The Vine of Desire (11 page)

Dinner is preceded by a tournament of circumventions, questions shot around the table, parried, shot back in the form of other questions.

She: Goodness, Anju! How late you are! I was killing myself with worry! Why didn’t you call? What were you doing all this time?

She: Please! The way the two of you are going on, it’s like I disappeared for a whole month. I’m a big girl, okay? And sometimes I need to stay on campus and catch up on things I need to do. Can we talk about something else now—like what’s for dinner. I’m starved.

He: Your cousin’s right—next time you should let one of us know what’s going on.

She: There’s dal and a brinjal curry that’s still cooking—sorry, I’m a bit behind today.

She:
You’re
telling me to call! That’s rich! How many times have you been late and not let me know? Remember the time when—

He: We’re talking about now. Why do you always have to bring up ancient history?

She: Anju, can you give me a hand in the kitchen? Come on, Anju!

She: It’s always like that, one rule for you, another for me. Why?

He:
(Silence)

She:
(Silence)

She:
(Silence)

They eat with small, jerky gestures, pushing the food around their plates, not tasting. Sudha has forgotten to add salt to the curry. But no one pays attention. The wind curls itself complacently on the windowsill. Dayita, oddly quiet, wriggles from Sunil’s arms to the floor, and for once he doesn’t call to her.

A tableau of silence: three people, inside their chests small black boxes, holding inside them smaller, blacker boxes. Secrets packed in secrets: velvet scraps, foam pellets, wood shavings, baby-black hair. Some of these they know, some they guess at. Others itch inside them like the start of an infection. Until, at the very center of the chest, the secret of whose existence they are totally unaware. The secret of their own self, already pollinated by time’s spores, waiting to burst open when they are least prepared for it.

Five

L
etters

Calcutta

April 1994

My dear Anju
,

Blessings of the goddess Kali on all of you.

I miss you more than a letter can convey. The house is empty without the little one’s laughter and mischief. We old women feel even older. We’ve taken to wandering the streets, bargaining with vendors for things we don’t need, because we dread coming home to silence. Selfishly we wish we had married you to a Calcutta boy. Then our family wouldn’t be scattered across the world today. But then I think, the new life you are living in a land unfettered by old customs will perhaps give you opportunities I was unable to provide. I am particularly pleased that you and Sudha have each other for companionship.

I am very glad you are taking classes again. Now I do not feel as guilty about depriving you of college in order to get you married. Perhaps I was overhasty. But I made a good choice, did I not? How many husbands would
have been as supportive as Sunil about you continuing your education? And how generous he has been to take Sudha and Dayita into his home. Yes, I know what you are thinking, your nostrils flaring with annoyance (how well I remember your gestures!). It is your house, too. But if he had said no, how much trouble it would have made!

It is good that you are busy with your studies. Keeping oneself busy is the best cure for sorrow, I know that too. But do not repeat my mistake and build a wall of work between you and the people you love. Spend a little time alone with Sunil. In that land of strangers, who does he have for love and comfort except his wife?

Pishi hopes you two are telling stories from our epics to Dayita. These stories, she says, have much old wisdom embedded in them. Nalini asks if you have put up the Indian calendar she gave Sudha when she left. It is important to keep track of our holy days and celebrate them, even if in a simple fashion. How else will you pass on our heritage to Dayita, and to the other little ones who, soon, I hope, will be lighting up your home? She says you must make special note of the bad-luck hours which she had the astrologer write in for each day (though I suspect you do not believe in such things).

You will be sad to hear that Singhji, our old chauffeur, is dead. He went quietly, in his sleep. His landlord found him after a day and called us. We looked around in his rented room to see if we could find any information about a family to contact, but there was nothing. So we conducted the funeral last week ourselves. May the Goddess be with him. He served us loyally all his life, even after we could no longer pay him, and he was very fond of our Dayita.

Will you be coming to visit us soon? It is such a long time since I saw you. Our prayers are with all of you. Every month we have a puja done in Kalighat for our Prem, so that his spirit will be at peace.

Your mother

Dear Mother, Pishi, and Aunt Nalini
,

We are all well and happy here. Dayita is a real joy and amuses us for hours. She crawls everywhere and is even trying to stand up. I think she’s going to get teeth soon. Her jaws are all bumpy and she chews everything she can get her hands on. It’s worse than having a puppy! Sudha is a better cook
than ever—I must have put on ten pounds since she got to America, just eating her fish curries. Sunil is doing very well at work and thinks he might be up for a promotion. But with so much work pressure, it is doubtful that we can visit you soon. I find my classes challenging but like them very much. It is lovely to get all your news. Don’t worry about us—as I said, we are fine. Sudha and I thank you for your blessings, Sunil sends his greetings, and Dayita gives you many wet, drooly kisses.

Anju

Calcutta

April
1994

Dear chiranjibi Sunil
,

My son, I have heard nothing from you in months now, ever since Anju’s unfortunate miscarriage, which as I wrote made me very sad indeed. But such is God’s way. Please do write so that I know through your own words that you are well, though from your mother-in-law Gouri I get some news of you. That is how I know that your sister-in-law Sudha and her poor daughter are now with you. I am proud of your kindness in giving them a home. You have acted honorably in this. They have no man to look after them apart from you, after all.

We are well here, though your father is suffering from high blood pressure. He will not go to the doctor, however, and shouts at me if I suggest it. I do not like to complain, but since his retirement he has become more irritable and also excitable. Even reading the newspaper, about a riot somewhere, or a murder, or even something like a minister caught evading taxes, which you know happens all the time, he will shout and curse. I am having trouble holding on to any servants because he yells so many insults at them, I am sure knowing him you can imagine the words, and these days with so many
factory jobs around, who except a wife will put up with such behavior? Even Nitin, our old kitchen boy, left last month, and now I am having to wash all the pots myself.

Last week your father fell down while climbing the stairs and frightened me almost to death. I asked if I could call you and he shouted at me again. His face turned red and I was afraid he would harm himself, so I dropped the matter. Do you think you could pay us a visit? Perhaps he will listen if you talk to him in person. I know you had that unfortunate fight before you left, but it has been many years, and though he is too old and stubborn to contact you, I think in his heart he regrets the quarrel. I am hoping, from your side, you have forgiven him, as a dutiful son should.

One more thing I must request—please do not send us any more money. I was shocked to discover how much you have been sending. (Your father, of course, tells me nothing, but I looked in his bureau a few days back when he forgot to lock it and saw a stack of uncashed U.S. money orders.) I hate to think how many problems this must cause you, especially now that your household has doubled in size.

I miss you, my son. Write to me soon. It is best to write to Gouri’s address and she will arrange to get it to me without your father knowing. Otherwise it will cause a scene. (He waits like a hawk for the mailman, although all we get are catalogues and bills.) I am thankful I have such a good relative in Gouri. Sometimes when your father goes to play bridge at the club, I take the bus to her house. Even a brief talk with her brings me some peace.

My blessings to Anju. Tell her I remember her sweetness to me when she was here. My prayers to Lord Ganesh and to Shasthi for all your health and happiness also, and by God’s will, a new baby to fill her lap soon.

Your mother

San Jose

April
1994

Dear Respected Mother
,

It makes me angry to have to sneak around Father’s back like this. What must Gouri Ma think of our family! But I’ll do it to keep you from getting into trouble.

Don’t ask me not to send money. I’m repaying Father for whatever he spent to bring me up so that he can never again say how much he’s done for me. It’s a way of buying back my freedom.

About his health I’m unable to feel any sympathy. He brings it on himself. I’m just sorry that you have to put up with all this hassle. Try to stand up to him a bit. Remember, he needs you more than you need him.

I’m sending you some money separately with this letter. Spend it on something you like—maybe a movie when he’s out, or a new sari. Maybe you can take a trip to a holy place, if Gouri Ma is going. I wish. I could do more—but the other thing you ask—to visit. Father and talk to him—is not possible. I’m afraid you think too highly of me—I’m neither dutiful, nor particularly honorable. Maybe with your prayers, one of these days, I’ll do better!

Your son
    
Sunil

Six