Home To India by Jacquelin Singh Page A

their place. New nuclei!
    The drizzle of rain continued, but it became one with the pool. All the complexities of the scene outside were dissipated. At the same time, the lines that divided Tej and me were impossible to maintain, even if we’d wanted to; they were erased, washed away by the flowing water. His loose shirt and cotton pajamas billowed out around him; my dupatta lost its veil-like quality and became a floating wreath around my shoulders. Without even touching him, I was certain that his flesh beneath the wet clothes was warm and solid, and familiar, as familiar as my own, and that I’d make my home on one of Jupiter’s moons, if need be, to live out a lifetime with him.
    Minutes later we emerged from the pool and headed towards our room, simply cold and wet now and eager to dry off. A figure came toward us out of the shadows at an unhurried pace from across the little bridge. It was the server of tea, the maker of dinner, the truck driver with the marvelous smile.
    â€œGood night, children,” he said in Punjabi-accented English. “Sleep well.”

8
    Back in our room, Tej carefully replaced the sitar in its case, and I stretched out on my bedding against the wall opposite him. I speculated about what it must be like to be him—a man. What does it feel like to have a man’s body, I wondered. Those muscular shoulders, long legs? What does it feel like to rise almost six feet above the ground, to be able to see over the heads of crowds? To look down on everybody? How would it feel to have large hands like that? To manipulate the things of this world with fingers almost twice the length of mine? What to do with that long back? The tight, muscular hams? How would it feel to touch your face and encounter a soft, silky beard? To touch a chest that is flat and downy? To clasp forearms that bristle with hair? How to move the big bones and muscles, to establish a rhythm of walking stride by stride instead of step by step? What must it be to hold possession of such a body? And how could it not affect the mind inhabiting it? Did Tej even half realize the power it gave him over me? One drop of his semen could throw my whole system into top gear, could start a baby.
    What was it like, I wondered, to be Tej: the human being that he was. The behavior learned from family and kin lay fused like a firmly bonded veneer on his outward self, I thought. But in what conflict to his inner self, the one that fell in love with me, someone of his own choice, and experienced feelings contrary to the values he received while growing up. “He’s walking a tightrope too!” I exclaimed to myself in surprise. “Between two ways of life. And he can’t get off.”
    By now, all the other pilgrims had gone to sleep. I could hear Mr. Aggarwal lightly snoring, or was it his wife? From a room above us, a girl cried out in her sleep. Somewhere amongst the web of human life in that architectural nightmare of an ashram was the Babaji. Was he awake or asleep? Praying or meditating?
    A light breeze kept blowing the curtain back and forth as though with the comings and goings of busy phantoms, which, now that the lantern was out, possessed the room. It had become damper, the room more permeated with the smell of sulphur. Gigantic sighs and superhuman whispers raced through the window.
    â€œWhat’s that sound?” I said.
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œI can’t hear it just this minute, but it comes at regular intervals,” I said. It sounded like the hoarse whisper of a giant.
    Tej raised himself on one elbow. His silhouette was solid against the luminous night sky as it streamed through the hole in the packing box wall. “Where do you think it’s coming from?” he asked.
    â€œFor all I know, from inside my head,” I said. “I just begin to fall asleep and then I hear it again.”
    â€œIt might be Shiva and Parvati,” he whispered in a straight voice. “You