Yes I admit it, he’s the reason. And yes I want to see him again. And yes I’m disappointed when the sight falls on me like fever, and shuddering I look among the faces to come and do not see his. He promised, I tell myself, and am angrier because he didn’t really. Suddenly I want to sweep the mithais from their case to the floor, laddus and rasogollahs sent rolling in dust, syrup and splintered glass sticking to shoe soles. And the shock in the eyes of the customers whose desires I’m tired of.
It’s my desire I want to fulfill, for once.
It would be so easy. A tola of lotus root burned in evening with prishniparni, a few words spoken, and he would not be able to keep away. Yes it would be him standing across from me and not this fat man in round-rimmed glasses who is telling me I’m all out of chana besan. If I wanted, he would see not this old body but what I wished, curve of mango breast to cup in one’s palm, long lean line of eucalyptus thigh. I would call on the others, abhrak and amlaki to remove wrinkles and blacken hair and firm the sagging flesh. And king of all, maharadwaj rejuvenator whom the Ashwini Kumars, twin physicians of the gods, gave to their disciple Dhanwantari to make him foremost among healers. Makaradwaj which must always be used with greatest care for even one measure too much can bring death, but I am not afraid, I Tilo who was most brilliant of all the Old One’s apprentices.
The fat man is saying something, his tongue moving thick and pink in his open mouth. But I do not hear him.
The Old One, the Old One. What would she say to this wanting? I close my eyes in knowing guilt.
“I worry most about you,” she told me the day I left.
We stood on the highest ridge of the volcano, only sky above us. Shampati’s fire was not yet lit. Against the dark silhouette of the pyre the evening was violet-gray and soft as moths. Far below us the waves crashed white and silent as in a dream.
Like tendrils of fog, her distress around me.
I wanted to pull her close and place a comfort-kiss on the velvet corrugation of her cheek. As though I were the elder and not she. But I did not dare the intimacy.
So I accused.
“Always you are without faith in me, First Mother.”
“Because I see your nature, Tilo shining but flawed, diamond with a crack running through it, which thrown into the cauldron of America may shatter asunder.”
“What crack?”
“Life-lust, that craving to taste all things, sweet as well as bitter, on your own tongue.”
“Mother you worry needlessly. Before the moon crosses the sky will I not be walking into Shampati’s fire that burns up all desire?”
She had sighed. “I pray it does for you.” And had gestured a blessing sign in the dim air.
“Chana besan,” says the fat man now, smelling of garlic pickle and too-large lunches. “Didn’t you hear me say I want some chana besan.”
My skull is hot and dry. There is a high buzzing inside, like bees.
Fat man I could take a fistful of mustard seed and say a word, and for a month a fever would burn in your stomach, making you vomit up whatever you ate.
Tilo, is this what you have come to.
Inside my head, a sound like rain. Or is it the tears of the spices.
I bite down on my lip till the blood comes. The pain cleanses me, starts to release the poison from my clenched body.
“So sorry,” I tell the man. “I have big sack of besan inside.”
I measure out a packet and trace on it with my finger a rune for self-control. For him and for me.
O spices I am still yours, Tilottama essence of til, giver of life and love and hope. Help me not to fall from myself.
Lonely American, though my body is a sudden soaring whenever I think of you, if you are to come to me, it will have to be by your own desire.
Early morning he steps briskly into the store to do the week’s shopping for the family although his son has said many times “Baba why at your age.” Geeta’s grandfather still walking like a military major though it has been twenty years. His shirt ironed stiff with pointy collars, his steel-gray pants perfect-creased down the front. And his shoes, his midnight-black Bata shoes spit-polished to match the onyx he wears on his left hand for mental peace.
“But mental peace I am not having, not even one iota, since I crossed the kalapani and came to this America,” he tells me once again. “That Ramu he said Come come haha we are all here, what for you want to grow old so far from your own flesh and blood, your granddaughter. But I tell you, better to have no granddaughter than one like this Geeta.”
“I know what you are meaning, dada,” I say to placate him. “But your Geeta, such a nice girl she is, so pretty and sweet-speaking too, surely you are mistaken. She is coming so many times to my store and each time she is specially buying my hot mango pickles and telling me most polite how tasty they are. And so smart, passed out of college with all A marks, is it not, I think her mother is telling me, and now she is doing job in some big engineer company?”
He dismisses my compliments with a wave of his carved mahogany cane.
“May be okay for all these firingi women in this country, but you tell me yourself didi, if a young girl should work late-late in the office with other men and come home only after dark and sometimes in their car too? Chee chee, back in Jamshedpur they would have smeared dung on our faces for that. And who would ever marry her. But when I tell Ramu he says Baba don’t worry they’re only friends. My girl knows better than to get involved with some foreigner.”
“But dada, this is America after all, and even in India women are now working, no, even in Jamshedpur.”
“Hai, you are talking like Ramu now, and his wife, that Sheela who brought up her girl too lax, never a slap even, and see what has happened. Arre baap, so what if this is America, we are still Bengalis, no? And girls and boys are still girls and boys, ghee and a lighted match, put them together and soon or late there’s going to be fire.”
I give him a bottle of brahmi oil to cool his system. “Dada,” I say, “you and I are old now, time for us to spend our time with our prayer beads and let the young ones run their life as they see best.”
Still each week Geeta’s grandfather comes in with newly indignant tales.
“That girl, this Sunday she cut her hair short-short so that even her neck is showing. I am telling her, Geeta what did you do, your hair is the essence of your womanhood. You know what she is replying?”
I can read the answer in his furrowed face. But to soothe him I ask what.
“She is laughing and pushing all those messy ends back from her face, saying, Oh Grandpa I needed a new look.”
Or. “That Geeta, how much makeup she is using all the time. Uff, in my days only the Englishwomen and prostitutes are doing that. Good Indian girls are not ashamed of the face God is giving them. You cannot think what all she is taking with her even to work.”
His tone so full of outrage, I want to smile. But I only say “Maybe you are over-imagining. Maybe—”
He stops me, hand held up triumphant. “Imagining, you say. Hunh! With my own two eyes I have looked into her purse. Mascara blusher foundation eyeshadow and more whose names I am not remembering, and the lipstick so shameless bright making all the men stare at her mouth.”
Or. “Didi, listen to what she is doing this last weekend. Bought a new car for herself, thousands and thousands of dollars it is costing, and such a shiny blue it hurts the eyes. I told Ramu, what nonsense is this, she was using your old car just fine, this money you should save for her dowry. But that blind fool, he only smiles and says, It’s her money from her job and besides, for my Geeta we’ll find a nice Indian boy from here who doesn’t believe in dowry.”
“Geeta,” I call silently when he is gone, “Geeta whose name means sweet song, keep your patience your humor your zest for life. I am burning here incense of the champak flower for harmony in your home. Geeta who is India and America all mixed together into a new melody, be forgiving of an old man who holds on to his past with
all the strength in his failing hands.”
Today Geeta’s grandfather comes in, but without his usual striped plastic shopping bag, his hands swinging aimless, his fingers splayed stiff and awkward with nothing to grip. Stands for a while at the counter staring down at the mithais but he is not seeing them, and when I ask what he needs today, he bursts out “Didi you will not believe.” His voice is loud with calamity and righteousness, but underneath I hear the raw rasp of fear.
“Hundred times I told Ramu, this is no way to bring up children, girls specially, saying yes-yes every time they want something. Remember in India how all you brothers and sisters got one-two good beatings and after I never had troubles with you. Did I love you less, no, but I knew what was my father-duty. Hundred times I told him, get her married off now she has finished college, why you are waiting for misfortune to knock on your door. And now see what happened.”
“What?” I am impatient, my heart tight with misgiving. I try to look in, but the tunnels of his mind are awhirl with dead leaves and dust.
“Yesterday I am getting a letter from Jadu Bhatchaj, my old army-days friend. They are looking for a match for his grand-nephew, excellent boy, very bright, only twenty-eight and already a district sub-judge. Why not send details of Geeta and a picture also, he has written, maybe the parents will agree. What a fine news I think and offer thanks to Goddess Durga, and immediately as Ramu comes home I tell him. He is not so eager, he says she is brought up here, can she live in a big joint family in India. And Sheela of course is saying O I don’t want to send my only daughter so far away. Woman, I tell her, you are simply having no sense. Didn’t your own mother have to send you far too? You must do what is best for her. Even from birth a girl’s real home is with her future husband’s family only. And what better family can we get for our Geeta than Jadubabu’s people, such old, respected brahmins whom everyone is knowing in Calcutta. Okay says Ramu at last, we’ll ask Geeta.”
He pauses to suck in breath.
I want to shake the slow story out of him, but I press my nails into the counter and wait.
“Well, Madam comes in late as usual, nine P.M., saying I ate already, remember I told you some of the guys were going for pizza. I am wanting to say, Since when are you some of the guys, but I practice self-control. Her father tells her about the letter. Dad, she says, tell me you’re joking. She laughs and laughs. Can you see me with a veil over my head sitting in a sweaty kitchen all day, a bunch of house keys tied to the end of my sari. Ramu says Come on Geeta, it’s not going to be like that. But I say What’s wrong with that, Miss High Nose, your grandmother, God keep her soul at His lotus feet, did that all her life. She says, No disrespect, Gramps, it just isn’t for me. And while we’re on the subject, arranged marriages aren’t for me either. When I marry I’ll choose my own husband.
“The look on Ramus face is not so happy and Sheela’s eyebrows are starting to squeeze together. I begin to tell them, Are you hearing this, for this reason I told you long time back to send her to Ramkrishna Mission boarding school in Chuchura, when she interrupts me and says, the words rushing out all together, I guess this is as good a time as any to let you know that I’ve already found someone I love.
“Chee chee, no shame at all, making talk of love in front of her parents, in front of me, her grandfather.
“After they get over the first shock Ramu asks, What’s this now and Sheela asks, Who is it. Then they ask together, What does he do and Do we know him.
“You don’t know him, she says. Her face is red and she is holding her breath tight like when underwater and right away I know something even more inauspicious is coming.
“He works at the company, he’s a project manager. She is being silent one full minute. Then she says, His name is Juan, Juan Cordero.
“Hai bhagaban, I say. She is marrying a white man.
“Dad, Mom, she says, please don’t be upset. He’s a very nice man, really, you’ll see when I bring him home to visit. I’m so glad I finally got it off my chest. I’ve been wanting to tell you a long time. To me she says, Grandpa, he’s not white, he’s Chicano.
“What is that meaning, I ask. But already I know it is nothing good.
“When she explains I tell to her, You are losing your caste and putting blackest kali on our ancestors’ faces to marry a man who is not even a sahib, whose people are slum criminals and illegals, don’t say O grandpa you just don’t understand, you think I don’t see TV news.
“Sheela is crying and wringing her hands, saying I never thought you’d do this to us, is this how you repay us for giving you so much freedom even though all our relatives warned us not to. But Ramu is sitting total quiet. I want to say to him, Once you let cow out of the barn, you cannot stop it from trampling the paddy field. But when I see his face I don’t have the heart. I only say, Ramu you please put me on a plane to India tomorrow.
“Dad, Geeta says, Dad. She shakes his arm. Say something.
“He jerks away like he is getting electric shock. A muscle is jumping small and tight in his cheek. I remember it from when he was a boy, if he got very angry, just before he smashed a pot or beat another boy or similar thing. His hands are fists. I think, he is going to hit her, and everything goes black-black in front of my eyes and then yellow pinpricks like mustard flowers.
“I am too old for this, I am thinking. My head feels so heavy for my neck. I am wishing that misfortunate letter was lost in our Indian post system.
“But then he puts his fists down. I trusted you, he says. His voice, it is worse than hitting.
“After that I must close my eyes. It is like a big wind around me, words flying around in it, mother and daughter.
“Go to your room. I don’t want to see your face again.
“You won’t have to. I’m leaving. And never coming back.
“Do what you like. Your father and I will think we’re childless, and better for it.
“Dad, is that what you want. Dad.
“Silence.
“Very well. I’m going to move in with Juan then. He’s been asking me for a long time. I said no, thinking of you guys all this time, but now I will.
“And Sheela shouting through her sobs, Where you go is all the same to us, you shameless bad luck girl.
“Doors slam and crash like breaking. Weeping sounds come and go. Maybe a car engine is roaring, maybe brakes are screeching. When I open my eyes I am all alone in the family room with only the man on TV describing about a big storm out in the ocean soon to be moving in. I go to my room but all night I am not joining my eyelids together in sleep.”
He points in evidence at the veins like brittle red wires in his eyes.
“And this morning,” I ask. “What happened this morning?” He lifts his shoulders, helpless.
“I leave the house before anyone wakes. I am walking up and down in front of your shop until you open.”
“But what can I do?”
“I know you can help. I am hearing whispered things at Bengali New Year picnic, also when the old people meet together to play bridge. Please.”
Geeta’s grandfather holding his proud white head low, the requesting words awkward as strangers in his mouth.
I pound him a powder of almond and kesar to boil in milk. “The whole family must drink it at bedtime,” I say. “To sweeten your words and thoughts, to remember the love buried under the anger. And you dada who made much of this tangle, take special care what you say. No more talk of going back to India. When bitterness boils up in your mouth, wanting out, swallow it down with a spoon of this draksha syrup.”
He takes it, thanks me meekly.
“Still, I am not sure it will be enough. For the medicine to work true, Geeta herself must come to me.’
“But she will never.” His words are a dry, hopeless sound. Geeta’s grandfather slump-shouldered and shrunken. Overnight his clothes hang on him like a scarecrow’s flapping suit.
Silence pools around us thick as oil. Until finally he coughs it away.
“Perhaps you could go to her?” His voice has learned new tones. Hesitation, apology. “I can tell you the way.”
“Impossible. It is not allowed.”
He says nothing more. Only looks at me with his hurt-animal eyes.
And suddenly, for no reason at all, I think of my American.
Geeta, like you I too am learning how love like a rope of ground glass can snake around your heart and pull you, bleeding, away from all you should. And so I tell your grandfather, “O very well, just this once, how much harm can it do.”
That night I dream of the island.
I have dreamed the island often, but this is different.
The sky is black and smoky. No. There is no sky, and no sea either. The island floats in a dark void, bereft of life.
But I look closer and there we are sitting under a banyan, the Old One questioning us on lessons learned.
“What is a Mistress’s foremost duty?”
I raise my hand but she nods at someone else. “To aid all who come to her in distress or seeking.”
“How must she feel toward those who come to her?”
I raise my hand again, am ignored again.
Another novice gives the answer. “Equal love to all, particular to none.”
“And what distance must she keep?” I wave my arm.
Someone else says, “Not too far nor too near, in calm kindness poised.”
I rise to my knees in anger. Can she not see, or is her ignoring of me a purposed punishment?
“Ah Tilo,” she says, “Tilo ever too confident, well suited to answer this next question, what happens when a Mistress grows disobedient, when she seeks her own pleasure?”