I try to keep my voice even. “I’ll come as soon as I can, once Dayita is born. Now listen to me—meanwhile you must do everything the doctor says so you can get better. How else will you help me take care of Dayita? After all, she’s your daughter as much as mine.”
Anju laughs a shaky, rusty laugh. “Sudha, I can’t wait to see you! What fun the two of us will have.”
“The three of us,” I say.
“I can’t believe you’ll be here, Sudha, just like old times!” Anju says in a high clear child’s voice, as though she hadn’t heard a word of what I said about Dayita.
After the mothers return and hear everything, we hold each other and cry. Then we scold each other. “How could you keep something so crucial from me?” I say. “You told us you couldn’t come to the temple because you were tired!” they retort. We shake our heads over the fact that Anju refuses to come to India, which would have been so much easier. “Stubborn as ever,” says my mother, but Pishi says, “Anju never could stand to be pitied,” and Gouri Ma says, “She’s thinking about Sudha’s life, about getting her a new start.” I tell them how Anju would not respond when I mentioned Dayita’s name. They say I must be patient with her loss. When I tell them why she was working so hard before the miscarriage, they are silent. Then Gouri Ma takes my hands in hers and says it was a great pity, but I must not feel responsible.
Oh, Gouri Ma—as though guilt were as easy to shake off as water on a lotus leaf.
The mothers marvel at Sunil’s generosity—he came on the phone after Anju and I had finished talking to say that he would arrange tickets and visas for Dayita and myself. But something puzzles me. Just before hanging up, he had given a sigh like someone who had been hanging on to a cliff ledge for a long time, someone who finally loosened his hands and felt with a strange relief the air rushing up around his body as he fell. “I tried,” he said.
I didn’t tell the mothers about that. He had said it very softly, to himself, and I might have heard wrong.
“But what did you say to Anju to get her to listen?” the mothers ask finally. “To talk to you?”
“Oh, just something,” I say, unexpectedly reluctant to discuss it. “Something private between her and me.”
“Can’t you tell us even a little bit?” pleads my mother.
“I told her a story.”
“Ah, a story,” nods Pishi. More than any of us, she knows the power stories hold at their center, like a mango holds its seed. It is a power that dissipates with questioning, so she merely asks, with an odd, wistful look, “Was it a story I’d told you, Sudha?”
I am sorry to disappoint her. “It’s a new story. One I made up, kind of, on the spot.”
“Does it have a name?” asks Gouri Ma.
I start to shake my head. Then it comes to me.
“The Queen of Swords,” I say.
I write to Anju every day, describing for her the minute, unglamorous details of my pregnancy. At first I was hesitant. I thought it would be too painful for her. But sometimes the only way to healing is through the corridor of pain. Denying the fact that I am going to have a child would do neither of us any good. So I tell her how terrible my indigestion is. How I am breathless all the time. How Dayita keeps me awake all night, kicking. Before I go into the hospital I jot down how the first of the labor pains feel, a cramping like my insides want to fall out all at once. And after I return, I try to find words for the moment they put my daughter on my chest, slippery and wrinkled as a prune, and unbelievably beautiful.
But somehow I cannot bear to send that last letter.
These last few months, Anju has been busy getting ready for me. She is eating the right things and, although she’s still weak, is starting to go for walks with Sunil. The doctor has said she can be taken off her medication in a little while. She talked to her professors and thinks she can make up a couple of her classes next semester. She and Sunil have agreed that when she is well enough, she can go back to work if she wants. Best of all, she has started reading again.
Sunil calls the mothers delightedly to say he is amazed at the change in her. Please tell Sudha she’s a miracle, he says. I must find a way to thank her properly once she gets here.
As always the mothers love his courteous words, but something about that last sentence troubles me. My mother prods me to send him an equally courteous reply, but I do not. What would I write anyway? I’m not amazed. Anju always had the ability to follow through once she had set her mind on a goal. And the goal—or miracle—is not me. Whether Anju acknowledges it or not, it is Dayita.
“And what a nice miracle you are,” I tell Dayita, smiling down at her head, black and fuzzy as the core of a kadam flower, as I nurse her. I try not to think of what I would do if Anju continues to ignore her once I get to America. If she takes a great aversion to my daughter. “It can’t happen,” I whisper into Dayita’s neck as I hug her close, as I breathe in the reassuring smell of milk and baby powder. My words are as fervent as a prayer. “Everybody loves you.”
This is certainly true in our little household, where the mothers are always fighting over who gets to hold her and play with her, and who gets to sing her to sleep.
“I’m her real grandmother,” says my mother. “She even looks like me. Give her to me.”
“No you’re not,” says Pishi, hands on her hips. “It’s love that makes a relationship, as much as blood. Plus she’s a lot prettier than you ever were. And anyway, you never could burp a baby. Gouri, Gouri! Did you sneak up on us and take Daya Moni away again!”
It amuses me to see how proprietory everyone is toward her. Even Singhji takes her from my arms quite unceremoniously and sends me off for an afternoon nap so he can sit in his armchair and rock her back and forth and talk baby-talk while she grabs handfuls of his beard and gurgles with laughter and Ramur Ma hovers around them jealously “to make sure the old man, who’s probably never held a baby in his life, doesn’t drop our Daya Moni.”
So nursing times—one of the few times I am allowed to have my daughter all to myself—are precious to me. That is when I get to examine her all over, marveling anew at the intricate perfection of her fingers and toes, the translucent curved petals of her ears. The riot of recent curls which shimmer against my breast, the small dimple on her chin. I tell her I want her to grow up courageous and strong, more than I ever was. I sing to her and tell her stories. She sucks moistly, noisily, as though oblivious. But I know she is taking in every word.
This afternoon I decide to tell her the story of Prem.
“There once was a boy,” I say, “the sweetest of all boys, and the luckiest. When he was the size of a mustard seed in his mother’s belly—why even then he was the wisest of children and advised his mother on what to do. By the time he grew as large as a lemon, he knew how to sing and dance and turn somersaults. And when he grew to the size of a pomelo, he could recite the twenty-four scriptural texts from beginning to end. The gods looked down amazed and said, he is too good for the imperfect world of men. So they took him from his mother’s womb and made him into a star, so that he would never face the sorrow-thorns that prick us daily. I’ll show him to you this very evening, looking down at you with his star-eyes, and he will love you, for you are his little cousin, and you will always have a friend in the skies, to guide you when you need.”
The door to my room opens. I adjust my sari and look up, annoyed at the interruption.
“Sudha, have you finished nursing, are you decent?” asks my mother in a coy voice that makes me cringe. “Well then, here’s a visitor for you.
I turn to find Ashok, holding a teddy bear twice the size of my daughter and looking a little embarrassed. I am embarrassed too, especially when my mother clicks shut the door purposefully, leaving us together. I hurry to open it, but Ashok puts a hand on my arm, and my heart pitches and tilts. When I pull away, he says, “I owe you an apology, Sudha, and your daughter also.” He looks down at Dayita and she—foolish, indiscriminate girl—gives him a huge gri
n.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say, annoyed. Does he not realize how hard it is for me to see him again? Every time I think I have turned the page, he re-enters my life, awkward as a postscript.
“May I hold her?” says Ashok. I hand her to him grudgingly, but then I have to smile, I cannot help it, even though the memory of how close we’d come to belonging to each other is still like a splinter inside my chest. He looks so nervous—as though Dayita might bite or, at the very least, throw up all over the sparkling white shirt he is wearing. Spitefully I wish she would—it would serve him right for not wanting her—but of course she is being a golden child, cooing up at him and reaching for his face with her fat, dimpled arms.
“I’m not very good at this,” he says. “I don’t have any practice—no nieces or nephews, you see. But I could learn. What do you think?”
When I scowl at him—I am in no mood for riddles—he says, “I’ve been thinking a lot, the last few months. What I said to you was wrong, trying to make you choose between your child and me. And especially now that I see the two of you together, I know no one should ever separate you. So”—he swallows, and I realize it is not only Dayita that is making him nervous—“Sudha, will you marry me? Will you teach me to love your daughter?” And he chucks Dayita awkwardly under her chin.
For a moment my greedy, forgetful heart leaps. Ashok and I, that old, tempting dream which began at the movies—but no, its true beginning was in the fairy tales. Now the last obstacle has crumbled, the last mountain of skull-bones crossed, the last monster beheaded. The last, best magic worked: the prince and princess turned into ordinary humans, but still finding each other worthy of love. I watch him holding my daughter and know he will be a conscientious father—and an affectionate one. For if there’s any tenderness in him at all—and I know there is—surely my daughter will pull it forth.
Then I remember Anju. Anju waiting so desperately, Anju exercising and eating spinach each day and learning to smile again. Anju, who has already started to clean her apartment in anticipation of my tourist visa, which is due to arrive any week now. Anju, whose father would not be dead except for my father. Whose son would not be dead, perhaps, except for—
“Ashok,” I say. I close my eyes tight, dizzy with déja vu. Too late, too late. All my life, the timing of things has been off. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I heard about Anju from your Gouri Aunty. I understand that you must go and help her. That’s not a problem. You’re going on a temporary visa—you’ll come back after a few months. I’ll wait for you. I’ve waited so many years, what’s a little more time?”
My heartbeat evens. Thankfulness fills my mouth, sweet as honey. Ah, for once in my life I will not have to choose between my loves! So when the words come, I am as startled by them as Ashok.
“I’m not sure if I’m coming back at all.”
And suddenly I know this: I am going for Anju, yes, and for Dayita, but most of all I am going for me. I am going with the knowledge that this will not be a fairy-tale journey, my winged steed leaping over all obstacles with unfailing ease, but I am going anyway. Do I want to return? And if I do return, will I be happy tying my life to a man’s whims again, even if he is a good man? I do not know. The yearning that shoots up from the soles of my feet when I think of Ashok, is it love? I am not sure. It is so different in its nature from the craving pull, gut and sinew and womb, that I feel for my sister and my daughter.
In her last letter Anju had written about her plans for us to start a clothes boutique. We would start small, she would handle the business end, I would be the creative one. At the time I had laughed, but now I think, why not? A future built by women out of their own wits, their own hands. A future where I lean on myself alone.
“Visas can change,” I tell Ashok, “like human desires.” I hold his hand in mine, and in memory of the passionate dream we once shared, so youthful and innocent and absolute that I expect never to feel it again, I kiss his cheek.
It is a gesture of farewell.
SUDHA’S COMING, Sudha’s coming! She’ll be here in a week! I’m buffeted between joy and panic—there’s so much to be done to get the apartment ready before she arrives. I hadn’t expected the visa to come through so fast. I suspect it’s because Sunil went to my doctor and made him write a letter about how Sudha’s getting here is crucial to my recovery. And of course it is. Not just her getting here, but her staying here. The visa’s only valid for a year, but I’ve heard those things can be arranged. Maybe Sudha can go to college here. Maybe we’ll get that business started. Maybe she’ll meet someone who’ll make up for what she’s giving up to come here. But when I think that, I’m racked by doubt. Is there a man in all of America who could love her as absolutely as Ashok does?
The day I received my mother’s letter telling me about Ashok’s second offer of marriage, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed around in bed, even though my mother had written, quite clearly, that Sudha had turned him down. “Sudha didn’t want me to tell you about this,” she’d ended, “but I feel you should know how deeply she loves you.”
I even woke Sunil up once, when my worries got too much for me. “But what if Sudha changes her mind?” I asked him.
“Come on, Anju!” he said, irritated. “She’s promised you, hasn’t she? She seems like a reliable person. She knows how much you’re looking forward to having her here. She knows it’s going to be good for her too.”
“But what Ashok’s offering is so wonderful, now that he’s agreed to accept”—I swallowed to force myself to say the name—”Dayita too—this is the man she’s loved all her life, you understand—I don’t see how she can bear to give him up. And even if she can, I’m not sure she should give him up, no matter how much I need her. Maybe I should call her tomorrow and—”
“Do what you want, but for heaven’s sake, let me sleep now,” Sunil said in an angry kind of voice. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have to go to work in the morning.” He turned and pulled the covers over his ears. But some of my anxiety must have infected him. From his breathing I could tell he remained awake for a long time. Maybe even longer than I did, because when I surfaced briefly from a broken dream hours later, I heard him rummaging around in the bathroom closet where I keep my sleeping pills.
I sit back on my heels, sweating. I’m out of breath and frustrated. My heart pumps too hard, and a sharp ache along my scar reminds me that I can no longer spur my body along as though it’s a trained animal whose only function is to take me where I want to go.
This room, previously our study-cum-junk-collection-area, is taking forever to set up. Though it’s been several months since my surgery, I’m not supposed to lift anything heavy yet, and Sunil’s been too busy with a project at work to do more than empty a couple of drawers’ worth of his stuff into boxes. He promised me he’d put them in the storage space under the stairs last weekend, but they’re still sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for me to trip over them every time I turn around.
I can’t complain too much though, because he did get the crib. He found the ad in the flea-market paper and went and picked it up. Set it up, too, all by himself. He could have used an extra pair of hands, but he didn’t push me to help him. Not that I could have done it. I couldn’t even enter the room. Just seeing him carry it in, part by part, made my hands start shaking. I felt like I was spiraling back into those first dizzy days after I’d returned from the hospital when I’d have to hold on to the edge of the bed because otherwise I’d surely have floated away, I was that empty inside.
Afterward, Sunil came over to where I was sitting by the window, staring out, and touched the back of my neck lightly. “I know you’re hurting, Anju. I’m hurting too. But you must pull yourself together. Dayita will be here in a few days—by your invitation, I might add.”
“I didn’t invite her,” I mumbled through stiff lips. I couldn’t help it, even though it made me feel meaner than hell.
Sunil gave me a look
, mingled annoyance and pity. For once I could read what was going through his mind. Sorry, sweetheart, you don’t have a choice anymore. Maybe having to deal with it would be good for you.
I do have a choice, I said to myself. Dayita doesn’t exist for me. No other baby does. Sudha will understand—she’ll know I can’t be forced, not in this. Because it’s the least I owe my Prem.
Today I’m determined to empty out the remaining drawers of the desk. We don’t have an extra dresser, but Sudha can put her clothes in there, and the top will do very nicely for her knickknacks. Her mattress, which we’ll pick up this weekend, can go in the corner by the window.
I am careful to give the crib a wide berth. A murky energy throbs around it, like in the taboo places spoken of in old tales. It would suck me in if I got too close.
I pull out drawers filled with Sunil’s books and papers. Dried-out pens spill out, and college notes written in faded ink. A stapler, envelopes, manila folders, outdated textbooks which he’ll never use again but won’t let me throw away. As I move back and forth filling cartons, I keep my face carefully averted. I’m safe as long as my eyes aren’t caught by the white slats of the crib, by the jauntily swinging red-and-black Mickey Mouse mobile Sunil’s described to me.
Before long, I’ve run out of space. Maybe if I repack the boxes Sunil filled last week, I can stuff a few more items into them. I lift a stack of old bank statements out of one—what a pack rat Sunil is!—and something clatters to the floor. It’s an oval wooden container small enough to be cupped in my palm, intricately carved with leaves and fruit in a Kashmiri design. I’ve never seen it before. Wait!—I have, years ago at our wedding, when some relative presented it to us. To keep something valuable in, he’d said. Like most of our wedding gifts, it was pretty but not very practical, and I was sure we’d left it behind. How on earth did it get here, at the bottom of a box filled with yellowed Merrill Lynch annual reports?