And Laughter Fell From The Sky Part 26

"They found out," Rasika gasped.

"Found out what?"

Rasika appeared not to know how to answer this question. Her eyes darted around, as if trying to see the answer in the air. Then she closed her eyes, shuddered, and opened them again. She looked like she'd been deflated. Her eyes were sad and distant now. "The wedding's off," she said in a monotone.

"Why?"

Rasika held a palm up to her face and peered at it. She rubbed it with the thumb of the other hand, as though trying to wipe off some dirt. Abhay remembered that gesture-she had done the same thing at Ledges, although then she had been wiping off mascara. Now, her palm seemed clean.

It was awkward trying to talk in the muddy yard. His cousin's motor scooter was parked on the narrow pathway between the house and the compound wall, and his uncle's car was in the driveway.

"Let's take a walk." He ducked inside and slipped on a pair of sandals. When he returned, Rasika was still standing in the same position, still rubbing her palm.

"Come on." He headed toward the gate. When she didn't move, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her out with him. It was so early that the traffic hadn't really started yet. He led her around the corner to a little high-walled park tucked between the houses. It was filled with trees and a formal arrangement of greenery, a bricked path going around in a square, and several concrete benches. No one was here at this hour. This park was too small to be useful for the fast-paced morning walking that many Indians seemed to engage in. Abhay dropped onto the bench closest to the entrance. He knew from experience that the far corners of the park smelled distinctly of urine.

Rasika sank down beside him. She looked crumpled.

"Tell me everything," he said.

"The wedding's off," she repeated. "Yuvan saw us." She looked up at him plaintively. "You shouldn't have put your arm around me."

"What? When?" He tried to think when he had last had his arm around her, and remembered the big tree at Lalbagh. In order to play along, he had put his arm around her as Khaleel was taking the photo. "How could . . . was Yuvan at Lalbagh?"

"His brother showed him a picture. They took a picture."

He remembered the group of young men, Mayuri's cousin and friends. One of them had taken a photo. "Mayuri's cousin?" he asked.

She nodded, and sat up straighter. "Yuvan is Mayuri's cousin. On her father's side." Her eyes were clear and hard now. "His brother was at the park."

"Didn't you recognize him?"

She shook her head. "I've only seen him once, when Yuvan and I first met. I didn't recognize him yesterday. I wasn't really paying attention, I was so busy wanting to protect Mayuri."

"Well, you can explain, can't you? I mean, you were only flirting to draw attention away from Mayuri. Just tell the truth."

Rasika looked at him, and her eyes gradually grew dull. "No." She shook her head. "I couldn't do that to Mayuri."

"Well, Mayuri will have to tell the truth, then."

"She's backing them up."

"What?"

"She's telling everyone that I asked her to drive me to Lalbagh so I could meet you there."

"That's insane!" Abhay was outraged that Mayuri would drag his name into her sordid affair. "You've got to set things straight."

Rasika shook her head sadly.

"Why not?"

"I just . . . don't want to stoop that low."

"It's not stooping, it's standing up for yourself."

"I don't want to point fingers at Mayuri. I'm not that kind of person. I've lied in the past, but only to protect myself. I don't tattle. I've never done anything to get anyone else into trouble. Anyway, I don't know if anyone would believe me. Even my mother has bought into the whole thing. Yuvan's father called this morning to tell us their decision, and Amma woke me up by screaming at me. That's why I had to leave the house. I think she's always suspected me. Remember when Mita Auntie saw us at that hotel in Cleveland, and told everyone?"

Abhay nodded. That seemed so long ago now. He was proud of Rasika's integrity toward her cousin. "So Yuvan believes Mayuri?"

"I don't know what he believes. He didn't call, his father did. His family's already involved. It's a mess." She turned her eyes toward him, and they seemed soft and open. Her mask had dropped away.

"I would think Yuvan would at least give you the benefit of the doubt and listen to your side of things."

"What can I say that would convince him? I'm not innocent."

"You mean you're not innocent because we've had a relations.h.i.+p?"

Rasika nodded. "Mayuri knows about that. Last night we stayed up late talking. I felt like she understood me. And now she's telling all the details to everyone." Rasika covered her face with her hands. "I can't go back." She was still for a moment, and he realized she was crying. At first she seemed to be trying to control herself, holding her breath and wiping at her eyes, and then she let go. It sounded like the tears were ripping out of her.

There was something wild about her now, something true, and he loved that. When she stopped shaking with emotion, he said, "At least you're free now. You never wanted to marry him anyway."

She took her hands from her face and looked at him, and he felt he could see into her soul.

Then her tear-filled eyes narrowed and turned sharp. "You could marry me." Her voice had a rasping quality.

"What?"

"Everyone thinks we're together anyway. You could marry me. Everything's all ready for a wedding next week. You could fill in and be the groom." She looked up at him with pleading eyes, yet the mask was there again.

He stood up, as a way to gain more control over the situation. "Of course, I'll marry you. But not like this. I don't want to marry you as a subst.i.tute." He paced in front of the bench. "In a way, it's good this happened. You didn't even want to marry that guy. Now you can be who you really are. You don't need to pretend anymore. Now you can decide what you really want to do." Abhay stopped pacing and let out a deep breath. Rasika wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes were narrowed, and she was gazing off to the side, as if thinking of something else.

"You don't understand me," she said. "No one understands me."

Crows screeched and cawed in the dark branches overhead. The quacking beeps of a motor scooter pa.s.sed by outside the walls of the garden. Various smells reached them on the morning breeze-snacks being fried in oil, cow dung, a whiff of roasting coffee.

Rasika stood up.

"You ready to go home?" Abhay put a hand on her elbow. "I know you can be strong. They'll get over this."

Abhay took her hands and looked into her eyes. They seemed cold and distant. What might happen after she stood up to her parents? They might be together. He pressed her fingers in his. "I think it'll work out fine," he whispered.

She suddenly pulled her hands from his, s.n.a.t.c.hed her purse up from the bench, and peered into its depths.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm-I don't have any money." She let the purse drop to the ground. "I spent it all. This morning I had enough to pay for the auto to your house. That's all."

Abhay pulled out his wallet and offered several hundred-rupee notes. She hesitated, and then put out a hand. He picked up her purse and handed it to her.

"I'll give you the phone number at my grandmother's house." He scribbled on a sc.r.a.p of paper.

Abhay led her out of the park and up to the main road, where he put up an arm to hail an autorickshaw. When a vehicle veered toward them and stopped, the engine muttering softly, she did not get in. Instead, she clung to him. "Come with me," she said.

"You want me to come home with you? Won't your mother-"

"Let's just get away. Let's go somewhere." She was trembling against him.

"Rasika." He stepped away from her and took her by the shoulders. "I think it would be best if you went home to explain. Your family will be worried sick." He had to shout over the rumble and roar of traffic.

She nodded. She was still shaking.

The autorickshaw driver shouted something to them in a language Abhay didn't understand; clearly, the man was impatient. "If you want me to come home with you, I can," Abhay said. "Just for support."

"No," she said firmly. "You don't understand."

"Call me as soon as you talk to your folks. I'll be waiting."

She threw her arms around him and gave him a fierce hug. "I love you," she said gruffly. Then she flung herself into the waiting autorickshaw.

The autorickshaw driver pumped his starter and jerked away from the intersection. "Where to, ma'am?" he asked in Kannada. She understood that much but didn't answer, because she didn't know what to say. He brought the autorickshaw to a puttering halt along the side of the road, and glowered at her.

Her mind was in a fog. She felt as if she had a swarm of ants crawling around inside her head, in front of her eyes. She shook her head, and wiped her hair from her face. She could see the dusty street, and she could see the driver's bare brown feet in flip-flops. She could see the stub of incense stick in front of the tiny photo of Ganesha behind the driver's handlebars. But she couldn't see what she should do next.

The driver said something to her in a harsh tone. She didn't quite understand the words, but she knew she had to figure out where she wanted to go. She couldn't sit here motionless forever.

A thought arose out of the muddle of her mind. Yes, that might work. It would mean swallowing her pride, but it was her only option now. Over the roar of the traffic, she shouted out the name of a neighborhood bordering the area in which her grandparents lived, and the vehicle was off again.

She clutched her almost-empty purse. She had to escape, and for that she needed money. But she had none, except for the rupees Abhay gave her, which would flow through her fingers in minutes. She couldn't buy a plane ticket with this money. She couldn't even stay in a decent hotel for this amount of money.

She'd spent all the thousands of rupees her father had given her, and also the thousands Yuvan's parents had given her. She'd bought silk clothes, cotton clothes, gold jewelry, corals, hundreds of cheap gla.s.s and metal bangles in every color to match all her outfits, several pairs of sandals, batik wall hangings, sandalwood carvings, bra.s.s deepas, idli pans and chapati boxes and spice boxes and a pressure cooker and a special dosa batter grinder. All of these purchases were packed in suitcases, bags, and boxes at her mother's family home, waiting for her to get married and carry them back to Ohio with her.

She wanted to be honorable. She loved Abhay. He was a very good man. She wanted to make him proud of her. She wanted to make her parents proud of her. This was really the only thing she could do.

Rasika exited the autorickshaw in front of a small house. She stepped through the gate, threaded her way through a clutter of motorbikes and bicycles in the paved front yard, and rang the doorbell.

Shouts and laughter sounded inside the house, but no one came to the door. She rang again, and finally the door was hauled open by a small child who took one look at her and then ran shouting through the house, "Some woman is here." Eventually, an elderly man appeared at the doorway and looked at her quizzically.

"Is this where Balakrishna stays?" she asked in Tamil.

He nodded and held the door open. She entered and slipped off her mismatched sandals in the front hallway. He disappeared through the doorway curtain, calling, "Balu! Someone is here to see you!"

In the moment she was alone, she combed through her hair with her fingers to try to bring some order to it.

Balu Uncle appeared through the curtain. He wore a white dhoti wrapped around his waist and legs, a b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, and a cloth folded neatly over one shoulder: the typical at-home outfit of an Indian man. When he saw her, he halted for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Please sit down." He held a hand out to a chair right there in the front hallway, and she sat. He placed himself on a bench opposite and crossed his legs on the seat, one ankle over the other knee, tucking his dhoti neatly around his legs.

It seemed odd to her that he didn't take her into the living room and offer her some tea. Perhaps it was because she had arrived so early, and so unexpectedly.

They sat without talking for several moments. The house resounded with thumping footsteps and children's high-pitched shrieks. She wondered how many people stayed in this small house.

Finally he asked in Tamil, "What is it, dear?"

She felt faint and nauseated, but she gulped down some air, sat up straight, and squared her shoulders. She had to do this. "I came here-Subhash-I know he would like to marry me," she blurted out. "And it is fine with me now."

Balu Uncle grasped the ankle of his top leg and leaned back against the wall. His gaze rested on her face for several moments before wandering up the wall behind her. "We have heard about what happened," he said finally. "This morning your father called us."

She waited for him to go on. Somewhere in the house, a toilet flushed with a gurgle and whoosh of water.

"A few days ago we arranged Subhash's marriage with a girl raised in India," Balu Uncle said. "We realized it would be best for him to marry someone with good values-the values of our family."

Good values. She had better values than Subhash and his family, because she also had grace, beauty, and appropriateness. But now she couldn't say any of this. She wouldn't stoop to defend herself.

"Did you come here on your own?" Uncle asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"No one brought you?"

She shook her head.

"They should not be allowing you to go about on your own," he murmured.

She stood up and saw black, as the blood drained from her head suddenly. She put a hand on the chair to steady herself. She felt sick to her stomach. In a moment her head cleared, her vision returned. "I'll go now," she said.

"Your father has been so good to us." He shook his head slowly, and patted his forehead with the cloth folded over his shoulder. "He helped us come to your country. He loaned me the money for our business. Subhash always liked you. He wanted to marry you, but we discouraged him. At that time, we did not think our son was good enough for you. We thought, how can we ask for the hand of a girl whose father is so wealthy, and has already been so generous? But now-I don't know what will happen to you. I feel very bad for your father." Balu Uncle's mouth twisted with pity.

He felt bad for her father. Did no one care about her any longer? She found her sandals and opened the door.

"Let me send someone with you." Balu Uncle stood up. "My brother's son can take you home on his motorbike."

"No." She opened the door. "I'm leaving now." She stepped out the door and shut it behind her before Balu Uncle could make any other arrangements.

She had failed. She had failed herself, and she had failed Abhay. She could no longer go home and expect to be a respected part of the family. She could no longer face Abhay. She walked a block to the nearest main road, hailed another autorickshaw, climbed in, and shouted out the first destination that came to her mind: "Commercial Street." The autorickshaw started grinding and weaving through the traffic.

Abhay waited at home for several hours, but Rasika didn't call. He hesitated to call her cell phone. He didn't want to bother her during her important mission. He tried to a.s.sume that everything was fine, since she didn't show up at his place again. He knew how these blow-ups went. He'd certainly experienced enough of them at his own house. Her parents would rage for a while, and then they'd calm down, look at the situation realistically, and see that things weren't so bad.

After lunch, instead of waiting at home by the phone, he thought he'd take a walk to the Internet place and send her an e-mail. That way, she could answer whenever she got a chance.

He settled into the plastic chair in the tiny computer room and opened his e-mail. Right away, he saw a message from Dr. Ben-Aharon, his former professor at Kent State. He was nervous to open it. Would Dr. Ben-Aharon tell Abhay that he had no hope of getting into graduate school?

Abhay composed a short message to Rasika expressing his concern and inviting her to call him soon. Then he looked at a message from his mother, a long complaint having to do with Seema, the fact that she was planning to go on a trip with her boyfriend (they were driving up to Cleveland for New Year's Eve), and how upset Abhay's father was. Abhay didn't know what to say to his mother, so he closed that message. He'd think of something later. He wrote a short note of support to Seema.

He went through and deleted the spam: investment opportunities, stuff from the alumni a.s.sociation at his college, sales pitches from office supply stores, advertis.e.m.e.nts for cheap drugs. He filled out his name and address in a pet.i.tion from a pro-Tibet group.

Finally, he opened the message from Dr. Ben-Aharon, scanned it, and let out a long breath. His professor had written a warm reply urging Abhay to apply to the best sociology and anthropology graduate programs, and had provided a list of such schools. "There is quite a bit of overlap between sociology and anthropology. If I were you, I'd take a look at each school and see which one offers you the closest match to what you want to do. Given your outstanding senior honors thesis at Kent State, and the fact that you have, in effect, conducted personal field research, you would be an ideal candidate for graduate school." Dr. Ben-Aharon went on to express his eagerness to write letters of recommendation for Abhay.

In one small part of his mind, Abhay was telling himself that he didn't really want to be a professor. He always thought he'd do something more unique with his life. His father was a professor, after all. Lots of people were professors. Abhay didn't want to grow rigid and jaded and resigned, as he'd seen so many people become once they'd settled into their careers.

Yet as Abhay sat there, rereading the e-mail, he felt an enormous knot in his forehead untie itself. He felt the clenching in his stomach unravel. He felt his heart blossom with love for everything around him: the photos of Ganesha and Lakshmi observing him benevolently from the shelf next to his computer; bright suns.h.i.+ne pouring through the window, and the steel plates and cups rattling at the outdoor cafe next door.