The Grammarian Page 11

  Anjali watched the life she could not have as closely as anyone could without actually living it. The week after the announcement of Mohini’s engagement, merchants brought their best silks to the home for Lalita and the bride-to-be to choose matrimonial saris for the girl’s nuptials. Kanakadurga continued, “The thing I worry about most for her, Dr. Lautens, is that she will not have love in her life . . . not the kind that comes from family, of course, but of goodwill, and affection . . . I am afraid she will remain ignorant of courtship, and of romance, of the kindness of the world . . . a girl needs those things.” Kanakadurga was wrong. Anjali knew love in all its dimensions: with her mother the love that was wanting, with her father that which was unrequited, with Mohini that which had come and gone and lingered like a ghost, a moribund attachment, and with Kanakadurga, that type of love that was perfect in its equality, great in its tenderness, endless in its generosity, not to be dimmed by death. Of her love Anjali was assured. Of romance, all she knew was from books and poems, the ones she loved, by Currer Bell and Baudelaire.

  The red fabrics were the most beautiful Alexandre had ever seen, and all were adorned in a full border embroidered with thread made of real gold. “Such a beautiful girl should have the most beautiful sari, Madam,” one vendor said to Lalita. “Somewhat costly, yes,” he continued, throwing the sari open, “but for marriage one shouldn’t skimp, isn’t it?”

  Tears came to Lalita’s eyes as she clasped Mohini in her arms.

  “What a beautiful bride you will make, my darling!” Lalita exclaimed, wiping her eyes.

  Each merchant spoke of his house’s skills for weaving the best silks, his atelier’s fame for designing the best border work. How beautiful his saris would look with Mohini’s fair coloring, her perfect features.

  Each merchant was right, of course, for how could anything look unbecoming on Mohini’s perfect form, her lovely face, that thick rope of hair? Alexandre and Kanakadurga sat and watched from Kanakadurga’s sitting room, from which a view of the receiving room was offered. Alexandre thought that Mohini, modeling her bridal saris and trying on jewelry, looked as beautiful as a temple dancer. Anjali was with the other women too and was occasionally asked to offer an opinion, or to call the servant to bring more food, tea or cool water. Lautens saw in her face her heart tightening when a merchant lifted up to the sound of a collective sigh a blood-red miracle of brushed silk and gold with a maroon border and blouse.

  “Mummy, I think we should perhaps put aside some of the money for the wedding to serve a meal to the peasants—the ones we see each morning at the gate,” said Anjali, her face tight and mean.

  Lalita and Mohini looked at Anjali, incredulous.

  “Anjali,” Lalita sighed, “Anjali, please! Don’t be so wicked! We are in a time of celebration. Don’t make such a show of your charity.”

  “Mummy, all this money to celebrate one day! There are starving people right at our own gates!”

  Mohini, for a moment, lost her characteristic grace and her coquettish charm. “Mummy what is this!? Why are you trying to destroy my wedding, Anjali?” Mohini narrowed her large eyes at her sister. “You are jealous! Now you want to destroy my wedding? Suddenly you care about beggars and peasants?” She wrung a silk sari in her hands.

  Lalita put her hand up and shouted, “We are a generous family, but we are not inviting beggars and untouchables to your sister’s wedding. It is inauspicious. Is that the kind of wedding you would want? Then why should you want that for your sister?”

  KANAKADURGA CLEARED HER throat as she saw out the doorway her son approaching her and Alexandre. Alexandre turned and saw Adivi and stood.

  “Please, Doctor, do not get up . . . in our caste, girls get married in their parents’ home. I am sorry for the disruption to your studies Dr. Lautens, but it will be over in two weeks,” said Adivi.

  The servants, in hurried, distracted motions, moved about Alexandre and the Adivis with baskets full of flowers, lining up tiny clay pots with oil and wicks along the home’s corridors and hallways. The kitchen servants had gone into town to buy extra oil burners and butter, raisins, cashews, saffron and basmati rice and extra-large dishes in which to cook for all the wedding guests.

  “It is quite alright, Mr. Adivi. It is a privilege to be party to your daughter’s wedding. It looks like it is going to be quite the event.”

  Adivi smiled and looked over Alexandre’s shoulder at his mother. “Amma, we still cannot find your jewelry,” he said in a soft but serious voice.

  “I’m sorry Shiva . . . ” she replied, looking down. “It must be in one of the armoires . . . ”

  Adivi turned and left, irritated with his mother’s seeming lack of concern. Alexandre turned back to her and was met with a stern, hard look.

  Anjali returned to her room, where her sister’s favorite chocolates were melting on a plate and a steel urn of coffee was sitting cold on a table.

  ANJALI TENSED AS she stood behind Alexandre. She cleared her throat, announcing herself. He turned and saw her, placing down a cup of coffee. He began to stand.

  “No, no, please, Dr. Lautens, don’t get up.” She squeezed the book in her hand and lowered herself into the seat next to Alexandre. She sat with her back too straight. She looked up and said, too flatly, “I find the sympathy I have for Madame Bovary is clouded by the feeling I have that she is, somehow, pathetic.” She felt glad with herself for managing to get out a sentence she had been contemplating since the day before.

  Alexandre leaned back, resting his fingertips on his chin. “Madame Bovary?” he asked, smiling. “You’ve been reading Flaubert?” His eyes danced with amusement.

  “Yes, and I . . . well, I feel it is rather pathetic, isn’t it? This grown woman reading romance novels all day and then expecting life to live up to the plotlines of books . . . what do you think?” She had thought so much about what she meant to say, but now it came out too quickly. It did not sound right.

  Alexandre smiled and raised his eyebrows. “To be honest, Anjali, I haven’t read that book for a very long time . . . not since I was in school.”

  “Hmm.” Anjali’s eyebrows lifted; she turned away and sat back in her chair. “Hmm,” she repeated. Anjali was intimidated by his obvious erudition; she wanted to impress him and engage him. But she found these attempts as often ended a conversation as began one. She felt a bit like a curio cabinet now more and more as she read up on the things in which she believed he too might take an interest.

  Alexandre took pity and asked, “How did you become so interested in literature?”

  “Daddy hired tutors for us when we were small. We studied English, mathematics, art and music and Hindi. These men cared more about being employed by Daddy than they did about teaching me and my sister. They were sycophants, all of them. Nevertheless, I enjoyed reading and studying. I still do.” She smiled. “Myself and Mohini, we would wake early and have coffee and eat idlies. I remember that the cook hated those early hours; she was always grumpy and everything was prepared too hastily.”

  “So what is your favorite book?”

  “I loved English literature best. We read Shakespeare in the garden in the morning.” As Anjali spoke, she for the first time seemed to Alexandre to be a girl. “I like reading stories about love. Jane Eyre and Rochester. Romeo and Juliet. Why would anyone write about anything else?”

  “Well my goodness,” Alexandre smiled. “So love is the most important thing, then. Well, yes, of course you are right.” He turned and looked out at the sky. “Tell me,” he ventured tentatively, “do you believe your sister loves the man to whom she is engaged?”

  “What?”

  “Mohini—does she love the man to whom she’s been betrothed?”

  Anjali took her eyes from Alexandre and looked out onto the horizon.

  “They’ve only met once or twice . . . I don’t think she loves him. How could she? She doesn’t even know him. This is how we get married in India. Marriage comes first and then, if one is lucky perhaps
, love.”

  “Sometimes it is possible to love someone one doesn’t know.”

  “That is absurd, Dr. Lautens,” Anjali said, wincing.

  “It is not. No . . . ” he replied, dreamily. He turned to her, leaning forward on his knees. “Well, there was this man Jaufré Rudel; he was a troubadour—”

  “What is that?”

  “—a well, a sort of musician—” Alexandre turned to Anjali, looking at her, his gaze bright and penetrating: a father telling his child a bedtime story, “and he fell in love with a woman who lived across the sea, in Tripoli.” Alexandre felt the warm concrete of the verandah on the soles of his feet.

  Anjali sighed; she felt sad. “How did he fall in love with her?”

  “She was the countess of Tripoli. Her beauty was legendary in Asia and Europe, and Jaufré joined the Crusades so he could go to Tripoli. See, he was already in love with her. Just from hearing others describe her. He traveled from the west coast of France.” Alexandre took Anjali’s wrist and turned over her hand, touching lightly the tip of her thumb, and glanced up at her, “all the way across the Mediterranean,” he lightly skipped his finger along her open palm, “to here, Syria,” he tapped the tip of her little finger and then fell back in his chair. “Well, when his ship finally arrived in Tripoli, he was so ill he had to be carried to shore, and he lay dying there while they went off in search of Hodierna.” Alexandre smiled, making his eyes wide for the effect. “And just as he took his last few breaths, she came down from her castle onto the beach and held his body. She kissed him, and then he fell back in her arms and died. And he never knew her at all.”

  “Like Layla and Majnun . . . ”

  Alexandre laughed, his eyes wide. “Yes!”

  From behind them came a deep laugh. Anjali turned, “Daddy . . . ” she caught her breath.

  Adivi crossed his arms across his chest, his expression jolly. “What silly romantic notions you Europeans have. Come, Dr. Lautens, tea is ready.”

  SANSKRIT IS SAID to be comprised of all the sounds of the beginnings of the universe. The world came into being, and the bells of the Sanskrit register were sounded. When it is spoken, the vibrations made in the throat are said to bring peace and joy to the speaker. The priest who occasionally made rounds in the Adivi home told Alexandre that merely speaking Sanskrit would bring him closer to God.

  When they talked in the mornings, Anjali liked to hear anecdotes about linguistics, how the word for “life” in Italian was also the word for a woman’s waist. That nostalgia meant, etymologically, the pain of yearning to return home. That the real word for “bear” in Russian was a curse, so the Russians called bears medved, the honey-eaters. She told him that the word in Telugu for “seven” was also the word for “cry” and that she had been born on the seventh of July.

  THAT AFTERNOON, ADIVI arranged for Alexandre to visit the Simhachalam Temple, where a lion god presided over the west-facing structure. Subba Rao accompanied him, and Rajiv drove.

  The rocking of the carriage lulled him to sleep, and Subba Rao gently woke him when the coach stopped on a flat landing halfway up the hill. “We must walk the rest of the way, Sir; the carriage can’t go any farther.” Disoriented and groggy, Alexandre started. He looked out at the throngs of pilgrims making their way up the hill to the stone temple. “Of course, Subba Rao, of course,” he said, dismounting.

  Feeling suddenly invigorated, he began to walk in large strides. Subba Rao, afraid of losing sight of Alexandre in the sea of people, hurried after him shouting, “Dr. Lautens, Sir, please! You mustn’t rush so fast Sir!”

  Laughing and enjoying the fresh air, Alexandre walked on. When he reached the top, he lit a cigarette and sat on a ledge, wide-eyed, studying the grandness of the place through swirls of smoke. The temple was tiers of stone with fearsome Hindu deities carved in infinite intricacy on every side. He had sweated through his white shirt and the cool sea wind felt good on his skin.

  Subba Rao finally caught up with him, gasping for air. “Dr. Lautens! Dr. Lautens! You must be careful! This heat can be very dangerous to Europeans, Sir!” Subba Rao ran up the last few steps, catching up to Alexandre and opening the water flask and pouring out a cup of water for Alexandre.

  “Thank you,” Alexandre said. He drank the water, enjoying the steely taste of it. They leaned against the stone wall acting as a retainer along the cliff. Subba Rao’s Brylcreemed hair didn’t move in the high winds.

  “Come, Dr. Lautens, let us continue on inside . . . we must get you out of this sun.”

  “You mustn’t worry, Subba Rao, I am fine,” Alexandre offered, irritated. They could hear the temple bells. As they moved closer, the astounding detail of the carvings impressed Alexandre more and more, with lotus blossoms and dancing courtesans and the lionlike avatar of Vishnu, for whom the temple was dedicated. The images were frightening with their fierce expressions of bloodlust.

  Suddenly, Alexandre felt dizzy and stopped for a few minutes to collect himself. He braced himself, putting his palms on his knees, leaning forward to collect his breath. The masses pushed against Subba Rao’s outstretched arms as he pushed back, trying to make room for Alexandre. The crowds would not make room for him, and Subba Rao tried, with little avail, to give Alexandre space to catch his breath; he shouted at the brown bodies crowded together, crying children clinging to saris, at the painted cows being pulled along by their owners.

  Subba Rao wetted a handkerchief and held it out to Alexandre.

  “Put this on your forehead, Doctor.”

  Alexandre struggled to make it through the crowd, shouldering his way past the outstretched hands and the masses pushing forward up the hill. Resting a hand on a tree, he leaned over and was sick, coughing and wheezing in the thin air. Subba Rao yelled at the crowd to move out of his way. Alexandre felt a hand on his back.

  “Dr. Lautens, are you alright?” Subba Rao poured water out of the flask and Alexandre took it, rinsing his mouth. They pushed back through the crowds, the steep descent causing them to tumble to the coach below.

  Alexandre sat back in the coach and closed his eyes; Rajiv sounded the horn, reversing the coach slowly, the horses grunting and snorting as they tried to turn around in the tight space, the angry temple goers yelling curses at them and pounding their fists on the coach.

  When they returned to the Adivi home, Subba Rao quickly informed Adivi and Lalita of Alexandre’s episode, and Alexandre was sent to his room immediately by Lalita to lie down, and a servant was sent in with lime water and a cold compress. Adivi upbraided an expressionless Subba Rao for letting Alexandre run ahead alone.

  THE PRIEST WAS to be called in the next week to chant in the old language at the wedding. In the days before Mohini’s marriage, the servants and the women in the family would string marigold blossoms, jasmine buds and roses. The jasmines and roses were local, with an earthy floral scent. The roses: Old World and red, with only a couple layers of petals, the first of their kind in the world and the scent had not been hybridized or altered and they smelled as they always had: like heaven.

  There was much to do, and Anjali hung in the background as the other women gossiped gaily. She strung marigolds and roses for the wedding tent, frowning and running her finger across the tip of the threading needle.

  The home buzzed, all atwitter with female happiness. Anjali remained quiet as her mother and sister and aunts and cousins gossiped gaily.

  “DID YOU PUT the coconut oil?” Lalita asked Mohini. Her youngest daughter was sitting outside with her embroidery, darting a needle in and out of a pillowcase.

  “Yes Mummy,” she replied without looking up. Every morning as her wedding approached, Mohini was instructed by Lalita to put egg yolks and lemon juice on her face for her complexion and to saturate her hair in coconut oil.

  “What are you doing? Move to the shade!” Lalita instructed Mohini, fretting over her daughter’s complexion. Mohini groaned and pulled her chair into a shadier part of the garden.

  The brideg
room’s name was Varun. He was the only son of a family of landholders who owned two rice mills in Masulipatnam. No one had told Alexandre much about him, and he wondered what the boy was like. Alexandre knew only that he was handsome and shared Mohini’s wheat-like complexion and coal black hair. The bridal saris had been purchased, and as a gift to their daughter and future son-in-law, Shiva and Lalita had been to their bank in town to arrange to give Varun the title to one hundred acres of the mango groves that Lalita’s parents had passed down to their daughter for her wedding. None of the original trees were left. The new varietals were hardier against insects and fungus and the fruit was heavy and golden.

  Lalita had been to town to buy Mohini’s bridal jewelry, the star piece of which was a diamond necklace with stones handpicked by the bride’s mother from a selection of Golconda diamonds. The Golconda mines had hundreds of years before rendered the Koh-i-Noor diamond, which had been pressed into Shah Jahan’s peacock throne such that when the old shah was imprisoned by his son at Agra Fort, he could see his beloved Mumtaz’s tomb reflected in the great gem. Lalita had instructed, only half in jest, that the jeweler was to create a piece that would rival the Koh-i-Noor in beauty.

  Even though the stones were unmatched in brilliance and clarity, and had been placed in a singularly stunning setting, Lalita and Shiva were slightly disappointed. They had wanted to give Mohini her grandmother’s jewels, which were family antiques and cut in the Mughal style, but the estate jewelry had gone missing. Kanakadurga was a widow after all, and as such no longer wore jewelry and had put the pieces away years before, and though Lalita had searched every safe, every bureau and every armoire in the home, they were not found. Alexandre had even heard Lalita and Shiva arguing about the missing jewelry behind closed doors. Lalita was suspicious of Kanakadurga and thought that for whatever reason the old woman had deliberately hidden the items and did not want to give the family jewelry to her granddaughter.

  THAT NIGHT, ALEXANDRE unlatched the wooden shutters on the windows in his room and inhaled the intoxicating perfume of the tuberoses as it floated into his nostrils. He couldn’t help but wonder what Mohini’s groom was like. Was he intelligent, a man of character? He let the tuberose fill the room, and fell asleep as if drugged, and dreamt that night of wandering the world, the banks of the Nile, the Amazon, the Yamuna, Indus and Ganges, in search of blue lotuses to offer to a goddess-cum-woman on a tiger’s back, Kali-Ma, the dark mother, the one with the wild untamed hair and dark skin, the one whose tongue was stuck out defiantly, like a flame. His white, bare feet walked endlessly, his skin muddied with clay as he searched desperately those fertile banks for a rare flower that looked as if it were lit from within, as if in its petals it held moonlight. Kali was terrifying and made Alexandre shudder in his sleep, but she was a woman after all, and she could be won over with flowers and he gathered all in sight. But despite his efforts, his scouring the world, she was not satisfied. Kali wants one more flower. In his dream, Alexandre knelt, the blue blossoms pouring from his arms and lap, 107 of them, tumbling at the goddess’s golden feet, enough only to satisfy a mortal woman. Alexandre began to weep, and raised his eyes to her, and realized that his eyes, beautiful and azure blue, might do. He offered to pluck them out. Kali, holding a sword and a mace, her breasts covered in blood, softened and refused his offer.