Authors: Jhumpa Lahiri
She was failing at something every other woman on earth did without trying. That should not have proved a struggle. Even her own mother, who had not fully raised her, had loved her; of that there had been no doubt. But Gauri feared she had already descended to a place where it was no longer possible to swim up to Bela, to hold on to her.
Nor was her love for Udayan recognizable or intact. Anger was always mounted to it, zigzagging through her like some helplessly mating pair of insects. Anger at him for dying when he might have lived. For bringing her happiness, and then taking it away. For trusting her, only to betray her. For believing in sacrifice, only to be so selfish in the end.
She no longer searched for signs of him. The fleeting awareness that he might be in a room, looking over her shoulder as she worked at her desk, was no longer a comfort. Certain days it was possible not to think of him, to remember him. No aspect of him had traveled to America. Apart from Bela, he’d refused to join her here.
The women in the philosophy department were secretaries. The professor, and the other students in her class, were men. It was a small group,
seven people including the professor. Quickly they grew to know one another by name. They liked to argue about antipositivism, about praxis. About immanence and the absolute. They never solicited Gauri’s opinion, but as she began to contribute to the discussion they listened, surprised that she knew enough, at times, to prove them wrong.
Her professor, Otto Weiss, was a short man with a thick accent, a slow manner of speaking, wire spectacles, rust-colored curls on his head. He dressed more formally than the other professors. Always with polished leather shoes, a jacket, a little pin securing his tie. He’d been born in Germany, put into one of the camps when he was a boy.
I never think of it, he told the class, speaking briefly of this experience, after one of the students asked him when he had left Europe. As if to say, Do not pity me, though the rest of his family had perished before the camp was liberated; though there was an identification number on his lower arm, the tattoo concealed beneath his clothing.
He was perhaps only a decade older than Gauri but seemed of another sensibility, another generation. He had lived in England before coming to the United States. He’d done his doctorate at Chicago. He would never return to Germany, he said. Reading the attendance list on the first day of class, he had called out her name without hesitation. She had not had to correct his pronunciation, to tolerate the way most Americans uttered her married name.
He referred to no notes when he lectured. Though he guided them carefully through the texts he’d assigned, he seemed more interested in what the students had to say, taking a few notes on blank sheets of white paper as they spoke. He’d read the Upanishads, talked about their influence on Schopenhauer. She felt a kinship with this man. She wanted to please him, to salute him somehow.
At the end of the semester, after writing a comparison of Nietzsche’s and Schopenhauer’s concepts of circular time, she was asked to come to his office after class. She’d worked on the essay for weeks, writing it out by hand, then typing up the fair copy on Subhash’s typewriter, at the kitchen table. Surrounded by the appliances, the cord of the fluorescent fixture overhead. The task had kept her awake until dawn.
She saw crowded notations in the margins, slanting comments that virtually formed a frame.
This is ambitious material. One might say presumptuous.
She did not know how to respond.
Do you think you have succeeded?
Still she did not know what to say.
I asked for an essay of ten pages. You have written close to forty. And yet you have still failed utterly to prove your point.
I’m sorry.
Don’t apologize. I am always grateful to have an intellectual in the room. Such a grasp of Hegel I have not encountered among my students here.
He scanned certain portions of the essay, a finger trailing below the words. It needs revising, he said.
I can prepare it for next week?
He shook his head, brushing his hands against one another. I have finished with this class. And I suggest you put this paper in a drawer and not look at it for a few years.
She thought he was brushing his hands of her also. She thanked him for the class. She stood up to go.
What brings you to Rhode Island from India?
My husband.
What does he do?
He studied here also.
You met in America?
She turned her face away.
I’ve asked something I should not have?
He was patient, steadily gazing up at her from his chair. He did not press. But he seemed to sense that she had more to say.
She turned to him again. She looked at the books behind him, the papers piled on his desk. She looked at the crisp material of his shirt, the cuffs covering his wrists where the sleeves of the jacket ended. She thought of what he’d experienced, at less than Bela’s age.
My first husband was killed, she said. I watched it happen. I married his brother, to get away.
Weiss continued to look at her. His expression had not changed. After a moment he nodded. She knew she’d told him enough.
He stood up, and walked over to the window in his office. He lifted it open a crack.
Do you read French or German?
No. But I’ve studied Sanskrit.
You will need both languages to go on, but they will be simple for you.
Go on?
You belong in a doctoral program, Mrs. Mitra. They don’t offer one here.
She shook her head. I have a young daughter, she said.
Ah, I did not realize you were a mother. You must bring her to see me.
He turned around a framed picture that was on his desk, and showed her his family. They were standing with their backs to a valley in autumn, flaming leaves. A wife, a daughter, two sons.
With children the clock is reset. We forget what came before.
He returned to the desk and wrote down the names of a few books he recommended, telling her which chapters were most important. From the shelves he lent her his own copies of Adorno and McTaggart, with his annotations. He gave her copies of
New German Critique
, indicating some articles she should read.
He told her to continue taking upper-level courses at the university, saying that they would count toward a master’s. After that he could make some phone calls, to doctoral programs that would suit her, universities to which she could commute. He would see to it that she was admitted. It would mean traveling a few times a week for some years, but she could write her dissertation from anywhere. He would be willing to serve on her committee, when the time came.
He handed the paper back to her, and stood up to shake her hand.
At the front of the apartment complex there was a broad sloping lawn. The school bus stopped on the other side of it. For the first few days of first grade, Gauri walked Bela across the lawn, waiting with her for the bus, seeing her off, then going back in the afternoons, to receive her.
The following week, Bela wanted to walk to the bus stop on her own, as the other young children in the complex did. There were one or two mothers who always went, and they told Gauri they were happy to make sure that everyone got safely onto the bus.
Still, Gauri would keep an eye on Bela as she walked down the pathway at the foot of their building, across the grass. She moved the dining table she worked at over to the window. The bus always came at the same time, the wait only five minutes or so. Lunch boxes arranged on the sidewalk marked the children’s places in the line.
She was grateful for this slight change in the morning routine. It made a difference that she did not have to get dressed, did not have to step outside the apartment and make small talk with other mothers, before sitting down to study. She was taking an independent course with Professor Weiss, reading Kant, beginning to grasp it for the first time.
One morning, after a night of downpours, a light rain still falling, she handed Bela her lunch box and sent her off. She was still in her nightgown, her robe. The day was her own until three, when Bela’s school ended, when the bus would drop her off and she would return across the sloping lawn.
But today, a minute later, there was a knock on the door. Bela was back.
Did you forget something? Do you want your rain hat?
No.
What is it, then?
Come see.
I’m in the middle of something.
Bela tugged at her hand. Ma, you have to come see.
Gauri took off her robe and slippers, putting on a raincoat and a pair of boots. She stepped outside, opening an umbrella.
Outside, the air was humid, saturated with a deep, fishy stench. Bela pointed to the pathway. It was covered by a carnage of earthworms; they’d emerged from the wet soil to die. Not two or three but hundreds. Some were tightly curled, others flattened. Their rosy bodies, their five hearts, sliced apart.
Bela shut her eyes tightly. She recoiled at the image, complained of the smell. She said she didn’t want to step on them. And she was afraid to walk across the lawn from which they’d come.
Why are there so many?
It happens sometimes. They come out to breathe when the ground is too wet.
Will you carry me?
You’re too big.
Can I stay home, then?
Gauri looked up to where the other children stood, under hoods and umbrellas. They seem to have managed, she said.
Please? Bela’s voice was small. Tears formed, then slid down her face.
Another mother might have indulged her. Another mother might have brought her back, let her stay home, skip a day of school. Another mother, spending the time with her, might not have considered it a waste.
Gauri remembered how happy Subhash had been, those days last winter when it had snowed so heavily, and most everything was shut down. For a whole week he’d stayed home with Bela, making a holiday of it. Playing games, reading stories, taking her out to play on campus, in the snow.
Then she remembered another thing. How, at the height of the crackdown, the bodies of party members were left in streams, in fields close to Tollygunge. They were left by the police, to shock people, to revolt them. To make clear that the party would not survive.
The school bus was approaching.
Come.
But Bela shook her head. No.
If you don’t get on the bus we’re going to walk to school. Over more worms than this.
When Bela still refused to move, Gauri grasped her tightly by the hand, causing her to trip, dragging her across. Bela was sobbing audibly, miserably now.
The other mothers and children, gathered at the bus stop, had turned their heads. The bus came to a stop, the door opening, the rest of the children getting on. The driver was waiting for them.
Don’t make a scene, Bela. Don’t be a coward.
I watched your father killed before my eyes, she might have said.
I don’t like you, Bela cried out, shaking herself free. I’ll never like you, for the rest of my life.
She ran ahead. Abandoning her mother on the heels of summoning her. Not wanting Gauri to accompany her the rest of the way.
It had been a child’s temper, posturing, grandiose. By the afternoon, when Bela came home, the incident was forgotten. But Bela’s words had pervaded Gauri like a prophecy.
I want her to know, she told Subhash that evening, taking a break from typing a paper, after Bela was in bed. Subhash was sitting at the kitchen table, balancing the checkbook, paying bills.
Know what?
I want to tell her about Udayan.
Subhash stared at her. She saw fear in his eyes. She remembered when Udayan was hidden behind the water hyacinth, and the gun was at her throat. She realized the weapon was in her hands now. Everything that mattered to him, she could take away.
It’s the truth, she continued.
He shook his head. His expression had changed. He stood up to face her.
She deserves to know, Subhash.
She’s too young. She’s only six.
When, then?
When she’s ready. Now it would only do more harm than good.
She had been prepared to insist on it, to peel the false coating of
their lives away, but she knew he was right. It was too much for Bela to absorb. And perhaps it would compromise the alliance between Subhash and Bela she’d come to depend on. It would cause Bela to regard Subhash in a different way.
All right, then. She turned to go.
Wait.
What?
You agree with me?
I said yes.
Then promise me something.
What’s that?
Promise you won’t tell her on your own. That we’ll do that together someday.
She promised, but she felt the weight of it, sinking down inside her. It was the weight of maintaining the illusion that he was Bela’s father. A weight always settling instead of surfacing.
She realized it was the only thing he continued to need from her. That he was beginning to give up on the rest.
She became aware of a man who looked at her, turning his head slightly as she passed by. His glance shifting, though he never stopped to introduce himself—there was no reason for him to. She knew there weren’t too many women who looked like her on the campus. Most of the other Indian women wore saris. But in spite of her jeans and boots and belted cardigan, or perhaps because of them, Gauri knew she stood out.
At first she found him unappealing, physically. A man in his fifties, she guessed, a little thickset at the waist. The eyes were small, inscrutable. Pale hair that stuck up a little. A thin mouth, the skin of his face creased, seeming dry.
He wore a brown corduroy jacket, a sweater underneath. He carried a battered leather briefcase in his hand. Though they crossed paths with comic predictability, mutely acknowledging one another, she never saw him smile.
She assumed he was a professor. She had no idea what department he was in. One day she noticed a wedding band on his finger. She
would see him on the way to her German class, always along the same section of the path.