Silence and the Word (13 page)

He should have paid more attention to the
Buddha’s example—the prince who walked away from his young wife and
infant son to seek truth and an ending to false desire.

When Raksha ran off, they’d been frantic with
worry, called the police, their friends across the country. The boy
was found in Chicago, months later; he’d hitched his way across the
country. Raksha lived with white friends for a while, then
eventually found a job, but refused to come home or answer their
letters. He never told them why he had run away. They had given him
everything, and he had thrown it all back in their faces. Finally
Sushila, enraged, had demanded that they cut him off entirely,
weeping with her frustration. He had quietly agreed. They were only
acknowledging a separation that was already final.

They still received reports from friends in
Chicago. Raksha had settled down eventually, had even married a
Tamil girl from a good family, a professional family. Married above
him, actually; he had always been a handsome boy. There had been
some trouble, but it was eventually sorted out. Suneel has picked
up the phone to call him, a hundred times, but every time, he puts
it down again.

Raksha has a daughter now, Chaya, a girl who
will never know her father’s parents. His son is lost to him.
For the sake of oneself, one should not long for a son, wealth
or a kingdom
. He had never truly wanted wealth or a kingdom. He
places the red tie back on the rack, finally finds the dark blue
tie, soberly knots it around his neck.

Sushila has showered, is dressing now. He
straightens the bedroom, pretending not to watch her, listening to
her talking nonsense. She slips her arms into a dark purple blouse,
and calls him to hook up the back. His fingers do not linger on the
soft flesh exposed there; he is deft and quick, after so many years
of practice. Thirty-two years of marriage. He married her when he
was twenty-two and she was sixteen; he is fifty-four now, a good
age for a man to ease back, to rest in the comfort of his family’s
love and affection.

She tucks one end of her dark green sari into
her half-slip, and he takes the other end in his hands, holding it
taut as she folds the fabric in front of her, making the pleats
that will allow her to walk freely, to dance later. She will call
him to dance, and he will gently refuse, as always. He does not
dance. She will dance with her friends, his sisters—not immodestly,
of course. Only with women; never with men. But she will laugh
freely, will be flushed with pleasure, will lean towards the women
and whisper silly secrets in their ears, making them blush and
giggle. Exuberant, yet unobjectionable, as always. But the public
does not always reflect the private, and he has always known what
really goes on.

Suneel is not sure when he first realized
that his wife, his beautiful, innocent-seeming Sushila, was
betraying him. The first clue was undoubtedly in bed, but he was so
ignorant then; how long was it going on before he noticed? Before
he realized that while she was willing, she was never eager for
him? Before he realized that there was more than maidenly shyness
in her lack of response to him?

In another kind of woman, perhaps that would
have been normal, but not his Sushila, who laughed with her whole
heart, who sometimes had taken the children out to dance in the
rain, and who bit her lip and crossed her thighs as they watched
the romantic scenes in American movies, the woman in soft focus,
lips parted, clasped tight in strong arms. Somewhere in Sushila was
a response, but not to him. Never to him.

He had never caught her at it. Never caught
her sneaking out, or inviting someone in. He hadn’t tried, hadn’t
wanted to. If he had caught her, he would have been tempted from
the path. If he had caught her, he might have swung a heavy fist at
her lying face, might have beaten her lover into a bloody pulp. And
so he always called first if he were coming home unexpectedly
early, or in the middle of the day. He had trouble sleeping at
night, and so took pills so that he would not know if she ever
slipped out of their bed. Suneel had done his best to never know
the truth. He had no real evidence; he had tried not to know—yet he
was sure. He knew.

He would have done better not to love her at
all, not to desire her.
Let no one cherish anything, inasmuch as
the loss of what is beloved is hard
. But after thirty-one
years, he has not managed it. Sushila is still his wife, and
beautiful to him, and every night he fights his desire to reach for
the woman who was the first to betray him.

She pulls the fabric from his hands; she is
done pleating it. Sushila wraps it once around her body, and then
crosses it up over her full breasts, over a shoulder to drape
across her back and bare waist. He pins the heavy fabric in place
at her shoulder, and she walks out of the room, still chattering
about something, words which he can make no sense of.

The rain stops, and he goes out with a
dishcloth to wipe the chairs dry. No one has arrived yet—they will
start arriving at 4:30, 4:45. They will eat the appetizers, they
will drink the wine, they will have a roaring good time.
Eventually, they will go away, leaving a scattering of presents
behind, and then the family will sit down with Riddhi to open them.
It will be late—maybe eleven, or twelve or even later. Riddhi will
be tired; they will all be. Their reactions will be muted, which is
really a shame. He wants to see the looks on their faces as she
opens his present. He wants it badly. He does not want to wait.

Maybe he won’t.

By five, the party is going strong—all of
their close friends have arrived, and only a few more people are
straggling in. Riddhi is lovely in a pale cream summer dress, with
slim straps baring too much of her skin. The boys cluster around
her, and she tilts back her head and laughs, delightedly, at what
they say to her. What are they saying to her?

Suneel 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. Riddhi 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.
Riddhi smiles and takes it. She starts peeling off the tape
carefully, slowly, and Raji shouts, “Just tear it!” Riddhi
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. Riddhi 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 Riddhi 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, Riddhi 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 Riddhi 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 Riddhi, 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-two 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. Riddhi
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 Riddhi 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 Riddhi.” 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 Riddhi?? 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 Riddhi.

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 Riddhi 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 Riddhi 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 Suneel 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 Riddhi 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.

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

Riddhi 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. Riddhi 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, Riddhi?”

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 river water down her
back.

“Do you trust me, Riddhi?”

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.