Indian Love Stories Page 6

  He turned his face away. ‘In India,’ he said, ‘we don’t talk about such things. Women’s blood. We just don’t talk about it.’

  She allowed a spasm to pass through her before answering. ‘But Deep,’ she said, ‘this isn’t India, this is here.’ She paused. ‘I don’t mean America, either. I mean, this is Here!’ She patted the surface of the bed. ‘The special space we make between us, the space of just our own reality! No immigration officers, no bureaucrats to tell us what to say or how to sit and stand! We’re the authorities Here, we’re the ones who decide what we want to talk about!’

  His head was moving about, he was hunching his shoulders in discomfort. ‘It’s not realistic,’ he said, ‘to think that way. We’re private individuals as well as social entities, affected by and affecting the realities within which we live.’ He looked at her. ‘You’re not just Sarah, my girlfriend. You’re also a – an American black, you have your history and your separate destiny. If I took you back with me to India, people would stare at you, they’d stare at your hair and your different race and my own relatives would reject you. Reject my choice of you – even though we’re almost the same colour.’ He looked at her now. ‘I’ve told you this before but I don’t know whether you’ve really understood it. I’d never be able to take you there. I’d never want to expose you to that kind of … humiliation.’

  Sarah said, ‘Deep, is that how you think of me? As a Black Woman?’

  He shrugged, trying to wriggle away from the simple trap she had laid for him. ‘I see you as Sarah. And as a woman. And as an African American.’ Then he turned it around. ‘You do it too! You see me as a foreigner, as an Indian! Admit it – the novelty is part of what attracts you!’ He shook his head wearily. ‘We can’t wipe away our colours and our bone-structures! When we try to, we risk losing things which are important, we risk becoming cultural zombies – ’ He swept his arms wide, indicating the whole country, perhaps the whole western hemisphere. ‘Isn’t that what the West is suffering from? A loss of meaningful tradition?’

  Sarah turned her face into the pillow and breathed a few times to suppress the giggle which she knew would upset him if he could hear it. She had an irreverent thought and wasn’t sure whether she had the energy to express it or not. Then she looked up. ‘We have TV,’ she said. ‘We have K Marts and Hollywood – ’ But he was already shaking his head. ‘We have Star Trek and Superman. Freeways and credit cards’

  ‘No!’ he exploded. ‘It isn’t the same! It isn’t the same at all!’

  She said, ‘The only difference is, it’s not old, it’s not gilded with time.’

  He said, ‘This just shows how impoverished you are!’

  Sarah said, ‘And we haven’t had generations of historians to show us how unique and precious what we have is because we still have it! It’s not lost under some ocean or sunk under centuries of poverty! It’s in the Coke bottles and in the chewing gum and the neon lights and – and – all the things that you sneer at so much!’

  He paused a moment. ‘And anyway,’ he said, ‘where do you fit, in this world of Superman and Star Trek? Those are the white man’s myths – you can’t claim them as your own!’

  Sarah tucked a pillow into her belly and curled around it. A new fist of pain had begun to form and was forcing its way down and out of her. She would have liked to moan softly, but it would have created too much of a response in Deep. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. She wanted to end the discussion. She closed her eyes and made her voice sleepy. ‘Sure I can claim them!’ she said. ‘I’m American, right? They’re part of me … even when I’m not a part of them.’ She patted his hand away. ‘Now leave me to sleep.’

  He waited a few moments to see if she meant it, then got up and left, saying nothing. She continued lying on her side for a while, thinking about their talk and about the pain inside her, wondering whether it was abnormal after all and at what point she should seek medical help. She asked herself what she had liked about Deep in all these months. He had seemed gentle, she decided, that was what had attracted her. He wasn’t a big burly jock. He didn’t come on strong. He was cool, soft-spoken and always thoughtful. His colour was…well it was there, an added factor, but it was only colour, nothing else. It didn’t go deep. She smiled at the pun on his nickname. Deep, short for Deepak. He said his name meant ‘light’. A tiny flickering flame. When he had asked her what her name meant, she had said she didn’t know. He had teased her and at the time she had thought nothing about it. But now she realized, it must have been of consequence to him, one more sign of her inferiority on the scale of traditional values.

  Something he had told her long ago returned to her mind. He had been speaking about his parents, how his father had come to the US. He had come as a student, stayed to become a citizen, set up his practice and then, when he had a respectable income, had gone home to India to have a bride selected for him. He had married Deep’s mother after having met her once, formally, surrounded by all their relatives, unable to exchange more than two words of conversation. ‘Tea?’ she had asked him and he had answered, ‘Yes.’

  It had bothered Sarah, that story. She had asked Deep what he thought about it, whether he thought it was right for two complete strangers to get married. He had shrugged and said that they weren’t really strangers. They both came from similar families, with similar customs and similar food. Aside from the detail of personality, they were very much alike.

  Sarah had laughed at that phrase ‘detail of personality’ – ‘But personality’s everything!’ she had exclaimed, ‘not just a detail!’ Deep had got offended then and said that every culture had its traditions and it wasn’t right to laugh at his. She had asked him if he would get married like that. And he had said, shuddering, ‘No! Never!’

  But she wondered about that now. He’s American, she thought to herself, he’s a citizen and yet it’s only on the surface. Inside, he’s this other thing. He had explained once that to be born into a strong tradition was to know the steps to an intricate dance which started with birth and ended with death. ‘When you know all the steps by heart, you don’t have to think any more – you are the dancer and the dance,’ he had said and she had loved the mystery, the poetry of it. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him what happened when a dancer found himself alone on the floor of a different tradition. Could the steps of one dance fit the music of another? Could classical ballet perform to rap?

  The pain, having reached a peak, began to subside. She fell into a light sleep, awakening to dampness which demanded immediate attention. She rolled over the side of the bed to avoid bringing her bottom into contact with the bed and went to the bathroom. Blood darkened the crotch surfaces of her panties, her panty-hose, her jeans. It took her twenty minutes to wash away all traces of it. She started to hang the clothes up in the bathroom, then stopped.

  Deep’s mother might well come in here and find the clothes. She’d know at once what they meant. It was highly likely that she would demand that all Sarah’s clothes be washed by hand, by Sarah, in the basement. Once you entered the logic of clean and unclean blood, you could find your way around the maze fairly easily, thought Sarah. The bleeding woman is penalized for being in that ‘state’: the correct condition, of course, is to be pregnant or nursing. Older women, like Deep’s mother, had the loss of their own fertility as an added reason for wanting to punish younger women.

  Sarah wrung her clothes out carefully and packed them into plastic bags. She started packing the bags into her backpack and then, without really thinking about it or planning anything, packed her other stuff as well.

  Downstairs, the house was silent. Deep’s car was not in the driveway. Maybe he had gone shopping with his mother. Sarah let herself out the front door, checking behind her to make sure that it was locked. Then she set off. Overhead the sky was grey. There were random snowflakes gusting about, but no storm had been forecast. Within an hour she had boarded a bus and was on her way back to Cornell.

  It was evening by the time she got back to the apartment she shared with three other women. There was a message on the answering machine for her from Deep. ‘Call me,’ he said, ‘as soon as you hear this. I need to speak to you. Are you all right?’

  So she called him.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ he asked in his direct way. ‘My mother was very upset. She said it was bad for you to travel while you were bleeding like that. She says you might get very sick. You don’t understand her at all. She’s really concerned for you.’

  ‘Tell her,’ said Sarah, ‘that I’m all right. Tell her I like to bleed and that I especially like to travel when I’m bleeding. Tell her that I got stains all over the seat of the bus and that everyone knew, by the end of the trip, that I was bleeding because I had to stop so often to get off and change my tampon. Will you tell her all of that?’

  Deep said, ‘She asked me if I was going to marry you.’

  Sarah said, ‘Oh yeah?’ and there was a silence.

  Deep said, ‘She told me that it was all right if I wanted to, that she liked you, that she felt you were right for me.’ There was another silence. ‘Sarah,’ he said, ‘What’s the matter with you? Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah, shutting her eyes.

  ‘Look, Sarah – ’ said Deep. ‘You know what I said? About not taking you to India?’ Well, I was thinking about it, you know and I can see now that it could be all right too. I mean things have changed, even in India. My mother accepts you and that’s big thing. I think it could be different. It would be, I’m sure of that, perhaps.’

  Sarah said, ‘Do they wear tampons there? In India?’

  There was a pause before Deep said, ‘Sarah, I don’t think you realize yet what a powerful statement we can make by being together – ’

  Sarah said, ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  He asked her to repeat her question and she did. He said, his voice sounding stiff, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know about those things.’

  Sarah said, ‘Well, how about your mother then: did she wear tampons?’

  Deep said, ‘Sarah, I don’t think these are proper questions.’

  Sarah said, … or Maxi Pads? You could tell her that I’m thinking of changing from tampons to pads because I no longer want to hide my blood from myself.’

  Deep said, ‘Sarah, you know these are not proper subjects for discussion.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ said Sarah, ‘just now, except that it matters very much to me to have answers to these very things. Because – you know what? I’ve decided that the only level of culture I care about is the kind which makes my own life reasonable and intelligent. Listening to music and hanging paintings on the wall is very well, but if at the end of the day someone wants me to hide my blood underground and to behave like an invalid – forget it, you know? If that’s what tradition means, then I say, take it off the shelf. Leave it out. My packet of ultrathin, E-Z wrap pads and what it represents to me about the journey my generation of women has made, is all the tradition I need.’

  ‘Sarah,’ said Deep, ‘are you comparing five thousand years of civilization to …’ he chocked on the words ‘ … feminine hygiene products?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah and put the phone down.

  A NEW TRIANGLE

  Ratanlal Shant

  do not know whether this story of Ratni and Surendra qualifies to be called a love story but …

  As they came out of the court, they were feeling light, unburdened. They walked together, stealing occasional glances at each other, like a couple in love who have just succeeded in winning their parents’ approval and are desperate to find a secret place away from home and prying eyes where they can take each other in their arms, gratified at having surmounted all obstacles to happiness. Would you ever expect to see a newly divorced couple walk out together, just like friends? But they did.

  Surendra stopped to buy a packet of cigarettes from a shop. Ratni automatically stopped too, waiting for him to join her. Surendra turned to the right and so did Ratni. They came to the biggest restaurant in that market and both of them stopped in their tracks. Surendra spoke first, ‘I’m longing for a cup of tea. If …’ Without a word Ratni went through the gate and up the front steps of the restaurant, as if she had been waiting for the suggestion. Of course, she knew that this was Surendra’s favourite haunt where he used to spend hours together in the company of his friends. Once, long ago, when she had expressed a desire to accompany him there, Surendra had silenced her with a sharp rebuke, ‘No woman from a respectable family goes there.’ The issue had snowballed into a quarrel serious enough to lead to Ratni running away to her parents’ house.

  They entered a cubicle. The waiter came and Ratni boldly spoke up, ‘I will give the order today,’ and before Surendra could react, proceeded to order a number of expensive items on the menu. Snatches of an English song could be heard.

  Surendra took sips from his tea and watched Ratni’s face, trying to read the expressions as they flitted across it, while she kept her eyes down. It was after years that the two of them were sitting like this, having tea together. During the past month in particular, they had been like two mad dogs, snarling and ready to bare their fangs and pounce on each other at the slightest provocation. Ratni would leave for school every morning, with instructions to Doonichand to attend to Surendra’s needs. She showed hardly any interest in whether he ate anything or not. As for him, he would return late at night and fall upon his bed like an unclaimed corpse. Ratni would be gone for weeks together, staying at her parents’ house and Surendra would often sleep at his friend’s. Neither showed any concern for the other – the relationship of caring was over. Days would go by without their even exchanging a look. Doonichand remained the only connecting link. It was he who would enquire from one about the other out of habit, but only receive a rebuff for his pains.

  The waiter stood before them with a slight smile. Ratni turned to Surendra. Today his cheeks appeared pinker than usual. There was a slight shade on his chin – a trail left by the razor blade. She looked out of the window and searched for God knows what in the busy Amira Kadal square. One day, in this very market square, she had suddenly run into Surendra after a number of days. The Principal was with her and it was she who drew her attention to him walking in the distance. Surendra had come forward and greeted the Principal politely. As though with the right to do so, she had complained, ‘What have you done to our Ratniji, Professor saheb? She seems to grow thinner everyday.’

  He looked at Ratni, as though seeing her for the first time. Yes, Ratni did look altered – but then, did he look any better? And who was bothered about him? The Principal went on, ‘Yours is such an ideal family and we refer to you two so often in school. How lucky you are, just the two of you. I mean when there are children, one loses ones comfort – the peaceful life is gone.’

  There were no children but still there was no comfort, nor any peace. The Principal left, and Surendra asked Ratni, ‘Where are you headed? Rainawari or home?’

  Ratni shrugged her shoulders, ‘Might even go home.’ The two took their seats in the bus. Neither spoke to the other. On arrival at home, both went into the bedroom. Doonichand brought tea, but noticing the scowls on their faces, said nothing and just slunk away. Ratni broke the silence, ‘I am sorry to have upset your plans – you had to come home because of my Principal.’

  The strain showed on Surendra’s face as Ratni continued, ‘I know you are itching for a fight. My going off to Rainawari is a good excuse.’ Surendra went on sipping his tea quietly. After a while, he said, ‘I know your school is close to your parents’ house, that is why you are there whenever it pleases you.’ Ratni stood up, ‘It is ages since I have seen you laugh. I know you feel confined because of me. Were I to be knocked off while commuting, you would find a happy release. Why do you turn dumb at home? Otherwise you are articulate enough.’ Surendra laughed. ‘This is an original line. Where is your usual refrain: “Were I to die you’d be inconsolable in your grief and then you’d know my worth.”’ Ratni, beginning to undress, retorted, ‘But of course, do you think anyone else is going to bother about you?’ Surendra too got up to change. ‘I have told you once and for all that your abusing yourself does not matter to me in the least. You might find emotional relief through these antics but if you think it will upset or worry me, you have another think coming.’ Ratni retaliated with a dramatic, ‘And that you couldn’t care less and that your heart is as hard as iron and your determination steely, isn’t it?’

  The servant came and stood before the door. Seeing him, Ratni snapped, ‘And what do you think you are doing there?’

  Doonichand, taken aback, replied feebly, ‘What should I cook, Madam?’ Surendra answered, ‘Meat. I feel like having biryani today.’ Ratni addressed the servant, ‘There is no ghee in the house, biryani is out.’

  ‘Saheb brought some the other day when you were at Rainawari,’ the servant announced with a mischievous glint in his eye and left.

  Surendra picked up the thread again, ‘Know nothing about my steel determination, do you? Want me to remind you of the time we were married?’ This seemed to silence Ratni but then she said, ‘I am not interested in these old stories. How long will you stretch them? I have told you once and for all, you are a loner, just a loner – you were fine as long as you were single – you should never have married.’

  ‘If I had not, how could I have enjoyed the privilege of hearing your highly original curses and abuses?’

  Ratni seemed to be saying to herself, ‘This is the price I must pay for being born as an Indian woman – and then to be a Kashmiri Pandit. How can I fight back? And why should he care? He will do just fine without me.’