Darshan (26 page)

“It was my idea,” Satnam told him. “I wanted to come.”

“Why now?”

“I thought—”

“As I have told him so many times,” Priya replied, adjusting her chuni over her severely pulled back hair. “We have got to participate. We have got to play our part.”

“It is their place, too, Manmohan,” Baba Singh said, taking one of the buckets inside.

“They have been here all morning and haven’t done one thing,” Manmohan said, heat rising to his cheeks.

“We have every right to observe,” Priya said.

“Of course you do,” Manmohan replied with sarcasm. He turned to Satnam. “While I
work
you can
observe
all you like.”

“Leave him alone,” Baba Singh said, stepping protectively in front of Satnam, annoyed. “Do you always have to pester him?”

Glancing behind his father at Satnam, Manmohan spoke slowly and evenly, tension in his jaw. “I just mean that if he wants to learn, I am about to start the boiler.”

“He did not come for that,” Baba Singh said quietly, taking the second bucket inside.

“What did he come for?”

But no one had answered him.

The front door of his house cracked open. “Gharwala?” Jai said. “What are you doing out here?”

“Enjoying the sunset,” Manmohan replied.

“Will you come in soon? I have been waiting.”

He scooted over and patted the ground. “Come sit with me for a minute.”

He had to steady her as she lowered herself down awkwardly. She was pregnant again. Being pregnant always made her look so much tinier than she already was.

“I am a good husband to you,” he said. It was not a question, and he was not really speaking to her.

She took his hand.

Sighing, he squeezed, the smallness of her palm engulfed by his large one, making him feel protective and less tense. “Why have you been waiting?” he asked.

“Mohan’s grade report,” she replied. “He brought it home with him today and went straight to his room. He said he was sick from the bus fumes. I have told him many times not to sit in the back.” She gave the envelope to Manmohan. It was unopened. “I have not seen it yet. I waited for you.”

“Is it already January?” he murmured, always struck by the oddity of Fijian summers beginning in what had been winter in India.

Gently releasing her hand, he ripped open the envelope marked
Fourth Standard Completion
, his mood lightening a little. He unfolded the paper, smiling. “I am sure when Mohan sees this, he will feel much better.”

But as the print at the top of the report registered in his mind, his smile fell. The black ink was stark against the white of the sheet, unwavering and clear, telling him that Mohan had failed every single course.

He crumpled the sheet in his fist and gave it to Jai who unwrinkled and assessed it, frowning. Never in his life had Manmohan known trying, doing, then failing. If a person tried, inevitably he would succeed. If he did not eventually succeed it was because he simply did not care.

Jai placed a hand on his shoulder. “You deserve his respect,” she said somberly. She struggled to stand. “Talk to him. I will have dinner waiting.”

Manmohan pushed her up, watching her step out of the darkness and into the light of the open door. After a moment, he followed.

Mohan was on the couch, watching Darshan play with blocks in the center of the living room. He was afraid, as he should be, fidgeting with the hem of his shorts. “I am sorry, Bapu,” he said without waiting for his father to speak.

Manmohan sat next to him on the couch. “Explain it to me.”

“I don’t know what happened. Every time I thought I was prepared, when I would sit down to take the test, the words looked funny. Everything was backwards and I would start sweating and—”

“Now you are making up stories. How can words change on the page? How can they stay the same in your books but not on the test?”

“When Mr. Gupta is talking in class, I understand everything. And it is not just the tests, it is in the books, too. Sometimes, if I focus really hard, I think I can read it, and then—”

Manmohan shook his head. “No. I do not know what you have been doing. You told me you did not need my help, that you could do it by yourself.”

“But Bapu, I only wanted to—”

“I always give you so much: toys, visits to the cinema, ice creams, and now that motorcycle. And so many times, even if you are disobedient, I ignore it because I tell myself it is what boys do. People are always telling me that boys are sometimes badly behaved or rebellious. But I never did that. I never disrespected my father.”

Mohan’s eyes began to water.

Manmohan kneaded the back of his neck, just under the rim of his turban where his muscles were tight. “You cannot continue to have something for nothing. That is
your
lesson.
My
lesson, which has been a hard one for me to understand, is that trust must be earned. Words have no meaning without actions to support them. I should never have given you anything before you earned it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Bapu,” Mohan replied in a shaky voice.

Manmohan stood. He ducked past the curtain and went outside to the backyard. He remained still on the patio, frozen in his anger, listening to the sounds of the island, the whisper of water and of leaves. He glanced at the motorcycle under the tarpaulin shed. The anodized metal frame still needed a coat of shiny black paint, but the bike was otherwise restored. Approaching it, he realized that what he wanted most now was to be on the saddle, in the darkness of the island where no person could find him. Rolling up his sleeves, he swung a long leg over the seat. Flicking back the kickstand, he pushed his feet along the dirt to roll the bike down the side yard of the house.

When he was on the street he started the engine. It rumbled low and loud. He turned around and saw Mohan in the house staring at him through the window. Looking away and toward the paved road ahead, Manmohan pulled the throttle and sped down the hill toward Suva, the bike sounding like a thousand growling lions racing through Fiji.

~   ~   ~

It was well past midnight when Manmohan got home. He tiptoed through the house to bed, his family already sleeping.

He had gone to the beach, gazing out into the water where the horizon was impossible to discern because the black sky merged so completely with the black sea. He sat there wishing for India, especially for the time of his life when he was fatherless: the pond, his mother’s voice as she read from the Holy Book, and Vikram’s yowls while chasing bullock fearlessly through the fields. He remembered Satnam as a young boy carving wood and the gentle way he helped their mother serve dinner, saving the largest portions for everyone else. Strange that he had thought of that, to recall his brother once being so selfless. Satnam had grown so much out of that virtue.

Manmohan had not stayed long at the beach. Growing restless with nothing but darkness in front of him, he had sped away from the shoreline through Suva to the main road that cut into the jungle. But somewhere around Veisari, just past the dairy farm, he had turned back, prickled with guilt. Maybe he was not seeing the situation from the right angle. Maybe he needed to reassess.

His bare feet were quiet now on the linoleum floor. Grit was on his cheeks and lips from the ride. He stopped in the washroom to rinse off, patting his face dry with a clean towel.

On his way down the hallway toward his room, he peeked in on Mohan. His son was flung face down on his bed, still fully dressed. Sighing, Manmohan carefully closed the door and tiptoed on. Climbing under the covers next to his wife, he decided they would have a talk tomorrow evening to clear up all the misunderstanding.

The next day, however, his son did not come home.

“He did not go to school today,” Jai said, shoving a note from Mr. Gupta at her husband.

It was written in the scribble of a man who had been annoyed when writing it: “Your son failed to attend classes today. His marks, as you are aware, need serious improvement. I do not think he is studying at all. If there is some family matter that requires Mohan’s absence or that is affecting his progress, please keep me informed as I cannot plan for his best interests without this information.”

Manmohan flung the note aside. “That boy must hate me,” he said, slapping the table with his palm.

They waited over an hour, sitting stiffly in the kitchen. Neither spoke, saving their words, their lips pressed into knife slits. They knew Mohan would come home, eventually. If it were something awful, they would have heard about it from the neighbors. It was a small island.

Darshan tugged at Manmohan’s leg once, wanting to be lifted, but Manmohan did not respond. Jai gestured the boy over.

Without warning, the front door swung violently inward, banging against the wall. Their Hindu neighbor Mr. Ram Seth entered the house, eyes wild with outrage. Raising his fist he shouted, “Your son is a misfit troublemaker!”

He shoved Mohan roughly inside by the shirt collar. “I do not want him near my son again.”

“What happened, ji?” Jai asked.

“They got into an accident,” Mr. Seth screamed. “On that stupid motorcycle of yours. They did not know what they were doing! Narain was almost killed. Don’t you watch your children?”

Manmohan nodded, not betraying his surprise, his face still hard. “I am sorry, ji. I did not know. We will talk with him.”

“You
should
have known,” Mr. Seth said, pivoting on his heel. He yanked the doorknob, slamming the door on his way out.

There was silence.

With a loud groan on the linoleum, Manmohan pushed his chair back and stood with deliberate slowness. He approached his son who was rocking unsteadily in the archway that separated the living room from the kitchen. Glancing around vacantly, Mohan smiled foolishly. There was a gash on his cheek.

Manmohan sniffed. Alcohol, potent like a spilled bottle. He grabbed the boy roughly by the chin and bent forward to smell his mouth. Grimacing, he pushed Mohan away.

“I have seen
you
drink, Bapu,” his son said, indignant.

Manmohan grabbed him violently by the arm. “Not like this!”

Jai coolly examined Mohan’s cut. “He seems fine.”

“It is not so bad,” Mohan replied, his speech slurred.

“What happened to the Seth boy?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“Narain?” Mohan chuckled. “He is fine. Fine, fine, fine.”

Jai dabbed at his cut with a cloth and he waved her away. “Bapu, I had to try it.” He staggered then caught his balance, suddenly smiling. “We did it! We fixed the old thing! There is something I can do right!” He laughed.

“Stop it,” Manmohan said sharply. “What is wrong with you?”

Mohan stopped laughing, and his eyes grew very large as he considered the question. “I do not know, Bapu.”

“Get yourself together.”

“It rides nicely,” Mohan said. “It was perfect. Although we did not get very far.” He pointed toward the street, stumbling backwards.

At this Manmohan snatched up his truck keys and went out. He found the motorcycle in a ditch at the bottom of the hill, just before the road turned into Suva. Using the two-by-eight ramp of wood he always kept in the back to heave up large crates from the docks, he rolled the bike onto the truck bed. One of the motorcycle’s side mirrors had broken off, and there was a deep dent in the fuel tank. At home, he chained the bike to one of the tarpaulin shed’s wooden posts. And for good measure, he kicked it, watching it wobble on its kickstand.

He went inside to discover Mohan had passed out in his room.

Idiocy, Manmohan thought, winding up the gramophone, turning the handle quickly, releasing his rage. The Duke was still on the table and he placed the needle on
Dusk
.

“Bapa,” a small voice said from behind him.

“It’s
Bapuuu
,” Manmohan replied, looking down at Darshan.

“Haaaan,” Darshan said.
Yes
. It was his first word, and he used it for everything.

“Come,” Manmohan said, his anger subsiding, leaving behind the dull pain of disillusionment. He lifted the three-year-old into his arms and went to the couch. Darshan’s breath smelled like cumin seeds. The boy touched his father’s beard with a small, clammy hand.

They stayed there for a while, and soon Darshan was sleeping. Manmohan listened to The Duke until the very end. When the gramophone quieted, he put his son to bed and locked up the cabinet radio, ignoring the growling of his stomach. He had not eaten dinner.

Jai was still awake when he brought the gramophone into their bedroom. She said nothing, but watched as he opened the closet door and tucked the machine away, followed by the key to the radio and a box containing his LP collection, Duke Ellington and his Famous Orchestra on the top.

He did not touch his music for the next two years.

And he did not touch the bike, either. It developed a rash of orangey-red that spread like a disease. The overhead tarpaulin collected pools of water until it finally tore and collapsed under the weight. For the next twenty-four months, it covered the bike like a shroud.

~   ~   ~

There was a great deal for which to be grateful. Manmohan had only to look at the accomplishments of his life, at the course on which he had so resolutely stayed in order to make something of himself. He had been waking long before dawn, sleepily strapping on his watch that told him he had eternities. It took two more years of diligence, of backbreaking labor to sustain the family dairy trade, of sweat and grit, of animal waste and patience, holding his tongue while Satnam did nothing and Baba Singh loved him anyway.

It had, however, been worth it. In Veisari, not far from the farm, there was a lumber mill once run by a family who had since returned to India, and now it was his, the fully operational business smoothly transitioned into his possession. He had already hired help, a few Hindus and also Onkar, an old villager from Barapind. He had already bought two Caterpillars, another World War II truck from Junker Singh, two flatbeds to haul wood across the island, and new machinery to treat felled logs transported from his several acres of backland to the mill where he would treat them in his kiln. Because the need for lumber was steady but not excessive, the business was valued as only moderately lucrative, as Baba Singh had noted several times since Manmohan signed the Fijian government’s one-hundred-year lease. Nonetheless, it was his, “as long as he could still contribute on the farm,” his father had told him.