love are the bhajis, anything fried. It’s not at all good for you, though.”
“My grandmother is a stickler for healthy type foods. We never have bhajis.”
“Well, maybe we should order some now.”
I agreed, thinking it only a slight indiscretion.
Munching on the fried onions and potatoes, we talked some more. I liked the way he looked and the quiet shy smile. He didn’t smile often, which made me smile all the more. He wasn’t handsome in the way of a model or film star, but handsome in that his features were composed, his expression calm. I felt I could learn from him, although I didn’t know what I wanted to learn. He was sexy, too. Sitting next to him, I found my attention wandering from what he was saying to the nice color of his shirt, his darkish whitish skin, the depth of his unfathomable eyes. Then I snapped myself out of this spell. He was just an American talking to a kid, me.
“What do you do, Richard?” I asked, testing out his name.
“I give English lessons to schoolboys. Not girls, of course, they’re too shy. I came to India to study ayurvedic medicine, and I take classes here on the island.”
“Do you have a lot of money?” I asked, not shy.
“No.” He laughed. “The classes I take are free. Do you know Guru Gowmathi?”
I shook my head.
“He teaches all of us—there are six of us—for free, with the idea we will spread his knowledge.”
I had heard of foreigners coming to study Indian arts but had never met one.
“Are you full Indian?” he asked me.
I told him my father had been white.
“Your features are just slightly different from most of the Indians and islanders.”
I became self-conscious then and told him I had to go.
We parted when it began to grow dark. Thinking my grandmother would be annoyed that I’d stayed out so long, I hurried. As I walked along, I realized how starved I had been for a real conversation, that the person I knew most was myself. Talking with Richard made my heart light, and even the flowers around me seemed more potent. I was heady with excitement at the time I’d just had. He had seen a whale!
Fully expecting to be reprimanded at home, I was surprised at my grandmother’s abstracted greeting. She yelled just a little, and then she urged me to see my cousin. I followed her to our room, where I discovered Jani weeping on the bed.
“She has been like this all afternoon,” said my grandmother, wringing her hands.
She left me with Jani, and I approached the bed.
“What’s wrong, Jani? Tell me what’s the matter,” I said softly, putting out my hand to stroke her back. But my words only made her weep harder, so I sat quietly.
“It’s no use—I can’t pretend,” she finally said between sobs.
I stroked her long black hair, untangling the knots. She said I was too young to understand, that I couldn’t comprehend. But I begged her to try, and slowly, she toldme. She spoke of her friends, of Nalani and Rohini, both of them recently married, and how they told her that it hurt to give birth to a baby. How could they do this to her, Grandmother Kamala and our relatives, marry her off and subject her to such pain? I said, no, no, it’s not like that, there doesn’t have to be pain. I had read a lot more books than she, I told her, and I knew it didn’t have to be so. I said, think of all the others, think of the drugs, think of most of the world, think of The Good Earth and how babies just dropped in the fields while the mothers worked. But Jani said that there were always some exceptions, that some girls never feel the monthly pain and some scream for hours, and what would I know anyway? I know, I know, I said, I know the thing between men and women, and how they fight for each other, how they brave fire and exile to sleep with one another, how they adore their babies. Jani, because she felt she had already told me so much and there was no reason to hold back, said she was really afraid of killing her baby. What can I do? she
“My grandmother is a stickler for healthy type foods. We never have bhajis.”
“Well, maybe we should order some now.”
I agreed, thinking it only a slight indiscretion.
Munching on the fried onions and potatoes, we talked some more. I liked the way he looked and the quiet shy smile. He didn’t smile often, which made me smile all the more. He wasn’t handsome in the way of a model or film star, but handsome in that his features were composed, his expression calm. I felt I could learn from him, although I didn’t know what I wanted to learn. He was sexy, too. Sitting next to him, I found my attention wandering from what he was saying to the nice color of his shirt, his darkish whitish skin, the depth of his unfathomable eyes. Then I snapped myself out of this spell. He was just an American talking to a kid, me.
“What do you do, Richard?” I asked, testing out his name.
“I give English lessons to schoolboys. Not girls, of course, they’re too shy. I came to India to study ayurvedic medicine, and I take classes here on the island.”
“Do you have a lot of money?” I asked, not shy.
“No.” He laughed. “The classes I take are free. Do you know Guru Gowmathi?”
I shook my head.
“He teaches all of us—there are six of us—for free, with the idea we will spread his knowledge.”
I had heard of foreigners coming to study Indian arts but had never met one.
“Are you full Indian?” he asked me.
I told him my father had been white.
“Your features are just slightly different from most of the Indians and islanders.”
I became self-conscious then and told him I had to go.
We parted when it began to grow dark. Thinking my grandmother would be annoyed that I’d stayed out so long, I hurried. As I walked along, I realized how starved I had been for a real conversation, that the person I knew most was myself. Talking with Richard made my heart light, and even the flowers around me seemed more potent. I was heady with excitement at the time I’d just had. He had seen a whale!
Fully expecting to be reprimanded at home, I was surprised at my grandmother’s abstracted greeting. She yelled just a little, and then she urged me to see my cousin. I followed her to our room, where I discovered Jani weeping on the bed.
“She has been like this all afternoon,” said my grandmother, wringing her hands.
She left me with Jani, and I approached the bed.
“What’s wrong, Jani? Tell me what’s the matter,” I said softly, putting out my hand to stroke her back. But my words only made her weep harder, so I sat quietly.
“It’s no use—I can’t pretend,” she finally said between sobs.
I stroked her long black hair, untangling the knots. She said I was too young to understand, that I couldn’t comprehend. But I begged her to try, and slowly, she toldme. She spoke of her friends, of Nalani and Rohini, both of them recently married, and how they told her that it hurt to give birth to a baby. How could they do this to her, Grandmother Kamala and our relatives, marry her off and subject her to such pain? I said, no, no, it’s not like that, there doesn’t have to be pain. I had read a lot more books than she, I told her, and I knew it didn’t have to be so. I said, think of all the others, think of the drugs, think of most of the world, think of The Good Earth and how babies just dropped in the fields while the mothers worked. But Jani said that there were always some exceptions, that some girls never feel the monthly pain and some scream for hours, and what would I know anyway? I know, I know, I said, I know the thing between men and women, and how they fight for each other, how they brave fire and exile to sleep with one another, how they adore their babies. Jani, because she felt she had already told me so much and there was no reason to hold back, said she was really afraid of killing her baby. What can I do? she
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