The Rice Mother (48 page)

“Peaches and pears with a touch of lime,” the burgundy lips described, with such a winning smile that Mother conceded to her better judgment.

Luke sent the jewelry I was to wear on the wedding day. Mother’s eyes lit up when his driver arrived with satin-lined boxes filled with necklaces, chains, rings, earrings, and matching bracelets. They were all studded with diamonds. I sighed. Somewhere I should have found the guts to tell Luke that I don’t really like diamonds. Maybe one day I will tell him that I am particularly fond of emeralds and peridots.

Luke made the plans for our honeymoon. The destination was a secret.

The day before the wedding, I couldn’t do anything for excitement. Every nook and corner of the house had been taken over by flower arrangements, banana leaves filled with rice, incense and silver pots of holy water, oil lamps and middle-aged women. Their chatter was incessant. In bright saris, impeccable buns set low on their necks, and crowded with suggestions, ideas, and ways to do things better, they were a force to be reckoned with. The kitchen, the living room, the bedrooms, and, I swear, even the bathrooms were jammed with them. The fatter they were, the bossier they seemed to be. My sari hung in the wardrobe, and my honeymoon suitcase was packed and ready to go. There were warm clothes, gloves, a beret, thick socks, and sensible ankle-length boots. The rest, Luke assured me, could be purchased overseas.

I had also spent some money on a silk nightie. Deliciously cool and as light as wind, it ran swiftly through my fingers. I blushed to think of Luke’s reaction. It was pure white, but really as far away from purity as was possible. I knew I had bought it because I wanted to see that stranger who lives inside Luke again—the one that I had glimpsed so briefly by the lake. He made me feel dark things deep inside me. I confess I wanted him to press me against his hard body until I felt as if I were a part of him. Until I felt as if I had melted into his breastbone and entered his body. Once inside, I would really know him. And then I would be able to prove Papa wrong once and for all. After all, I know Papa has been wrong about so many things in his life—all those deals gone wrong because he misread his partners.

After so many days of hectic planning and waiting, my wedding flashed before my eyes like a movie on fast-forward. I remember Mother looking resplendent and smiling proudly in her dark blue brocade sari, and all the colorfully dressed women whose sneers about Luke’s race were thwarted by his enormous wealth. Their bubbling pots of malicious comments, ruined with their own envy. Poor Papa stood in his marvelous cream dhoti and cried. Tears escaped from the corners of his eyes and ran down the sides of his face, and the colorfully dressed women thought they were tears of happiness. Somewhere near a pillar at the back stood Aunty Anna. She wore a plain green sari with a thin gold border, red roses in her hair, and a sad smile. I knew she was worried about me. Worried I would be chewed up by a monster called Luke. Then I remember the unending walk up to the raised platform where Luke was waiting for me, and finally looking into his dark steady eyes full of love and knowing without doubt that I had made the right decision.

“I love you,” he murmured in my ear. Ah, he loves me.

That moment I shall treasure forever. Then I was forcing different pieces of food down my churning stomach, and we were running to an open car door while being rained on by handfuls of colored rice.

“Happy?” Luke asked. He wore an indulgent smile and made me feel like a child.

“Very,” I said.

London was beautiful but so cold. The trees were bare, and the people, hunched into their thick dark coats, hurried along the streets. The English have long, pale faces and are quite unlike the tourists who come to Malaysia, tanned and beautiful with golden streaks in their hair. At the bus stops they do not waste time looking at each other in the inquisitive way of Malaysians. They immediately bury their noses in books that they carry on their persons everywhere they go. It is such a wonderful habit.

We stayed at Claridges. Oooooh, luxury. Liveried staff with long noses. They had a ten-foot Christmas tree in the foyer with gold and silver bells and twinkling lights. I was very much afraid to venture into their high-ceilinged rooms without Luke. It was like walking into a page of a Henry James novel—so old-fashioned, so English, and so grown up.

“Yes, madam, of course, madam,” they said in their lofty accents, but I was certain they did not approve of me for they stared at me expressionlessly with cold, light eyes from towering heights.

We went to a beautiful place called La Vie en Rose for dinner. Luke ordered champagne. I think I got quite merry in the process of breaking thousands of bubbles in my mouth, but I found that I detest caviar. It must certainly be an acquired taste. Give me a plate of Penang noodles or
laksa
any time. But dessert was a dream. I wondered in a tipsy haze why they didn’t have things like chocolate mousse back home. I was sure I could eat it all day.

After dessert Luke had cognac in a large balloon-shaped glass. He was very quiet during the meal. He smiled a great deal, sat back deep in his chair, ate very little, and watched me so hard that I felt myself go quite wicked inside. I could never tell what he was thinking. Luke paid.

“Come,” he said, taking my arm so I didn’t fall over, and hailed a taxi to the Embankment. Silently we walked along the black river, listening to the sound of it lapping against the stone bank. It was beautiful. A cold wind stung my cheeks and froze my feet, but nothing could dim the beauty of the soft yellow lights reflected from the clusters of street lamps. Occasionally a boat chugged past. It grew so cold that Luke gathered me close to his body. I could smell and feel the warmth of him.

That night I loved him so much it hurt.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” I whispered. I couldn’t wait any longer to lie beside him. To be his.

Inside the hotel room I felt shy once more. I thought for a moment about changing into that silk wisp that I had in my suitcase, but the mere thought of it made my entire body flush. I decided that there was always tomorrow. On a glass table was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a large bowl of bright red strawberries. I leaned against a pillar and watched Luke pick up the bottle. He raised his eyebrow.

I nodded. I had lost the merry feeling during our walk along the Embankment and could have done with that daring devil-may-care surge of courage that bubbled out of that first bottle of champagne at the restaurant. There was a soft
pop
and a friendly hiss, and then Luke held out a glass of bubbles in front of me.

I remember I accepted the glass, laughing, giggling, happy. My eyes met his, and the laughter died in my throat. The stranger was standing there looking at me out of Luke’s face.

“To us,” the stranger said softly, and then he was gone in a flash, and Luke and I drank two glasses and fell on the bed in a tangle of arms, legs, and faces. For one horrid moment I thought of Mother standing over the bed with her hands on her hips. She would certainly disapprove of such behavior.

“Switch off the lights,” I said quickly.

The room, bathed in the Christmas lights from the trees outside, spun when I closed my eyes. I remember lips, and eyes, and skin like raw silk, and sometimes a voice thick with emotion called my name. There was a moment of pain followed by gentle hands and then rhythm. When it was over, I closed my eyes and slept inside a pair of warm, strong arms. Outside, the cold English wind rustled in the trees, but I was safe.

Sometime in the night I awakened, my mouth dry and my head throbbing. I stumbled out of bed and got myself a drink. Ooh, my head. How it hurt! There was aspirin in the bathroom. I took two, and in the mirror was Luke. He looked at me, and I looked back boldly, unembarrassed by my nakedness.

“My Dimple,” he said, so possessively that I felt a quiver run down my back. Finally I belonged to him. We made love again. This time I remembered everything. Every kiss, every thrust, every sigh, every moan, and that incredible moment when my body became liquid, when my closed eyelids turned red as if a million strawberries had been squashed so close together that they made a wall across my eyes.

Two weeks later we flew back, our bags full of Gucci belts, French perfume, Italian leather, beautifully packaged presents from England, and a mountain of duty-free chocolates. I walked into the vast interior of my new home and felt rather intimidated. It didn’t feel like mine. Too grand. Instead of a small white house, I now had highly polished black marble floors, a richly painted ceiling, and expensive furniture that I feared to ruin. Walking around the house the next morning, I had the idea of asking Amu to move in with me. She could be my companion, and we could do the housework together. So Amu came to live with us.

“This is not a house. It’s a palace,” she gasped. She had never seen anything like it in all her life. Poor Amu had had a very poor life. I showed her the washing machine, and she giggled like a little girl.

“This white box is going to wash the clothes?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” I said. “It can even dry them.”

She looked at the buttons and dials on it carefully before declaring it of no use to her. “Just get me a length of hose and some pails, and I’ll show you how clothes should be washed,” she said.

I showed her all the bedrooms and asked her to choose one, but she only wanted the small room by the kitchen. She said that was the place where she would feel most comfortable. From her window she could see my summer house, and she was pleased with that.

I sat on the bed and watched her as she built her prayer altar and lovingly filled it with old framed photographs of Muruga, Ganesha, and Lakshmi. She had found a new prophet, Sai Baba. Wearing an orange robe and a kind smile, he turns sand into sweets and brings his devotees back from the dead. Amu lit a small oil lamp in front of his picture. From a torn plastic bag she unpacked her five faded saris and some white sari blouses and put them into her cupboard.

Afterward we had tea in the shade of the large mango tree. I sat there listening to her familiar voice recount stories about her spiteful second and third cousins, and by and by I felt comforted once more. I was back where I belonged, beside the woman that I had loved for so many years like an aunt. No, like a mother.

One day Luke came home early from work and found Amu and me chatting amicably as we polished the curving banisters. He literally stopped dead in his tracks.

“What are you doing?” he asked very softly. There was a note of disbelief in his voice. Both Amu and I stopped working and stared at him. It was obvious straightaway that he was very angry, but I couldn’t understand why.

“We are polishing the banisters,” I explained, wondering if they needed special polish or something. God, how was I to know?

He walked up to me. He took my hands in his and looked at them. “I don’t want you to do the work that servants do,” he explained very softly.

I could feel Amu standing frozen by me. He ignored her completely. I felt embarrassed and hurt. Hurt for Amu, and embarrassed that he had seen fit to chastise me in this way in front of her. My skin was growing hot under his cold stare. I nodded slowly, and he turned away and walked into his office without another word. I was so shocked that I simply stared at the closed door until I felt Amu’s thin rough palm on my hand.

“It is the way of men,” she said, looking deep into my miserable eyes. “He is right. Look at the state of my hands. I can do the banisters myself. Why, I have done far more than this house in my lifetime. You go. Wash yourself and go to him.”

I went upstairs, washed my hands, and in the mirror saw my surprised, confused face. Then I went downstairs and knocked on his study door.

He was sitting in his swivel chair. “Come here,” he said.

I walked up to him and sat on his lap. He took my fingers and kissed them one by one. “I know you want to help Amu, but I don’t want you to do the housework. It will spoil your pretty hands. If you want to help Amu, get another servant to come in three times a week to do the heavy jobs.”

I nodded. “Okay,” I said, eager for his anger to pass. Eager for that soft menace in his voice to go back where it came from. Eager that he should smile and ask, “What’s for dinner?” in his usual voice.

Sometimes Mother came to see me in my big house. Usually we sat for a while, then I gave her money and she left, but one day she came troubled and frustrated. Nash was in yet another spot of bother. As we spoke, I don’t remember the reason, but I must have displeased her, for she raised her hand to strike me. But the blow never came to pass, because suddenly there was Luke with his hand in an iron grip around her wrist.

“She is my wife now. If you lay another hand on her, you will never see her again or be a grandparent to any of her children,” he said in a pleasant voice.

I looked at him and saw the stranger. His eyes were cold and hard, and in his cheek a small muscle jumped angrily. And I fell in love with the stranger all over again. No one but Grandma Lakshmi and sometimes Papa had ever stood up for me.

I felt like the goddess that lay peacefully asleep under the huge hood of a many-headed serpent. He was my scalloped canopy. My eyes moved to Mother. Her face was harsh with the thwarted rage of a bully. I could hear her thinking, She was my daughter first. She could have just given in gracefully, made it all right, but Mother is so proud that her mouth twisted into a sneer, and when she turned and met the shining love in my face, her scorn changed to disgust. She wrenched her hand out of Luke’s grip, spat at my feet, and stalked out.

Luke took a step toward me and pulled me to him. I wanted afresh to enter him through his breastbone, hear his thoughts, see what he saw, and be part of him. I imagined him taking his arms away from around my body and seeing my limp body fall to the floor. Would he know that I was already inside him? A part of him. The words of a Sufi song that I had once laughed at as ridiculous and dramatic appeared in my head.