Julie’s husband. My confusion must have broken out like a hiddensun on my face. “Yes,” she said, “I’ve been married for a month or so. I thought I’d tell you next term, since we’ll be finishing up so soon. You girls are so, so inquisitive.”
I understood what she meant. The girls in our class, once they heard that Miss Julie was married, would crowd around her desk and tease her unmercifully. They would want to know all sorts of things, how handsome he was, how they had met, did she shave her legs before the wedding night and what else did she shave, things like that. I assured them that their secret was safe with me. Still, I thought she might have told us, so that we could have celebrated with her, brought her a gift, taken a half-holiday from classes.
Later, I wondered if Miss Julie had wanted to keep the marriage secret for another reason. Perhaps it wasn’t approved of by her parents, or perhaps they were too poor to have a big wedding and were ashamed. It never occurred to me to doubt their word, for the idea of Miss Julie having a boyfriend seemed too ridiculous. Yet that was the very rumor that swept through the school the next term. She never mentioned her marriage to anyone.
But this was Pi, not Madras, where liberated Christian schoolteachers might have as many boyfriends as they desired. The island was off the coast of India, not connected to the mainland, an eye, a tiny eye, to the teardrop that was Sri Lanka. It had been invaded and colonized somany times that it nonchalantly absorbed the morals of every culture that came to it. Castes intermarried, racial lines were blurred, and nearly everyone was an eighth something else. I was certain my family had both African and Dutch blood in it somewhere, but that was of course hushed up. Anthropology would prove me right, but religion remained an obstacle. Our family descended from pure-blooded priests, said my grandmother firmly, refusing argument. As such, we had our own codes for conduct, and old traditions reigned. Thus, to our acquaintances with similar histories and beliefs, my mother was a tramp.
The marketplace was a mixing ground for rich and poor. There were big stores with shiny windows displaying the latest sari fashions and jeans and small shacks selling betel leaf. Women spread their wares on burlap smoothed over pavement; men set up wooden crates to sell imported watches and fancy scarves. Book vendors showed off their fare on rickety, movable stands, the spines facing out. I always took a long time choosing a title from my favorite book vendor. All the books were used, and many were in English. Some were from religious publishers, some were commercial, and some were from a local press that published poetry on handmade paper. There was always a supply of Penguin paperbacks, and I often walked away with a good Jane Austen or George Eliot.
I dearly loved this stall. The owner was a fat Turkwho wore an embroidered fez and a short crimson vest. He had a face that seemed to exist only for his smile, which left him a dimpled baby. He didn’t mind how long I took with my selection, and sometimes let me sit on an old orange crate, reading a few pages to see if I liked the beginning.
But this day I didn’t have money for a book, so I turned to the food stalls. I picked ripe tomatoes, plump lemons, and slender eggplant. I found fresh garlic and bunches of coriander. What else did my grandmother want? A packet of sugar and small white onions. Finally, I was done, and began to debate over a cold soda or slices of peppered mango. I opted for the latter and made my way to the stall that sold the sweet, juicy, yellow-orange fruit. There was a white man there already, ready to pay for his purchase.
“One rupee,” said the owner.
“Not more than four anna,” said the foreigner and I together. He and I began to laugh, and the owner shrugged.
“Let me buy you a slice for coming to my aid,” said the man, sounding like an American.
I
I understood what she meant. The girls in our class, once they heard that Miss Julie was married, would crowd around her desk and tease her unmercifully. They would want to know all sorts of things, how handsome he was, how they had met, did she shave her legs before the wedding night and what else did she shave, things like that. I assured them that their secret was safe with me. Still, I thought she might have told us, so that we could have celebrated with her, brought her a gift, taken a half-holiday from classes.
Later, I wondered if Miss Julie had wanted to keep the marriage secret for another reason. Perhaps it wasn’t approved of by her parents, or perhaps they were too poor to have a big wedding and were ashamed. It never occurred to me to doubt their word, for the idea of Miss Julie having a boyfriend seemed too ridiculous. Yet that was the very rumor that swept through the school the next term. She never mentioned her marriage to anyone.
But this was Pi, not Madras, where liberated Christian schoolteachers might have as many boyfriends as they desired. The island was off the coast of India, not connected to the mainland, an eye, a tiny eye, to the teardrop that was Sri Lanka. It had been invaded and colonized somany times that it nonchalantly absorbed the morals of every culture that came to it. Castes intermarried, racial lines were blurred, and nearly everyone was an eighth something else. I was certain my family had both African and Dutch blood in it somewhere, but that was of course hushed up. Anthropology would prove me right, but religion remained an obstacle. Our family descended from pure-blooded priests, said my grandmother firmly, refusing argument. As such, we had our own codes for conduct, and old traditions reigned. Thus, to our acquaintances with similar histories and beliefs, my mother was a tramp.
The marketplace was a mixing ground for rich and poor. There were big stores with shiny windows displaying the latest sari fashions and jeans and small shacks selling betel leaf. Women spread their wares on burlap smoothed over pavement; men set up wooden crates to sell imported watches and fancy scarves. Book vendors showed off their fare on rickety, movable stands, the spines facing out. I always took a long time choosing a title from my favorite book vendor. All the books were used, and many were in English. Some were from religious publishers, some were commercial, and some were from a local press that published poetry on handmade paper. There was always a supply of Penguin paperbacks, and I often walked away with a good Jane Austen or George Eliot.
I dearly loved this stall. The owner was a fat Turkwho wore an embroidered fez and a short crimson vest. He had a face that seemed to exist only for his smile, which left him a dimpled baby. He didn’t mind how long I took with my selection, and sometimes let me sit on an old orange crate, reading a few pages to see if I liked the beginning.
But this day I didn’t have money for a book, so I turned to the food stalls. I picked ripe tomatoes, plump lemons, and slender eggplant. I found fresh garlic and bunches of coriander. What else did my grandmother want? A packet of sugar and small white onions. Finally, I was done, and began to debate over a cold soda or slices of peppered mango. I opted for the latter and made my way to the stall that sold the sweet, juicy, yellow-orange fruit. There was a white man there already, ready to pay for his purchase.
“One rupee,” said the owner.
“Not more than four anna,” said the foreigner and I together. He and I began to laugh, and the owner shrugged.
“Let me buy you a slice for coming to my aid,” said the man, sounding like an American.
I
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