Bodies in Motion Read online

  His fingers continue wrapping, creasing the delicate paper, tearing it, folding it over each gift. Lipstick. Blush. Eyeliner. Small gold earrings. He does not approve of the makeup. His daughter does not need to paint her face to be beautiful. But it’s not worth arguing with his wife. He learned that long ago.

  The earrings are good; a girl should have some nice jewelry, for beauty and security. He has been saving money; a little here and there put into a special bank account. He started when Raji was born—money for his daughters’ dowry, for their jewelry. Now who knows whom Raji will marry, if she ever does. Running around with American boys. Taking them back to her dorm room for anyone to see—and they run and tell her shamed parents, of course, and all their friends. Sushila screams at the girl, hits her, but it does no good. Violence never does. Raji will find her own path, away from her family, and the jewelry will go to Kuyila instead. It is just as well. A girl cannot have too much security.

  One present left, but he will wrap it later.

  AT ELEVEN, SUSHILA WAKES. HE BRINGS HER TEA AND SITS BY THE side of the bed while she drinks it. She has a list of instructions for him: buy chicken for the rolls, wine and beer, some large prawns; she’s decided to make another curry. It will be expensive, more than they’d planned to spend, but he can work late tomorrow and make up the difference. She does not ask what he thinks.

  She finishes her list and gets out of bed. Sushila wears a thin white cotton nightgown. Her heavy breasts show through the sheer fabric, her waist and swell of hips, the darkness at the juncture of her thighs. Her long hair falls thickly down her back. He stirs at the sight of her; he often does.

  Kuyila is working in the front yard, trimming the roses, mowing the lawn. He can hear the roar of the mower through the open window, and knows that if he were to close the bedroom door and pull his wife back to the bed, Kuyila would not hear them. He considers it—if he did draw her to the bed, Sushila would not protest. She never protests; she is always willing, always available, the accommodating wife. But she will lie still beneath him, with her head turned away and her eyes closed. She will be still like a statue. It is the only time she is awake and not in motion—when he is moving in her, above her.

  On that first night, their wedding night, Sundar had been so gentle with her but had not managed to coax a response from her. He had told himself that it would get better with time, that she hardly knew him, that he was a stranger to her. But it had not gotten better, and so only rarely had he let himself sink inside her. Once was a night when Sushila had gone shopping with her friends and had come back late—so late! Nine-thirty at night, and while it was true that the mall was open until nine, he had not been able to believe that she had only been shopping.

  His anger had risen up in him then, and he had almost dragged her to their bed. He had wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, and he had come so close…Yet he had remembered the words of the Buddha and had restrained himself. He had taken her fiercely, but without causing her pain. He had stayed true to himself, to his beliefs, and she had never known how angry he had been. Sometimes he wondered if that anger had infected Raji, conceived on that night.

  Sushila raises her arms, stretches, displaying the dark thatch of hair under her arms, and he bites his lip, drawing blood. He wants her. She is his wife, and he has every right to take her. But he knows that if he takes her back to bed now, she will not want him. She will not want him. He lets her go to her shower, undisturbed.

  HE DRIVES TOO FAST ON THE HIGHWAY. HIS FAMILY DEPENDS ON HIM, he has a duty to them, and so he wears his seat belt—but he still drives too fast. A car speeds up, cuts in front of him, and he resists the urge to shove his foot down on the gas, rush forward and crash…that would be an extremely violent act.

  Sundar forswore violence thirty-three years ago, and since that day he has not eaten fish or meat, not killed a spider or crushed an ant. He has never raised his hand to his wife or children, even though there was a time when Sushila begged him to discipline their son.

  At sixteen, Raksha had taken to disappearing at night, climbing out windows and down trees, meeting with his friends. Eventually they’d heard about it, learned that the boy was spending his time smoking marijuana in a dark room with other teens, having sex with one girl or another, listening to music that preached revolution, revolution and sex, sex that they called love. Those children had no idea what love was, but they were everywhere that summer, smoking and drinking and running around late at night, singing. America had never seemed as alien as it did that year. Then came the rumors that Raksha had gotten a white girl pregnant, that she’d had an abortion or a baby, that she had disappeared or died—but maybe they were just rumors. No one seemed sure.

  They had confined Raksha to his room, they had argued with him, his mother had screamed and wept—but for nothing. Raksha had grown sullen and silent. Finally he’d left, just disappeared into the night like a thief, without even a note. Sushila has never forgiven her husband for not being harsher with their son. She hasn’t hesitated to discipline Raji, bringing the slim bamboo cane down on the girl’s back, but it has done little good.

  He has never hit anyone. He avoids harsh speech, and animosity of thought. All the Buddhism he knows he learned from a friend in school so long ago, and from what he can teach himself by studying books. He has learned at least a little after years of study, and knows that refraining from violent thought or action is essential if one wishes to reach the calm of enlightenment.

  He removes his foot from the gas pedal. He strives for a peaceful state of mind, though he knows it will not come.

  WHEN HE COMES HOME, SHE SCREAMS AT HIM. SUSHILA IS A WOMAN given to screeching, though he could never have guessed that when they married. He knew she had life and passion in her, but it seemed so joyous. She was sparkling then, like sunlight on water. Laughter bubbled out of her. She even got his littlest sister to laugh once or twice, ugly Mangai, who had never managed to find a husband. Mangai, who has ended up alone, living in a sad little house on the beach, battered by salty ocean winds, with only a maid for company. Without children.

  Perhaps Raji will suffer the same fate, since she has apparently turned away from their society. Perhaps she too will end up ugly and alone. Once, the thought of his daughter in such straits might have tormented him, but he has been hurt too many times, betrayed over and over. His heart is closed to her; he cannot bring himself to care.

  The first step to enlightenment, perhaps, to serenity. When touched by happiness or sorrow, the wise show no elation or dejection; the wise become serene like unto a deep, calm, and crystal-clear lake. He suspects that he will never find it, but he longs for that serenity.

  Serenity is difficult to find when Sushila is shouting that he has bought the wrong kind of chicken. Does he do this to her deliberately? Is he trying to torment her? His neck is taut with tension, his shoulders tight, but she cannot see that—he is much taller than she is. He bows his head until she is finished. Then he goes out again, to get the right kind of chicken.

  WHEN HE COMES BACK A HALF HOUR LATER, WITH THE CHICKEN, she does not thank him. She is busy cooking again, and two of his sisters have arrived as well to help. Their husbands are working and will arrive later. The women are laughing in the kitchen, gossiping and trading bits of cooking wisdom. They ignore him, but he is used to that. The house is clean; the food will be ready on time; she needs nothing more of him. He goes to wrap his daughter’s final present.

  He takes the photo from a manila envelope he’s kept hidden in a drawer. He arranged for it months ago; his wife has no idea. It’s a good photo. There is a frame for it as well, heavy silver. He slips the photo into the frame, attaches the back, tightens the screws. It will not slip away. For a moment, he hesitates. This is home that he is holding in his hands—but he has not been back in so long, and sometimes he hears disturbing news of strange events. There had been the riots, in ’58. And since then, scattered violence, here and there. Even some deaths. His gut twists for
a moment, but then eases again. The violence is transient; it must be. It will pass. He knows what home really is, and what it isn’t. Sundar wraps the photo with steady hands in white tissue paper and places it in a box, wraps the box in shining red foil paper. It will glow from among the other presents in their decorous wrappings. Perhaps Kuyila will open it first—that would be a nice surprise.

  Kuyila knocks on the bedroom door, calling to him—“Appa!” He is startled and calls to her to wait. Just another minute securing it with Scotch tape—there. It’s done. He puts it with the other presents and goes to open the door. His daughter grabs his hand, drags him to the dining room window. “Look, Appa—it’s raining!”

  It’s true. The rain is slanting down over the lawn, spattering against the circles of metal folding chairs; it will be a large party, perhaps a hundred people. Too many to seat comfortably all in the house. He had spent at least an hour mowing the back lawn and setting up the chairs yesterday, and now his daughter is panicking because they are getting wet.

  “It’s just a summer shower; it’ll pass. Don’t worry. Go get dressed; people will be here soon.”

  Raji would have argued, would have wondered if they should make plans to bring the chairs inside somehow, would have at least pointed out that it was still two hours until anyone was due to arrive and that their friends were always an hour late in any case. Raji had never agreed with him; she had always argued. Once, he had thought that was good, a sign of a strong spirit. Now he knows better.

  Kuyila smiles in response to his words and says, “Okay.” She goes upstairs to get ready; she trusts and obeys him. He would do almost anything to preserve that trust.

  SUNDAR SHOWERS AND GETS DRESSED. HE HAS TROUBLE FINDING the tie he wants; Sushila has rearranged the closet again. He is looking for his favorite tie, the dark blue one with the thin white diagonal lines. It reminds him of river water, white foam on the darkness. He reaches back into the closet and pulls out a handful of old ties, ties that he hasn’t seen in years. One of them is bright red, shockingly bright, even after all this time.

  His son was fourteen that day, almost fifteen. Raji was only four then, and Kuyila was just two. Raksha had been born less than a year after their wedding; they had waited a long time for more children. Sometimes he wondered whether Sushila had actually wanted children, if she had been taking something to prevent them; motherhood had never really suited her. Maybe she had, and then had become careless as the long years stretched past, stopped worrying about it, and so he’d gotten his girls at last. She had her secrets, his wife. He’d never know the truth of it. Let it go.

  Raksha had given him the tie on Father’s Day. Such a bright boy he was, and yet already in trouble. Already running around with the wrong crowd, but they didn’t know. His parents didn’t know—how could they? Sundar was working seventy, eighty hours a week at the store in those days, and he was so tired at night. Sushila kept the family fed, and cleaned up a little, but she was busy herself with two young ones after so long without. She didn’t spend much time on her son, who had already grown so tall. When Raksha had given him that tie, reached to hug him, had there been alcohol on his breath? Had there been marijuana smoke thick in his clothes? If so, neither of his parents had noticed.

  When his grades started slipping, they had scolded Raksha, told him to try harder. Never doubted the boy when he said he was studying at the library late at night, trying to improve the grades. It had never occurred to the father to distrust his son. Adults could betray you, as he well knew, but children? Children were the light of life.

  He should have paid more attention to the Buddha’s example—the prince who walked away from his young wife and infant son to seek truth and an ending to false desire.

  When Raksha ran off, they’d been frantic with worry, called the police, their friends across the country. The boy was found in Chicago, months later; he’d hitched his way across country. Raksha lived with white friends for a while, then eventually found a job, but refused to come home or answer their letters. He never told them why he had run away. They had given him everything, and he had thrown it all back in their faces. Finally Sushila, enraged, had demanded that they cut him off entirely, weeping with her frustration. He had quietly agreed. They were only acknowledging a separation that was already final.

  They still received reports from friends in Chicago. Raksha had settled down eventually, had even married a Tamil girl from a good family, a professional family. Married above him, actually; he had always been a handsome boy. There had been some trouble, but it was eventually sorted out. Sundar has picked up the phone to call him, a hundred times, but every time he puts it down again.

  Raksha has a daughter now, Chaya, a girl who will never know her father’s parents. His son is lost to him. For the sake of oneself, one should not long for a son, wealth, or a kingdom. Sundar had never wanted wealth or a kingdom. He places the red tie back on the rack, finally finds the dark blue tie, soberly knots it around his neck.

  SUSHILA HAS SHOWERED, IS DRESSING NOW. HE STRAIGHTENS THE bedroom, pretending not to watch her, listening to her talking nonsense. She slips her arms into a dark purple blouse and calls him to hook up the back. His fingers do not linger on the soft flesh exposed there; he is deft and quick after so many years of practice. Thirty years of marriage. He married her when he was twenty-two and she was seventeen; he is fifty-three now, a good age for a man to ease back, to rest in the comfort of his family’s love and affection.

  She tucks one end of her dark green sari into her half-slip, and he takes the other end in his hands, holding it taut as she folds the fabric in front of her, making the pleats that will allow her to walk freely, to dance later. She will call him to dance, and he will gently refuse, as always. He does not dance. She will dance with her friends, his sisters—not immodestly, of course. Only with women; never with men. But she will laugh freely, will be flushed with pleasure, will lean toward the women and whisper silly secrets in their ears, making them blush and giggle. Exuberant, yet unobjectionable, as always. But the public does not always reflect the private, and he has always known what really goes on.

  Sundar is not sure when he first realized that his wife, his beautiful, innocent-seeming Sushila, was betraying him. The first clue was undoubtedly in bed, but he was so ignorant then; how long was it going on before he noticed? Before he realized that while she was willing, she was never eager for him? Before he realized that there was more than maidenly shyness in her lack of response to him?

  In another kind of woman, perhaps that would have been normal, but not his Sushila, who laughed with her whole heart, who sometimes had taken the children out to dance in the rain, and who bit her lip and crossed her thighs as they watched the romantic scenes in American movies, the woman in soft focus, lips parted, clasped tight in strong arms. Somewhere in Sushila was a response, but not to him. Never to him.

  He had never caught her at it. Never caught her sneaking out, or inviting someone in. He hadn’t tried, hadn’t wanted to. If he had caught her, he would have been tempted from the path. If he had caught her, he might have swung a heavy fist at her lying face, might have beaten her lover into a bloody pulp. And so he always called first if he was coming home unexpectedly early, or in the middle of the day. He had trouble sleeping at night, and took pills so that he would not know if she ever slipped out of their bed. Sundar had done his best to never know the truth. He had no real evidence; he had tried not to know—yet he was sure. He knew.

  He would have done better not to love her at all, not to desire her. Let no one cherish anything, inasmuch as the loss of what is beloved is hard. But after thirty years, he has not managed it. Sushila is still his wife, and beautiful to him, and every night he fights his desire to reach for the woman who was the first to betray him.

  She pulls the fabric from his hands; she is done pleating it. Sushila wraps it once around her body, and then crosses it up over her full breasts, over a shoulder to drape across her back and bare waist. H
e pins the heavy fabric in place at her shoulder, and she walks out of the room, still chattering about something, words he can make no sense of.

  The rain stops, and he goes out with a dishcloth to wipe the chairs dry. No one has arrived yet—they will start arriving at four-thirty, four forty-five. They will eat the appetizers, they will drink the wine, they will have a roaring good time. Eventually, they will go away, leaving a scattering of presents behind, and then the family will sit down with Kuyila to open them. It will be late—maybe eleven, or twelve, or even later. Kuyila will be tired; they will all be. Their reactions will be muted, which is really a shame. He wants to see the looks on their faces as she opens his present. He wants it badly. He does not want to wait.

  Maybe he won’t.

  BY FIVE, THE PARTY IS GOING STRONG—ALL OF THEIR CLOSE friends have arrived, and only a few more people are straggling in. Kuyila is lovely in a pale cream summer dress, with slim straps baring too much of her skin. The boys cluster around her, and she tilts back her head and laughs, delightedly, at what they say to her. What are they saying to her?

  Sundar cannot wait any longer.

  “Everyone—everyone, can I have your attention, please?”

  His voice is not loud—it never is. But the word is passed along, and slowly the crowd turns to face him, gathering across the lawn, brown faces cheerful in the sunlight.

  “I have an announcement—but first, I have a special present for my daughter.” They gather closer, drawn by the word present, wondering what it could be. Everyone loves getting presents. Kuyila comes to stand next to him, and Raji and Sushila are near as well. Sushila looks puzzled, but not worried. Why should she be? He has never given her reason to worry.