Silence and the Word (12 page)

There is a face missing from the photos as
well, his son’s, Raksha’s—but the boy abandoned his family, and all
the photos which contained him were thrown out long ago.

It’s almost ten—time to wrap Riddhi’s
presents. Sushila has chosen most of them. Pretty dresses, and one
of them not to be wrapped, since Riddhi will wear it today. A white
handbag. A dark green sari.

Sushila wore green, the day after they were
married. Sitting at the table with him, his mother, his sisters—he
remembers how beautiful she looked in that green, how she smiled
and blushed when one of his sisters teased her about the night
before. His young bride.

He had been so nervous the night before. His
friends had been full of coarse advice; he was the first of them to
marry; they knew nothing. One of his aunties had pulled him
aside—he can’t remember now which one it was. She whispered to him:
“The girl’s more scared than you are.” Then she stuck a chicken
roll in his hand and went away. The older relatives never
remembered that he had given up eating the flesh of animals the
year before, when he became a Buddhist. But it was good advice. It
had calmed him down, and let him be very patient and gentle with
Sushila that night. She had been so vulnerable, so sweet and still
as he unwrapped her crimson sari. Afterwards, he had fallen asleep
with her small hand held tightly in his own. When he woke, it was
still there. Suneel aches even now, at the memory of it.

His fingers continue wrapping, creasing the
delicate paper, tearing it, folding it over each gift. Lipstick.
Blush. Eyeliner. Small gold earrings. He does not approve of the
make-up. His daughter does not need to paint her face to be
beautiful. But it’s not worth arguing with his wife. He learned
that long ago.

The earrings are good; a girl should have
some nice jewelry, for beauty and security. He has been saving
money; a little here and there put into a special bank account. He
started when Raji was born—money for his daughters’ dowry, for
their jewelry. Now who knows whom Raji will marry, if she ever
does. Running around with American boys. Taking them back to her
dorm room for anyone to see—and they run and tell her shamed
parents, of course, and all their friends. Sushila screams at the
girl, hits her, but it does no good. Violence never does. Raji will
find her own path, away from her family, and the jewelry will go to
Riddhi instead. It is just as well. A girl cannot have too much
security.

One present left, but he will wrap it
later.

At eleven, Sushila wakes. He brings her tea,
and sits by the side of the bed while she drinks it. She has a list
of instructions for him: buy chicken for the rolls, wine and beer,
some large prawns; she’s decided to make another curry. It will be
expensive, more than they’d planned to spend, but he can work late
tomorrow and make up the difference. She does not ask what he
thinks.

She finishes her list, and gets out of bed.
Sushila wears a thin white cotton nightgown. Her heavy breasts show
through the sheer fabric, her waist and swell of hips, the darkness
at the juncture of her thighs. Her long hair falls thickly down her
back. He stirs at the sight of her; he often does.

Riddhi is working in the front yard, trimming
the roses, mowing the lawn. He can hear the roar of the mower
through the open window, and knows that if he were to close the
bedroom door and pull his wife back to the bed, Riddhi would not
hear them. He considers it—if he did draw her to the bed, Sushila
would not protest. She never protests; she is always willing,
always available, the accommodating wife. But she will lie still
beneath him, with her head turned away and her eyes closed. She
will be still like a statue. It is the only time she is awake and
not in motion—when he is moving in her, above her.

On that first night, their wedding night,
Suneel had been so gentle with her, but had not managed to coax a
response from her. He had told himself that it would get better
with time, that she hardly knew him, that he was a stranger to her.
But it had not gotten better, and so only rarely had he let himself
sink inside her. Once was a night when Sushila had gone shopping
with her friends, and had come back late—so late! Nine-thirty at
night, and while it was true that the mall was open until nine, he
had not been able to believe that she had only been shopping.

His anger had risen up in him then, and he
had almost dragged her to their bed. He had wanted to hit her,
wanted to hurt her, and he had come so close… . Yet he had
remembered the words of the Buddha, and had restrained himself. He
had taken her fiercely, but without causing her pain. He had stayed
true to himself, to his beliefs, and she had never known how angry
he had been. Sometimes he wondered if that anger had infected Raji,
conceived on that night.

Sushila raises her arms, stretches,
displaying the dark thatch of hair under her arms, and he bites his
lip, drawing blood. He wants her. She is his wife, and he has every
right to take her. But he knows that if he takes her back to bed
now, she will not want him. She will not want him. He lets her go
to her shower, undisturbed.

He drives too fast on the highway. His family
depends on him, he has a duty to them, and so he wears his seat
belt—but he still drives too fast. A car speeds up, cuts in front
of him, and he resists the urge to shove his foot down on the gas,
rush forward and crash…that would be an extremely violent act.

Suneel forswore violence thirty-four years
ago, and since that day he has not eaten fish or meat, not killed a
spider or crushed an ant. He has never raised his hand to his wife
or children, even though there was a time when Sushila begged him
to discipline their son.

At sixteen, Raksha had fallen in with a bad
crowd, taken to disappearing at night, climbing out windows and
down trees, meeting with his friends. Eventually they’d heard about
it, learned that the boy was spending his time smoking marijuana in
a dark room with other teens, having sex with one girl or another,
listening to music that preached revolution, revolution and sex,
sex that they called ‘love’. Those children had no idea what love
was, but they were everywhere that summer, smoking and drinking and
running around late at night, singing. America had never seemed as
alien as it did that year. Then came the rumors that Raksha had
gotten a white girl pregnant, that she’d had an abortion or a baby,
that she had disappeared or died—but maybe they were just rumors.
No one seemed sure.

They had confined Raksha to his room, they
had argued with him, his mother had screamed and wept—but for
nothing. Raksha had grown sullen and silent. Finally he’d left,
just disappeared into the night like a thief, without even a note.
Sushila has never forgiven her husband for not being harsher with
their son. She hasn’t hesitated to discipline Raji, bringing the
slim bamboo cane down on the girl’s back, but it has done little
good.

He has never hit anyone. He avoids harsh
speech, and animosity of thought. All the Buddhism he knows he
learned from a friend in school so long ago, and from what he can
teach himself by studying books. He has learned at least a little
after years of study, and knows that refraining from violent
thought or action is essential if one wishes to reach the calm of
enlightenment.

He removes his foot from the gas pedal. He
strives for a peaceful state of mind, though he knows it will not
come.

When he comes home, she screams at him.
Sushila is a woman given to screeching, though he could never have
guessed that when they married. He knew she had life and passion in
her, but it seemed so joyous. She was sparkling then, like sunlight
on river water. Laughter bubbled out of her. She even got his
littlest sister to laugh once or twice, ugly Medha who had never
managed to find a husband. Medha, who has ended up alone, living in
a sad little house on the beach, battered by salty ocean winds,
with only a maid for company. Without children.

Perhaps Raji will suffer the same fate, since
she has apparently turned away from their society. Perhaps she too
will end up ugly and alone. Once the thought of his daughter in
such straits might have tormented him, but he has been hurt too
many times, betrayed over and over. His heart is closed to her; he
cannot bring himself to care.

The first step to enlightenment, perhaps, to
serenity.
When touched by happiness or sorrow, the wise show no
elation or dejection; the wise become serene like unto a deep, calm
and crystal-clear lake.
He suspects that he will never find it,
but he longs for that serenity.

Serenity is difficult to find when Sushila is
shouting that he has brought the wrong kind of chicken. Does he do
this to her deliberately? Is he trying to torment her? His neck is
taut with tension, his shoulders tight, but she cannot see that—he
is much taller than she is. He bows his head until she is finished.
Then he goes out again, to get the right kind of chicken.

When he comes back a half hour later, with
the chicken, she does not thank him. She is busy cooking again, and
two of his sisters have arrived as well to help. Their husbands are
working, and will arrive later. The women are laughing in the
kitchen, gossiping and trading bits of cooking wisdom. They ignore
him, but he is used to that. The house is clean; the food will be
ready on time; she needs nothing more of him. He goes to wrap his
daughter’s final present.

He takes the photo from a manila envelope
he’s kept hidden in a drawer. He arranged for it months ago; his
wife has no idea. It’s a good photo. There is a frame for it as
well, heavy silver. He slips the photo into the frame, attaches the
back, tightens the screws. It will not slip away. For a moment, he
hesitates. This is home that he is holding in his hands—but he has
not been back in so long, and sometimes he hears disturbing news of
strange events. There had been the riots, in ’58. And since then,
scattered violence, here and there. Even some deaths. His gut
twists for a moment, but then eases again. The violence is
transient; it must be. It will pass. He knows what home really is,
and what it isn’t. Suneel wraps the photo with steady hands in
white tissue paper and places it in a box; wraps the box in shining
red foil paper. It will glow from among the other presents in their
decorous wrappings. Perhaps Riddhi will open it first—that would be
a nice surprise.

Riddhi knocks on the bedroom door, calling to
him—”Appa!” He is startled, and calls to her to wait. Just another
minute securing it with scotch tape—there. It’s done. He puts it
with the other presents and goes to open the door. His daughter
grabs his hand, drags him to the dining room window. “Look,
Appa—it’s raining!”

It’s true. The rain is slanting down over the
lawn, spattering against the circles of metal folding chairs; it
will be a large party, perhaps a hundred people. Too many to seat
comfortably all in the house. He had spent at least an hour mowing
the back lawn and setting up the chairs yesterday, and now his
daughter is panicking because they are getting wet.

“It’s just a summer shower; it’ll pass. Don’t
worry. Go get dressed; people will be here soon.”

Raji would have argued, would have wondered
if they should make plans to bring the chairs inside somehow, would
have at least pointed out that it was still two hours until anyone
was due to arrive and that their friends were always an hour late
in any case. Raji had never agreed with him; she had always argued.
Once, he had thought that was good, a sign of a strong spirit. Now
he knows better.

Riddhi smiles in response to his words and
says, “Okay.” She goes upstairs to get ready; she trusts and obeys
him. He would do almost anything to preserve that trust.

Suneel showers and gets dressed. He has
trouble finding the tie he wants; Sushila has rearranged the closet
again. He is looking for his favorite tie, the dark blue one with
the thin white diagonal lines. It reminds him of river water, white
foam on the darkness. He reaches back into the closet, and pulls
out a handful of old ties, ties that he hasn’t seen in years. One
of them is bright red, shockingly bright, even after all this
time.

His son was fifteen that day. Raksha had
given him that tie on Father’s day. Raji was only four then, and
Riddhi was just two. Raksha had been born a scant nine months after
their wedding; they had waited a long time for more children.
Sometimes he wondered whether Sushila had actually wanted children,
if she had been taking something to prevent them; motherhood had
never really suited her. Maybe she had, and then had become
careless as the long years stretched past, stopped worrying about
it, and so he’d gotten his girls at last. She had her secrets, his
wife. He’d never know the truth of it. Let it go.

Raksha had given him the tie on Father’s Day.
Such a bright boy he was, and yet already in trouble. Already
running around with the wrong crowd, but they didn’t know. His
parents didn’t know—how could they? Suneel was working seventy,
eighty hours a week at the store in those days, and he was so tired
at night. Sushila kept the family fed, and cleaned up a little, but
she was busy herself with two young ones after so long without. She
didn’t spend much time on her son, who had already grown so tall.
When Raksha had given him that tie, reached to hug him, had there
been alcohol on his breath? Had there been marijuana smoke thick in
his clothes? If so, neither of his parents had noticed.

When his grades started slipping, they had
scolded Raksha, told him to try harder. Never doubted the boy when
he said he was studying at the library late at night, trying to
improve the grades. It had never occurred to the father to distrust
his son. Adults could betray you, as he well knew, but children?
Children were the light of life.