Darshan (36 page)

“Don’t say that. It is bad,” Manmohan muttered. “It is a very bad thing.”

Junker Singh shrugged. “We should drink, you and I, put on some music and sing on the balcony, serenade our wives. They would grumble at us for being so wild at our age, but they would also smile because sometimes they really like us that way. It does not have to be bad. It does not always have to be only this way or only that way, so black and so white. Sometimes a thing means sin and death, but other times that very same thing means virtue and living.”

~   ~   ~

Manmohan pushed through the dense growth of taro plants clumped at the bank of the river. The plants flourished here in this small section at the narrowest part of the waterway where he had not cleared them. He made his way toward the bridge that Darshan had built to replace the old one, seizing a clump of the broad, deep green leaves to steady himself. He squeezed, feeling moisture from the plants released into his palm, stopping momentarily to glance up the hill on the other side of the river. Puffing with exertion, he hated that he now had to pause to regain strength for something that had once been so easy.

Taking one more deep breath, he moved on, finally reaching the edge of the bridge, noting as he always did when crossing it how sturdy the frame felt beneath his feet. The narrow structure was well built, with rails that angled up and out, creating a slightly wider space for the body and providing easy gripping while crossing.

Following the footpath leading to the crest of the hill where a clump of coconut trees grew, he slowly climbed, occasionally stopping to catch his breath. It started to rain, beginning with a sprinkling of large droplets that quickly thickened into a cascade. He welcomed the relief of water soaking his clothes and washing away his sweat. When he reached the top, he looked down, shielding his face from the thick sheet of rain, noting with distaste how small he had once thought this hill was, how trivial this walk had once seemed. It was much steeper than he remembered, the house and his garden below appearing so insignificant in the span of jungle around him.

He regarded the cluster of coconut trees on the hill. Wiping the water from his eyes, he then followed the path to the tallest one. Peering high up, he saw Darshan’s bare, long-toed feet dangling from the tree’s palm tuft. “Darshan,” he called, his voice a roar above the storm that was now pummeling the jungle. “Darshan!”

The boy’s feet froze, and he poked his head through the tuft. Manmohan gestured at him to climb down. Grabbing hold of the narrow trunk, Darshan gripped the bark with his feet as he sidled downward, landing lightly on the ground.

“We have deliveries,” Manmohan said. He studied his son’s face, always so full of apprehension in his presence. He admired the almond shape of Darshan’s eyes, the brown of his water-streaked skin that was very similar to Jai’s, the soft feathery look of his mustache that had recently grown in, the turban they had practiced tying together. His son had chosen a navy blue fabric, had faced the mirror with a subdued acceptance of his manhood, obediently watching and learning. The turban was now wrapped precisely as he had been taught.

Holding his palms up into the rain, Manmohan said ruefully, “But I suppose deliveries will have to wait.”

“Whenever you are ready, Bapu.”

Indicating the tree, Manmohan asked, “Don’t you think you might fall one day?”

“It really is not bad,” Darshan said a little too earnestly, bending to retrieve a fallen coconut, clearly not sure if he would be punished.

Manmohan looked up at the tree, wondering if he should say more about it. He imagined the view from that height: the volcanic ranges toward the island’s center, the thick jungle fanning out toward the ocean, the city of Suva like a vast clearing in the verdant thickness, made of tall buildings and buses releasing exhaust from tailpipes. He believed it was beautiful up there, quiet, and he was tired of so much conflict, so he said nothing.

Darshan tossed the coconut up, catching it deftly. The way he held it, for one moment Manmohan believed he intended to offer it to him, but he let it roll off his fingers and back to the ground. A little regretfully, Manmohan watched it land with a splash in the mud and tumble away.

“Your mother made lunch,” he said loudly over the storm, waving Darshan onto the path. “Let’s get dry and go eat.”

By the time the two of them had begun to descend the hill, the river was already swollen, licking at the logs strewn haphazardly along the bank nearest to the clearing. Manmohan steadied himself on the trail that was now slippery with mud, making a mental note not to keep the logs so close to the water next time.

Without warning, Darshan swiftly brushed past him and sprinted down the path.

Startled, Manmohan called out, “What happened?”

Already far ahead, his son could not hear him above the roar of rain.

Manmohan watched as Darshan skirted over the bridge and ran toward the logs, soon realizing what the boy intended to do. “No, Darshan! Don’t!” he cried, sliding and skidding down the hill, forgetting his aches and earlier fatigue.

Jai had also seen, bolting from the main house and darting through the garden, frantically waving her arms. Manmohan could hear the muffled sound of her wail in the distance.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he futilely called out again, but Darshan had jumped into the water, his lean body slamming into a log that had finally been loosened from the bank and was floating downriver. The boy went under for a moment, his legs pushing upward in the current. Pausing, Manmohan held his breath, waiting. After several moments, Darshan came up, sputtering and coughing, his turban lost. Incredulous, Manmohan watched as Darshan then reached out with his free arm to grab at another log, but unable to retrieve it he instead paddled hard, edging his way to the bank where Jai was waiting for him.

Running now, Manmohan crossed the bridge in two wide strides, racing through the rain toward his son.

“Bapu, I saved one!” Darshan shouted triumphantly over the storm, his face streaming with water and blood. He dropped to his knees, coughing, and Jai pounded him on the back.

Manmohan grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him up to standing, and swung his arm wide around, planting an open-handed slap on Darshan’s behind, the smack through the wet shorts hurting his hand more than his son’s bottom. The boy’s eyes widened in shock.

Jai roughly seized Darshan by the arm. “One log?” She put a finger up for emphasis. “
One
log?”

“I was trying to help.”

“You could have drowned!”

“Is that what you think?” Manmohan asked. “That your life is worth
one
log?” Water was streaming from his turban onto his face and into his beard.

“No,” Darshan said. “I—”

“We would
never
ask you to risk your life for even a hundred logs!”

“But—”

Manmohan furiously turned away, “No father would be proud of such stupidity.”

Darshan chased after him, the mix of water and blood from the cut on his head trailing onto his white shirt. “I thought you would want—”

Manmohan stopped, and with an exaggerated shrug, the gesture heavy with scorn, he said, “I do not understand why you do not know what I want, why it is so difficult to be your father.”

~   ~   ~

“What
do
you want?” a voice asked.

“I thought it was obvious,” Manmohan replied, turning over in his bed, staring at the calm face of his sleeping wife.

“Each man is a different universe, separated by light years and matter and darkness.”

“What are
you
talking about?” Manmohan asked.

“I don’t know. Didn’t you read that somewhere?”

“Maybe,” Manmohan said. “What does it mean?”

“I thought you knew.”

“But I don’t.”

“That is too bad. I was hoping for some answers.”

“Is this what happened to him? Will I be with him now?” Manmohan asked.

“What are you talking about?”

An itchy, scratchy feeling rose in Manmohan’s throat and he sat up, coughing. He clasped his hand around his neck and bent forward. Tears welled up in his eyes, his vision blurring.

Jai woke and began to firmly pat his back. “I’ll get water,” she said and climbed out of bed.

He nodded, unable to speak.

She returned with a cup and he drank, first just one small sip, then a gulp, and another until he was tipping the tumbler upside down over his mouth. Jai removed the cup from his hand and set it on his nightstand.

“It is just the fever,” she said, touching his forehead. “It is almost passed. Lie down and sleep some more.”

~   ~   ~

The sticky residue of stale sweat coated Manmohan’s entire body. By the incandescent light trying to press through the windowpanes, he knew the sun was strong outside. He sat up, placing several pillows behind his back. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he took a deep breath, his joints throbbing.

“Bapu?” Darshan asked. “How are you feeling?”

Removing his hands, Manmohan saw his son tentatively peering at him from the corner of the room.

“How long have you been in here?”

“Not long,” his son replied, moving forward out of the shadows, trepidation on his bandaged face. “I am really very sorry, Bapu.”

Manmohan waved him over. “Come sit here.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Darshan said, heading for the door. “I am just glad you are getting better.”

Manmohan reached out a hand. “Wait. Don’t go. Sit.”

Hesitantly making his way to a chair positioned near the bed, Darshan slowly lowered himself into it.

Manmohan picked up his watch from the nightstand. “It is okay Darshan. I was just scared. You scared me.”

“I know. I am sorry.”

“Sometimes…” Manmohan began, his voice weakening, thinking of the plywood box, wanting to say what was in it and why it existed. “There are reasons why I do things, reasons I say things.” He waited for Darshan to ask what he meant, but his son only looked at him uncertainly. The words and stories Manmohan had hoped to share suddenly caught in his mouth. “Just think first next time.”

“Yes, Bapu,” Darshan said, rising. “Can I get you something? Water?”

“No, I am fine. I will be out soon.”

Manmohan dressed himself unhurriedly, grimacing as he eased his legs into his trousers. He was still weak. In the living room, he found his wife sitting on the couch, cupping a mug of chai.

“You slept for three days,” she said.

“Three days,” he murmured, dragging a chair to the window, but not sitting in it.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“A little tired. Was it bad?”

She shook her head. “I have seen worse. There is water for a bath.”

“Not now.”

“You should eat something.”

Manmohan rubbed his stomach. He was not yet ready for food. “Later,” he replied. He eyed the mouth of the hallway. “How is Livleen?”

Jai sipped her tea, eyes focused on the mug. “She will be fine.”

“Resting?”

She nodded.

“I am going for a walk,” he told her. “I need some fresh air.”

“That’s good,” she said, resettling the mug in her lap. These happenings were beyond even her strengths. He could feel her watching him go, and even when he was outside he sensed her still looking, waiting for direction, wondering what to do next, but he had no answers.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, a gleam of chrome caught his eye from the shade of the carport across the drive.

“Junker Uncle brought it,” Navpreet said, indicating the Ford Falcon Futura parked next to the World War II truck. She was playing jacks on a piece of plywood at the edge of the port. “Bebe wouldn’t let me see inside.”

He made his way slowly over. Running his finger along the brand-new chrome rim, he wished he could drive it, feel the one-hundred-and-one-horsepower engine, the rear-wheel drive, and 3M transmission yield to his every nudge of the steering wheel and change of gear shifts. “Did you see Darshan?” he asked. “He was just in my room.”

“No,” Navpreet said, catching the rubber ball and looking at him. “Can I see it now?”

“I want to show it to him.”

“It’s his, isn’t it? He never did anything to deserve it, and I just want to see. I am twelve. When he was twelve you let him drive.”

“Where is he, Navpreet?”

She inclined her head toward the jungle. “What did he ever do for it?”

“He takes care of me,” Manmohan told her.

Navpreet let the ball drop from her hand into the pile of jacks, scattering them over the edge of the wood and into the dirt.

Jai had come outside, watching them from the balcony. She waved, nodding at the car and smiling.

Caressing the smooth paint of the Falcon’s hood, Manmohan sighed impatiently. He wanted to shove his way through the jungle towards Darshan’s shack and bring him here. But he could not go to that place, the one room on four sturdy stilts that he had only ever seen in his imagination, with its desk where his son studied, with its Coleman lantern hanging on a hook for late nights, with its pile of pillows for long, daytime naps, and its shelf for books, water, and snacks. It was a star in the universe. They all needed a place like that, a place separated by light years and matter and darkness.

~   ~   ~

It was the middle of the night, and again Manmohan could not sleep. He had been lying there, clinging to his watch, his body tense with alertness. He swung his feet around and out of bed, the floorboards cold.

Jai stirred, pulling the sheet to her neck. “Do you need something?” she asked drowsily.

“No,” he whispered, but she had already fallen back to sleep.

He went out into the hallway toward the rafters. It was always hot up there. Even at night when the island cooled pleasantly, the heat in the rafters was the warmth of day accumulated and trapped, making him sweat. It was uncomfortable, with no place to lie down and curl up. Yet this was where Livleen had gone to undo herself, the space packed with pieces of a tarnished life. But it was his life, all its flaws, everything that was beautiful but melancholy, ugly but necessary. There were answers there, even if he did not know how to identify them. He went there now because he needed a place, and this was his.