from Where Monsoons Cry

THIS IS AMERICA

I know exactly what it is about him. It’s that little red mark on the bridge of his nose, the size of a pinhead. My father’s mark, however, is in the center of his left nostril. I knock on his office door, wait, then push it open gently. He looks up from a stack of papers. He is fifty something, slightly weathered, still imposing.

     “Excuse me, Sir, may I come in?”

     He pushes his glasses up and smiles generously.

     “Ah! Prem, come in.” He tilts his chair, laces his fingers behind his head. “This is America. You don’t have to call me Sir.”

     I enter, my black binder and the Principles of Physic, by Miller and Campbell, tucked under my arm. Behind him, the campus lawns are lush green, the hedges trimmed in graceful curving arches. The window is ajar despite a nip in the air. He is wearing a cream shirt, tan slacks; a lightweight brown jacket hangs from a hook on the door.

     “Do you have a moment, Sir? I’m having trouble with vectors.”

      He looks at his wrist. “Sure. Twenty five minutes before my next class.”

     Quickly, I flip the text open to chapter three. This is my first month in America the beautiful, my first semester in graduate school. But I’ve been found deficient in Physics, Chemistry, Math, and so must acquire these skills.

     “It’s a heavy course load,” Mrs. Jenkins, the foreign student counselor says, eyeing me sharply, “but it can be done.”

     She is fat, fiftyish, very efficient, I can tell. She sips coffee from a black mug with two pursed red lips flanking the handle, and the words “Kiss a pig” printed on the front. Something about her manner convinces me she thinks America is for “Americans.” She shuffles a sheaf of papers and extracts a folder. A pink tuition remission card drifts like an autumn leaf and lands on her soft leather boots. She picks it up slowly, waves it mid-air. Her mouth twists in a small, sardonic smile.

     “As you know,” she says, “we’ll only pay for one year of make-up courses. If 12 credits are too much.....”

     “Oh no, that’s fine, Ma’am.” I reassure her, eager to appear serious and intelligent, although I haven’t the foggiest idea what “credit” means. I’m just grateful it’s free. She smiles, satisfied, pushes her chair back to indicate our time is up.

     Walking diagonally across the beautiful campus, I see trees splattered with vibrant colors I’ve never seen on trees before—chili red, turmeric yellow, kesar orange. A cool breeze catches under my sari and lifts it like a hot air balloon. Pulling it tight around my knees, I hurry past the football field, through the turnstile, to the Malloy house where I live. Tomorrow, I must wear the long cashmere sweater my mother knitted for me.

     Later that evening, I write my first letter home.

Dear Papa:

I understand now why America is the land of milk and honey. There is so much of everything here—wide open spaces, big houses, cars, money. I live near the college campus with a nice American family. The Malloys are kind despite their wealth. In the living room, there’s a beautiful emerald green carpet, so plush that I walk barefoot just so my feet can sink in. And there’s a crystal chandelier in the dining room above a mahogany table and satin cushioned chairs. The dining room is just for show. We eat in an alcove near a bay window in a cheery kitchen, which opens onto the patio. My room is in the attic, and I don’t have to share my bathroom with anyone else. Oh, if you could see the shower! You turn it one way, the water comes out hot, the other way, and it’s cold. No heating water on stoves, no clanging buckets; there are machines for everything—to wash dishes, grind leftovers, crush garbage, and in the basement, a “washer and dryer” for clothes. You’re wondering what a basement is, right? It’s like a house under the house, except that no one lives in it. The Malloys play billiards and keep their wine collection down there.

My job is to wash the dishes and sweep the kitchen every night. Mornings, I get Jason and James ready for school; Mrs. Malloy takes Erica to Montessori. Saturdays, we go to a park nearby or play on campus. Living near school is convenient; I don’t need a car that way. On Sundays, we go to Church together, and then Mr. Malloy fixes brunch—bacon, scrambled eggs, sausage links, tomato juice with vodka, but without fried onions and green chilies, the eggs taste bland and pasty. Sunday evenings, I’m free. That’s when I wrap my hair in warm coconut oil and wash it with scented liquid soaps made for fine, dry or oily hair. In America there is a cure for everything. Please write often. I miss home.

     “What? You’ve never seen this?” Dr. Barrett is waving a sheet of paper with rows of letters and numbers on it.

     Baffled, I shake my head. “No Sir, I’m used to essays.”

     Little crow lines appear near his eyes. “Essays? In physics? Holy shit! That’s priceless.” Laughter rolls from his throat in waves. He wipes his eyes, hands back my test, pushes some books aside. “Sit down, Prem. I’m sorry.” I take my time, biting the inside of my mouth raw. Mercifully, the phone rings.

     “Hal Barrett. Physics.” His voice is crisp, dry, business-like.

     I look out the window and concentrate on a dangling red maple leaf. The veins are translucent in the sunlight, the burgundy pigment rich and sheer like my tussore silk sari with filigree leaves. On a bench, a boy in a gray sweatshirt, the letters CDU emblazoned across the front, pores over a book. Above him, the trellis is draped in brown, clematis blooms gone, the vine dead. Dr. Barrett’s voice crackles sharply into the receiver.

     “Hm. Hm. I’m not crazy about 7 a.m. meetings, but O.K.” He hangs up. “Assholes,” he mutters under his breath absently and turns to me. I have the test open.

     “Sir, these problems. I wanted to explain my answer but…”

     “No, no,” he interrupts, “You work it in your head or the test margin, then shade in the answer. It’s called multiple choice.”

     “Multiple choice? Sounds confusing, Sir. Besides, number 13 has no answer, Sir. None of the choices fits.” My eyes sting as if I’m chopping onions.

     “Look,” his eyes soften. “I’m free Tuesdays at 2. Why don’t you come for help?”

     “Sir, I couldn’t,” I blurt out. “My stipend is $240 a month.”

     “Oh! No, no money needed, Prem.”

     “For free? Sir, I couldn’t—”

     “We’ll see,” he says, “we’ll see.”

Dear Papa:

Let me explain the misunderstanding. No, I’m not a servant. Here, students work in people’s house, rake leaves, shovel snow, do odd jobs. My friend Janice gets paid to “house sit,” which means she lives in someone’s house and does nothing but feed the cat and water plants while the owners are away. What a great job! The Malloys don’t pay me but I get a room, TV, food—all free! No electricity, not even phone bills unless I call long distance. But whom would I call? I even use their soap. Mrs. Malloy buys “Ivory” by the carton, so I took a few cakes to my room.

School is fine except for Physics. Dr. Barrett, my Physics teacher, tutors me on Tuesdays but he doesn’t charge because I have no money. Last month I bought a coat and winter boots. Once I pay off my book loans I’ll be able to send money home. If you like, tell Auntie Philoo I live in the dormitory. There’s no family disgrace that way.”

     I put down my pen and re-read my father’s small, slanted handwriting. Waves of anger flood my cheeks. Walking into my sparkling white-tiled bathroom, I address the oak beveled mirror. Yes, yes, I know girls don’t go to college, that I should have got a job. But it’ll pay off, damn it! You’ll see! Give me a chance.

     “Come in, come in, Prem,” he says, as if he’s really glad to see me. I walk in, Physics text under my arm. I am wearing a salwar khameez today, a leaf green one, with a high Chinese collar and embroidery down the front like a tree trunk, flowers fanning out in sprays over my breasts. My first boy friend called me “forest girl” because I wore green—lime, chartreuse, mint, coriander-green. Back home, forests are brown and green. But here, outside Dr. Barrett’s office, the trees stand bare and gray like old men.

     “You seem far away,” Dr. Barrett’s voice is mildly reproachful.

     “I’m sorry, Sir,” I smile.

     “What’s that you’re wearing?” he asks.

     “Salwar khameez, Sir. Khameez means shirt.”

     “Very pretty,” he says.

      “Thank you, Sir. The salwar is tight, keeps the cold out.” I stick my leg out to show him.

     “Hm,” he says. “I’ve seen photographs of Nehru in those things.”

     “Yes, Sir. Men wear them too.”

     We turn to chapter 6, “Trajectories and Projectile Movements.” I am nervous about tomorrow’s test. I understand concepts but can’t solve problems without calculus. I tried once to explain my predicament to Mrs. Jenkins.

     “Dr. Corey says math precedes physics, Ma’am,” I say, mouthing Dr. Corey’s words. “Sequential course work.”

     Mrs. Jenkins eyes me like a beady lizard. She is wearing a winter white suit like Barbara Walters on 60 Minutes. Her eye shadow is teal blue, her full mouth cherry red.

     “That’s true for our regular students.” She walks over to her file cabinet and lifts my folder out. “But there’s no time, no funds. Foreign students must make up deficiencies fast.”

     I tell her that deficiencies are easier to make up in history or literature. She cuts me off.

     “Look Miss, uh? Ramacha..” she glances at my folder and gives up on my last name. “I explained the system. If you drop physics ...”

     “Please call me Prem, Ma’am,” I interrupt, gently.

     “Prem? Hm, that’s pretty,” she says.

     “It means love.” I smile. “All Indians names have a meaning, Ma’am.”

     “I see.” She flips a page. “Look, I wish I could help,” she says, not unkindly. “But the school only pays for two undergrad semesters. That’s generous. After all, you’re in graduate school, right?” I nod.   “You have a BS,” she continues, painted fingernail tapping the next line, “and an MS too!” Her voice, an octave higher is half surprised, half admiring.

     “Yes, Ma’am. In ecology research. No math or physics was needed.”

     Mrs. Jenkin’s heels click on the tile as she walks back to the file cabinet and pushes my folder in. “I’m sorry,” she says. “There’s nothing more I can do. If you want, you can transfer to another university…” Her voice trails off.

     Another university? I walk past the foyer, past the tall columns of pink granite holding up this beautiful edifice of learning. Standing on the top-most step, I look down at cascading lawns, tall evergreens, steps winding down to terrace gardens sprinkled with buildings. Where would I go? Here at least, I have a place near school; I don’t need a car. Driving terrifies me. How would I learn to drive? Janice learned when she was a teenager.

     Besides, the Malloy children are sweet. They call me “our Indian—the wah, wah kind.” They laugh, tapping their fingers over open mouths, put feathers in their heads and dance, wah-wah, round an imaginary fire. No, no, not Native American, I tell them, pointing to where India is on their beautiful world globe with the polished chrome axes. See, I tell them, it’s a small country, only one third as big as America; almost easier to get there by boring a tunnel through the earth. How can I start over? What would my father say?

     “You did better this time,” Dr. Barrett says, glancing at my test.

     “Thanks, Sir. I’ve been trying to read ahead in math.”

     “You’re smart,” he says, “and terribly pretty.”

     I don’t answer. I gather my hair up, twist it in a knot. Today, it is windy and cold; so cold, my braid came loose filling my hair with static electricity. He picks a few loose strands and tucks them behind my ear.

     “Ouch,” he says, as the electricity gets him. We laugh. Tilting his chair back, he locks his fingers behind his neck, eyes lingering on my neck.

     “There’s something about you that’s just like her,” he says.

     “Like whom?”

     Opening his top right hand desk drawer, he pulls out a photograph of a smiling woman with brown eyes and long brown hair. Her teeth are even, pearl white, lips pink and parted.

     “Oh, your wife! She’s very beautiful,” I exclaim.

     “She’s in Vietnam,” he says, bluntly. “She’s a nurse.” His voice is flat, expressionless.

     “What’s her name?”

     “Celina.”

     “Celina? Oh, that’s like a song. What does it mean?”

     “Mean?” He returns the photograph to the drawer.

     “Prem means love,” I explain.

     “Celina means nothing,” he says, drawing his lips in a thin line. “No meaning.”

Dear Papa:

Today, I saw my first snow flake. I stood underneath a street lamp and stuck out my tongue and this cool powdery fluff fell all over my eyes and nose. It’s almost Christmas. How beautiful the stores are with bows, lights, real live pine trees, and carols everywhere— even in grocery stores. It’s so different in a Christian land, not like home where Christmas means nothing to most people.

Janice invited me to her home in Maine but I declined. It’s even colder there, plus it’ll use up all my savings. Also, the Malloys asked me to stay. I feel I owe it to them after my foolish mistake in the kitchen.

     Glancing back, I ink out the last sentence. The dishwasher episode was so humiliating, I’m still smarting from overhearing Mrs. Malloy gab about it on the phone to her friends. Truth is, I put the wrong detergent in the dishwasher. Later, I heard a commotion in the kitchen. A red-faced Mrs. Malloy stood aghast, looking at this frothing giant spewing cascades of bubbles on to the carpet. Seeing me standing there, she picked up the green detergent box and tapped on the word “automatic.”

     “It’s specially formulated,” she said. “You can’t use any old detergent.”

I offered to pay for a new carpet although I didn’t know what carpets cost. But she calmed down, had it steam cleaned, and when I apologized again, she said I could make up by teaching Jason to play the guitar. I was delighted with the deal, but Janice sneered and said it was slave labor. Didn’t I know what private music lessons cost?

     I toss my letter aside. It is 11:30; my door is ajar and I can hear the Malloys laughing softly in their bedroom at Johnny Carson’s monologue. Ann Malloy is only 8 years older than I, petite, pretty, rich, with three lovely children. And John Malloy, a rugged version of JFK, has a smile to melt granite. How did they find their Camelot? Quietly, I tiptoe to the landing, sit on the step and lean my head against the banister straining to listen. The soft, teasing laughter dies away, changes to whispers, muffled moans in the darkness. I close my eyes and press against the smooth, curving spindles of the stairway. When silence comes, I creep back up to my room. Moonlight is streaming through clusters of red berries in the holly tree outside my window. I fall into my pillow aching. I dream John Malloy and I are eating Muglai chicken and hot, piping wheat nans in the Taj Mahal restaurant under a glittering chandelier spewing colored bubbles of soap suds. And when I turn, he kisses my mouth; and his hand is soft like velvet on my thigh, but then I open my eyes and find my bed is empty, my body pressed into the wall.

     “You don’t know what happy hour is?” Dr. Barrett asks, amazed. “Never been to happy hour with a friend?” I shake my head, no, unsure of what he means, ashamed of my ignorance. “No what? No happy hour or no friends?”

     “Both, Sir. There’s no time. Mornings, I have classes; afternoons, I do lab work for my stipend.” I sound defensive even to my own ears.

     I meet him in the faculty parking lot, front row, space number 5, reserved for tenured professors only. He says we can drive on Lee Avenue, then turn left on Winding Way, instead of walking across campus. I sit up front in his clean white Pontiac. It smells faintly of pipe tobacco—like the insides of my father’s coat pockets.

     “Come closer,” he says, touching my arm lightly, “and lock your door.”

     I move a little closer, somewhat embarrassed and ashamed of it. Our table is at the back of the faculty lounge. The room is like a comfortable library, books along one wall, a few chairs clustered around coffee tables sprinkled with magazines. Except for a young man grading papers behind a Chinese screen, the room is empty. I settle in a chair facing a charcoal sketch of the east end of the University campus and spread my books on the table.

     “What’ll you have?” he asks.

     “I don’t know,” I answer, “I don’t drink.”

     “Don’t drink?”

     “Just shandy.”

     “Shandy?”

     “Yes, Sir, that’s beer mixed with lemonade.”

     “Ah!” he smiles, bemused. “Then, I know exactly what you’ll like.”

     He returns carrying two wide glasses—one with a clear liquid and an oval green fruit; the other yellow with a cherry, an orange slice poised on the glass rim. He hands me the cherry glass on a white cocktail napkin embossed with the university emblem.

     “Cheers,” he smiles, taking a formidable sip, smacking his lips. I sip my drink tentatively, and immediately love the taste. “What’s this called, Sir?”

     “Whisky sour,” he says, “and will you please stop calling me Sir?”

     “That’s what we call our professors in India, Sir. It’s a British custom, I guess.”

     “Well, you’re not in India. This is America. Here, open your mouth.”

     He picks up the cherry by its stalk and dangles it over my open mouth, watching my lips close over the sweet red fruit. I bite tentatively, expecting a seed. I have not tasted a cherry before.

     “What’s the matter?”

     “Don’t cherries have seeds, Sir?”

     “They do. These are maraschino cherries.”

     “Oh! What’s in the drink, Sir?” I point to my glass.

     “Bourbon and lemon juice. You like it, don’t you?” He watches my eyes, like a mongoose. “More than ---uh--- what’s the word?”

     “Shandy.”

     “Ah, shandy,” he laughs.

     “What’s your drink called, Sir?”

     “Martini.”

     “What’s the green thing with the red top?”

     “An olive. Jesus, you don’t know what an olive is? Here, open your mouth. Watch out, it’s tart, not sweet like the cherry.” He picks the olive out with his thumb and fore-finger. I make an O with my mouth; he rests his fingers on my lips, holds the olive in place. I bite down, grimacing. “Warned you,” he laughs, then bends over and dabs my lips with the napkin. He drains his glass and goes over to the bar for a refill, chatting amiably with a man from the Chemistry department. They turn and look at me.

After happy hour, we walk out to the parking lot. “I can walk home, Sir,” I say. “I live near here.”

      “That’s OK, I’ll drive you,” he says amiably, slamming the car door. “Where to?”

     “Dogwood Avenue.”

     The car starts up smoothly and we pull out on Winding Way, pass the clock tower, turn left on Grant and left again on Dogwood under a canopy of leaf-less trees. I point to a big brick house with white columns nestled behind tall yews. He jams on the brakes.

     “Jesus, you live here?” he asks, “In this mansion?”

     “With the Malloys. I work for them, Sir. Get free room and board.”

     He comes around the side, opens the car door and hands me my stack of books. “Thank you, Sir.”

     “Take care,” he says, then gets back in and drives away.

     James and his friend, Stevie are tossing a football in the front yard. The ball misses the Pontiac by a hair. “Oops! Didn’t mean that,” James says, flinching. “Hey Prem! Need help?”

     He runs forward and takes a few books from under my chin. James is my favorite child, almost nine years old, a middle child, not as smart, popular or anything else as his brother and knows it well, from everyone telling him once too many times.

     “Who’s that man?” he asks, yanking open the screen door. “Your boyfriend?” The words are shocking, and coming from James, they feel like a slap.

     “Oh God, no. He’s my teacher. Physics teacher,” I explain.

     James grins sweetly, dimples and freckles merging, eyes clear and trusting. “Want to play with me? Look, Stevie went home,” he points to Stevie’s receding back.

     I set my books on the brick steps next to a pot of dried mums. “Five minutes, Jamie. No more.”

     Hal Barrett is a tenured professor at the University and until last year, Chairman of the Physics department, Professor Emeritus, author of a text book for freshmen with accompanying manual, now in its third edition. You can tell he is well-liked, by the way other teachers wave “Hey Hal,” in the corridors, and important too by the way he answers the phone, “Hal Barrett” in a deep voice, and by his desk calendar marked with many squiggles denoting meetings, lunch, interviews. But Fridays, after 4 o’clock, is left blank. It is noticeable, that stark whiteness on the pad. And when we walk out together for happy hour, I feel pride.

     It is a ritual like Sunday mass at Newman Chapel. We always start with the cherry. He looks intently, his eyes on my face, while I eat it. And sometimes, he gulps his drink faster than I can eat the cherry. This evening, his face is as crimson as the center of the olive. He is on his third drink.

     “So Prem,” he says, lifting my left hand to the light. “Let me see your ring.”

     “It’s my grandmother’s, Sir.”

      He peers at five little saffires. “It’s beautiful. You have lovely long fingers. Do you play the piano?”

     “No, Sir.” I try gently to retrieve my hand. “Couldn’t afford it.”

He turns my hand palm up and traces the lines slowly, fingers gliding past my wrist toward my elbows and back again. This is no big deal, I think. He is bored because I am stupid.

     “Sir,” I ask, “how would you calculate the velocity of an object …”

     “Let’s see,” he scribbles using his left hand, his right hand still clasping my fingers under the table. The event is uneventful.

     After that evening, it becomes routine. He entwines his fingers in mine and places them in my lap in the folds of my sari. That’s just how we sit every Friday. Sometimes, he kisses each finger. His lips are light, almost pink and the skin on his hands is translucent, mottled with pigmented blotches like burns that haven’t healed. Sometimes, he dips my fingers in his martini, then sucks them, one by one, slowly. I don’t look at him while he is doing this, I don’t ask him to stop; I just don’t ask why. All I want is to pass Physics.

     I pass the first semester with a low C. The course is getting harder as Dr. Barrett races along to compensate for missed classes. Ever since Cambodia was invaded, the campus has been restless. Last month, the ROTC building was set on fire. Student rallies were held in the main quad, fliers pasted on walls and pinned to tree trunks. It feels like the monsoons are about to break. I decide to go back for help.

     The board is always wiped clean when I enter. Dr. Barrett draws two vertical lines dividing the surface into thirds and writes a problem in each section, then sits down and watches. I work at the black board, my back to him. We have a kind of unspoken deal. I must not cover my shoulders with my sari; I must let it hang leaving the midsection of my back exposed. I feel his eyes descend from the top of my scalp, past my neck, down each vertebra like rungs on a ladder, lingering on my buttocks, the silhouette of legs under my sari, the bottom of my heels. When I struggle with a formula, he jumps up, puts his arm around my waist and takes the chalk from my hand. Once, I asked if I could work in my notebook but he said no, I should redo them later. It would be good practice.

     Thinking back, I realize now how sex dominated my life as an adolescent, simply by pretending it didn’t exist. My mother never talked about it. Not once. Come to think of it, I don’t think she ever used that three letter word. In fact, it ranked right up there with all the bad words of our time—bastard, swine, damn fool, stupid ass! But my mother talked about love. Love of God, country, family, people. Love of just about anything except sex. She said the word “love” with a long drawl, ending with her lower lip tucked I behind the “v.’ “Lu—uv,” like that. It sounded sweet, soft, cloying. I guess love, marriage, sex were all synonyms, inseparable like the holy trinity.  The closest she came to explaining sex was the day she suggested I adopt Maria Goretti as my patron saint.

     “Why?” I wanted to know.

     “Because you don’t have a Catholic name, Premila,” she said, referring to that denuded bone of contention between my father and herself. My father, a politically astute man, had insisted upon a Hindu name as a verbal disguise for our unfavorable minority status. Just sounding like people in power, he reasoned, might open doors for me. To my mother, it was a betrayal of our faith, jeopardizing my chances of a front seat in the tiers of heaven.

     “No, I mean, why Maria Goretti? Why not Saint Philomena or Saint Agnes?”

     She didn’t answer. That evening, we were sitting in the verandah off the kitchen. The monsoons had broken; the rain falling in sheets of white silk, splattering on the cement, erasing hopscotch lines I’d drawn on the black tar. The guava trees were drooping with fruit, some yellow and ripe, some still green. I could barely hear my mother over the rush of water in the gutter. She was unfolding a newspaper wrapped in a damp plastic bag. Inside the paper, a fish, a foot long, lay glistening, a big glassy eye stuck in his head, staring up at us. Ma lifted him by his tail on to her wooden cutting board, crushed the newspaper and stuffed it back into the plastic bag, then dropped the bag on the cement floor at her feet.

     “For a young girl, Maria Goretti is ideal. You know her story, no?”

     “She was a martyr,” I said.                 

     “Of course,” Ma said, impatiently. “But why? Why?”

     I didn’t know. I watched Ma—the way her index finger was poised on the blunt edge of the knife, the way her bony wrist moved side to side in rapid fire flicking thin scales off. Light-shot and translucent, they lay glittering like tiny prisms; one flew off and landed on her throat dangling like an opal pendant. I stared, my eyes wandering down to where her breasts burst from her blouse, and then down to my tingling, just-forming ones that were barely discernible under my shirt.         

     “Maria was a young village girl, pretty with long hair—a shepherdess,” my mother said, turning the fish over. “She loved the Virgin Mary so dearly that she recited the rosary while tending her sheep.”

Fish scales began flying again like transparent mica chips. Later, she would grind them along with eggshells and papaya skin and fertilize the rose bushes.

     “But then,” my mother’s voice rose, “a shepherd boy from the neighboring village fell in love with Maria.”

     I watched Ma’s deft hands, how her knife was poised, the thin curved edge glinting, and ready to slit open the belly of the freshly scaled fish. Suddenly she stopped, looked up; her eyes pinned on mine.

     “Finally,” she said, “Maria died.”

     An eternity crowded by time floated by. “Died? How?” I cried, my voice high.

     “Because the shepherd boy grabbed her by her hair and stabbed her. Once, twice, thrice,” my mother screamed, jabbing the air. “She wouldn’t—uh, do what he wanted. She just wouldn’t.”

I looked down at the cutting board. Ma had sliced and gutted the limpid fish with one curve of her wrist. The slimy insides lay coiled on the cutting board, soft and pinkish green. The fish’s eye still shone in its decapitated head.

     “But why? Why?” I whispered, tears lurking.

     “Because she was pure,” my mother said.

     Darkness pooled in the clefts of my heart as water collects in wells. What did he want? I watched Ma stuff the fish with masala, a paste of coconut and red chilies in vinegar, pictured Maria with her beautiful hair lying there. Ma’s fingers were blood red; my fingers were cold.

     “She wasn’t afraid to die. She was a holy girl.” My mother’s voice slices my thoughts. She had laid the fish carefully in an aluminum pan, piling it high with pungent masala, ready to bake. Except for its bluish tail flecked with black, it was covered in red.

     I didn’t eat dinner that night. Ma felt my forehead, thought it was warm, made me swallow two crushed aspirin mixed with cane sugar, rubbed my chest with Vicks and sent me off to bed. Under the mosquito net, I lay awake listening to the rain, her words sounding deep in my ears, thinking of villagers huddled in their tarpaulin covered shacks on hill sides, wondering if Maria had lived with her mother. Through the open window, the lusty call of frogs filtered in.

     That night, in a curved sleep, I heard the shepherd boy playing his flute under the guava tree. He leaned against the Iron Gate plucking trumpet shaped honey suckle blossoms, sipping their nectar, one for me, one for him. He wrapped my long hair round his neck and kissed me slowly, sweetly on my eyes, my lips, my neck. The rain had stopped; the sky washed in cinnamon. I wished I could tell Maria how it felt. I was about her age and I couldn’t imagine tasting death.

     The next day, I adopted Maria as my patron saint. Ma embraced me and signed my forehead with a cross, her eyes shining.

     It is a lovely Tuesday in early spring, a fortnight to final exams, and I’m on my way to see Dr. Barrett. I start across campus, playfully counting dogwoods, pink, white, pink, white, as I walk. Suddenly, from the direction of the quad, I hear a faint singsong. Rhythmic chants, then one lone voice, then a chorus. A nervous, curious feeling grips my stomach. As I round the bend, I see rumbling activity near the north campus gate. Students carrying placards march single file around a life sized statue of George Washington.

     “Stop the war, America, ” a boy with a bullhorn bellows.

     “Stop the war, America,” they echo back.

     “Come home.”

     “Come home.”

       Big black letters framed in skulls jab the morning air, up and down. Squatted on the grass beside the pond, a few students hold hands humming, swaying left to right, right to left. Refrains of “Kumbaya,” “Where have all the flowers gone,” sail on a light breeze. Underneath cherry blossoms, other students read the university bulletin, their heads cradled in laps, some kissing deeply as if to swallow the sorrow that is Vietnam. Campus police, walkie-talkies to their mouths, patrol the campus periphery. I quicken my pace. Now I see yellow forsythia blooming like oversized dandelions. My arms are starting to ache. I stop to readjust the weight and when I look up, five boys stand before me. A flash of fear, quick as lightning stabs my body. One boy, the ringleader perhaps, steps forward. His eyes are rimmed red, his matted hair tied with a purple bandanna. Behind him, a boy in a ponytail leans against a tree, smoking.

        “Hey baby,” he says, “where ya going?”

        A shirtless boy with a white peace sign painted on his chest and skulls up his arms swaggers forward. His tattered jeans hang below his naval. He whistles as he looks me over.      “Hey, sweet baby Jane.” The words are slurred, thick like syrup. His sunken eyes roll like two glass marbles in their sockets. He falls on his knees in front of me.

        “It’s the Virgin Mary,” he laughs.

        “Get him outta here,” the boy in the purple bandanna hisses. Two boys in torn tie-dye tee shirts move forward.

        “Come on man,” one says, hand outstretched. Sunlight bounces off his POW bracelet. “Get up.”

        “Jesus, Mary, Peace sister,” the boy on the ground groans, edging forward. Paisley printed pleats slip past his fingers as he is dragged off behind a tall Japanese yew. I listen to the scraping sound of tennis shoes on gravel.

        “Excuse me, please,” I say.

        “Where ya going? Answer the question, Princess.”

        “Physics,” I whisper, like a frightened animal.

        A swell of voices pulse the air. Calling all students, calling all students. Boycott exams. Peace, Peace, Peace. And then a cheer rises up.

        “Aw, come on.” The guy with the ponytail grinds his cigarette butt into his shoe. “There’s no class today.”

        “I’m going for help.” My heart hammers against my ribs.

        “No need. No exams. It’s over,” he says.

        “Please.” I look past his locked arms.

        “Please,” he mimics, stepping forward. “What would Gandy say, huh?” He pronounces “Gandy” like candy.

        “What?” I bite my inner lip.

        “Gandy,” he says, “you know Gandy!” Suddenly, without warning, I laugh. I want to stop but I can’t. “What’s so funny?” he rasps. “Don’t ya care? Americans are dying.” His voice kills the laughter in my throat. “This is America. We’re dying, bitch, dying like flies.”

        “Lookie here! Purty hair.” The pony-tailed boy takes my braid and swishes it. His fingers touch my neck, glide over my bare midriff.

        “Please stop, Sir.”

        “So what would Gandy say?”     

        Suddenly, I feel my stifling fear sucked out. Once, when I was eight years old, I saw ten leeches on a snake-bitten boy. The leeches fell off his skin dying, but the boy lived.

         “Gaahn- di, Sir, ah-ah, you mean Mahatma Gandhi,” I say, softly. “He believed in nonviolence.”

        And in a flash, I break through the barrier of hands and walk away; wrapping my sari around my head and shoulders so not an inch of flesh shows, not even around my ears. I try not to run as I hear catcalls. Just make my feet flow like a river. Like the holy Ganges River in the Himalaya Mountains, cool and clean. I stop inside the courtyard of the Physics building. My cheeks are wet with tears I didn’t know I’m crying. Slowly, I climb the stairs past the water fountain. The hallways are empty, classroom doors locked. All except room 207. From under the doorway, a wedge of light sneaks out. I knock, wait, knock again, sharper with my knuckles, then push the door open.

        Dr. Barrett is seated at his desk, fingers laced behind his head. But his back is to the door, chair facing the open window, feet hoisted on the window ledge. He does not turn when I enter. Peace chants float in filling the room. An ice cube melts in a glass of honey colored liquid, an open pint of Jack Daniel’s nearby. The rest of the room is the same. Papers and books stacked, the old fashioned blotter, a brass paperweight, the thermometer-pressure gauge wall hanging.

        “Sir?” I go to the window. His eyes are closed; sweat beads dense on his forehead. “Professor Barrett, Sir?” I touch his forehead; he opens his eyes briefly.

        “Ah! Celina,” he says thickly, reaching to take me in his arms. “Celina, you came.”

        “Sir?” His eyes are blood shot. “It’s me, Prem.”

        “Ah! P-P-Prem,” he says, blinking. “Prem.” He begins to laugh, a slow gurgling like a sluggish river. “Thought you were Cel-Cel-Cel-i-na.”

        And now I see the open drawer and Celina smiling from her picture frame, brown hair framing her pretty face, eyes full of life. A yellow piece of paper perforated at the edges flutters near the photograph. I do not read the contents of the telegram. But, slowly, Professor Barrett draws his arms around my waist, puts his head on my breast and begins to cry. And I cry too.

        No, Hal Barrett and I never slept together that night or any night. I cannot say why. Maybe, it was that little red dot on the bridge of his nose. Maybe it was because I could not stop calling him “Sir.” Maybe, I wanted to prove something to Mrs. Jennings. I cannot say why. All I know is it was 1970, my first year in America, and we were at war, lost. Until then, I hadn’t seen snow, escalators or soda fountains. Nor tasted a maraschino cherry.

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