singing a Gloria softly, under her breath.
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THE MOTHER RECEIVES THE YOUNG COUPLE GRACIOUSLY; AS THE door closes behind them, the whispers start among the nuns. Howhandsome they are! See how fair their skin! Does the baby have his eyes? Is he a husband? A brother?
Mary sleeps soundly through the morning, through the hours that the couple spends closeted with the Mother. When the three finally emerge, they walk down the long white hall to her room, together. At the door, they see Mary and the baby, sleeping. Sushila steps forward and touches Mary gently on the shoulder. She wakes at once and at the sight of her sister begins to moan. The moan rises, louder and louder, into a panicked, broken wail. The nuns clustered in the hall move to defend, but the Mother stops them with an outstretched iron arm.
Sundar steps in, looks at his wife. Looks at Mary. Then he reaches forward and takes the baby from her limp arms. He turns away, cradling the child, tears bright in his eyes. He turns and walks out. Sushila brushes a few strands of hair from Maryâs forehead, then turns as well, following her husband, leaving her sister behind, to the nunsâ gentle care. She does not weep, but in the next few weeks, she is never more than a few steps away from her husband, her son.
The wails eventually lessen to low moans, almost inaudible. A day comes when Mary goes back to working in the garden. She does not smile, and she never does speak. The nuns continue to speculate, to conjecture, but though they discuss this for the rest of her life, invent a thousand different stories, they will never know the truth of it. They will never even come close.
Â
A dark girl, married off. Love, unexpected, and a child. A terrible disease, deaths. A sister, beautiful and fair, married off. A baby, a wet-nurse. A gift, a theft. Flight from a garden. A desperate search; a weeping man. The lost, found. Two women, lost.
The Princess in the Forest
Chicago, 1955
It is always summer in the forest. The sun shines down through the tall trees, the leaves of spreading banyan and coconut palm. Monkeys race from limb to limb, hanging precariously by single arm or leg; parakeets swoop and glide, silhouetted for dark moments against the brightness of sky.
The princess walks for hours, her face smooth as an undisturbed pool of water, her eyes laughing, light as butterflies. Newly married, full of adoration for her husband, her prince. Rama hunts in the forest; he pursues the slender hart, lays traps for cunning rabbits. But always he comes to his Sita before the sun is down, comes to their modest hut, their gentle home in exile. He smiles to see her, lays the game aside and takes her in his arms, draws her down to the forest floor, the soft grasses, and she loves him then, as the gopis loved blue Krishna, she loves him with everything she has, everything she is.
Â
âS HANTHI â YOU â LL BE LATE! â HER HUSBAND SCOLDS FROM THE kitchen doorway, their youngest daughter tucked under one arm, a book nestled in the other. Three days a week he watches the children, the days he doesnât teach, so that they can spend that time with a parent instead of with the hired black nanny. Shanthi doesnât know how he can read and mind the girls at the same time; she canât even think when sheâs with them. She canât understand now what had possessed her to keep having children, one after another, until there were six small heads to be tucked into bed. It was only after giving birth to Lakshmi that she had finally come to her senses.
Shanthi had told Aravindan that she would have no more children, that as soon as Lakshmi was weaned, she wanted to find a job. She had been ready with her argumentsâhad expected that she would have to win her husband over, talk him around. None of the other professorsâ wives worked. But she was different; she was smart, special. Shanthi had left Ceylon at nineteen, had attended graduate
Â
THE MOTHER RECEIVES THE YOUNG COUPLE GRACIOUSLY; AS THE door closes behind them, the whispers start among the nuns. Howhandsome they are! See how fair their skin! Does the baby have his eyes? Is he a husband? A brother?
Mary sleeps soundly through the morning, through the hours that the couple spends closeted with the Mother. When the three finally emerge, they walk down the long white hall to her room, together. At the door, they see Mary and the baby, sleeping. Sushila steps forward and touches Mary gently on the shoulder. She wakes at once and at the sight of her sister begins to moan. The moan rises, louder and louder, into a panicked, broken wail. The nuns clustered in the hall move to defend, but the Mother stops them with an outstretched iron arm.
Sundar steps in, looks at his wife. Looks at Mary. Then he reaches forward and takes the baby from her limp arms. He turns away, cradling the child, tears bright in his eyes. He turns and walks out. Sushila brushes a few strands of hair from Maryâs forehead, then turns as well, following her husband, leaving her sister behind, to the nunsâ gentle care. She does not weep, but in the next few weeks, she is never more than a few steps away from her husband, her son.
The wails eventually lessen to low moans, almost inaudible. A day comes when Mary goes back to working in the garden. She does not smile, and she never does speak. The nuns continue to speculate, to conjecture, but though they discuss this for the rest of her life, invent a thousand different stories, they will never know the truth of it. They will never even come close.
Â
A dark girl, married off. Love, unexpected, and a child. A terrible disease, deaths. A sister, beautiful and fair, married off. A baby, a wet-nurse. A gift, a theft. Flight from a garden. A desperate search; a weeping man. The lost, found. Two women, lost.
The Princess in the Forest
Chicago, 1955
It is always summer in the forest. The sun shines down through the tall trees, the leaves of spreading banyan and coconut palm. Monkeys race from limb to limb, hanging precariously by single arm or leg; parakeets swoop and glide, silhouetted for dark moments against the brightness of sky.
The princess walks for hours, her face smooth as an undisturbed pool of water, her eyes laughing, light as butterflies. Newly married, full of adoration for her husband, her prince. Rama hunts in the forest; he pursues the slender hart, lays traps for cunning rabbits. But always he comes to his Sita before the sun is down, comes to their modest hut, their gentle home in exile. He smiles to see her, lays the game aside and takes her in his arms, draws her down to the forest floor, the soft grasses, and she loves him then, as the gopis loved blue Krishna, she loves him with everything she has, everything she is.
Â
âS HANTHI â YOU â LL BE LATE! â HER HUSBAND SCOLDS FROM THE kitchen doorway, their youngest daughter tucked under one arm, a book nestled in the other. Three days a week he watches the children, the days he doesnât teach, so that they can spend that time with a parent instead of with the hired black nanny. Shanthi doesnât know how he can read and mind the girls at the same time; she canât even think when sheâs with them. She canât understand now what had possessed her to keep having children, one after another, until there were six small heads to be tucked into bed. It was only after giving birth to Lakshmi that she had finally come to her senses.
Shanthi had told Aravindan that she would have no more children, that as soon as Lakshmi was weaned, she wanted to find a job. She had been ready with her argumentsâhad expected that she would have to win her husband over, talk him around. None of the other professorsâ wives worked. But she was different; she was smart, special. Shanthi had left Ceylon at nineteen, had attended graduate
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