my father packing us up, our moving here.
“How long you are here?”
I shrugged. “Not sure. You?”
“I’m here for my B.A. Three years. Then back to Madras for seminary studies.” He turned to the Tamil paper and peered closely at something.
“Seminary? You want to be a priest?”
He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even look away from the newspaper. When he’d finished what he was reading, he straightened, faced me with a smile. “Priest. Yes.”
“Is it far? I mean, where you’re from?”
“Not so far as States, but, yes” he said. “It is far.”
“I’m Vik,” I said, glad to have met someone else far from home.
“Devasia.” We shook hands.
* *
The evening was so quiet. Anand and I hung out with our parents in the tiny balcony off their bedroom. Ghatlodiya settled down now, with the sun fading, and the street cleared of all but a few rickshaws and bicycles. Children could be heard playing in nearby housing complexes and shanties. Pools of rainwater reflected the few streetlights.
Anand sat in a plastic chair, reading aloud the Gujarati alphabet and phrases from a schoolbook. My mother would correct him now and then, in between hearing my father update her on the goings-on at his work. I thought again of how he had a car to pick him up, drop him off, and now my brother too seemed to have door-to-door rickshaw service to and from school (along with a group of neighborhood schoolchildren). My mother, meanwhile, spent her days at home, sealed off from India’s madness. Only I was foundering, on foot and in rust-bucket buses all day all over this muck-filled city.
“Why don’t we get Anand a proper tutor?” my father said, leaning his elbows against the railing. He turned to my mother, “He’s not bad, though,” he said, smiling. “In two weeks, he’ll be a local.”
“Let’s wait till we’re out of here, then we can make all arrangements,” she said.
“There I’ve got news I’ve been waiting to tell you.” He turned, shadowed in the twilight, and I had the momentary sensation he was pronouncing our fate. “We’ll be out of here and in our bungalow by the end of the week.”
The hope in my mother’s voice tensed with caution. “You
think
we will, or you were told for sure?”
My father nodded, laughing. “I got memo this morning. Bungalow will be ready by Sunday. From there, it’ll all get easier.”
“That we will see,” my mother said plainly, then she turned to me. “How are you, beta?” Her voice calm and compassionate, like the cool of evening.
I shrugged. “Be all right.”
By framing my palms together at right angles, I made a movie screen out of them. I looked through them and followed flocks of swallows against the evening sky, racing together in fitful yet coordinated arcs.
“We’ll get that camera back soon,” my father said.
Anand closed his book and stood. He withdrew into the guesthouse, probably to comb through his baseball magazine again or listen to one of my R.E.M. tapes on his Walkman. My parents went back inside too.
I stayed out on the balcony as the evening darkened. The silence here was so primitive, as if I’d traveled not only thousands of miles but decades and decades into the past—a long ways from the comfort of my American TV shows and phone calls to friends. Here, all I heard was the trill of a bicycle far up the road, a rickshaw sputtering off somewhere. Every once in a while came the faint voices of children and women, the clink of utensils and pots from the shanties. I could smell the cooking fires as the noises faded with the light. It was a primitive silence, a saddening silence, and I felt scared, alone in the sadness.
8
A routine took shape. In the mornings, I trekked off to the Ghatlodiya bus stand with my backpack full of books and the tiffin of food to Xavier’s. Classes lasted into the afternoon, till two o’clock—by which time, a monsoon downpour would be lashing the city, and I would be
“How long you are here?”
I shrugged. “Not sure. You?”
“I’m here for my B.A. Three years. Then back to Madras for seminary studies.” He turned to the Tamil paper and peered closely at something.
“Seminary? You want to be a priest?”
He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even look away from the newspaper. When he’d finished what he was reading, he straightened, faced me with a smile. “Priest. Yes.”
“Is it far? I mean, where you’re from?”
“Not so far as States, but, yes” he said. “It is far.”
“I’m Vik,” I said, glad to have met someone else far from home.
“Devasia.” We shook hands.
* *
The evening was so quiet. Anand and I hung out with our parents in the tiny balcony off their bedroom. Ghatlodiya settled down now, with the sun fading, and the street cleared of all but a few rickshaws and bicycles. Children could be heard playing in nearby housing complexes and shanties. Pools of rainwater reflected the few streetlights.
Anand sat in a plastic chair, reading aloud the Gujarati alphabet and phrases from a schoolbook. My mother would correct him now and then, in between hearing my father update her on the goings-on at his work. I thought again of how he had a car to pick him up, drop him off, and now my brother too seemed to have door-to-door rickshaw service to and from school (along with a group of neighborhood schoolchildren). My mother, meanwhile, spent her days at home, sealed off from India’s madness. Only I was foundering, on foot and in rust-bucket buses all day all over this muck-filled city.
“Why don’t we get Anand a proper tutor?” my father said, leaning his elbows against the railing. He turned to my mother, “He’s not bad, though,” he said, smiling. “In two weeks, he’ll be a local.”
“Let’s wait till we’re out of here, then we can make all arrangements,” she said.
“There I’ve got news I’ve been waiting to tell you.” He turned, shadowed in the twilight, and I had the momentary sensation he was pronouncing our fate. “We’ll be out of here and in our bungalow by the end of the week.”
The hope in my mother’s voice tensed with caution. “You
think
we will, or you were told for sure?”
My father nodded, laughing. “I got memo this morning. Bungalow will be ready by Sunday. From there, it’ll all get easier.”
“That we will see,” my mother said plainly, then she turned to me. “How are you, beta?” Her voice calm and compassionate, like the cool of evening.
I shrugged. “Be all right.”
By framing my palms together at right angles, I made a movie screen out of them. I looked through them and followed flocks of swallows against the evening sky, racing together in fitful yet coordinated arcs.
“We’ll get that camera back soon,” my father said.
Anand closed his book and stood. He withdrew into the guesthouse, probably to comb through his baseball magazine again or listen to one of my R.E.M. tapes on his Walkman. My parents went back inside too.
I stayed out on the balcony as the evening darkened. The silence here was so primitive, as if I’d traveled not only thousands of miles but decades and decades into the past—a long ways from the comfort of my American TV shows and phone calls to friends. Here, all I heard was the trill of a bicycle far up the road, a rickshaw sputtering off somewhere. Every once in a while came the faint voices of children and women, the clink of utensils and pots from the shanties. I could smell the cooking fires as the noises faded with the light. It was a primitive silence, a saddening silence, and I felt scared, alone in the sadness.
8
A routine took shape. In the mornings, I trekked off to the Ghatlodiya bus stand with my backpack full of books and the tiffin of food to Xavier’s. Classes lasted into the afternoon, till two o’clock—by which time, a monsoon downpour would be lashing the city, and I would be
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