Rupture

Her tinkling laughter clung to all the books and pictures in the room. Actually laughter was not a common occurrence in that room; everyone who came here was cloaked, apprehensive, or wrapped in something else, especially the new students. But the moment she walked in she would feel at ease. She would say to me, "Your office is unlike any in the university. Hindi books, pictures, I feel very much at home here."

And now before me is a face resembling hers a little, wearing an extra twenty or twenty-five years, but how different she is from Ananya. The way she sits, stiffly, with her fists pressed into the crooks of her arms, she does not really seem to be connected to Ananya in any way. Ananya used to remain standing or she would sprawl comfortably in a chair. But I know that the woman before me is Ananya's mother and she has come to see me because when a mother feels helpless she will bow before anyone and also stand up to anyone.

The face of the woman sitting before me is very strained; the small, rounded features of her face look swollen, perhaps due to resentment. Although I sympathize with her, the sternness of her demeanor makes something inside me harden. "Her career comes first and we all come after that," Ananya had once said. And now, seeing her sitting before me so stiffly, I cannot find the right words with which to address her. Actually, she doesn't have to plead Ananya's case because I have already told the dean that Ananya is a diligent and hard-working student and I have no complaints about her. But before coming to my office this woman had called and said, "This is Dr. Manocha, Ananya's mother. I'd like to see you."

I was not surprised by her call or her request to see me. But the severity of her tone made it difficult for me to respond right away.

She continued. "I want to know as much about Ananya as I can. I need your help, she talks about you a lot."

Just as a wife is the last one to know of her husband's vagrancies, in the same way a mother is perhaps the last person to be privy to her children's actions, the mother of grown children, especially those who have acquired wings and have flown to life in college. So, now when the fields have been picked clean by the birds, do these mothers want to plow the fields again?

Instead of expressing sympathy I refer to an unpleasant episode.

"Maybe she is not happy at home. You probably wanted her to study medicine. Both you and your husband are physicians, right?"

She speaks irately. "Look, I've never forced anything on her. As a child she took piano lessons. It's just that since her return from India something is not quite right with her." After the last admission she heaves a long sigh and then, saying "India" she again mutters something else.

I am amused. I had heard of Bengal's magic, but what is this magic of India? It's true that when I returned from a trip to India I too felt strange. Lethargy, an inability to keep one's mind on work, the memory of sounds, recollections of friends and relatives, the memory of tastes and smells, a soothing languor -- all this yes, but sooner or later life returns to its normal pace. It's not as if some drastic change takes place. How can one live like that? I'm molded from the clay there so sometimes I feel a twinge in my heart because I cannot be there, but Ananya was born and raised in this country. Her brothers and sisters, her parents and her friends, they're all here, then why this yearning? Why was the magic of India overwhelming her in this fashion?

She must have a special bond with India to begin with because she started studying Hindi in her first year at college and, with hard work in class she managed to obtain a first position each time. She told me that when she was in high school in Indiana she learned a little Hindi from the wife of a family friend. Perhaps for this reason she advanced so rapidly in my class. In her second year she wanted to apply for the university's junior-year abroad program in India. Knowing how capable she was, I wrote her a letter of recommendation. Every year I write such letters for two or three students of which one is usually bound for India. Searching for your roots is nothing new, but this is something seen only in people with deep sensibilities, and Ananya's sensitive nature was etched on her face. She had a soft face, thick black hair, a dark complexion, and thoughtful, intense eyes. She wasn't beautiful, but the intensity in her eyes and the sheen of her skin made her look very attractive. She asked very relevant questions and didn't waste time on unnecessary chatter, but still she didn't stand apart from other Indian-American students. Her mode of dress, her mannerisms, her patterns of speech, and her good-natured demeanor were no different from theirs. However, I did see a change in her after her return from India. Her clothing was the first thing I noticed. Whenever she came to meet me she wore printed or embroidered kurta and shalwar. Her choice of colors was also different now from that of American girls. Instead of black, brown, or grey shirts, blouses and pants, she now wore bright colors. Even if she wasn't wearing shalwar and kurta, the design of her clothing would be Indian. Once she examined my sari closely and said, "Your saris are so beautiful."

After a short pause she added, "My mummy never wears saris, she always wears western clothes."

Now, as I observe the woman sitting in my office, I remember that conversation and think how attractive she would have looked if the tight pants and top did not reveal the ungainly angles of her body. But she looks very smart and confident in this attire; perhaps this mode of dress was more convenient for her medical profession.

Following her return from India after a one-year stay there, Ananya also told me that she had taken Kathak lessons for a whole year and that she had also found a guru here in the U.S. to teach her. She was going to major in Hindi literature for which she had already obtained special permission from the head of the department. Because she had mastered Hindi by now she also enrolled in my Hindi literature class. A few days later she said she would like to do her thesis in Hindi literature or dance and asked if I would be her adviser. I said yes happily. One day she called me at home with a question about her thesis and I asked her to come over. After that she frequently came to my house to discuss this or that and for hours she would talk about her experiences in India. Because everything she said was always connected to India, I sometimes felt that a craving for India had been created inside her which she tried to satisfy by talking to me and by her involvement with Hindi language and Indian culture. She mentioned her aunts, her cousins, the love they showered on her and she also talked about her dance guru. Her conversation invariably revealed a critical attitude toward the U.S. and an affectionate stance toward India. She would say, "After I've completed my education I'm going back to India. It's very strange that my parents don't approve of the idea of my going to India even though they are from there." Once I asked her, "How do you feel? Where do you think you are from?"

"I'm American of course . . . there's no doubt about that . . . but I don't like this country and what is even worse is that my parents are like them. My older sister too. As a matter of fact she's married to an American. I have no objection to that really, because it's a matter of personal choice, but all I'm saying is that my family members think they're like the whites and act just like them. In the beginning I was also like them. But now, after having understood everything, I find all this very strange, that they should try to be like someone else, that they imitate others when our own culture is so rich."

If I asked her why she liked India so much she couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer, except for something trivial, like "The people there are more loving, they are more sociable, they're not crafty and conniving like people here." It seemed to me that her feelings were deeper and she wanted to say much more, but the right words evaded her. Her statements ended with something like,"There are too many reasons, I can't recount every one." Sometimes seasons, colors, atmosphere and the environment became part of these reasons, at other times dance and music and their relationship with India's cultural richness.

Often I felt that her connection with India was a romantic one and when she actually begins living there she won't talk like this. She has only observed things superficially. But I didn't want to say this to her and break her heart. And anyway, how could I say with certainty that this relationship was merely romantic?

Then one day she said something in passing that made me feel that I had been unfair in characterizing her relationship with India as a romantic one. The idea she wanted to verbalize lay embedded deep inside her, an idea that cannot be discussed openly because it is always kept masked like an ugly scar. And, after all, she is a member of a prosperous Indian family, is a student in a prestigious American university, and her remarks might be construed as condescension; she has everything and still she is complaining. But her conversation finally revealed what was really on her mind. She began with her usual remarks about India and then continued. "When I'm there I feel I belong. Nobody asks me where I'm from, nobody regards me as foreign, and here, where I was born, where I've been living all my life, here every new person I meet asks me where I'm from as if I couldn't be American! And this when I too am a citizen of this country like they are. The question is asked whether I'm wearing western clothes or Indian, while on the other hand if a white girl is wearing an Indian dress everybody will still consider her to be American, as if this is a country of whites only!"

It was very difficult for me to understand what this girl wanted. On the one hand she talks about her desire to remain Indian and on the other hand she complains that she is not considered American. Is the desire to remain Indian a part of her resistance? What does this girl want? And is it possible to attain what she wants?

Then one day she was late. She came in very relaxed and happy and when I pointed out that she was late she told me she had gone shopping to Harlem.

"Have you ever been to Harlem? Things are really inexpensive there. Look, this sweater was only ten dollars, this top was only six . . . " Taking things out of the bag, she showed them to me excitedly.

Then I discovered that she had taken an apartment in Harlem. One day she said to me in a challenging tone, "You'll never come to my apartment . . . because it's in Harlem. No one wants to go there, everyone is afraid. But these people are better than the whites." In those days she seemed cheerful and full of fancy. One day, swept along by some feeling, she said, "Shall I give you a bit of good news?"

"What is it? You seem very happy these days."

"Yes, I'm very happy . . . because I've found a boyfriend I really like."

"Congratulations."

It seemed as though she was anxious to say more but was waiting for my question.

"You haven't asked who it is."

"All right, tell me."

"He's black."

She waited a few seconds for my response and then said, "You're not surprised? Everyone else has been shocked."

"Do your parents know?"

"No, they'll faint if they find out. I won't tell them just yet."

For a moment I wondered if she was seeing a black boy just to shock people. It could even be a form of protest against the whites or her own family. "Are you planning to marry him?" I asked.

"I can, but I don't know as yet . . . Last night I met his family, they're really nice people . . . very warm and loving, and very musical. The boy is a student of jazz, his father is a famous composer and his mother is a singer. The whole family is into music."

"And you too, you're also into music."

For the first time I saw a shy smile appear on her solemn face.

"They want to learn about Indian music. And they're coming to my dance performance. Will you come too?"

"When is it?"

"Next Wednesday. You must come."

"You were going to prepare a small presentation for the class also. What happened to that?"

"Do you want me to perform?"

"Of course."

"Then I will. We'll set a date when we meet next time in class."

But I couldn't go to her dance performance nor could any of her classmates and she wasn't in class the next time to set a date either. I didn't see her for many days afterward either in class or at home. I was beginning to get worried because she hadn't started work on her thesis. The delay would cause problems.

I inquired about her thesis when I saw her in class again and she assured me that she had already spoken to Professor Fisher, the department chair. A strange expression of anxiety floated over her face at the mention of Professor Fisher's name, as if she had landed herself in some kind of trouble.

When I mentioned the dance performance she said, curtly, "Let it be, no one is really interested."

"That's not true."

But the distant look on her face didn't change and she wouldn't allow me to pursue that subject any further. I asked about her boyfriend. "There's nothing serious," she said evasively.

I felt as if there was something she was holding back. Had she instinctively made the black family hers even though they were not ready yet to accept her? After all, it was Ananya who had a need for their world. Or was it fear of her parents . . .

She disappeared again for a few days and then came to my office one day before class. She looked worried, distraught. "They keep saying what they want. They don't know what I'm saying and if I try to open my mouth to explain they shut me up immediately. Is the project mine or theirs? I'm the one who's doing all the work. I didn't say a word and now I'll do what I want."

I realized that she had just been to see Professor Fisher, but I showed no curiosity to know the details and in any case listening to a student complain about another professor reflected on my integrity. Since I was to be her supervisor, I told her she had to decide on a topic soon and suggested some topics to her which she seemed to approve of. She said she would make a decision in a day or two and start work after that.

During this time I had a chance to talk to Professor Fisher. She said that Ananya was a very complicated girl and I would have difficulty making her do the required work. She's also at odds with her family, she said. But I explained that I had no problems working with Ananya; she had taken other courses with me and done well in them.

When Ananya came to class again she said that she had chosen a topic, but it wasn't anything I had suggested. She wanted to do the thesis her own way, she said. I found it rather odd that she should say this, but I didn't think it was right to criticize her. She was somewhat upset and said that Dr. Fisher seemed to be against India and her subject. I told her that wasn't so. She wasn't happy that I disagreed with her. After class she told me that she wasn't learning anything in my class. "Can I work independently with you?" she asked.

The semester was half over and the course wasn't that easy either. I realized that there was no justification for what she was saying because nearly half the students in the class were involved with the same type of research as she was. I said, "It's not just a question of studying, there's also the give and take with the other students. You'll find the work easier if you stay in class. In any case, it will be difficult for me to set aside time for you this semester." Then I noticed that she didn't talk much with her classmates. The other students usually mingled with each other, but she remained aloof.

One day the subject of women came up in class and most of the students started expressing shock at the condition of women in India. Ananya seemed to disapprove. She spoke up. "Why is it that when we talk about India we make disparaging remarks about it, especially when women there really have no problems."

Her remark startled everyone. A barrage of questions was let loose. How could this be? Ananya kept saying that women in India are free. "They can do what they please, my aunts and cousins are doctors, engineers and professors, no one stops them from working, everyone respects women, treats them with consideration, honors their wishes, worships them. It's only here, in this country, that women have problems. They are considered stupid and unimportant, they're only sex-objects here . . . outside of that they have no identity."

This inflamed the other students. One of the students said, "What are you talking about? The women in India can't marry whom they please nor can they move about at will . . . you say that women are free in a place where there are restrictions on small things like what to wear and how to dress?"

After this all the problems women faced in India were enumerated one by one. Sati, rape, wife-beating, dowry murders, the poor status of widows.

A female student said, "So much importance is attached to virginity that if a girl isn't a virgin she can't get married . . . while a man can marry whom and when he pleases."

Ananya said, "That's no longer the case. There were many boys who wanted to marry me and I'm not a virgin."

"Did you tell them you weren't a virgin? I wonder what they would have said if you had told them."

"Well, the question never arose, but I would have told them and I don't think it would have made any difference."

She softened a little, but didn't waver from her stand. "I'm not saying that India has no problems, but there are more problems here. The incidence of rape and domestic violence is much higher, yet whenever we talk about America we mention things like progress, the level of education and affluence, while whenever we discuss India we always choose a negative aspect to talk about. Can I ask why this is so?" She got very agitated while she was talking.

Suddenly there was silence in the class. I realized it was time for me to interfere. I too didn't agree with Ananya that women in India faced no problems at all.

"Look Ananya," I said, "self-criticism leads to growth and so one should not run from negative criticsm. Secondly, to say that women are free in India and can do what they please is also not quite true. How much of India have you experienced anyway? Once you go and live there you will see what the condition of women is in reality. Your own aunts will reveal inner truths to you."

My remarks took the form of a verdict in this dispute. I saw an expression of dejection creep over Ananya's face, as if she had realized that the one person she trusted had abandoned her, suddenly leaving her isolated. She got up.

"Excuse me, I have to leave early today."

I remembered that she had mentioned she had to go somewhere at one o' clock, but it was only twelve-thirty.

"But you had to leave at one."

"Oh," she said uneasily, "I had to go at one. It's not one yet? But I have to go anyway."

When she had left the room one of my students said, "What a strange girl."

Her abrupt exit was regarded as strange by everyone, and I found this strangeness oddly disturbing.

"No, she's not strange, she just has her own way of looking at things. Perhaps she's upset. Who knows what goes on in the lives of you young people." My last remark was rendered in such a way that all the students broke into smiles.

But after saying what I did I felt sad. Something was bothering me and I didn't know why.

Ananya was not in class the next time we met. She came for the class after that, but arrived a little late. Her appearance was such that if I had seen her on the street I would not have recognized her. Her hair was disheveled, as if it hadn't been combed for some time, her face looked drawn and off-color, as if it hadn't been washed for four days, and the most amazing thing was that she was dressed in black from head to foot. Black skirt and blouse, black stockings and black boots. Ever since her return from India I had only seen her wearing bright colors. She had said to me once that when these Indian girls want to look attractive and chic they wear black and if you go to a party you'll see that ninety-percent of the Indian girls there will be wearing different types of black outfits! But she didn't wish to be like the others, she had said and going to India had provided her with choices. The other thing that surprised me was that she was sipping on a bottle of Coke; I distinctly remembered that when she was at my house and I offered her soda she said she never had Coke or any of the other American drinks.

She quietly went to the back of the class and sat down. I told myself that I should talk to her after class is over. This behavior of hers was disturbing.

There was still a half hour to go when she suddenly rose from her seat and was out of the door before I could say anything to her. She's not in a good mood, I thought, perhaps she doesn't feel comfortable in class and will call me later and if she doesn't I'll talk to her when I see her again in class. Anyway, it isn't altogether proper to offer assistance unless a student comes looking to you for help.

I had never thought that that would be her last class and if I had known I would have stopped her that very day.

Afterwards, a string of phone calls. A long chain of voices. Ananya had left me a message on the machine: "Professor Varma, please! I'm not learning anything in the class. Can't I meet you alone? I've learned a lot from my visit to India . . . all those people in class, they know nothing . . . they don't understand anything, they don't want to understand anything. They all think alike, say the same thing . . . they have a stereotyped attitude towards India . . . I'll call you again . . . I have to tell you something."

And then there was a call from Professor Fisher. She thundered.

"Do you know what she did yesterday? She came to my office in her bare feet and dressed only in a nightgown . . . she started screaming loudly. When I made an attempt to respond she attacked me . . . yes, she attacked my person . . . I told you didn't I, she's schizophrenic, she's sick!"

"Who are you talking about? I don't understand."

"About Ananya, who else! Thank God another student was sitting in my office and she came between us, otherwise the girl would have killed me. I don't know what's wrong with her . . . just think . . . in her bare feet in this cold weather . . . walking barefoot on the street . . . she said there are thousands of people walking about barefoot in India . . . what's so wonderful about that? She's always talking about India and she's always condemning America. God knows what nonsense her head is filled with. She wasn't out of line with you, was she?"

"It's true I was seeing some changes in her behavior . . . she suddenly walked out of class the other day . . . but there was nothing as drastic as this."

"Look, that girl is crazy! She accused me of insulting India, she said that all Americans are imperialists and racists . . . I don't think she can continue with her studies."

"Where is she now?"

"She's where she should have been. As soon as she left my office she took a cab and told the cab-driver to take her to the airport . . . he was a decent chap, he saw her bare feet and the way she was dressed and realized something was wrong. He took her straight to the hospital . . . she was admitted there . . . her parents have been informed."

"But I didn't know any of this," I kept saying, "she seemed to be handling the work properly . . . she was so serious and hardworking . . . and all this . . . "

But nothing I said had any effect. The blot created by weakness cannot be easily obliterated . . . who knows what will have to be done . . . so many stories circulating here and there . . . she could suddenly become violent again, there could be another attack . . . and could I vouch for her with any degree of certainty? What disturbed me most was that there was so much raging inside her of which I had remained unaware . . . I remained blind even though there was much I had seen!

Professor Fisher called again. "She won't be able to do anything . . . she's not capable of finishing her work, you'll just be wasting your time."

I didn't know what to do. No one except her parents could see her in the hospital.

And now her mother is sitting before me! Seething and in pain. Smoldering like an ember and anxious to burn.

"Just tell me what needs to be done . . . I'll oversee all the work . . . she'll be well soon . . . that Professor Fisher overworked her, forcing her to finish her thesis within two weeks . . . she had a nervous breakdown from the pressure that was building up due to all this, that's all. The doctor says she'll be as good as new in three or four months and will be able to go back to college . . . . could you please make a copy of all her materials by tomorrow, and I'll do the rest."

She is not sure how much she should tell me about her daughter's condition and how much she should keep from me, nor does she have any idea as to how much I know or don't know. Her only thought at this time is that her daughter should get her degree. Her concern is not with what is wrong with her daughter and what she should do about it, but whether her daughter would get her B.A. or not!

I feel saddened. I wonder if Ananya will get better even after she has left this place.

Her mother continues: "I never wanted her to come to New York to study , , , if she had been with me she would have got her degree by now . . . she was so hung up on coming here . . . we'll never send her here again." Again and again my thoughts return to the same thing. Why was she wearing black in class that day and why did she go to Professor Fisher's office to fight with her? What was she really fighting? Was she fighting as an American or as an Indian living in America? Or did she have some other mind-set, beyond rational thought, beyond our grasp . . . removed from the dean or Professor Fisher, from the sounds of her mother's voice . . .

How many forms can an individual take, how many meanings is he weighted with and tied to, imprisoned within so many voices . . . is it some deficit in my own comprehension or a failure in the voices themselves which surround me? The fragments of these voices are like flakes of snow that melt and are destroyed before they can solidify . . . and all I hear is the sound of breakage . . . the sound of the shattering of this being who is trying to weave her own voice . . . I'm just afraid that the voice might snap and be scattered even before it is woven . . .


(Translated from the Hindi by Tahira Naqvi)