office at the university in Berkeley. She was standing behind me swearing colorfully in Spanish and I began laughing at the creativity and turned to see who the speaker was.
Our eyes met, and we laughed, and she asked my name, but it was as if she already knew.
The next day we shared chili rellenos in a restaurant on Telegraph Avenue, and the second half of that day was spent in a library together. We were grad students after all. But it was like we were simply re-acquainting after a time apart. By the week’s end we were rolling naked in a bed too small, in an apartment with one closet. We kissed chow mien from each other’s lips, memorized lines from old movies, and body-surfed in cool waves. It became a single year of bliss.
For three hundred and seventy days Lilia and I were a union, studied together, and spoke the language of academicians and lovers. The future was ours, I ready to discover the roots of great poetry, she the roots of healing plants. Then the bubble, in a few short seconds, took it all. And those horrible seconds replayed far too often in my nightmares.
I spread Lilia’s ashes in our favorite swimming cove the day we were to be married, and in the months that followed, friends came to me the way the doctors had, comforting me with selected words, telling me to keep her face in my memory. They wrapped consoling arms about my shoulders and said in sad intonation, ‘celebrate your time together, Marty. Take the joy you shared and never forget how wonderful it was.’ Fuck them. Fuck them! They didn’t feel the blade that sliced into me when I saw the curve of her shoulders and hair. They didn’t feel the ripping of arteries when I gazed into the eyes that no longer looked back. No, I wouldn’t celebrate those memories. I couldn’t, because every time I did it felt like my flesh was on fire and my soul was being charred.
So, I took the union of a thousand lifetimes and hid it. I took her face, her smell, her touch, every piece of her, and set it in a box and cast it into the closet of my past life. And I left. Some might even say I fled.
I looked at the fan again and drew a breath. I was in back in Varanasi and Lilia’s face had receded once more. Sahr’s coffee was calling me to splash it with milk and sip it in my wobbly chair. Read the local news. Ease into the day. There were the cave photographs to be loaded into the computer, linguistic mysteries to be solved.
“Good morning, Sahr.” I entered the kitchen sheepishly, having been too exhausted the previous evening to eat much. I'd snacked only on a few fritters and gone straight to bed instead of sitting down to the meal she had prepared for me.
“Good morning, Master Bhimaji. How is the famous explorer of caves doing this fine day?” I glanced at her frown. Behind it was the faintest hint of a grin, and behind that the same worried look as the day before. The fear that my journey was going to cause some great physical harm to me, if not induce worldwide calamity, still hovered.
“I am doing quite well this morning, as you can see. I thought it might be good to eat a few of those delicious puris you prepared last night, and some pakoras too. No American toast for me today.” Good way to start the conversation.
“As you wish, Sahib. I will heat them for you. The puris will likely be flat and oily since they have gone uneaten for ten hours, but the pakoras will be nearly as good as they would have been last night.” I didn’t miss the ‘nearly’ part. I was receiving Sahr’s version of a slap on the wrist. I also noted her use of the title ‘Sahib,’ her verbal version of a frown.
I ladled out a healthy portion of compliments as I ate breakfast, and as Sahr was clearing the plate I had nearly licked clean, added one more, “You could have cooked for Radha and Krishna, Sahr. No one on the planet makes pakoras as good as yours. They are fit for the gods.”
“Bhimaji is either joking with me or he wants
Our eyes met, and we laughed, and she asked my name, but it was as if she already knew.
The next day we shared chili rellenos in a restaurant on Telegraph Avenue, and the second half of that day was spent in a library together. We were grad students after all. But it was like we were simply re-acquainting after a time apart. By the week’s end we were rolling naked in a bed too small, in an apartment with one closet. We kissed chow mien from each other’s lips, memorized lines from old movies, and body-surfed in cool waves. It became a single year of bliss.
For three hundred and seventy days Lilia and I were a union, studied together, and spoke the language of academicians and lovers. The future was ours, I ready to discover the roots of great poetry, she the roots of healing plants. Then the bubble, in a few short seconds, took it all. And those horrible seconds replayed far too often in my nightmares.
I spread Lilia’s ashes in our favorite swimming cove the day we were to be married, and in the months that followed, friends came to me the way the doctors had, comforting me with selected words, telling me to keep her face in my memory. They wrapped consoling arms about my shoulders and said in sad intonation, ‘celebrate your time together, Marty. Take the joy you shared and never forget how wonderful it was.’ Fuck them. Fuck them! They didn’t feel the blade that sliced into me when I saw the curve of her shoulders and hair. They didn’t feel the ripping of arteries when I gazed into the eyes that no longer looked back. No, I wouldn’t celebrate those memories. I couldn’t, because every time I did it felt like my flesh was on fire and my soul was being charred.
So, I took the union of a thousand lifetimes and hid it. I took her face, her smell, her touch, every piece of her, and set it in a box and cast it into the closet of my past life. And I left. Some might even say I fled.
I looked at the fan again and drew a breath. I was in back in Varanasi and Lilia’s face had receded once more. Sahr’s coffee was calling me to splash it with milk and sip it in my wobbly chair. Read the local news. Ease into the day. There were the cave photographs to be loaded into the computer, linguistic mysteries to be solved.
“Good morning, Sahr.” I entered the kitchen sheepishly, having been too exhausted the previous evening to eat much. I'd snacked only on a few fritters and gone straight to bed instead of sitting down to the meal she had prepared for me.
“Good morning, Master Bhimaji. How is the famous explorer of caves doing this fine day?” I glanced at her frown. Behind it was the faintest hint of a grin, and behind that the same worried look as the day before. The fear that my journey was going to cause some great physical harm to me, if not induce worldwide calamity, still hovered.
“I am doing quite well this morning, as you can see. I thought it might be good to eat a few of those delicious puris you prepared last night, and some pakoras too. No American toast for me today.” Good way to start the conversation.
“As you wish, Sahib. I will heat them for you. The puris will likely be flat and oily since they have gone uneaten for ten hours, but the pakoras will be nearly as good as they would have been last night.” I didn’t miss the ‘nearly’ part. I was receiving Sahr’s version of a slap on the wrist. I also noted her use of the title ‘Sahib,’ her verbal version of a frown.
I ladled out a healthy portion of compliments as I ate breakfast, and as Sahr was clearing the plate I had nearly licked clean, added one more, “You could have cooked for Radha and Krishna, Sahr. No one on the planet makes pakoras as good as yours. They are fit for the gods.”
“Bhimaji is either joking with me or he wants
Similar Books
