her family as they walked through the door, down the stairs, across to their plane. They would be back in a year. Back home, lots of kids would be going away to college now, in September, and wouldn't come home again until June—that was almost a year. They would be homesick too, but they somehow coped.

The bathrooms were the worst. They had to live with his parents, though at least his dad was a doctor too and owned a large house with many rooms. It could have been a lot worse—in so many homes they'd visited, nice homes, the only way to go to the bathroom was to squat on the floor, your feet in their slippers placed in marked indentations. Ashok's family actually had toilets. But the bathroom vents, high on the walls, let in all the damp heat; the toilet seat was always wet, the walls were wet, and there were bugs everywhere. Spiders and chameleons and flying beetles and red ants and others that she couldn't even name. Kuyila hated bugs. She hadn't been able to stand them since the day with the ants. She had been seven or eight, sitting on the porch steps, waiting for the bus; she had put her bag down on the ground. Inside the bag, her juice had spilled. When Kuyila got on the bus, she put the bag in her lap. After a little while, her legs had started itching, and she looked down and there were ants all over her blue plaid skirt, her bare knees, her thick socks; ants had even crawled up under her skirt. She jumped up and started screaming, and couldn't stop until another little girl had managed to knock most of them off her.

In Sri Lanka, the red ants bit you, and the mosquitoes did too. Kuyila was allergic to mosquitoes—too many bites and her throat got tight, her chest started to feel squeezed, squished, as if a giant were sitting on top of it. At night, she lay awake under their netting, just looking up at the mosquitoes buzzing around, counting the chameleons that skittered along the ceilings. One, two, three, four, until the netting tore from the weight, came crashing down to smother them in crawling lizards, in stinging mosquitoes. That last part was only in her
dreams, but even with the netting, Kuyila woke up most mornings covered in small red bites, which she desperately rubbed with the back of her hands, trying not to scratch them, trying to breathe.

 

THE HEAT WAS UNBEARABLE. KUYILA DREAMED OF AIR-CONDITIONED
movie theaters, of wearing a tank top and shorts, watching an R-rated movie she'd snuck into with Jenny and Maria, complaining about how cold it was and about how they always over-air-conditioned the theaters. When they finally left the theater and went out into the summer heat, they'd get cherry ice cream and walk a few blocks over to the mall, and more air-conditioning.

Ashok said it would get cooler soon. They did what they could to stay cool, lying under the old, slow fan, staying very still, sending the servants for cold drinks. Kuyila was grateful that they had a refrigerator—so many didn't. She still couldn't just let water run in the tap until it got cold; she had to boil it every single time and drink it lukewarm. If she didn't, she came down with runs so bad that they were just disgusting, and then she had to spend more time in the damp, sticky bathroom.