Darshan (49 page)

“Of course.”

“How did you know?”

“Because he told me. He told all of us. He remembered you very well.” She closed her eyes.

“She is always so tired,” Neena told him. “She should sleep now.”

Darshan murmured his agreement, but was unable to move. He stroked Simran’s hair, course and silver with age, and she smiled as though enjoying his touch. She had seen him. She knew him. As he looked up at Neena, who waited patiently, he realized they all knew him.

But he did not know why.

~   ~   ~

Mornings were different in Barapind village, the quiet more pervasive than in town. It was a sacred silence, the silence of peace and pigment, found in blades of grass and clods of soil, in slumbering creatures not yet awake. The Toor house resided in this tranquility, a monument to an end of things, slowly crumbling in its return to the earth, sagging under its own weight like the skin of an old person hanging on bones.

Several villagers gathered around inquisitively, regarding Darshan with warmth. A young boy kicked a rock toward him, giggled and ran away. Taking their offered hands Darshan murmured,
sat sri akal, sat sri akal
.

“We knew your grandfather,” one of them said. “My grandfather was Onkar Singh. They were very good friends. You must come to us for tea.”

“Of course, ji,” Darshan replied. “I would like that very much.”

Pleased, the man sent a girl in search of her mother to make preparations.

Shamsher indicated the house. “It is not safe,” he said when Darshan put his hand on the door. “You should not go inside. There is nothing left.”

“I will not be long,” Darshan told him.

Pieces of plaster crunched under his shoes as he entered the main hall. Above him, a cracked ceiling beam bent downwards. Upstairs, the roof had collapsed. He found an empty burlap sack in the pantry, the cement floor stained the color of brown, red, and gold spices. He paced the main hall for a time, searching, dragging his hand along the walls, touching crevices and jutting nails where pictures had once hung. Finally he squatted in the center of the room, his head in his hands, making one final effort to rouse some feelings of regret, of connection and loss. He thought perhaps he might remember why he had really come here.

Disappointed, he rose, shutting the door behind him as he went back outside.

Another villager, breathing hard as if from the exertion of running, wordlessly gave him a bundle bound in a piece of dirty cloth that contained several figurines carved in wood.

“I had these in my house,” the man said, pity in his eyes. “They were his. I saw him sometimes, speaking to them.”

Running his fingertips over the rough splintery curves and etched lines of each figurine, a horse and cow, a policeman and farmer, a bullock cart, Darshan suddenly saw the truth of his own life, the many sacrifices he had told himself were necessary, the willing victim he had allowed himself to become. He saw his own future, his decline into old age, the years passing in solitude so that one day he too would be pitied.

“Do you still believe in God?” he had once asked Elizabeth.

“Not that one,” she told him. “I have perspective now. I’m smarter. It isn’t possible to learn all that we need in this one life, to earn heaven or hell in only seventy some odd years. It’s ridiculous. It’s beneath us to think so.”

“Then what do you believe in?”

“Nothing,” she replied, perhaps too quickly. “Everything.” Exasperated, she had shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to figure it out.”

Darshan turned to the villager. “Please keep these,” he said, rewrapping the figurines. “They do not belong with me.”

He sat for tea with Onkar’s family, listening to what he already knew, that Baba Singh had long ago fled the village with promises to come back, and although he had returned in body, in spirit he had not. For some years he had wandered the lanes of Barapind with an expression of horror on his face, speaking to no one, mumbling only the name of his wife.

~   ~   ~

Elizabeth’s ruffled, loose-fitting sundress pressed against her body in the hot wind as she glanced around the New Delhi tarmac, the long line of passengers ahead of her already crowding the entrance to the terminal. As if feeling Darshan’s eyes, she looked up, shielding her face from the sun with a magazine, squinting at him. He waved through the window.

She entered the terminal, a medium-sized suitcase in her hand. She took her time, walking slowly, and as she stopped before him, she regarded him circumspectly. “I was surprised by your telegram,” she said, releasing the bag and letting it drop heavily to the floor. She pulled a small piece of paper from her purse. “I never expected this.”

“I didn’t think you would come,” he replied, sitting against the slim, metal edge of the windowsill.

“After the last time I saw you, Stewart and I weren’t the same. I thought maybe you would come back. I tried calling, but you disappeared.”

“Everything fell apart.”

“Do your parents know?”

He shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter. They will be angry with me in any case.”

“Were you serious about it?”

“I would not ask lightly.”

She took a moment to consider this, creasing the telegram in half, folding it over again. “I thought so,” she finally said. “That’s why I came. But I was married once before, to God. We had rings, meditated on his image. It was very symbolic. As it turned out, He was full of shit.”

“He never asked you,” Darshan told her.

She smiled slightly, then told him resolutely, “Nothing religious. I don’t want people watching. We don’t have to prove anything. I want it to be real.”

“I understand,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Now?”

He took her bag and held out his hand.

The New Delhi courthouse was muggy, its once colonial halls shabby and unkempt, crowded with plaintiffs and petty criminals, all sweating profusely, their shirts stained at the collars and armpits. An official called out Darshan’s name. He rose from his plastic chair and took Elizabeth’s hand. She pinched a piece of lint from his trimmed beard and smiled. Her hair was pulled back, making the sharp angles of her face appear more elegant, accentuated by the blush she had dabbed on her cheeks and the brown eye shadow she had painted on her eyelids. People stared at her as she passed through the waiting area, her arm in the crook of Darshan’s elbow.

The official pointed toward two chairs at a large desk, then seated himself opposite. Dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, he began busying himself with arranging papers. A floor-fan whirred. Darshan cleared his throat into his fist. The official suspiciously glanced up, then returned his attention to his work.

Elizabeth did not move. Her hands were cupped together, resting lightly in her lap. Her posture was immaculately straight, her chin slightly elevated, her ankles crossed as her grandmother had taught her. Darshan reached for her pinky finger and her sitting etiquette began to crumble as she pursed her lips to hold back a smile, then fully dissolved as she slouched and rolled her eyes. He looked at her in amusement.

The official finally set down his pen. He briskly clasped his palms together, then stacked several papers in front of them for their review. “It is good for you?” he asked.

“It’s written in Hindi,” Elizabeth said.

The official regarded her with annoyance. “You like him?” he asked, nodding at Darshan.

“Yes.”

He tapped the bottom of one of the documents. “Then please, sign here.”

She scribbled her signature, a faint smile on her lips, and passed the pen to Darshan.

The official appraised their signatures before violently stamping the certificate. “Congratulations,” he said briskly, bowing as he presented it to them. Without wasting any time, he then walked out of the room.

Elizabeth began to laugh. Hot, she used the marriage license to fan her face.

Grinning, Darshan loosened his tie. “I want to take you somewhere,” he said. “I want you to meet some people.”

“Who?”

“Family,” he replied. “They are waiting.”

And as they dined with Shamsher, Neena, and the villagers of Barapind in a makeshift reception, feasting on fresh foods, chai, and sweets, absorbing the wonders of the earth and accepting the unguarded affection of the Toor family that still existed here, listening to their stories, Darshan was wholly prepared for the flight back home to San Francisco, where Manmohan sat in his hard wooden chair, an inimical expression darkening his face.

~   ~   ~

Victoria Quinn fondly embraced Darshan. After a moment she released him, holding him at arm’s length, a hint of sorrow behind the horn-rimmed glasses she wore on a chain around her neck. Her white hair glowed in the light of the dining room’s antique chandelier. “I am very happy you are here,” she told her new son-in-law. She took Elizabeth’s hand, patted it affectionately before retreating to the kitchen and returning with a decanter of tomato juice.

“Tell us about your trip,” she said, putting the juice on the table and taking out some glasses from the china cabinet. Adjusting her polyester dress before sitting, she gestured that they join her.

Colleen frowned at Elizabeth. “You said there was nothing left to say to him.”

“Colleen—”

“I have never been to India,” Victoria interrupted, pouring the tomato juice. “I expect it was beautiful.” She looked pointedly at Colleen. “I expect it was exactly what they needed.”

“Yes,” Darshan said, opening a pouch of recently developed photos and setting them next to the tomato juice.

“I would like to meet your family, Darshan,” Victoria said.

He nodded apologetically. “I will tell them you said so.”

She crossed her nyloned, varicose-veined legs, drank her juice. “By the looks on your faces, you seem to have made a very good decision.” She gathered up the pictures and began to slowly flip through them, taking her time with each one before passing them to Colleen, a sentimental and mysterious smile on her lips. “Are they your family in India?” she asked Darshan, pointing to a picture of Shamsher and Neena posing in front of the blacksmith shop.

“A distant aunt and uncle.”

“You look so much like this woman.”

“I thought the same thing,” Elizabeth said, taking the photo.

“And this house?” Colleen asked.

“It was my family’s.”

“It seems that you both had such a lovely time,” Victoria told them wistfully.

“Victoria,” Darshan said, “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t about me.”

Elizabeth began to collect the dirty glasses. “Mom, we don’t mean to rush off, but we’d better go before it gets late.”

Darshan nodded. “My parents will have a lot to say.”

“Yes,” Victoria said, pushing back her chair. “From what I understand, it has been a while. They should know that you are home and safe.”

In the driveway, before getting in the car, Darshan removed the picture of the house, looking at the balcony split in half and toppled inward, at the front columns ravaged by the might of monsoon seasons. Victoria was watching from the house, waving to them through the window. He waved back, and then he slipped the print into his blazer, separate from all the others, before gathering his courage to go home.

The apartment on 24th Street was strangely without scent; Jai had not cooked, had not put on tea. The girls had just come home from buying groceries, and Manmohan sat in his chair, which had been moved to the window, eyes flat as he gazed outside.

Elizabeth greeted everyone warmly. “I met your relatives,” she said, holding out the photos. “They were very nice people.” No one took them. She put them on the coffee table.

Navpreet scowled at her. “My first semester of medical school was wasted on cleaning up the mess Darshan left us with at Howard and the restaurant. My professors don’t take me seriously.”

“I don’t think that’s what he intended,” Elizabeth replied. She still had not sat, and no one asked her to.

Darshan kneeled beside his father, who would not look at him. “Bapu? Shouldn’t we try to be happy?”

“We have never lived for happiness,” Manmohan replied.

“What will people say?” Jai asked. “How can we tell them that our family and hers are now joined and they were not asked to be a part of it?”

Darshan sighed heavily. “I am certain people will understand the unusual circumstances.”

“How can they understand when I do not?”

“Thank you for the braces,” Livleen said, her front teeth lined with metal brackets.

With relief, Darshan smiled at her.

She did not return his smile. “I tried to find you.”

“I was tired. I had to do something for myself.”

“We all need that,” his sister said. “But we never ran away.”

Looking at their faces, the resentment in each of their expressions, he understood that his choice would be with him always, that they would never recall the efforts he had made for them, how readily and sincerely he had always loved them, but this one thing they would never forget.

~   ~   ~

Darshan could not remember the pundit’s face, only the red stains of some sort of powder on his hairless, muscular chest, the terrifying might of his arms as he had offered his tray of turmeric paste.
There is an opportunity for you
, the priest whispered in his mind, nudging him to speak to the fat stranger with dark sunglasses now sitting in the living room across from him.
He knows everything
, the voice said, and as Darshan regarded the man who was his only brother, flanked by a toothless woman and two meek and terrified children, he shrank away, certain that it was not possible.

“You did not tell me he was coming,” Manmohan said grimly to Darshan.

“I did not know,” Darshan replied.

Mohan stared at Elizabeth, a mocking twitch at the corners of his mouth. He sat loosely, his legs carelessly spread, stroking the end of his long beard, tugging at it, wrapping the tip of it around his finger. Darshan saw his wife force a courteous smile.