Silence and the Word (9 page)

I stepped over to the pitcher, took a tin cup
from the shelf and poured myself a cupful. Then I saw her. Sushila
huddled in the far corner of the kitchen, her back pressed flat
against the baked mud walls, her red wedding sari pulled tight
around her, so tight that the heavy silk seemed to cut into her
fair skin. Folds of fabric were wrapped around her fists, and those
in turn were pressed tight against her open mouth. She looked as if
she were trying not to scream, but she didn’t move, or make a
single sound.

I stepped towards her. “Sushila?” I knelt at
her feet. Her knees were pulled up tight against her chest, and I
rested a hand on one. “Are you all right?” It was a silly question,
and after a moment I understood that I didn’t deserve an answer.
The cup was still in my other hand; at last I stretched it out to
her. “Would you like a cup of water?”

She nodded, and slowly lowered her fists. I
raised the cup to her lips, and tilted it so that she could drink.
Sushila took a deep gulp, draining half the cup. Her whole body
shivered then, though the water couldn’t have been cooler than
lukewarm, after sitting all night. She shivered again, and again,
her arms now hanging loose at her sides, her eyes wide.

I didn’t want to ask my next question, but I
had to. “Did Suneel…did he hurt you?” The words almost choked in my
throat. My second sister had married a brute who beat her; she came
crying home every week to show us the bruises, and then turned
right around and went back to him. I knew that there were men like
that in the world; it was part of the reason I never wanted to
marry. But Suneel — he had always been the gentlest of us all. He
had converted to Buddhism a year ago, had turned vegetarian and
mourned every time he accidentally stepped on an insect. He never
teased me like the others had; he’d protected me from the worst of
my oldest sister’s rages. My favorite brother — I didn’t want to
believe that he could have hurt Sushila, but there she was, shaking
before me… .

Sushila shook her head. No. After a moment,
the word came up and out of her throat — “No.” I was almost as glad
to hear the sound of the word as the sense of them; there was a
crippled child who lived in the alley nearby who could not speak at
all. I raised the cup again, and she drained it in another gulp. I
put it down, not sure what to do next.

She was still shaking. I leaned forward,
pulled her into my arms. When she was completely enclosed in my
arms, the white of my sari covering the red of hers, she turned her
head, so that her mouth was against my ear. Her breath was hot
against my neck as she whispered, “I’m bleeding…” Before I could
speak, she reached up and took my right arm, her fingers sliding
down to my hand, pulling it down between us, under the sari to the
space between her thighs. Her legs were wet, and when I brought my
hand up, the tips of my fingers were stained red. When Sushila saw
the blood, she started to cry.

I wrapped my arms around her and held her
tightly, letting her cry against me. My second sister had shared
every detail of her wedding night with us; she seemed to enjoy our
shock and fascination. I knew that Sushila was the oldest daughter
in her family, that her mother had died years ago of a fever. But
didn’t she have any aunts? I stroked her hair, so soft and fine,
and told her softly, “It’s all right…shhh… .” Her shaking eased,
slowly, though the tears still fell hot against my neck, sliding
down my chest and mixing with my sweat, an indistinguishable mix of
salty waters. I held her, and rubbed her smooth back, and whispered
the words, over and over, until she understood.

I asked her at breakfast the next day if she
had slept well. Everyone laughed, and Suneel’s face reddened. He
had inherited my mother’s pale skin, and every emotion showed
through. Sushila smiled demurely, and assured me that she had. I
was glad for her, but I hadn’t slept at all.

I had drunk cup after cup of water after
she’d left, then refilled the pitcher from the well. A breeze had
finally picked up, and the ocean’s salt air filled the rooms,
caressing my body stretched out on its mat — but still, I couldn’t
sleep. I kept remembering how she had felt, her small body huddled
in my arms, remembering the sweet trembling, the softness of her
cheek against mine. I had held my sisters and countless cousins, of
course, but this had been different. And at breakfast and lunch and
dinner, throughout the day, I watched Sushila. She was slender and
fair, a perfect foil to tall Suneel, and she moved as if she were
dancing. She was clever too, telling small jokes that made everyone
laugh. If I could only look like her, talk like her…well. Might as
well wish for Krishna to come down and carry me off.

That night, I dozed for a few hours, but in
the deepest hours I woke, sweaty and damp. I wanted some water. I
got up and walked down the hall.

She was standing near the kitchen window,
drenched in moonlight.

“I thought you might be awake,” she said,
turning as I came in.

My tongue stumbled, but I managed to say, “I
just woke up.”

“Thank you for last night.” She was blushing,
but her voice was firm and clear. There was no sign of the
trembling girl I’d held in my arms; Sushila held herself straight
and poised. “You must think I’m very silly.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t think you’re silly.”
The moonlight shaded the planes of her face, the delicate curves;
it was almost like looking at a statue. I could have stood there,
watching her, for hours. “Shouldn’t you be in bed…with your
husband?” My brother.

“I was thirsty. I often get thirsty at
night.” She was wearing white; a thin gauze sari that barely
covered her limbs. Sushila’s small arms and legs made her look
almost like a child, but I knew she was sixteen, almost as old as
me. “I came for some water, but I couldn’t find a cup.”

The cups were in plain sight; perhaps the
shelf was a little high for her. I reached up, pulling down the
same one I’d used the night before. It had a small notch in one
side, and you had to drink carefully or you might scratch yourself.
It was different from all the others, and my favorite. I lifted the
pitcher, and found that it was almost empty. Someone hadn’t
refilled it. I poured what water was left into the cup, and held it
out to her. As she stepped forward to take it from me, she
stumbled, and her outstretched hand knocked against mine, spilling
the water over both our hands, splashing onto the dirt floor.

“Sorry!” She seemed frightened for a moment,
though it was only water.

“It’s all right. But that was all the water.”
I could draw some more from the well, of course.

Sushila sighed. I could see her breasts move
under the thin fabric of her blouse. “I’m really very thirsty.” She
lifted her dripping hand to her mouth then and started to lick the
water from it. Her tongue was small, too, and licked very
delicately, with determination. She licked away every drop, slowly,
as I watched.

“Still thirsty?” I asked. Sushila hesitated,
and then nodded. I could have drawn more water, but instead I took
a small step forward, bringing up my wet hand, up to her slowly
opening mouth. She reached out a hand and gripped my wrist,
surprisingly tight. She took the cup out of my hand and set it on
the table. And then she brought my hand to her mouth and started to
lick.

I started shivering then.

When she finished, having carefully licked
first the back of my hand, then the palm, and then taken each
finger into her mouth, she let go of my wrist. My arm dropped
limply to my side. Sushila’s eyes were wide and still, her head
cocked to its side like a little startled bird. She bit her lip,
and then said, “Thank you. That’s much better.”

I didn’t know what to say. The wrong thing,
and I knew this would be destroyed, might as well not have
happened. I wanted to take her damp fingers in mine, and lick them,
but when I opened my mouth, these were the words that came out:
“Suneel might miss you.”

Sushila took a quick breath, then nodded.
“Now that I’ve finished my cup of water, I’d better go back to
bed.” Sushila turned away and stepped quickly and quietly down the
hall. I heard her pushing aside the curtain that covered their
doorway, and then it fell back into place behind her. I picked up
the pitcher and went out to the well.

The third night, I didn’t even try to sleep.
I had napped a little during the day, and my mother had called me a
lazybones. It didn’t matter. They were only staying a few more
days, just three more days and then they were getting on a train,
leaving the north, going down to the capitol where Suneel had
secured a government job. The tickets were bought; plans had been
made. This night, and then three more — that was all.

After everyone else had gone to bed, I went
to the kitchen and waited. I watched the moonlight travel across
the room. I counted the cracks in the ceiling, and the lizards that
lived in the cracks. I listened to the wind moving through the
coconut palms, and when I couldn’t sit still any longer I went
outside and picked shoeflowers from the garden. Their soft crimson
would look lovely in her hair. I arranged them in circles on the
table, and in the center of the circle, I placed the filled tin
cup. I was bent over them, straightening a crooked flower, when I
heard her step behind me. I stood up straight, but didn’t turn
around. Her arms slid around my waist, and Sushila rested her head
against my back. She started to whisper: “It’s dry in that room.
It’s so dry. My mouth and skin are dry. The air is like breathing
chalk. The heat is outside and inside and burning. It hurts to
breathe.”

Did she know what she was doing to me? She
must have known.

I said nothing, just listening, just feeling
her slim arms around my too-solid waist, the unbearable warmth of
her against my sweating back. My blouse covered so little, and her
cheek lay against my naked skin, her belly was hot against my lower
back.

“Medha,” she whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

I took the cup of water from the table, and
turned to face her, still enclosed in the circle of her arms, so
that now her belly pressed against mine. I raised the cup to her
lips, but Sushila shook her head, keeping her lips tightly closed
until I lowered the cup, confused.

She smiled. “Aren’t you thirsty?” she
asked.

Oh. Of course I was. Desperately thirsty. My
hands, curved around the cup, had turned to ice, but my mouth was
burning. I raised the cup to my lips.

I filled my mouth with water, soaking the dry
roof of my mouth, my parched tongue. Then she raised up on her toes
and opened her mouth; I bent down, and placing my lips on hers, I
gave her water to drink. Sushila took it from me, sucking the water
deep down her throat. She swallowed, and I felt the motion in my
own lips. Then she pulled back, and for a moment my chest tightened
with fear…but she only said, “More.”

I fed her the water from my lips, making each
mouthful smaller and smaller, each transfer taking longer and
longer. Finally, the cup was empty, and not just empty, but dry.
She released me then, and stepped back. She said the words,
formally, the ones I knew she was about to say.

“Thank you for the cup of water. I should
return to my husband.”

I nodded, and Sushila disappeared down the
hall. Of course she had to return. This was impossible, so
impossible that it wasn’t even explicitly forbidden— but if I
didn’t think about it too hard, maybe it would be all right.

Three more nights.

On the fourth night, as I poured her cup, I
pointed out that the well was full of water. If we left the
kitchen, if we went behind the house, to where the well stood,
shaded by a large banyan tree — there were many shadows near the
well, and there was much water within it.

“I shouldn’t be away that long,” she said.
“Just long enough for a cup of water.”

I wanted to protest, but didn’t. If I did,
she might decide she wasn’t that thirsty after all; she might
simply go back to Suneel. It would be so much safer that way.

I have always loved my sweet brother.

The fourth night, she took the cup away from
me. Sushila dipped her small finger into it, and then traced a line
along my arm. She bent down and licked up the water. Then it was a
line from my throat to the top hook of my blouse, and her tongue
dipped briefly beneath the line of fabric to chase a drop of water.
Then she knelt to draw a circle on my belly, a spiral ending in my
navel, where she lingered, sucking gently, then not so gently.

I tried to take the cup, to at least dip a
finger in myself, but she pulled it back. Her eyes were laughing,
though her voice was clear and firm.

“I’m sorry, but I’m really very thirsty
tonight. I need to drink it all.”

Sushila pulled me down to my knees and turned
me, to drip water along my back. She seemed especially fond of the
back of my neck, and I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle the
moans that I could not keep down. Thank the gods that my father
snores so loudly. You can hear him from the kitchen, his snores
regular as the ticking of his prized gold watch. If he found us
like this… .

Half a cup gone when she turned me back
around, and she paused a moment, staring at me. Her eyes were large
and wide and dark, her lips so full they seemed bruised, bitten. I
leaned forward, my own mouth slightly open, hoping that she might
choose to put her wet finger inside it, and then follow it with her
mouth, but instead she reached up and pulled down my sari, so that
the sheer fabric fell to my waist, leaving my upper body dressed
only in my blouse. The blouse fabric was thicker than the sari, but
I felt naked. She smiled then, and scooping up fully half the
remaining water in her palm, she drenched my left breast.