Darshan (39 page)

“Where did he go?”

“To America. To San Francisco.” Thinking of Desa, Manmohan’s expression hardened. “Maybe to you this does not seem like much, but it is very far. In those days, for village people in India, it was so remote it was considered the end of the earth. They did not even know it existed.”

Darshan clicked his pencil on the desk. “Times are not like that anymore. Today there are no warriors. We are not fighting for anything. The answers are not as clear.”

“Perhaps not,” Manmohan said. “But whatever great quests he embarked on, no matter the complications, clear or unclear, your great uncle never forgot his home or his family. In the end, he went back. To them.”

~   ~   ~

Manmohan studied his profile in the washroom mirror. He was fifty now, still too early to visibly see the manifestations of his Ankylosing Spondylitis, but there was nonetheless pain in his spine, a dull and persistent ache. He inched closer to the mirror, pressing his forehead against the two-by-two-foot square of glass propped on a wooden shelf to scrutinize his naked torso, searching for even the smallest outward indication of the disease, but he found nothing. His forehead left a greasy imprint on the already chipped and dirtied mirror. The aluminum tub behind him steamed with fresh, hot water. Jai had poured his bath.

Stepping carefully into the water, one foot, then the other, he sat on the stool placed just outside the tub, bent over and splashed and rubbed his face. He soaped his beard and hair, then lathered his underarms. Standing, using a small container, he scooped up and dumped water over his head, rinsing the soap away, splashing the tiled floor. When he was finished, he sat again and watched the sudsy dirt of his body flow to the drain in the center of the room, his eyes going out of focus as he thought of his children.

The whiny pitch in Navpreet’s voice, forever resentful of any small measure of work she was asked to contribute to the family, often ground like chalk on his nerves. Livleen quietly roamed the house like a lost spirit, making him feel withered and awkward in her presence. And Mohan roused such fury and bottomless sorrow. Manmohan could not comprehend his life now without Darshan in it, to be left with these others who gave him no comfort.

He reached for a towel and patted down his body, already knowing without having to be told which school his son had chosen. Despite all of Darshan’s doubts and reservations, Manmohan had seen a spark of fascination for Ranjit’s story on his face, for this morsel of Toor family history, a small piece of which had taken place in America.

Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Manmohan assessed himself once more; his tucked beard still held water, his loose, wet hair clung to his back, his nose and cheeks were shiny, eyes resolute and bright with sudden and desperate hope.

~   ~   ~

The green of the freshly-cut grass beneath Manmohan’s sandals was almost florescent, as if the sun itself had burrowed inside each blade. The earth was soft, healthy and reassuring, relieving the aches in his knee joints as he stood waiting with the families who had gathered on Mahatma Gandhi Memorial high school’s soccer field for the senior class commencement ceremony to begin.

At last the headmaster crossed the field, wearing a new pullover for the occasion, appearing stately and academic. He cleared his throat and, without the formality of first giving a speech, promptly began to call out names in a booming voice too loud for the small assembly of twenty-two students and a few of their family members. The graduates stood alert, listening, walking toward him with an awkward, unripe dignity when called upon to accept their diplomas. Unaware of the greater world into which they would now be thrust, they grinned foolishly as the headmaster bestowed upon them thin foldable leaflets indicating the year of their achievement.

One by one, the line of waiting graduates shortened, until at last, finishing off the list, the headmaster called, “Darshan Singh Toor.”

Manmohan watched as his son approached to receive his diploma. Darshan wore, as did all the graduates, a newly washed uniform: khaki trousers, polished black loafers, a blue sweater-vest over a white short-sleeve shirt. But in other ways he was distinctly different from his classmates. Whereas they were playful and self-conscious, Darshan was serious and reserved. The only Sikh in the class, his beard was getting longer, curling around his jaw line. He walked with an easy grace, his posture, as always, straight. His eyes were direct, respectful but not challenging as he gravely turned to wave the certificate at his family.

The headmaster smiled. “Congratulations to you all,” he bellowed, concluding the commencement. The group began to disperse, and Darshan joined his family.

Navpreet snatched the document from her brother. “Whatever happened to Oxford?”

He shrugged.

“I suppose if you insist on going to America, we will never see each other again,” she said, “since I am going to Oxford.”

Jai carefully took the diploma from Navpreet, regarding it with pride.

Livleen was quiet, sitting cross-legged in the grass, staring out into the field where the graduates had excitedly clumped together. Manmohan followed her gaze, then looked back at her. She absently pulled a small, isolated daisy from the ground and tossed it aside, then began plucking out single blades of grass.

A movement beyond the crowd of graduates caught Manmohan’s attention, a long arm waving over the students’ heads. “Darshan!” Mohan called.

“What is he doing here?” Jai asked in a hushed whisper.

Darshan’s eyes flicked toward his brother, then away as if pretending he had not noticed.

“Come, we are leaving,” Manmohan said, already moving across the field toward the Falcon parked on the street.

“When Darshan leaves, can I use the car?” Navpreet asked, kicking an invisible ball to the rusted metal goal posts.

“No,” Manmohan said.

“But why not?”

Jai held her daughter back a step. “For what purpose?” she asked.

Navpreet sulked. “I have perfect marks in school, which is better than him. Bapu always says how important school is.”

“You do not need a car to get there,” Manmohan said as they approached the Falcon. He gestured for her to get in the backseat.

A priest from Suva’s gurdwara was waiting for them outside the main house by the time they arrived home. He had come early to set up the holy book in the living room for the kirtan Manmohan had arranged for Darshan’s accomplishment. Jai went into the kitchen with Livleen and Navpreet to prepare for the lunch they would later serve, and Manmohan and Darshan set about moving all the furniture into the bedrooms and laying cushions and sheets over the floor. When the room had been emptied, they screwed hooks into the wall beams and hung a silk overhang in the front of the room. Satisfied, the priest arranged the holy book beneath it and seated himself comfortably, readying for a long reading. He opened a bag and took out a flywhisk, torpidly waving it several times over the book, then waited for the guests to arrive.

Junker Singh was the first to enter the house. Saying a quick hello, Jai brushed past him on her way outside to help his wife bring up the sweets they would later pass around.

The mechanic shook Manmohan’s hand, then turned to Darshan. “When do you leave?” he asked.

“One week.”

Raising his eyebrows, Junker Singh replied, “So soon?”

“There will be a lot to do before school starts.”

The mechanic positioned himself on the floor across from Navpreet and Livleen, who were already sitting cross-legged by the makeshift aisle of red cloth Jai was using for the guests to approach and pay their respects to the holy book. “It is much sooner than I expected,” he said.

Darshan sat next to him, and Junker Singh took his hand, holding it close to his chest. Darshan made no move to withdraw it. Manmohan watched the two of them, stepping back several feet to leave them be, lowering himself onto a floor cushion.

The neighbors, Dev, Kalyan, Paandu, and their wives soon entered, bowing before the Guru Granth Sahib and taking a seat. The millworkers, Chandan, Sabar, and Vasant joined, and finally, after several of Darshan’s classmates and their families arrived, filling the room, the priest began to read in a droning, singing voice. Manmohan was struck by the powerful nature of that voice, by the command for tranquility in it. The reading was rhythmic and undulating despite its monotony. It was a voice that carried men with it.

He looked at Darshan, observing the way his son’s head was bent slightly forward, eyes fixed on the priest, listening. Wincing slightly, Manmohan tried to pull his legs underneath him. He was in pain but did not wish to retreat to the rear of the room and sit unobtrusively on a chair the way the old men of the village had done in Amarpur. But Darshan, catching his father’s movement from the corner of his eye, rose without a word to get a chair from one of the other rooms. Manmohan watched him go both gratefully and resentfully. Sighing, he stood and, careful not to step on hands and feet, wove through the guests and took his place in the chair Darshan had positioned near the entrance to the hallway.

Navpreet observed her brother from across the room, then rolled her eyes and slowly mouthed the words “show” and “off.”

After another hour, at last the priest raised his voice to bring the prayer to a close, singing, “Saaaat sriiiii akaaal. Waheguru ji ka khalsaaaa, waheguru ji ki fateh.”

Bodies stirred, and people began to stand and stretch, the men making their way to the balcony and the women into the kitchen. Soon the smells of lunch being warmed wafted through the house. Jai had prepared stuffed bitter melon and kidney bean curry, both Darshan’s favorites and testaments to her skill in the kitchen. People ate ravenously, afterwards lingering over cups of warm chai. Soon the afternoon clouds darkened the sky prematurely, threatening rain, and they began to slowly go home.

When the last of the guests had gone, Manmohan looked about his house at the remnants of celebratory prayer, at the cushions and crumpled sheets in corners that no longer covered the floor, at the empty tin cups left on the window mantles, at the awning under which the holy book no longer rested. Some of the wives had offered to help tidy and restore the house, but Jai had sent them away. She, like he, enjoyed the quiet aftermath of such events, the echo of happiness, the memory of laughing voices in the air.

Drowsy from the food and in good spirits, he went in search of Darshan, who had earlier gone outside with several of his friends to say goodbye. From the balcony, he saw his son under the carport, resting on the hood of his Falcon.

Manmohan carefully descended the stairs to join him, leaving his cane at the bottom of the banister. Approaching the carport, he saw that Darshan held a rectangular metal box the size of a lunch tiffin in his lap and was gazing down at it somberly, his face shadowy in the fading light.

“Everyone has gone home,” Manmohan told him.

Darshan lifted his eyes to look directly at his father. “You must be tired.”

“A little.”

His son looked down once more at the box and then held it up. “Junker Uncle gave this to me. He left. He told me to say goodbye.”

Manmohan took the box, opening the lid to discover a small tool set, complete with two screwdrivers, miniature hammer, pliers, nails, and screws. His throat constricted. “When you were young—” he abruptly stopped himself, memories confused: the daily ritual of constructing houses made of brick in the backyard, the hollow tap of a plastic hammer on a hard surface, repairs to be made, a sturdy bridge over the river, and a shack in the jungle that no boy should have ever been able to build alone.

“Bapu?”

Manmohan took a breath and shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “It must be strange to leave. Everything you know is here.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Are you nervous?”

Darshan slid down the hood of the Falcon, careful not to scratch the paint. “Maybe.”

As was his habit, Manmohan touched his watch. “That is good. It means you are alive. Maybe it even means you are ready.” He brought the face of the watch close to his ear and listened. It ticked, loudly and with strength, like blood pumping in his ears. Lowering his arm, he unclasped the band. “Give me your hand,” he said.

Darshan’s eyes widened as Manmohan gently took hold of his son’s wrist and fastened the watch around it. “I had it fixed. It is a bit loose, but it will not be long before it fits.”

Shaking his arm so the watch shimmied down into place, Darshan tentatively regarded it, waves of emotion flickering across his face. Manmohan watched him, seeing the shape of his own wrist wrapped around his son’s, wondering what would come next.

~   ~   ~

 “It cannot be real,” Navpreet said in awe, nudging Livleen with her elbow, astounded by the size of the jets parked along the tree-lined apron of Nadi airport.

Livleen squinted down the runway and gave a slight, uninterested nod of agreement. “Yes, they are very big.”

Jai looked skeptically at the planes. “Will you be safe?” she asked Darshan.

The airport had changed since Manmohan had last been here with his father and brothers. Several more gates had been added to the apron, and the runway had been lengthened to accommodate the larger, louder-engined airliners. And not just one, but three airplanes taxied the runway. “He will be fine.”

Darshan squeezed his mother’s shoulder reassuringly, then looked at Manmohan. “Can you drive back?”

“I will be watching him,” Navpreet said, her hands clinging to the chain-link fence through which they would watch Darshan take off. “You are not the only one who ever did anything.”

“Here,” Jai said, handing Darshan a cloth full of parathas. “To eat on the plane.”

“Thank you, Bebe,” he said. He was dressed in a new tailored suit. His tie was neat at the collar, pulled out over the vest, the end of it tucked into his trousers.

An outdoor loudspeaker at the top of a thin pole crackled. “Flight to San Francisco, boarding in five minutes.”