“Be careful. He
is here.” She looks and sees a crowd of Shivalingams. Yes, they have come, too, honoring
Sylvia Sunethra’s invitation. And there he is, Ravan, next to his wife, who wears
a leaf-green sari. She must look away. Force herself not to look at that side of the
room because she knows that if his eyes meet hers, she will sag under the weight of
this sari, this blouse, skintight and constraining her breath.
On the poruwa, she is barely aware of the young man beside her. When she bends and unbends, worshiping
at the feet of a long line of elders, he too bends and unbends so that it seems he
is her double, her shadow, something without substance. It is only when their pinkie
fingers are tied together, the water flowing over their hands, that she is suddenly
aware that he is real, an actual man standing next to her, touching her.
She lets this man (her new husband! she thinks without comprehension) take her hand,
lead her off the poruwa to a settee bedecked in pure white plumeria, the fragrance from the flowers so intoxicating
that her head spins. She sits, she smiles over the heads of the people who come to
wish them well. She offers first one and then the other cheek to lipsticked aunties
who leave their mark on her skin, offers her hand to be grasped over and over by hearty
uncles.
There are so many people, some she has never seen before, some she hasn’t seen since
the Judge’s death. There are her new in-laws and their various people speaking to
her as if from far away, their tones suspiciously reminiscent of some fishing village.
She smiles, she nods, and is glad that this is all that is asked of her.
She sees him coming toward her. Ravan, as she has not seen him before. Confident,
self-contained, not the boy she knew. She knows he has come to claim her. Knows he
will lay his strong hand on her skin, those fingers will encircle her wrist, erasing
the touch of all these others, she knows he will say to all these strangers, “She
is mine. I’m taking her away now.” She is rising from her seat. His eyes are vacant
except for a sort of seething hatred. She watches his familiar lips move while he
says, “Congratulations. All the best to you.” He shakes her husband’s hand. The green-saried
wife kisses her quickly on each cheek and then they have moved away, into the crowd.
Visaka sits down carefully. The edges of things move back into themselves. There is
no more uncertainty in this world for her.
* * *
They honeymoon in the misty tea country where dark women in bright saris pulled over
their heads bend over bushes, fingers twisting about the very top leaves like quick,
busy insects. On cool hotel-room mornings she wakes to find her new husband, Nishan,
bringing her tea. They spend days in the hushed lunchrooms of various hotels or wandering
lush botanical gardens. At night there are awkward gropings. It isn’t until the fourth
night that she allows him to push hard into her. A completely new sensation, her flesh
wrapped around this man. It is painful, frightening, the way his breath becomes tense,
taut, until finally he shudders into her. She had not thought it would be like this.
She had never suspected that this was the ultimate goal in all those long embraces
in her hidden love-den. She realizes how carefully Ravan has kept this knowledge from
her.
When afterward, her husband looks carefully at the sheet to find the splotch of blood
that indicates her honor, she turns her head away. In the morning before they leave
she strips it from the bed, folds it up carefully, and puts it in their bag so that
he can present it to his mother. She knows that at the homecoming in two weeks it
will be discreetly displayed in the proper way so that all the family will know that
he has married a good girl, an unspoiled girl. Now she turns her head, settles it
into the crook of her elbow, in her heart twin shards of
is here.” She looks and sees a crowd of Shivalingams. Yes, they have come, too, honoring
Sylvia Sunethra’s invitation. And there he is, Ravan, next to his wife, who wears
a leaf-green sari. She must look away. Force herself not to look at that side of the
room because she knows that if his eyes meet hers, she will sag under the weight of
this sari, this blouse, skintight and constraining her breath.
On the poruwa, she is barely aware of the young man beside her. When she bends and unbends, worshiping
at the feet of a long line of elders, he too bends and unbends so that it seems he
is her double, her shadow, something without substance. It is only when their pinkie
fingers are tied together, the water flowing over their hands, that she is suddenly
aware that he is real, an actual man standing next to her, touching her.
She lets this man (her new husband! she thinks without comprehension) take her hand,
lead her off the poruwa to a settee bedecked in pure white plumeria, the fragrance from the flowers so intoxicating
that her head spins. She sits, she smiles over the heads of the people who come to
wish them well. She offers first one and then the other cheek to lipsticked aunties
who leave their mark on her skin, offers her hand to be grasped over and over by hearty
uncles.
There are so many people, some she has never seen before, some she hasn’t seen since
the Judge’s death. There are her new in-laws and their various people speaking to
her as if from far away, their tones suspiciously reminiscent of some fishing village.
She smiles, she nods, and is glad that this is all that is asked of her.
She sees him coming toward her. Ravan, as she has not seen him before. Confident,
self-contained, not the boy she knew. She knows he has come to claim her. Knows he
will lay his strong hand on her skin, those fingers will encircle her wrist, erasing
the touch of all these others, she knows he will say to all these strangers, “She
is mine. I’m taking her away now.” She is rising from her seat. His eyes are vacant
except for a sort of seething hatred. She watches his familiar lips move while he
says, “Congratulations. All the best to you.” He shakes her husband’s hand. The green-saried
wife kisses her quickly on each cheek and then they have moved away, into the crowd.
Visaka sits down carefully. The edges of things move back into themselves. There is
no more uncertainty in this world for her.
* * *
They honeymoon in the misty tea country where dark women in bright saris pulled over
their heads bend over bushes, fingers twisting about the very top leaves like quick,
busy insects. On cool hotel-room mornings she wakes to find her new husband, Nishan,
bringing her tea. They spend days in the hushed lunchrooms of various hotels or wandering
lush botanical gardens. At night there are awkward gropings. It isn’t until the fourth
night that she allows him to push hard into her. A completely new sensation, her flesh
wrapped around this man. It is painful, frightening, the way his breath becomes tense,
taut, until finally he shudders into her. She had not thought it would be like this.
She had never suspected that this was the ultimate goal in all those long embraces
in her hidden love-den. She realizes how carefully Ravan has kept this knowledge from
her.
When afterward, her husband looks carefully at the sheet to find the splotch of blood
that indicates her honor, she turns her head away. In the morning before they leave
she strips it from the bed, folds it up carefully, and puts it in their bag so that
he can present it to his mother. She knows that at the homecoming in two weeks it
will be discreetly displayed in the proper way so that all the family will know that
he has married a good girl, an unspoiled girl. Now she turns her head, settles it
into the crook of her elbow, in her heart twin shards of
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