After I see his family I tell no one of his death. I give no sign. I carry on with my daily routine. My exam results arrive and despite everything they are good. In the absence of marriage offers it is agreed I should look for a job. On the surface it is as if nothing has happened. If I maintain this I will be a bright young girl.
But slowly things come back to me. They come in dreams at first, nightmares of him that are hard to place. I tell myself not to remember as I wake, but in the corner of my eye they remain.
He has something for her now: a few drops of acid left in a bottle in the fridge, a gift, wrapped in foil, kept in the dark, still potent, waiting for an occasion to be used.
He drops it on the back of my hand and I bring it to my mouth. He has another drop for himself. Now it’s done there’s no going back.
I’ve made my excuses with Aunty: I’m staying over at a friend’s house. It’s quiet in the colony. In the darkness outside good people have retreated to their beds, but we won’t sleep. He says I’ll see things tonight, the world will open up to me. I’ll see it for the illusion it really is.
We leave the flat and go down to the car. He says we’ll drive into the night out in the desert towards Jaipur.
Driving through the city, nothing happens for a long time. I say, Maybe it’s not working, maybe we should take some more? And he laughs and says, Trust me, it’s coming, you just have to wait.
It begins on the Gurgaon road. Yawning, each one sucking in a lungful of air, but it’s not tiredness, it’s something else, as if bubbles are rising and the atoms of the body are breaking loose. The buildings at the side tingle and shudder. The tail-lights of cars leave tracers of red in their wake. And in the belly, there’s this feeling of butterflies, the compulsion to bring it all up, the impossibility of it, and the knowledge that if you could, it would be nothing less than the universe, a projectile stream of galaxies from the mouth.
But this is only a whisper, a small wave, it comes, it goes. Relax, he says. Relax, and his voice comes to me from far away. I close my eyes and focus on the dark throbbing music he plays, the low hum of the engine. We’re on the highway in the desert.
I open my eyes to a carnivalesque world. Unhinged, the trucks come roaring at us with their painted faces and vicious mouths, the cheap flashing statues of neon gods that adorn their dashboards leading the charge, dancing into the void. Real objects slide on the surface of things. Solid spaces bend. What I once knew to be true is only a canvas to be painted on and torn apart. I turn to look at him and he’s a black beast with a grinning maw. I can’t help laughing out loud. I laugh at him for what seems like hours. There’s a panic somewhere there.
On the stereo the sheer terror of Vivaldi.
Haunting corridors and cloisters, bales of straw across fields, sweat cooling on the skin.
She loses speech, hearing.
Her sense of self, always so certain, so fearful, begins to fall away. Her personality, so fixed and inevitable, reveals itself to be entirely open to change.
Here it peaks.
And then it breaks.
Like passing from a raging torrent into a vast and eerie lake.
He pulls the car over at a dhaba. The engine dies, the music stops. She can hear it ticking as it cools. The silence is unnerving. His face is watching hers; his eyes drift like coracles tied to the dock of his nose. He insists they go in.
She says she won’t go in. He goes in. It’s 3 a.m.
There’s nothing left but the tremor of the tyres, the horns going off like ships leaving port, horns like the charges of matadors. In the trees the tube lights hang at odd angles, the broken limbs of angels. The insects of India swarm, drawn to the brightness that is a gas fogging the eyes.
He returns without a word and we are driving again. We might never have stopped. We drive for ever and turn around and drive back again.
We end in the birthing fields of Gurgaon, among those infinite constructions that have become ruined cities to me, the emptiness of history reflected in the stars above. I don’t know how we got here, how much time has gone and what has been lost.
Ahead there is one building site framed by bamboo drenched in an artificial light with workers crawling across the concrete and steel.
They look like ants devouring an elephant’s corpse. Only the corpse will devour the ants in the end, devour them and grow up tall.
We fall down before it, are silent in awe of it. He makes love to me on the desert floor. I see other faces in him; he changes before my eyes into an old man, a demon, a little boy. The birds circle around to pick at our bones.
Light falls from the sky, the stars fade, the horizon grows grey and real. The drug wears off, sadness leaves a mist. The men in the distance carry on their work, oblivious to any of this. We get in the car and drive back into Delhi without words. As the morning stirs I see men and women who have slept all night rise from their beds, enter the streets again, sweep the earth, go about their work. I thought I’d be free, released of my chains. Now I only see how it will end.
But oh! I’m meeting the NRI today. Oh sweetness and light and what joy! The day has finally arrived. He is here for me, my ticket to the Promised Land.
He’s waiting in the coffee shop of the Taj Mansingh, he sees me and puts up his hand, recognizes me from the photo Aunty sent. He’s buttoned up and bland, this American. Just like an American should be, in a lime-green polo shirt and chinos, side parting and perfect white teeth. A nice guy I’m sure, but at this point nice means nothing to me, I can barely tell if I’m awake or asleep, and I can only take so much of sweet.
Aunty laughs and trills like a bird of paradise when she’s getting me ready to go. She’s overseeing the game of dress-up we play. She’s certain about this one now; she knows that he is the one for me.
He greets me like an old friend at the table. He clumsily tries to kiss me on the cheek. Tells me I’m much prettier in person than he imagined on the phone. We sit down and order nimbu-pani, but when it comes it’s too sugary, so he sends it back and asks for a Diet Coke instead.
He complains about India awhile to me, about how slow and inefficient it is compared to the States, how customer service is zero here, how the taxi drivers don’t know where to go. But he’s almost signed the papers for a new apartment in Gurgaon. His parents are going to move there when they get old, back to the motherland, and there’ll be a room for us there as well.
He places his palms on the table in an emphatic show. It’s so good to finally meet you. He asks how college is going, and tells me he’s been looking into courses around New York for me, advertising or marketing, a way to make use of my degree. He believes in a joint-income family after all.
I see his eyes on me, decent and dull, and I know what he wants from me, that he wants to turn me into a good girl. That he thinks he knows who I am.
I tell him I’d like to study film maybe.
And he says, Have you seen American Beauty? It’s a masterpiece.
And even though he is dead I still call him on his phone. I sit in my room and I pick up my mobile to dial his number that I know by heart. Only his voicemail comes through, but his voice is beautiful on the line. He has a separate voice, one he puts on for this role. None of the madness is there. He’s reasonable, perfectly calm.