The three adults left and I burrowed my aching head into the cushioned comfort of the pillow until I realized that the chakor servant was still in the room.
Without lifting my head to look at him I said clearly, “Who gave you permission to watch me bathe?”
“No one, mehm saab, Savitri ma’am,” he said. I could feel his eyes freeze on me.
“Were you on the balcony last night, chakor?” I asked. My anger blossomed into rage as my face turned a brilliant crimson shade.
“Yes, mehm saab,” he answered in a calm, even voice.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. So what did you do . . . go brag to all your insignificant friends that you saw a naked girl splashing around in a haunted pond in the middle of the night?” This time I turned and held his penetrating gaze.
“No, of course not, Savitri mehm saab,” he said. He did not even flinch and continued to bring the fan up and down, up and down.
For the first time, I examined this strange young boy who circulated in and out of our doorways and had strolled on our floors for the past three months. Chakors came and went—at some point they realized the opportunities outside the small village and moved up in the world by driving lorries and buses. Wearing a gray short-sleeve button-up shirt and brown half-pants, Arun’s tall, lean figure swam in borrowed garb. His worn shoes sported miniscule holes behind which I discovered nervous, wriggling toes. I had uncovered the root of his anxiety and where his conscience lay. I scrutinized his innocent, youthful face with a button nose and pouty lips; his eyes were dark brown and glittered with speckles of bright green that transfixed me. I lowered my gaze and fell fast asleep to the rhythmic beating of the current produced by the handheld fan.
• • •
When I awoke again, I was alone in the room and dusk created an eerie aura over the huts on the steamy horizon. I called for Dida and Dadu but no one answered. Then I remembered that Saraswati Pooja fell on this particular day and they had probably journeyed to the Upanayam Temple. The monstrous house sat in suppressed silence as my hardened feet touched the iciness of the cement. I clutched the lighted candle on my nightstand and traversed the ancient wings of the mansion, dodging cobwebs and sneezing in the primitive dust. Rooms held frames filled with faded black-and-white photographs of family and friends, both equal—merging and meshing into each other. Finally, I stumbled upon the childhood haven of my mother. I pushed open the heavy rotting mahogany door and entered into my own temple. A double bed with intricately carved oak posts rose from the far right corner of the room. An equally exquisite dresser peered at the young intruder through the eye of a tall mirror. Brilliantly blue, dashingly red, and vibrantly orange Rajasthani tapestries covered the stone walls, contributing spurts of energy to the desolate asylum. My grandparents never knew of my visits to this refuge. I stood in front of the one picture that adorned this room—three bodies frozen in a web of endearment at the height of life. Baba clutched a glass of punch in one hand and me, a naked toddler, in the other, his eyes brimming with excitement as confetti dotted his head. Ma grabbed his waist and rested her soft hand on my chubby cheek, her smile overflowing with the joy of a new year.
“Ma,” I whispered with tears hanging at the corners of my eyes, “Ma, I want to go away from here. I cannot marry that strange man. I feel like there is something else Shree Krishna wants for me and my feeling is hard to ignore.” Her laughing eyes were arrested, nothing stirred in the flickering flame.
The creaking of the door caused me to panic, and I immediately searched for some place to conceal my body from a thief. My breath extinguished the candle and the smoke drifted up and around the many fabrics on the walls.
“Mehm saab, you are here? Dadu and Dida wished me to look after you while they worship tonight.” Arun’s voice filled the chamber with a powerful current of life. Silently, I moved toward the back of his silhouette and touched the soft curve of his neck below the shaggy V of his hair. He froze as I caressed his childish face with the button nose and explored the velvet skin of his cheeks. I found the tiny ridges of his lips and slowly brought my own to his. His untouchable self trembled, such a young creature, plunged into the epiphany of my chaotic dreams. I guided him to the canopied bed of my parents; his voice, lodged in the back of his throat, escaped in sweet, hurried breaths, while my mute voice was elsewhere—speaking, sometimes admonishing, mostly encouraging, from all corners of the room. His inexperienced kisses burned my mouth and began to roam as I shifted my position and allowed his lips to explore. I found his hand and navigated it under the crinkled cotton of my nightgown, brushing against the mounds of unseen breasts and stroking the soft curve of my stomach. My fingers pressed against the small of his back as I breathed in the fresh scent of sandalwood and incense on his skin and in his hair. I burrowed under his body, and for the first time in my life I felt free. I awoke the next morning to find myself in my own room, under the cage of my own mosquito net, fan whirring in the fog of the window—alone.
• • •
That night I watched the battered old clock and waited for him to come. Arun did not keep his promise and failed to arrive in my room at our confirmed time. I crept to the right side of Dadu, black-and-white images flashing in front of his hypnotized gaze.
“Where is Arun—I am feeling hot and need some extra breeze,” I said. In trying not to show my desperation, I appeared spiteful.
“Did Dida not tell you, Savitri? He took his last rupee and I believe he said he was going to drive a lorry in Bangalore,” said Dadu, and never did his compassionate eyes leave the mind-numbing screen. A statue could not have stood more still than I did at that moment. My heart stopped and my breath caught in my dry throat as I shivered at the memory of his gentle, probing touch the night before. I thanked the square box that kept Dadu from seeing the look of despair on my face.
I knew by the sound of his voice that Dadu had not sent him away; nor did Dida. Arun had left on his own whim. Dragging my listless body back to the bed, my mind traipsed in and out of reality and fantasy. Tunneling deeper into the comfort of the stiff mattress, I unearthed a piece of dull yellow scrap paper under my pillow. A note from Arun. He could not defy his India—he had been wrong to step out of place and take advantage of me while I was wallowing in my own sorrow. He had left because he wanted to save me and prayed that the Lord Krishna would forgive me. His written words seemed experienced and toughened—I had stolen his innocence. With the caste system ingrained in his mind, he believed he had sinned against Shiva, and that all destiny would crash if we were together. I had felt it too, but my desire for a life outside these gray cement walls had won the battle against my culture and against my entire family. I could run away, as my ancestor Aloka had done so many years ago, but today there was no way to survive in Calcutta without any money or support. If I ran away, I could become a chakor or a whore and scour the streets for morsels of food. I shut my eyes and imagined departing through those heavy front doors, holding the strong, noble hand of Arun and embarking on a splendid life of sweet independence from all-consuming tradition.
Now, running off was a mere passing thought and not one to be acted upon. I would never find him in a country of one billion beings. The gods could be generous, but I knew I had betrayed them at last and could not pray for an answer this time. Under no immediate circumstances could I stay in Amalya and marry a man who looked older than my grandfather and slyer than the Communist Party. I wanted Ma to hold me and tell me that I would always have her. I prayed that she would come back, and my body shook in sobs as I realized that the gods were probably ignoring all of my pleas. My legs started to move; my physical motions no longer connected to the weighty emotions saturating my thoughts. Bearing half a heart, my mind swam with distant, lovely sentiments as I followed in the fatal footsteps of Queen Karia.
• • •
Luminescent, brilliant hues of the aurora embraced her entrance. The air, the light, the atmosphere surpassed all of her earlier feelings. She looked cal
mly over the clouds and murmured into the tiny ears of the passing seagulls. The waves of the clear ocean crashed against the rainbows of the thick coral reef, painting the sunrise that crept up on the grand horizon. Her blue-black hair sparkled in the soaring sun that finally found a peaceful home behind the colossal mountain. A simple white piece of cloth covered her lilting figure, tied with a pearly sash that flowed past her knobby knees. She laughed aloud when a baby seagull stopped to rest upon her naked shoulder. Her breaths came short and sweet; her chest rose and fell to the gentle laps of water lagging behind on the sand after the great wave disappeared. Rising and falling, ascending and descending—the swirling air rushed around her body and swept her up in an eternal embrace, while Gayatri Mata smiled upon a creation who had reached nirvana at last.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
William Clifford has traveled and held many different jobs since graduating from Carnegie Mellon University. To (barely) pay the bills, he holds cue cards at Late Show with David Letterman and Saturday Night Live in New York City, which he calls home. He is a staff writer at www.thicksole.com, and is at work on a novel.
Matthew Loren Cohen grew up in South Florida and graduated from Florida State University with a BA in music. “Polaroid” was written in 1997 as the third part in a trilogy of short stories. His work has appeared in Blithe House Quarterly, a Web site for gay short fiction (www.blithe.com). He lives in New York City.
Sujata DeChoudhury, a native of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, is a Systems and Control Engineering major at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. “Forbidden Fate” is dedicated to her loving Dida and Dadu, who breathe Calcutta every day of their lives.
Dennis G. Dillingham, Jr., was born and raised in Long Island and is the youngest of five children. He is a graduate of the College of the Holy Cross, where, in 1998, he received a BA degree with honors. He has also studied literature and history at the University College Galway, in Galway, Ireland. He currently lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, and works in New York City.
Aisha D. Gayle attends Yale University. She has been featured in publications at Columbia University, Yale University, and most recently in Chocolate for a Young Woman’s Soul (Fireside/Simon & Schuster). She teaches creative writing in a New Haven elementary school, is Marketing Director of Yale’s undergraduate style magazine, vyrtigo, writes for the Yale Daily News, and is the sweeper on her women’s club soccer team.
Clementyne Howard attends college in Nashville, Tennessee. Her father, Harlan Howard, is a brilliant songwriter whose passion and gift for words inspires her to search within for the same. She is currently studying television and writing.
Kathleen Bedwell Hughes was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana. She received her BA in English from Yale University in 1994 and her MFA from the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop in 1998. She is currently at work on a novel..
Carmen Elena Mitchell grew up in Chicago and attended Sarah Lawrence College in New York. Now based in Seattle, she makes a living writing, acting, and teaching. Her work has appeared in The Sow’s Ear, The Seattle Medium, and has been heard nationally on KidStar radio. She is currently at work on a novel.
Jason Rekulak grew up in New Jersey. He has an MFA from the University of Miami, where he received a full scholarship from James Michener. He currently lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Julie, and is finishing a collection of short stories about newspaper personal ads.
Michelle Rick has a BA in literature and creative writing from Northwestern University and is currently a candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing from the New School University. Her fiction has been published in the Mississippi Review, Moondance Magazine, Exquisite Corpse, and an anthology, Summer’s Love, Winter’s Discontent. She is working on a collection of short stories and a novel and lives in Greenwich Village.
Davy Rothbart received nine Hopwood Awards, the Arthur Miller Prize, and a Lawrence Kasdan Fellowship at the University of Michigan. Current writing projects include a road novel and a biography of Vietnam Veteran James A. Thompson. With his film company, 21 Balloons Productions, he has completed two documentaries, Coast II Coast and Where Is the Friend’s Home? Also, he once tossed up an -oop to Jalen Rose in a pickup game. His story is dedicated to the writers at Cotton Correctional Facility, Jackson, Michigan.
Joy Monica T. Sakaguchi, a Los Angeles native, currently lives in Alaska, where she works with senior citizens. In her free time she enjoys exploring Alaska, keeping warm, hiking, writing, and painting.
Chandra Steele is from Great Neck, New York, and attended Barnard College, where she was editor-in-chief of the Barnard Bulletin. She is currently a copy editor and is working on a short story collection and a screenplay.
Aury Wallington lives in Manhattan. She works as a script coordinator on the HBO show Sex and the City, and spends all of her free time working toward her black belt in karate.
Martin Wilson was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and educated at Vanderbilt University and the University of Florida. In 1999, a story of his appeared in Virgin Fiction 2 (Rob Weisbach Books/Morrow). He lives and works in Austin, Texas.
STEPHEN CHBOSKY is the author of the acclaimed novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower, published by MTV Books. He is the recipient of the Abraham Polonsky Screenwriting Award for Everything Divided. His first feature-length film, The Four Corners of Nowhere, premiered in the 1995 Sundance Film Festival and won Best Narrative Feature honors at the Chicago Underground Film Festival. He is currently at work on a new project, Fingernails and Smooth Skin.
Like this is the only one . . .
Floating
Robin Troy
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Stephen Chbosky
The Fuck-up
Arthur Nersesian
Dreamworld
Jane Goldman
Fake Liar Cheat
Tod Goldberg
More from the young, the hip, and the up-and-coming. Brought to you by MTV Books.
© 2000 MTVN
Praise for Stephen Chbosky’s
THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER
“A coming-of-age tale in the tradition of The Catcher in the Rye and A Separate Peace. . . . [Chbosky’s] poignant reflections on life, love, and friendship are often inspirational and always beautifully written.”
—USA Today
“Charlie’s loving instincts are very strong. Again and again throughout the book he exhibits that pure wisdom we all like to read about and witness. And Stephen Chbosky doesn’t let us down. The language is plain and springy and blunt. . . . In this culture where adolescence is a dirty word, I hope nothing bad ever happens to this [protagonist].”
—Los Angeles Times
“An epistolary narrative cleverly places readers in the role of recipients of Charlie’s unfolding story of his freshman year in high school. From the beginning, Charlie’s identity as an outsider is credibly established. . . . Charlie, his friends, and his family are palpably real . . . [he] develops from an observant wallflower into his own man of action. . . . This report on his life will engage teen readers for years to come.”
—School Library Journal (starred review)
“Chbosky captures adolescent angst, confusion, and joy as Charlie reveals his innermost thoughts while trying to discover who he is and who he is to become. Intellectually precocious, Charlie[’s] . . . reflections . . . are compelling. He vacillates between full involvement in the crazy course of his life and backing off completely. Charlie is a likable kid whose humor-laced trials and tribulations will please both adults and teens.”
—Booklist
“Chbosky adds an upbeat ending to a tale of teenage angst—the right combination of realism and uplift to allow it on high school reading lists. . . . [The protagonist] oozes sincerity, rails against celebrity phoniness, and feels an extraliterary bond with his favorite writers (Harper Lee, Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Ayn Rand, etc.). . . . A plain-written narrative suggesting passivity, and thinking too much, lead to confusion and anxie
ty.”
—Kirkus Reviews
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This book consists of works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Introduction copyright © 2000 by Stephen Chbosky
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