Inheritance (9 page)

It occurred to me that foreigners latched onto gurus when they came to the island because it gave them a sense of community and some direction to their lives in a foreign place. Maria told me she was a Buddhist, a practitioner even in the United States, when the conversation veered toward religion. Foreigners liked to speak of religion more than islanders did, I thought, but maybe that wasn’t the case.

My own beliefs were varied. Raised a Hindu, I took part in the daily prayer and ritual in my aunts’ household and in my grandmother’s home. I grew up with
the images of the idols, and loved to hear the stories about them over and over. I didn’t dwell on ideas of God and religion, though; it was just a part of ordinary existence.

I thought of Jani, and all of that Christianity, that Catholicism contained in her. Where did it spring from? My schools in Madras and hers in Delhi were either Catholic, nondenominational, or Muslim. In our books in English, the writers often wrote of Christians and heathens, and in my thirteenth year, I realized that I must be a heathen in their eyes. It was a shocking discovery and made me leery of Christianity. But Jani was befriended by one of the nuns at her college, Sister Ava, who gave her a Bible.

The Bible was illustrated, and Jani showed me the pastel renderings of the Holy Family. I thought Mary looked a little like Jackie Kennedy, dark haired, elegant, noble. There was a story about a good Samaritan who helped a fallen man, and Jani told me about his piety in helping strangers. She made Catholicism sound attractive, but still I wanted her to believe in Hinduism, in our gods. Gently, Jani admonished me, asking, “Aren’t all gods equal?” Modern Hinduism, after all, absorbed Jesus into its fold, Buddha too, and Muhammad.

When I had earlier spoken to Richard about it, he talked of Existentialism, of the nonbelief in God. Atheism and Agnosticism. He believed in a higher power, but not in organized religion as manifested in the twentieth
century, or even in the Middle Ages. I had read of the Middle Ages in the West, and told him that I admired King Arthur and Galahad and the quest for the Holy Grail, but I still liked Hinduism best.

“That’s equally offensive as not liking Catholicism.”

“But I do like Catholicism.”

“But you like Hinduism best.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“I don’t know, Richard. I think it’s dangerous to step away from the religion in which you were raised and embrace something new.”

“Maybe it’s the danger that attracts Jani.”

“But she’s scared of marriage!”

“She wouldn’t be the first. Maybe she chose the Catholic God and the convent to safely unleash all the terror inside her. Maybe she could only express her courage by running away.”

And then I thought of my mother and the possibility of her courage in running away from me. Maybe I represented domesticity to her, responsibility, yet how was this courageous? Running away seemed cowardly.

“The
I Ching
speaks of retreat, the courage to know when to step back from battle and gather strength before reentering the fray later,” said Richard.

Richard spoke a great deal about the
I Ching
, a yellow-bound book about great knowledge achieved through change. It was printed in the Bollingen series by
Princeton University Press, One of my aunts had a copy; sometimes we kids used it as a fortune-telling game, opening the book randomly after posing a question, I knew that “Pi” for instance in the
I Ching
meant “grace.”

“A period of grace in one’s life,” explained Richard. “That’s why this island is special.”

I agreed, although my mind was still on Hinduism and Catholicism. We approached Maria with the argument; being Buddhist, perhaps she could be detached and neutral.

“Religion takes different forms, and all gods are the same God,” she said, bringing us more to eat.

“What about your daughter, what religion is she?” I asked.

“She is not Buddhist. I don’t think she subscribes to any particular religion. She’s dating a Jewish boy, and I think they attend services together.”

“Where would she stand on this issue?” I asked, not wanting to let it go.

“Well, the Western notion is to choose your own religion, make up your own mind. So perhaps she would say Jani has the right to choose Catholicism. Whether she’s right or wrong to step away from Hinduism, it is her own choice,” said Maria.

“Hinduism accepts all religions,” I repeated, wanting very much to defend my religion.

“But it refuses to accept converts,” said Richard. “You have to be born a Hindu.”

“At least it doesn’t have rice missionaries, bribing the poor with food for conversion.”

“And what about the corrupt priests?”

I don’t think we came to any big conclusion, just that we spoke of it, something that perhaps my aunts would frown on. Religion and politics are best kept to one’s own self, they felt, even though our family had taken part in the Freedom Movement in India and was vocal about its choices then. But that was a special occasion, they’d say; the matter is closed. Yet another door shut.

I thought about fate, how it cast us into different religions, mostly inherited.

“Of course, if one didn’t believe in fate, one could say we choose our own boxes of religion,” said Richard.

“As a people, we stand in our boxes and shout at one another. Until one box breaks, one rule gets broken, one religion pursues another,” said Maria.

My mother broke the rules twice at least, once to couple with a North Indian to produce Savitri, and once to couple with an American—an American
something
—to produce me. Such transgressions lead to bad consequences, my neighbors would say, if not in this life, then the next. I wondered if I would be held accountable for her actions. Where had I heard that daughters were born to punish mothers for past sins? Already, I was a bit of a pariah at school for being illegitimate, and I knew that when the time came for me to marry, my mother’s reputation would be an obstacle for the boy’s family. Hinduism
had strict codes of conduct. Yet my mother didn’t seem to feel guilt. She just didn’t care.

“Sonil.”

With a start I realized I had drifted away from the conversation, and smiling, ate a sweet.

Ten

Thoughts of Richard often occupied me the entire day if I did not see him. I didn’t understand this at first, and wondered why it was so. I tried to think about other things, but my mind was disobedient. I had grown used to his slow smile, his slouch as he sat, his American jeans. I felt embarrassed, as if everyone around me could guess at my thoughts. My grandmother didn’t notice my distracted air, so distressed was she at Jani’s departure. She began to devote herself to the garden and mutter under her breath. My mother of course ignored me, and in any case, she was not often at home, having found someplace else to fritter away her afternoons.

When Richard first invited me over to his flat, I didn’t want to go. I was comfortable with the cafes, the visits to
Maria. To see him at home would seem strange. I reluctantly agreed.

He rented rooms above a restaurant that specialized in North African food. It was in a part of town which was half American and half French, most of the people belonging to a local ashram. There were some islanders, too, mostly college students who preferred cheap rents and the Western atmosphere. He took me to see the ashram.

It was a quiet place with one courtyard, a walled-in garden, a tiny fountain. The bowl of the fountain, its pond, was completely covered in rose petals that rested on the surface of the water, Richard and I sat at the edge. He dipped his hand in the water and drew out a petal. He tucked it behind my ear as I became perfectly still, holding my breath, alert.

We returned to his flat. It was clean, spacious, with only a few pieces of furniture, and crates of books everywhere. His bed was a mattress on a webbed frame, covered with a rough Indian-print cloth.

I can still remember that afternoon as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I remember pausing at his doorstep and slowly undoing the straps of my sandals. I remember lingering over this task, lining up my sandals just so. Barefoot, I stepped inside onto the tiled floor. I stood in front of a bookshelf, reading the titles on the spines. Turning, I found Richard right behind me, reaching to take my hand, and my reaching, too, I can remember the
scent of the English-milled soap he used, the dampness of his just washed hair, “Let’s eat,” he said, and I blushed.

He made me pancakes in his kitchen. His father had taught him when he was eight, before I was even born, He mixed eggs and flour, honey and milk, added vanilla and sour cream, and poured circles into a hot skillet. He flipped them with ease and served them to me with real maple syrup, “It’s from Vermont,” he said, a place that to me sounded as exotic as Paris. Syrup burst around my fork as I pushed it through the spongy surface. It tasted wonderful, foreign, rich.

Then we had grapefruit. I was horrified to discover that he ate the inner membrane, the thick white threads and tough skin. I taught him to peel away the skin so only the soft, juicy, jewel-like pieces of fruit were revealed, to suck them away from their frame. My fingers wet, I fed him the choicest bits.

He kissed my mouth full of grapefruit tenderly. Swallowing, I kissed him back. I pressed my mouth all over his skin, sipping at his neck, his throat, his eyelids. I felt dizzy, transported, in another world. I didn’t have time to think about what was happening, I just knew that my body was responding to his urgently. “We need some music,” he said, smiling.

We sat cross-legged listening to a famous veena player on the radio. When the music started I forgot myself. I knew
I was in a room, that it was late afternoon, but here was this exquisite sound that seemed to carve steps in the air, on which I was ready to place my heel and toe and climb, climb for as long as it was required of me. Richard seemed as if in a trance; so inward was his gaze that I just closed my eyes and leaned back. I must have been lying there for a long time, my shoulders, my legs all soft, and I must have been dreaming, for the music had stopped, and here was Richard kissing me awake. I began to kiss him back, and he drew me to him, and I curved to him until it was like music, no end or beginning, just this feeling of body to body, his mouth, my mouth, his shoulder, my throat, my breast, my little baby breast, his smooth stomach, his tummy, his thighs, my tummy, my thighs, until he put his mouth on me, and it was the most lovely sensation, as if a thousand eyes inside me were slowly being opened.

Eleven

Now began a period of my life when the days were long and thick with desire. I lied to my grandmother that I had made new friends. Every afternoon, I met Richard in town, and we made our lust-soaked way to his apartment. But there was a world outside his four walls, full of gossipy mouths and lingering glances. I think because we made such an unlikely couple, however, and because of the distance between our ages, we did not attract too much attention.

The cost of seeing Richard was not something that I took for granted. It meant that I had to lie to everyone and sneak away to meet my lover. I had to plan and carry out the logistics of our trysts. It was thrilling. Not all of our meetings were full of unbridled passion; sometimes we just talked or listened to music. Sometimes we went
for walks, but always I was afraid someone I knew might see us. Yet I loved to have my hand held suddenly, just as I was thinking that it was Mrs. Narayan I spied in the distance.

Once we did meet C.P.’s sister-in-law. We had not heard from her family since Grandmother had the unpleasant task of informing them that Jani had gone to a convent. The sister-in-law was surprised to see me in the company of a white man, or maybe just in the company of a man at all, or maybe she was just surprised to see me.

“The zoologist,” she said. I had forgotten her name, so merely presented Richard. And I had forgotten zoology during these past days of my involvement with Richard. I did not pay much attention to the conversation. At some point, we said goodbye and continued with our walk.