Bodies in Motion (27 page)

Lakshmi had always been good at keeping silent on the important matters.

 

SPRING CAME TO BERKELEY, AND THAYALAN TOOK TO LEAVING SMALL
carved gifts for her beside the computer. His single flowers grew into garlands, gardens. The miniature animal faces now had bodies attached. He got better and better, and sometimes, Savitha couldn't help smiling at the lovely curves of the petals, even laughed at the silly monkey faces. Thayalan started talking about making chairs, tables, sofas. They could have an entire forest of furniture, a carved wilderness within their four walls.

It scared her when he talked like this. If she allowed it, they would be doing more than simply existing; they would start putting down roots, trying for something better than a minimum of pain. Savitha didn't know if it was safe, what he was offering. But she didn't want to tell him no. She was stronger now, and she wanted that dream. Though sometimes, Savitha couldn't help wondering—if she weren't in pain, would Thayalan still find her beautiful? She had shaped herself around the memory, the endurance, the anticipation of pain. She didn't know who she would be without it.

Sometimes they drove down the coast, to Half Moon Bay, and went sailing on the ocean itself. In the coolness of evening with the sun going down, Savitha always urged Thayalan to go out, go further and further west. Further than was safe. She was terrified of the deep water but couldn't help herself. She kept urging him to go out, out, out, to where the waves would rise up and overwhelm them, where they would drown in the unknown waters. Thayalan always went only as far as he thought safe, and then stopped and turned for shore. Savitha knew that no matter how much he loved her, there was a point
beyond which she couldn't push him, a point where he would simply stop. His love was not entirely blind. It was the reason she chose him—not because Thayalan was her cousin, familiar. But because he wouldn't let her throw herself off the boat, into the salt sea. If he lost interest, walked away, she wasn't sure she would survive it.

 

THAYALAN KNEW THAT HE WOULD NEVER LOSE INTEREST—HE FOUND
his cousin, his wife, endlessly fascinating. Savitha thrilled him, led him closer to the edge than he would have ever dared to venture on his own. What he would never tell her was how often he was tempted to go further, to just follow her blindly, right off the world's edge.

Often, it was a very close thing.

 

SINCE HER OWN FAMILY HAD REFUSED TO DISCUSS HER FATHER,
Savitha had tried writing to her father's parents, not long after she turned fourteen. She sent a long, polite letter to her grandparents and received no response for weeks. Finally a letter arrived, a single sheet with a few brief lines from her grandmother, saying only that her husband would prefer that they not be in touch with their son's family. Savitha had heard that her father had, for some unknown reason, been cut off by his family, but somehow, she hadn't expected that they would rebuff her as well. She burned her grandmother's letter and stopped trying to eavesdrop on the aunties. Whatever her family's secrets were, they were too good at protecting themselves. Savitha wasn't going to hurt herself any longer trying to fight through to them.

A few days later, she found Thayalan's letter in her locker.

 

THAYALAN BEGAN TALKING ABOUT TAKING A TRIP IN THE SUMMER, OF
going to Sri Lanka. It shouldn't be too risky, as they were both
American citizens—not completely safe, but if they stayed in the south, safe enough. Thayalan had a longing to see the massive stone carvings at Sigiriya, a desire to run his fingers along their curves and angles. Savitha was afraid that the trip might disrupt the fragile equilibrium she had gained in the last year, might bring sores back to the surface; she was afraid that her skin would erupt, explode. Savitha wanted to stop, to freeze them here, in this bearable space. But at the same time, her curiosity had reawakened. If the immediate past was closed to her, perhaps the further past was not.

She had relatives in Sri Lanka—many on her mother's side, of course, but some on her father's side as well. Her grandparents had brothers and sisters. Savitha knew the name of at least one of her great-aunts, Mangai, whom she believed was still alive. Her father's father was Sundar, who didn't speak to their family, but Sundar's sister, Mangai—perhaps she might. Savitha could write to her, could visit. Maybe Mangai would tell her about her father. And whether or not she was willing, or even could—Savitha had a newfound longing to see the land where the kings once reigned, to trace the paths of the old irrigation canals, where the fresh sweet water fertilized the parched fields. Perhaps Savitha would study there. Perhaps she would learn to dance.

The newspapers made it clear—even in the middle of a war, children were being born there, life was going on. Without sugar, sometimes without even rice—going on anyway, despite the grief and the pain. Sometimes, the blood on the sheets was only from a bridal night. Sometimes, there was celebration, there was pleasure, there was joy.

Colombo, 2002

SHE COMES HOME, ROWING THE BOAT WITH STRONG ARMS OVER THE BREAKWATER, JUMPING OUT TO DRAG IT UP ONTO THE SHORE.
Mangai was once a curiosity, and beggar children gathered to laugh, to point, to stare at this strange woman in her widow's white, this old woman who went out alone to the sea, every day, in her battered fishing boat. But familiarity breeds comfort as well as contempt, and they have long ago grown used to her, this strangeness, this madwoman. They have heard her story from their sisters and brothers, their parents, and now no one bothers to tell it. They leave her alone, for the most part. They let her fish.

Most days she trades much of her catch. She wakes up long before dawn, goes out for cold hours in the boat that she has learned to care for, to watch over. Comes back with enough fish to trade for her other small necessities. Rice and lentils. Her goat gives her milk; her chicken lays an occasional egg. It is not much, but she is not as hungry as she used to be, these days. Once the fish are gone, she sleeps away the afternoon. In the evening she walks on the beach; she sits on a particularly large rock; she watches the waves coming
in, going out. Since the servant woman died, two years ago, she has lived alone.

Some days are different; this is one of those days. It is monsoon season; the rain has been coming down hard for weeks, working its way through her not quite sealed roof, sending quiet trickles down the walls of hardened clay. There are days in the monsoon season when lentils and rice are no longer enough, when the insistence of memory overwhelms her. Those days, she stands on a teetering stool to reach the highest shelf; she pulls out her hoard of spices, from dust-brown fenugreek to crimson saffron threads. The rain stopped for a few hours this morning, but now it starts coming down again. She walks through it to the village center, her white sari plastered to her slight frame. There she trades smoked fish for rich coconut milk, ghee, fresh vegetables. The other women look at each other, and then tell their daughters: “Mangai Aunty is cooking. Go. Watch.” As Mangai slowly walks home, limping, the girls trail behind her, eventually gathering under the spreading banyan tree that guards the door to her small house. The monsoon rain is pouring down, slamming hard into the ground, and the children jump as they go, squishing mud between their toes. Mangai walks blindly, eyes unfocused, nose deep in the scent of fresh mango rising from the full string bag she carries. Her arms should be aching, but on days like this, she doesn't notice.

She enters the clean kitchen, clears a space on the table. She takes her large knife in hand, sharpens it carefully on a stone. The girls have crept up to the sides of the house now that she is safely inside; they peer in through cracks, over windowsills. She waits until they are settled before she begins to cook. It is another part of the unspoken bargain that brings her harmony with her neighbors; the bargain has kept her safe with them for decades; she is not about to break it now.

Mangai starts slowly, but then catches the angle, the rhythm of it, and moves faster. She puts down the sharpening stone, places three onions on the table. Cuts off the top and bottom of each. Cuts them in half, lengthwise. Peels the skins off, being sure to get each bit of
brown. It is not a day for being careless, for being just good enough. When she is satisfied, she rinses them in cold water, and then begins to slice them. Her eyes tear up. It is part of the price she pays for this indulgence. Paper-thin slices, from a hand swift and skilled with long practice. She has been cooking since she was eight? Ten? At least sixty years now. Her mother would come and pinch the extra flesh on her arm, hard, when she did not slice thinly enough. Punishing her for two sins at once—for being too clumsy, too fat. Probably for being too dark as well, though Mangai truly could do nothing about that. If her mother had lived to see her now, perhaps she would have at least conceded that Mangai is no longer fat. She has become a rail-thin woman, wiry and strong from the hours on the ocean, slender from endless meals of rice and lentils. Two cups of each will sustain her in a normal day.

She slices each half-onion, holding it firmly, keeping its shape—then turns it ninety degrees and dices it crosswise. For this first dish, she needs a small dice, pieces that are less than a quarter the size of her thumb. When the onions are finished, she slides them into one of her large Teflon pots. Her brother in America, Sundar, has tried to send her money; she refuses it, over and over. But one Christmas, he and his wife, Sushila, sent her a beautiful set of Teflon-coated pots and pans. Those, she kept. She imagined Sushila in the store, choosing each pot with her delicate hands; Mangai found that she couldn't bear to send them back. And besides—she loves the way the food slides right out of the pan, the fact that she can just rinse it and be done. She has no interest in the gadgets they send as well; one corner of the kitchen holds cardboard boxes full of unused kitchen toys: lemon zesters, garlic presses. Mangai sent back a television recently; she doesn't know what her brother was thinking. These days, it would only bring news of the fighting in Trincomalee, in Colombo. Young men dying, and now women too. Mangai suspects Sundar has sent money to the guerrillas. He has tried over and over to convince her to join him in America, but this is her home, and she is old. Sundar worries endlessly over her, and
the war. Mangai sees no purpose in dwelling on what she cannot help. But the Teflon—that, she likes.

She sautés the onions in ghee, adding black mustard seed, cumin seed. She chops three tomatoes while she waits, chops them small and juicy. When the onions are golden, she adds a teaspoon of raw red chili powder. As it cooks, the smoke rises and makes her cough. That's her cue to add the tomatoes, a few tablespoons of vinegar, a little sugar, and a mix of dry-roasted spices, dark and fiercely aromatic. As the tomatoes cook down she quickly peels and chops three large potatoes; this first dish is a potato curry, because that takes longest to cook. Into the pot. She stirs hard, turning up the rich blend of onion and spice, coating every piece of potato. She lowers the heat on the gas range (another gift; she remembers cooking over an open fire), covers the dish, and turns back to the cutting board.

One of the tricks to cooking a feast is to think about the timing of it as you plan the dishes. If you are making hoppers, soft pancakes with high, crispy sides, then it is important to remember that they are best eaten entirely fresh—that you will have to make them one by one and serve them to your guests. So you can't expect to have ten or twenty minutes before the meal in which to make an array of sambols and chutneys. You must make those in advance, or do without. Certain flavors go together, but so do certain timings. If the timing is off, the entire meal may be ruined.

When Mangai was sixteen, Sundar had married. Her mother, along with several aunts, had prepared the wedding feast. The bride and groom had stayed at their home for eight days, before taking the train to Colombo, to his parents' home. Mangai's mother had had her making the midday meals during the week following the wedding as well. Mangai had never cooked for so many before, and while she made enough food, there was always something wrong with it. After every meal, one of the aunts would point out, kindly, that Mangai really had to be careful not to put too much tamarind into the fish curry, or too little salt in the sambar. After all, with her looks, it
was important that she be a good cook. None of those meals came out perfectly—somehow, she always managed to ruin them. Secretly, she was glad.

But now she has been cooking for sixty years; she has become better than a good cook; she is the best cook for miles around, and everyone knows it. That is why the children huddle in the rain, why young Rani, fifteen years old, peers boldly through the window. The girl is eager to catch the police chief's son, and Mangai's cooking skills would be a potent lure. Mangai could tell the girl that this kind of cooking is not learned by watching, or even by teaching—that it is only the passage of time that grinds the lessons into the muscles and bones. But she cannot be bothered.

Mangai pauses before starting the second dish. She undoes the top of her sari, pulling the loose end of the fabric back over her shoulder, down across her breasts. She tucks it into her waistband, leaving her upper body covered only in her thin white blouse, less constricted. It will be easier to cook this way, though that is not why she does it. She chops three more onions, chops them finely this time. As they sauté, she sets eight eggs to boiling; they will be ready when the sauce is finished. Timing, again. Cumin and mustard seed, but this time only turmeric and salt are added. The onions cook gently, caramelizing, filling the room with their sweet scent. Nothing to make her choke; eggs should be sweet and slick, they should slide down your throat as delicate and ephemeral as honey. She had made eggs for those bridal breakfasts; she watched Sundar's bride swallow them greedily, the muscles of her slender throat shivering down. Mangai had made eggs every morning for the pleasure of that throat.

The onions have almost burned. She must pay closer attention—nothing can be made perfect without the closest of attention. That is one of the first lessons. It is important to understand that onions cannot be allowed to burn for even five seconds—the slightest burn will coat the dish with an aftertaste that no amount of chili powder can disguise. Once things have started going bad, they are forever changed;
there is no going back to that perfect moment, the one that could have been. Although sometimes, there may be a going forward. Burnt food has its own flavor, and sometimes, you can work with it, make it into something else that is, at least, interesting. But that is not her current goal. Today she is creating perfection, and the memory of it to savor. She pours cold water over the cooked eggs; she cracks their shells, slices them into the yellow sauce. She scatters golden sultanas over the top, and slivered almonds. This dish will keep well; she turns a plate over it and sets it aside.

She stirs the potatoes. They are half done, and so is she.

Mangai's hands move to the front of her sari blouse. She undoes the hooks one by one, working from bottom to top. When it is entirely undone, she slips out of it, folds it neatly, sets it on a corner stool. Her breasts had always been small; now they are further shrunken. The cold still makes her nipples harden, and she can hear the children's sudden whispering. There are no boys outside, only girls. That is one of the rules, strictly enforced, imposed by the parents, not by Mangai. Only girls outside, to see what they will become in time. They have seen this before—still they whisper, every time. They enjoy whispering, as do their parents. That is one reason why Mangai can live in peace in this village; she brings her neighbors more pleasure as present scandal than she ever could as past expulsion. It is at times like these that they have an excuse to tell her story again, what they know and what they guess. It will give them something to talk about for days, something other than the war. In a way, it's almost a gift she gives them. Perhaps they know it. But she does not do it for them.

She takes a bundle of leeks in her hands, four thick stalks. She cuts off the ends, then begins slicing them, again, paper-thin. The thinner they are, the better. Her mother loved saying that. When not a single family offered for Mangai, her mother insisted that it was because she wasn't thin, not like her brother, her sisters. Small and squat and dark. Like a potato. Mangai lived at home until she was almost forty; then her father died, and her mother became unbearable. Mangai left then,
bought her own small house with her share of her father's money. Her mother had screamed her rage but had been too feeble to stop her. The house was many miles away, far enough that she never needed to see her mother again. She heard, years later, that the old woman had died.

Mangai finishes slicing and ends up with two large bowls full of leeks. She washes them in cold water, sluicing off all the dirt that had lain hidden under the skin. It takes some time. This is the simplest dish; four ingredients are enough. When she is done washing, she fries the leeks briefly in ghee, then adds turmeric and salt. She covers the pan and lets them cook on a low flame.

The leeks will take half an hour to soften, and all she has left to make is the fish, which will not take so long. But it takes time to unwind her sari from around her waist, pulling the fabric out of its tucks in front, spinning slowly as she unwraps each layer of fabric. She would like to dance, but her hip does not allow for quick movement. It aches in this weather, in the rain. The place where the bullet went into her skin, grazing the bone, feels twice as large, twice as sore, when the rain is pounding down, thumping against the ceiling, the ground outside. In America, it wouldn't have been a serious wound. Sundar, or his wife, would have been treated at a white-walled hospital, half an hour and out again, all patched up, good as new. Here, she had lain on her dirt floor, bleeding until she lost the world and faded into darkness. Her servant woman away, visiting relatives—Mangai had been left alone, unprotected in that house. She will never know if her neighbors waited at all when they found her. Did they run for help right away, for Pettiah's son, who was studying to go to medical school in India? Or did they wait, deliberate? A chance to be rid of the scandal in their midst. The woman who had lived with her servant, Daya, for decades, in a house with only one bed. A woman they had insulted, behind her back and to her face. Did they wait, or did they run?

It doesn't matter. Pettiah's son had bandaged her up, and she had healed. She had refused to tell them if the man with the rifle had been
Tamil or Sinhalese. They left her alone after that—her hip had, inexplicably, won her peace with her neighbors. It was not a small blessing, after all those years—it made days like today a little easier. She finishes her slow turning, the layers of fabric cradled in her arms. Mangai folds up the sari with care, not letting any of the wet white chiffon drag across the dirt floor, and places it on top of the folded blouse.