Nothing Like Love (14 page)

P
uncheon sauntered to the rusty gate hanging unhinged and lifted it away to allow his visitors through. “
Jai
Shri Krishna!” Glory to Lord Krishna.

Om and Rajesh stepped through the gates and looked around the cluttered courtyard with curiosity. A single light bulb dangled from a house beam, attracting moths. They circled the glow, flinging their papery bodies against the hot bulb, creating soft clinking noises until they tumbled to their deaths. Three old chairs were set around the circumference of light cast by the bulb, and in the middle of the circle was a mysterious circular object covered with a cloth. In the shadows lay haphazard piles of wood and scraps of galvanized steel, a bike with one wheel, two old tires and a three-storey pyramid of rum bottles with the labels peeled off.

“Punch, you make it to the mandir yet?” Rajesh lowered
himself into one of the creaky chairs and stretched his slippered feet into the circle.

Puncheon was wearing his finest kurtha this evening, the one with the three faux diamond buttons at the collar and gold embroidery at the cuffs. He smoothed the white cotton shirt, yanked up his loose pink Hawaiian shorts and stood up straighter. “How you mean? I went to the temple yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Krishna Janamashtami is tonight, Puncheon. We taking you to the mandir. Put on a pants and let we go.”

Puncheon stroked his chin the way he did when he had an important point to make. “The calendar is a complex thing, Om. Today is yesterday in India, ain’t so? I already gone to the mandir yesterday. I fast and everything.”

Om brushed a hand through his thinning hair. “Puncheon, I going to lie down in this hammock while you get ready. Do fast. Chandani and Sangita waiting for we and Chandani think is bad manners to show up in the mandir late.” He hefted his leg over the holey hammock that hung from the ceiling beams and made to sink in.

“Nooooooo!” Puncheon caught Om’s leg and swung it with surprising strength away from the hammock so that Om twirled and landed, stooped over, with a
thud
on the ground.

“Puncheon! What the ass wrong with you?” Om righted himself with a scowl.

“Sshhh!” Puncheon pressed a finger to his lips.

Om opened the ends of the hammock and peered inside. “What a big man like you doing with a litter of kittens in he hammock?”

Puncheon folded his arms over his chest, his bottom lip jutting out. “I find them.”

“Where?”

“In the bush behind my house.”

“Don’t you think the mother looking for she young?”

“Not really.”

“What you mean, ‘not really’?”

“I kill the mother.”

“You what?”

“I run she over with the tractor by accident one night.”

“But you ain’t have a tractor, Puncheon.”

“I was driving somebody else tractor.”

“Whose?”

“I can’t tell you because I t’ief it.”

“It only have three people with tractors in the district, Punch. We go find out eventually.”

“Not really.”

“What you mean, ‘not really’?”

“Allyuh wouldn’t find out unless I tell allyuh whose tractor I t’ief because it happened last week and nobody come looking for me yet.”

“Whose was it, then?”

“It was yours, Raj.”

Rajesh turned red. “Puncheon, how many times I tell you don’t sneak on my property when you charged up? Last time you tie up Om’s goats in my kitchen and Sangita get real vexed!”

Puncheon looked down at his cracked, bare feet.

“And how come my dogs didn’t run you?”

Puncheon smiled. “I does visit so often them dogs grow to love me, Raj. I even let the wild black one ride in the tractor with me and drink my rum.”

Raj swiped at Puncheon, who scampered away holding his shorts up.

Om nodded to the covered object on the ground. “What you have in there? More kittens?”

Puncheon hovered over the object protectively. He lowered his voice and looked around. “Where Sangita, Rajesh?”

“In the mandir.”

Puncheon turned to Om. “And where is your striking wife?”

“Chandani is in the mandir, too,
waiting for we
! Now do fast! Let we go!”

“You sure they ain’t going to show up here looking for allyuh?” Puncheon’s red eyes shifted from Om to Rajesh.

“No!”

Puncheon nodded and whipped the cloth away to reveal a clay mortar balancing on two old bricks. He lifted his long kurtha out of the way and withdrew the pestle from the back pocket of his Hawaiian shorts. “I work hard all day.” He stirred the air with his pestle and screwed his features up in exaggerated exertion.

Rajesh and Om leaned forward and saw that the mortar was filled with murky green slime.

“Cow shit, Punch?”

“It’s bhang!” Puncheon jumped in the air and whooped. “Bhang! Bhang!”

Om rubbed his head and for an explanation looked at Rajesh, who shrugged his expansive oxen shoulders in response.

“On Maha Shivaratri, people does drink bhang. It’s Lord Shiva’s favourite beverage. Mine, too.” Puncheon sat back on his haunches and stared, starry eyed, into the gooey liquid the way a girl might stare at her reflection in a pool of clear water.

“I thought yours was rum.”

Puncheon smiled faintly. “That, too.” Suddenly he sprang to his feet and sped to the kitchen. He returned with three mugs. “This better. Bhang make with grind-up cannabis buds and spices and milk and some other things. They say Lord Shiva does drink this to meditate. Is what he does use to transcend space and time and the cycles of creation and destruction.”

Rajesh raised his eyebrows. “Who tell you that, Punch?”

“A friend. He give me the recipe and teach me all about it.” Puncheon lifted the heavy mortar with steady hands and tipped it over each mug until every last drop of the elixir had dribbled out.

“Puncheon, is not Maha Shivaratri—is Krishna Janamashtami! You mix up your dates, boy.”

Puncheon paused, a mug in his head. He shrugged. “That ain’t matter. God is God is God!”

Om took his mug from Puncheon. “One drink and then we leaving.” He glugged deeply, resting his palm on his gut and slouching into the wobbly chair.

Puncheon clinked mugs with Rajesh, who grunted a thank-you, and guzzled his own drink like a thirsty animal.

“This thing taste like drain water, Puncheon.”

“Shut your ass—when last you drink drain water, Om?”

Rajesh closed his eyes. “I think I remember hearing my father talk about this bhang. Is a common thing to drink in India.”

Puncheon nodded. “It is a
sacred
thing. Ask Pundit Anand.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set his mug on the ground.

“You could ask him when you see him tonight. Now, go and change out of those blasted pink shorts and let we go.”

“Punch, ain’t this drink supposed to make you feel high? I ain’t feel a damn thing.”

Puncheon moved his chair away and sprawled on his back across the concrete. “Wait, nuh, man. Five minutes.”

Rajesh and Om settled deeper into their chairs, stared blankly across the dim courtyard and waited.

S
angita sashayed into the small village mandir, the soft pleats of her peacock-blue sari sweeping the floor at her feet. She lowered her gaze like a demure Indian bride as she walked down the aisle, peeking from below the thick fray of her lashes at the men and women who ogled her in a mixture of lust and envy. She wished Faizal were there; he would appreciate the design of her close-fitting sari blouse with the hand-sewn pearls, and her opulent sari phaloo twinkling in the diya light. He would like the way she let it cascade over her arm like an Indian film star instead of draping it over her shoulder or, worse, her hair. But more important, he would see how delicious she looked and be sorry for embarrassing her the other morning. Sangita sighed quietly; she wondered what—or who—Faizal was busying himself with on this auspicious night. The thought troubled her, but as she glanced at the
altar, she reminded herself that it was Krishna Janamashtami, Lord Krishna’s birthday, and she had come here to pray. She shook her seedy thoughts away, sending the bejewelled gold earrings at her lobes springing against her cheeks, and forced piety into her lonely heart.

The life-sized marble Shri Krishna and Radha murtis stood with their arms entwined in an embrace. Radha gazed up at her lover, lost in his beauty; Shri Krishna stared back at Sangita, one foot crossed in front of the other with a golden flute at his flaking pink lips. A magnificent peacock feather extended from his black curls, and ropes of pearls hung around his neck. His eyes were frozen with mischief and laughter, as if everything that passed before his gaze was beloved to him.

Sangita pressed her palms together at her heart centre, bowed before the murtis and seated herself against the back wall of the temple. Perhaps if she prayed hard enough, she would find more love in her life.

The modest temple overflowed with Hindus from the district. They squeezed themselves into various seated positions across every square inch of the carpeted floor, crushing their finest dresses and kurtha pajamas beneath them. The
kirtan
, music group, at the front of the temple, led the congregation in a string of chants and
bhajans
glorifying Lord Krishna as they pumped the bellows of their shiny harmoniums and drummed lively rhythms on the taut skins of their
dholaks
. People clapped and swayed, fanned themselves against the heat and swatted at fat, guzzling mosquitoes with surprising patience as they waited to celebrate the birth of Bhagwan Shri Krishna.

Sangita shifted uncomfortably on her bottom, and let her gaze meander around the temple. The altar shone with dozens
of blazing diyas. They flickered in the
whoosh
of comings and goings as people offered jasmines to, and prostrated before the feet of, Shri Krishna at random. Older women fussed over the diyas, drizzling melted ghee around the cotton ball wicks to keep each flame ablaze. Burning sandalwood incense uncurled into the air, blackening the newly whitewashed walls and peeling plaster on the ceilings. A tired fan swivelling overhead pushed the hazy air around the room, sending the pink and white crepe paper decorations on the ceiling a-flutter.

Sangita yawned.

Pundit Anand Govind appeared at the altar, draped in a brilliant saffron cotton shawl dotted with red aums. He smiled at the congregation, his little eyes dissolving into a hundred crinkles. Everyone stopped singing and the harmonium and dholak players shifted the microphones away from their instruments so that the music grew soft and distant, as if drifting in through the open windows from a far-off place. Pundit Anand folded his hands and bowed to the villagers.

“Devotees, it is midnight, the hour of Bhagwan Shri Krishna’s incarnation. I invite you to come to the altar to rock the
palana
and offer flowers and incense to our Lord in his infancy.” Pundit Anand gestured to the red cradle, in which a miniature painting of the baby Bhagwan Shri Krishna was nestled, his hands in a pot of butter.

Pundit Anand lifted his voice and made grand gestures of importance as he spoke. “Our scriptures tell us that on this night”—he punctured the air with his pointer finger—“on this holy night, our Bhagwan Shri Krishna was incarnated to dispel the earth’s evils and teach us the path of righteousness. Let we rejoice in his coming!”

Pundit Anand smiled warmly. “You are all blessed for fasting today. Many of you have eaten only fruits and milk, some of you nothing at all. But the real fasting begins in the mind!” He tapped his finger against his greying temple; his moustache twitched. “Those of you who remain pure of heart and abstain from negative, unsavoury thoughts will receive Bhagwan Shri Krishna’s choicest blessings.” He paused, gazing across the sea of villagers, lingering longer on those with the deepest pockets. “You are invited now to form a line up the aisle and make your offering to Bhagwan Shri Krishna.” He smiled, adjusting his saffron shawl, and took up his position next to the palana.