|
Magazine
Exclusive Excerpts
I sit on the bed in the dark and look at you. A silver of light anoints your forehead in gold, then glances off and catches your nose. You look so tranquil, so restful, you could be advertising sleep itself.
I wonder if you would mind being woken. It has been hours since your last feeding. There is a neediness in my chest. I long for the comfort of your mouth on my breast.
But I remain there instead and look at you. The light has somehow shifted, or perhaps your head has moved. Gold outlines your mouth now, and dabs at the small of your throat.
Your father starts singing. He only does this on nights when he is extremely drunk. “Will you light the fire of your heart,” he croons, “to dispel the darkness of my life…”
Abruptly, the lyrics stop. I can see from your eyes that you are about to cry. I pick you up eagerly and offer you a breast. As you start to suckle, the song starts up again.
* * *
The voice rises from the stage. It swirls around the darkened auditorium and reaches me in the first row of balcony above. “Only love can bring back the light…”
The words are heavy with longing, so heavy that I wonder how they manage to soar to where I am seated. It is the 25th of January,1955 — the eve of India’s fifth anniversary as republic. We are at Ramjas College in Delhi. I am seventeen.
“Will you light the fire of your heart?” the voice continues, and now someone standing at the back of the balcony switches on a spotlight. It sweeps along the floor restlessly, searching the empty space, and stops on a lone figure dressed in black, his back towards the audience....
The figure turns around. I see a face painted so white that it seems to float free in the brilliance of the spotlight. The lips are red, almost crimson; the eyes clearly outlined; each lash seems to stand out black and distinct against the whiteness around. Perhaps it is the excitement of the crowd, or just my teenage headiness, but when I look into your father’s eyes, I think I discover an emotion that only I can see. A longing distilled from the anguish of lyrics, a pain, a hunger that calls only to me.
Roopa’s fingers press against my forearm — my sister is barely aware of this age as she leans forward in her seat. I tear my gaze away from the stage — away from the dark, perfect eyes, the unnaturally red mouth, the cheeks that tremble and burn. Instead I look at Roopa, her face shiny in the light reflected off the stage.
* * *
The spotlight goes out. The song continues, rising now from even darker depths. I have read about such tortured souls in novels, seen their stories in films; souls who suffer so that the rest of us can savour the offering of their pain. “Light the fire of your heart,” your father sings, and I close my eyes to concentrate on the torment mounting in his voice.
* * *
Later, after all the contestants have sung, the curtains part one final time to reveal the judges sitting behind a garland-decked table, a huge flag of India pinned to the white cloth background behind them. The winner of 1955 Republic Day intercollegiate singing competition is announced, and it is Dev Arora, from Ramjas College, Delhi.
* * *
Dev is standing slender and shirtless in front of a washbasin. His face in the mirror is half white, half flesh toned — I realise he is washing off a layer of make-up which spreads down to his neck. One eye remains out-lined in dark black liner, the other has been wiped clean. He has not yet started on his lips, they are still an impossibly deep red.
I noticed the stained towel in his hand, the streaks that swirl around darkly in the basin, and feel a pang of disappointment. Is that all it takes, I wonder, to wipe anguish anyway?
“My sister Meera,” Roopa announces, and Dev turns around. There is a line of hair at his navel and curving up to the base of his throat. It is like a snake, a naag, with two heads — one poised with his eye over the left nipple, the other arcing towards his right shoulder. I stare at his naked chest, transfixed by the eye, the nipple, the heads.
* * *
Your father still has the hair snaking up his chest. He rubs it against me whenever he wants to let me know he has the need. Sometimes, when he lies on top of me, I can hear it rustling against my skin. Perhaps you heard it as well from inside me, with your ear pressed to the wall of my belly.
* * *
Sometime before dawn your father will be awakened by the heat. He will pull off his shirt and clear the magazines off the sofa. He will stretch himself out and fold his shirt for a pillow. He will sleep with the naag hugged to his body.
You will wake, too, and cry to be fed. My eyes will open, and I will put you to my breast. Afterwards, I will lay you down again on your father’s bed. I will try to get some more sleep before the night ends.
Excerpted from The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri, published by Bloomsbury, distributed in India by Penguin Books India. Excerpted with the permission of the publisher.
Printer friendly
page
Send this article to Friends by
E-Mail
Magazine
|
