tunnel, the voices of my children echoing around me.
Listlessly I fed them and put them to bed. I was too shocked to eat, and I sat on my bench, staring out at the stars. “Why me?” I asked again and again. “Why, dear God, do you throw such hardship my way?” That night I waited for Mui Tsai and missed her desperately when she did not come.
When the children awoke the next morning, I fed them and we went back to the hospital. A gray, unconscious figure with a very white bandage lay on a bed. I brought the children home for lunch and, unable to face the trip back to the hospital, sat down and cried. That evening I took the children to the temple. I laid baby Sevenese on the cold floor and stood my children in a row in front of me, and together we prayed. “Please, Ganesha, do not forsake us now. Look at them,” I begged. “They are so innocent and so young. Please give them back their father.”
There was no news the next day. He was still unconscious.
When I looked down at my hands, I saw that someone had lined the glass bangles of worry and fear on them. They caught the light and sparkled from afar. Distracted by their soundless jangle, I did the unthinkable. I stopped eating. I had forgotten about the little person inside me. For four days I starved my blameless baby. On the fifth day I woke up disoriented on my bench, my body aching all over.
I watched my children eat their favorite breakfast of sweet purple root broth. The sight of children eating is heartbreaking when you are frightened and alone. They chewed with their mouths open, purple goo swirling around small pink tongues. More purple dribbled onto Sevenese’s white shirt. I looked at them, so young and so unprotected, and felt sick with fear. Tomorrow I would be nineteen. Tears prickled the back of my eyes and blurred the wounded picture of my children, their virtuous mess, and their tiny teeth. Sometimes a face cried while its owner stood apart and made terrible plans, saw terrible things. That was what happened to me. I saw dying in the distance all the dreams and hopes that I had nurtured so carefully. I watched the flesh come off my dreams. It was a frightening sight. And when I turned my eyes away from the horrible sight, I saw my fate sniggering in a corner, my fleshless dreams imprisoned inside his iron box.
I rushed into the prayer room. At the altar I dipped a shaking finger in the silver bowl of red kum kum and drew such a large, uneven red dot that it nearly covered my entire forehead. “Look, look,” I cried to the picture of Ganesha. “I still have a husband.” He stared back at me calmly. All the gods I had prayed to for as long as I can remember stared back at me with exactly the same inwardly gratified expression they had worn all these years. And all these years I had mistaken that half-smile for gentle munificence. Inside my skull, the violent things bubbled into angry words that appeared on my tongue. “Take him if you must. Make me a widow as a birthday present,” I challenged, my voice incoherent with rage, my hand rubbing away at the red dot on my forehead. “Go on,” I screeched fiercely, “but don’t ever think I will drown my children in a well or lie down and die. I will go on. I will feed them and make something of them. So go on. Take the useless man. Have him if you must.”
The instant my mouth closed on those harsh, ugly words, and I swear this is the truth, someone called my name from outside the house. At the door was a lady that I knew from the temple who worked as a cleaner in the hospital. She had come to tell me that my husband was awake. Muddled, but asking about the children and me.
I gazed at her, mystified. God’s messenger? Then I saw her eyes flick to the red mess on my forehead and remembered that I had not bathed for three days.
“Let me have a quick shower,” I said to her, my heart beating very fast. Hyenas padded over to me bearing celestial flowers in their vicious jaws. God had
Listlessly I fed them and put them to bed. I was too shocked to eat, and I sat on my bench, staring out at the stars. “Why me?” I asked again and again. “Why, dear God, do you throw such hardship my way?” That night I waited for Mui Tsai and missed her desperately when she did not come.
When the children awoke the next morning, I fed them and we went back to the hospital. A gray, unconscious figure with a very white bandage lay on a bed. I brought the children home for lunch and, unable to face the trip back to the hospital, sat down and cried. That evening I took the children to the temple. I laid baby Sevenese on the cold floor and stood my children in a row in front of me, and together we prayed. “Please, Ganesha, do not forsake us now. Look at them,” I begged. “They are so innocent and so young. Please give them back their father.”
There was no news the next day. He was still unconscious.
When I looked down at my hands, I saw that someone had lined the glass bangles of worry and fear on them. They caught the light and sparkled from afar. Distracted by their soundless jangle, I did the unthinkable. I stopped eating. I had forgotten about the little person inside me. For four days I starved my blameless baby. On the fifth day I woke up disoriented on my bench, my body aching all over.
I watched my children eat their favorite breakfast of sweet purple root broth. The sight of children eating is heartbreaking when you are frightened and alone. They chewed with their mouths open, purple goo swirling around small pink tongues. More purple dribbled onto Sevenese’s white shirt. I looked at them, so young and so unprotected, and felt sick with fear. Tomorrow I would be nineteen. Tears prickled the back of my eyes and blurred the wounded picture of my children, their virtuous mess, and their tiny teeth. Sometimes a face cried while its owner stood apart and made terrible plans, saw terrible things. That was what happened to me. I saw dying in the distance all the dreams and hopes that I had nurtured so carefully. I watched the flesh come off my dreams. It was a frightening sight. And when I turned my eyes away from the horrible sight, I saw my fate sniggering in a corner, my fleshless dreams imprisoned inside his iron box.
I rushed into the prayer room. At the altar I dipped a shaking finger in the silver bowl of red kum kum and drew such a large, uneven red dot that it nearly covered my entire forehead. “Look, look,” I cried to the picture of Ganesha. “I still have a husband.” He stared back at me calmly. All the gods I had prayed to for as long as I can remember stared back at me with exactly the same inwardly gratified expression they had worn all these years. And all these years I had mistaken that half-smile for gentle munificence. Inside my skull, the violent things bubbled into angry words that appeared on my tongue. “Take him if you must. Make me a widow as a birthday present,” I challenged, my voice incoherent with rage, my hand rubbing away at the red dot on my forehead. “Go on,” I screeched fiercely, “but don’t ever think I will drown my children in a well or lie down and die. I will go on. I will feed them and make something of them. So go on. Take the useless man. Have him if you must.”
The instant my mouth closed on those harsh, ugly words, and I swear this is the truth, someone called my name from outside the house. At the door was a lady that I knew from the temple who worked as a cleaner in the hospital. She had come to tell me that my husband was awake. Muddled, but asking about the children and me.
I gazed at her, mystified. God’s messenger? Then I saw her eyes flick to the red mess on my forehead and remembered that I had not bathed for three days.
“Let me have a quick shower,” I said to her, my heart beating very fast. Hyenas padded over to me bearing celestial flowers in their vicious jaws. God had
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