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Authors: Indira Ganesan
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big lie. You’ll be surrounded by a lot of fat old cows who’ll make you scrub the steps and wash the pots and pans,” I said.
“You’re smarter than that.”
“Well, C.P.’s going to get hurt. He’ll probably shoot himself, like Heathcliff,” I said, finally.
“Heathcliff never shot himself.”
“Don’t go, Jani,” I whined.
“I have to.”
“But I’ll be so unhappy.”
“You’ll survive. It’s not like in your books—life is not romantic. Grandmother will survive, C.P. will survive, and I will, too,” she said.
That was the way Jani left us. That day the world looked bleak and awful, and I thought I would go mad. But she was right, of course. We would survive this crisis, only I didn’t know it then. How hard it was for my young heart to hear it, I who believed that life was full of climaxes and conclusions, dramatic excess that could shatter or build like Shiva’s terrible eye. According to Jani, few were burned by the eye; the world was made up of those who lived, those who picked themselves up after the crossfire, who got on with it.
Jani was declaring her lot with the common man, but I’d have none of it. I was fifteen and still wanted to believe that things were more exciting, that life was a brilliant and gorgeous jewel.
Grandmother and I consoled each other. We were both in tears.
“It’s those nuns who put such foolish ideas in herhead,” she said to me. “If only she would get married, see that there is more to life than sadness and sighs to waste and while away the hours with.”
“But Jani explained once to me that religion is beautiful. That there is no difference between many gods and one god,” I said.
“Of course there isn’t. But to waste time with such philosophical notions instead of just tending to life itself. If you have a schedule, and my girl, you can learn from this too, if you have a schedule for your days to get up and receive the milk from the milkman, to make coffee for the household, to watch the servants who come to clean house …”
“What if you don’t have servants?” I asked, remembering Jani had once told me that having servants was immoral.
“Okay, no servants, then you do the work yourself. You go to the market and buy vegetables and make a meal or two or three at once. You sweep the house, you cut some flowers to bring in, you wash the clothes.”
“But all that is work,” I said.
“Work is what will get you through the days.”
“I’m going to college,” I said. “I’m going to hire many servants or live in a fancy hotel when I’m grown.”
“And what about me?”
“You can live with me.”
“We were talking of Jani.”
“What about her?”
“How it is necessary that she not throw her life away. Well, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe she will learn something from the convent.”
“Maybe,” I said, doubtful.
My mother’s sari rustled ominously nearby. I wondered why she hadn’t chosen a convent.
Nine
Jani’s departure left me with almost no one to talk to, so I began to go to the market frequently. Often, I saw Richard there. We would talk lazily about our childhoods and mutual interests. He told me how he had once longed to be a space explorer, and I told him how I had wanted to scuba dive. One day, when I was especially feeling Jani’s absence, he took me to visit his friend Maria. “She’ll cheer you up,” he promised.
We set off for the northern part of town, which was just encroaching on the suburbs. The lawns had a very manufactured look: short and clipped identically.
“Maria rents from an old dance instructor,” Richard told me. We passed through the gates of a handsome house, and went down to a side path edged messily with rose bushes. We came to a small bungalow with greenshutters and a door framed in jasmine. The plaster was peeling, making large splotches on the walls. A stone Buddha was placed near a potted banana plant near the door.
A woman with dark hair streaked with grey
“You’re smarter than that.”
“Well, C.P.’s going to get hurt. He’ll probably shoot himself, like Heathcliff,” I said, finally.
“Heathcliff never shot himself.”
“Don’t go, Jani,” I whined.
“I have to.”
“But I’ll be so unhappy.”
“You’ll survive. It’s not like in your books—life is not romantic. Grandmother will survive, C.P. will survive, and I will, too,” she said.
That was the way Jani left us. That day the world looked bleak and awful, and I thought I would go mad. But she was right, of course. We would survive this crisis, only I didn’t know it then. How hard it was for my young heart to hear it, I who believed that life was full of climaxes and conclusions, dramatic excess that could shatter or build like Shiva’s terrible eye. According to Jani, few were burned by the eye; the world was made up of those who lived, those who picked themselves up after the crossfire, who got on with it.
Jani was declaring her lot with the common man, but I’d have none of it. I was fifteen and still wanted to believe that things were more exciting, that life was a brilliant and gorgeous jewel.
Grandmother and I consoled each other. We were both in tears.
“It’s those nuns who put such foolish ideas in herhead,” she said to me. “If only she would get married, see that there is more to life than sadness and sighs to waste and while away the hours with.”
“But Jani explained once to me that religion is beautiful. That there is no difference between many gods and one god,” I said.
“Of course there isn’t. But to waste time with such philosophical notions instead of just tending to life itself. If you have a schedule, and my girl, you can learn from this too, if you have a schedule for your days to get up and receive the milk from the milkman, to make coffee for the household, to watch the servants who come to clean house …”
“What if you don’t have servants?” I asked, remembering Jani had once told me that having servants was immoral.
“Okay, no servants, then you do the work yourself. You go to the market and buy vegetables and make a meal or two or three at once. You sweep the house, you cut some flowers to bring in, you wash the clothes.”
“But all that is work,” I said.
“Work is what will get you through the days.”
“I’m going to college,” I said. “I’m going to hire many servants or live in a fancy hotel when I’m grown.”
“And what about me?”
“You can live with me.”
“We were talking of Jani.”
“What about her?”
“How it is necessary that she not throw her life away. Well, maybe this is a good thing. Maybe she will learn something from the convent.”
“Maybe,” I said, doubtful.
My mother’s sari rustled ominously nearby. I wondered why she hadn’t chosen a convent.
Nine
Jani’s departure left me with almost no one to talk to, so I began to go to the market frequently. Often, I saw Richard there. We would talk lazily about our childhoods and mutual interests. He told me how he had once longed to be a space explorer, and I told him how I had wanted to scuba dive. One day, when I was especially feeling Jani’s absence, he took me to visit his friend Maria. “She’ll cheer you up,” he promised.
We set off for the northern part of town, which was just encroaching on the suburbs. The lawns had a very manufactured look: short and clipped identically.
“Maria rents from an old dance instructor,” Richard told me. We passed through the gates of a handsome house, and went down to a side path edged messily with rose bushes. We came to a small bungalow with greenshutters and a door framed in jasmine. The plaster was peeling, making large splotches on the walls. A stone Buddha was placed near a potted banana plant near the door.
A woman with dark hair streaked with grey
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