The Weight of Heaven (36 page)

ears and drag him to his mother’s house to protest. The old woman

would slap her son’s head, and for a day or two, he would stop his

terror. Prakash alone had no one to defend him, and Gulab made the

most of this. Punches. Pinches. Kicks. Slaps. Head butts. And worst

of all, the cruel jokes and the laughter.

“Ae
, Sad Face,” the teenage Gulab would call out. “What’s

wrong,
yaar
? You look like your mother-father have died.”

2 6 0 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

Prakash would try and slink away, would pray for invisibility,

but silence only infuriated Gulab. “Come here, you motherfucker,”

he’d continue. “Tell me, who died today?”

There was no correct response. Answering back invited violence.

So did silence. And besides, the physical pain was tolerable. What

was intolerable was the humiliation. The way the other boys looked

away while he was being tortured, the contempt and pity he saw on

their faces. Without witnesses, the abuse would not have mattered.

But Gulab always made certain that there were spectators to his torment. And no one ever spoke up for Prakash, no woman, man, or

child. There was not even a family pet, a dog who would bare his

teeth at Gulab.

He had been so relieved when Gulab had disappeared from the

village for several years. Rumor was that he had joined the army and

was fighting in Kashmir. “I hope the Muslim scum kill him and eat his

bones,” he’d said to his friend Amir when he’d first heard the news.

Amir had looked shocked for a second but then grinned, showing red,

paan-stained teeth. “May they choke on his bones,” he’d agreed.

But demons were hard to kill, Prakash thought, as he washed a

frying pan in scalding hot water. Gulab had come back to the village

a few years after he and Edna had moved in with Olaf. During those

years Gulab stopped by at least once a week, to bring Olaf a new

woman each time. And now he was back, let into the house by the

American. Still tormenting Prakash by his very existence.

The door creaked, and Edna came in. “
Baap re baap
,” she said.

“Such-such noises you’re making. Are you washing the pot or killing it?”

He shot her an ugly look. “Don’t talk,” he said. “Just sit
chup-

chap
, if you must be here.”

“What
bhoot
got into you tonight?”

Prakash set the pan down with a bang. “Gulab was here today,”

he said. He knew Edna disliked the man, also. “See who your ’Merican lets into his home? Such low-class people.”

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 6 1

For a happy moment he thought Edna was going to agree with

him. Then her eyes narrowed and she said, “Gulab does security for

the company. Of course Frank sir have him come here on business.

Why that sticks in your gullet?”

“Why for he give him the job? People in village say Gulab ordered that poor Anand to be beaten in the police
chowki
.”

“People in village say moon come out in the afternoon. You believe them?”

He hated this about her, how she blindly sided with the Americans over her own family. “You shameless. Not siding with your

own countrymen.”

“Countrymen? Those fools ignore me from the day I come to

this godforsaken village. Now they become my fellow men?”

He stared at her in frustration. For years he had let her believe that

his aversion to Gulab stemmed from the fact that the man pimped

women for Olaf, unable to let his wife see the smothering shame and

terror that he felt each time he was in Gulab’s orbit. “You the fool,”

he said lamely. “Blind by your loyalty to these foreigners.”

“Ellie miss treat me better than anyone in Girbaug ever did. Frank

sir teaches my son. Only you ungrateful to those who feed you.”

He picked up the pot of curry from the stove and set it on the

kitchen counter with such force that a little of the liquid sloshed

over. “I feed
them
,” he yelled. “They not feeding me.” And before

he could think, he swirled a nugget of saliva in his mouth and spit

into the curry.

Edna looked at Prakash in shocked silence. “What—what did

you do?” she said finally. “Have you gone total mad? Spitting in

their food?
Arre baap
. God save you, man.”

He suddenly felt teary, unclean. He had never done such a dirty

thing before. She had pushed him to this point of fury. “I . . . See

what you make me do, woman?” he said, wishing she would leave

the kitchen so that he could think. He glanced at the clock. No

time to cook more curry before they returned home.

2 6 2 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

Edna’s lips curved downward. “Shameless, useless man,” she

began. “Total
namak-haraam
. My mother always said—”

“Damn your mother and her mother,” he yelled. “Curse six generations of your family. Now go. Get out of my kitchen before I—”

He picked up a spatula and raised his arm threateningly. “I’m telling

you for your own good, Edna. Get out.”

“I’m going.” She opened the door and then looked back. “But if

you serve that curry, I swear I will tell them the truth.”

He stood holding on to the counter, tears streaming down his

cheeks. How he hated them all—Gulab, Edna, Frank. How he

wished he could get on a bus and simply get away from this village,

with its sad memories and ghosts that rose up to darken his present.

He eyed the pot of red liquid, lifted it, and poured it down the sink.

He would simply have to lie and say that he’d burned the curry.

Chapter 24

Frank was in a meeting when Ellie called him the next day. “What’s

up?” he said impatiently, and before she could reply, “I’ll call you

back in an hour, okay?”

Ellie sounded like she was at her wits’ end when he finally reached

her. “I’m so sorry, hon,” she said. “But I thought it was better to tell

you right away, in case you can still get our money back.”

“Tell me what? What’re you talking about?”

“It’s Prakash. Turns out he’s changed his mind about Ramesh

going to Cleveland with us. He’s convinced that we’re gonna—I

don’t know—kidnap his son, or something.”

“Did you try talking him out of it?”

“Actually, I didn’t. I’m—I’m just tired of his shenanigans, to be

honest with you. I don’t want to deal with it.”

Frank swore under his breath. “Okay. I’ll talk to him when I get

home. Stupid jerk. I thought he might pull something like this at the

last minute.”

“Edna’s acting really weird, also. She’s been scuttling around the

kitchen like a mouse all morning.”

He hung up, and although it was only noon, found himself craving a drink. A gin and tonic would be nice right around now, he

2 6 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

thought, and then smiled as he recalled fixing his grandmother

Benton her favorite cocktail at eleven in the morning while visiting

her in Dearborn. “You know what hell is, honey?” she’d once said

to him when he was a kid. “Hell is a warm gin-and-tonic—with a

hair in it.” He had squirreled that nugget back to Ann Arbor to feed

it to Scott, had stood on the bed in his bathrobe and imitated his

grandma in his best Bette Davis accent.

But now he stopped thinking about his long-dead grandma and

was back to fuming about Prakash. He wondered if the cook had

broken the news to Ramesh and how the kid was dealing with it. He

thought of the strings he’d pulled to get Ramesh a visa, remembered

the strained, awkward conversation with his mom where he’d told

her he was bringing a young Indian boy home with them, a conversation that had ended with his mom saying, “Okay, dear. If you

think that’s wise.” I’ll call Prakash in tonight, he thought grimly.

Ask him for an explanation for his ridiculous behavior.

But then, just as suddenly, his anger left him. In its place, he felt

fatigue, an exhaustion that sank so deep into his bones, it felt like

pain. He felt his shoulders sag, imagined his body made a hissing

sound as he lost his fighting spirit, his outrage, his desire to bend

Prakash to his will. He was tired. Tired of fighting all of them. All

of India, it seemed to him, was ready to judge, disapprove of, or

frustrate him. Of late, he had been feeling as if his hold on himself

was slipping, that he was becoming someone he didn’t want to be,

was shocked by racist thoughts that sometimes rose in his mind like

dark waves, was stunned at how easily an invective or a cuss could

rise to his lips. The slightest provocation—someone cutting Satish

off on the road, Deepak’s blank, inscrutable expression during

meetings, the close way in which Ellie always seemed to watch his

interactions with Ramesh—bothered him. Ah, Ramesh. The kid

was the only pure, unfettered source of delight in his life. He wished

he could pick up the boy in the crook of his arm, bid adieu to the

rest of them, and disappear. Everybody else seemed so goddamn

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 6 5

complicated, and he was expected to feel sorry for all of them—for

Deepak, who was making a fraction of his salary, for the workers

who had suffered for generations at the hands of the moneylenders

and the police and the government, for Prakash, who was a rundown alcoholic. Who, he wanted to ask, felt sorry for him? His own

childhood hadn’t been that hot—a father who beat him as a kid and

abandoned him when he was twelve, a mother who moped around

the house like a friggin’ nun, a family business that spluttered along

over the years, barely enough to keep them afloat. Yes, his luck had

changed after he’d met Ellie, but those years were hard to recall

now. Or rather, he didn’t trust his memory of them because he saw

them for what they were—the setup, the trick, the lull before the

Fall. If Eden came with a snake, was it ever really Eden? If paradise

could be lost, was it ever really paradise?

He continued in this self-pitying vein for a few more minutes and

then realized what he was doing. He was holding a one-way conversation with Ellie, pleading his case to her, trying to convince her

that the fact that he was white and male and American—
privileged
,

in her parlance—didn’t mean that he had to carry boulders of guilt

all his life, didn’t mean that he had to make excuses for every Edna,

Prakash, and Deepak. “Screw you, Ellie,” he muttered and then

caught himself and laughed.

By the time he went home that evening, his mind was made up—

they would not go home for Christmas. For weeks, he’d been trying

to ignore the anxiety that he’d seen on his wife’s face because his

own excitement at taking Ramesh to America was stronger than

her dread at going back. But Christmas without Benny was hard

enough. Celebrating it in a familiar place with family would be too

painful. Like Ellie, he didn’t feel ready to face it, not without the

crutch of Ramesh. Pete would be annoyed, but hell, Pete seemed

annoyed at him all the time these days—he’d get over it. His mother

and Scottie would be heartbroken, but maybe they could try going

next June, when the weather would be better and there would be no

2 6 6 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

holiday to celebrate. Ellie’s parents—well, she’d have to deal with

them and their disappointment. He suddenly felt lighter than he had

in weeks. For once, he was about to suggest something that would

put him on the same side as his wife, rather than opposing her. It

was, he supposed, the best Christmas gift he could buy her.

As he had suspected, Ellie didn’t seem too crushed by the change

of plans. “Guess I’ll mail all the gifts,” she said. “I just hope they get

there on time.”

“Or at all,” he said. “If some enterprising mailman does not pilfer

them. It’s a common problem here.”

Another month went by and then it was time to plan their own

holiday celebration. They invited Nandita and Shashi to dinner on

Christmas Eve, and it was assumed that Ramesh would join them.

Ellie insisted on cooking the meal herself, and Frank was happy to

help her. That morning, Edna came to the door to sweep and clean

as usual, but Ellie had sent her away. “It’s Christmas Eve. Go enjoy

with your family,” she said.

Ramesh was in and out of their house the whole day. At one

point, Ellie assigned him the task of shelling some walnuts. The boy

looked at the silver nutcracker she handed him. “What for, Ellie?”

he asked.

“To crack the nuts?”

Ramesh laughed. He ran to the door and placed the nut in the

doorjamb. Then he half shut the door, cracking the shell open.

“That’s the way we do it,” he said.

“A surefire way to break your fingers,” Frank said. “I think we’ll

do it our way, buddy.”

Around four o’clock, Ellie turned to Frank. “I bought a tiny

plastic Christmas tree,” she said. “How about if you and Ramesh

decorate it?”

And just like that, their eyes filled with tears. They stood in the

sunlit kitchen, holding hands, remembering the years they’d driven

to Forest Farms just outside of Ann Arbor to chop down their own

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 2 6 7