Akhil Sharma - An Obedient Father

We went to Bittu's house next. Bittu, Radha's brother, lived in Sohan Ganj, a ten-minute walk from our home. He had two rooms in a three-story building which had been built by his grandfather. The

house was divided among him and the several sons of his father's brothers. His two rooms were shared with his wife, son, and daughter-in-law.

Bittu was asleep in one room, and in the other, the three members of his family were sitting on a bed drinking tea and playing cards.

Anita interrupted the offers of tea that greeted us with "I have a serious thing to tell."

Bittu's son, Rohit, woke Bittu. He entered the room sneezing. He wore a kurta pajama and carried a string of worry bends in one hand. Vibha, his daughter-in-law, brought him a chair. We also had chairs and were sitting in a row in front of the bed and Bittu's chair.

"I must tell you something," Anita said.

Bittu looked at me, as if to ask what it was about. I gave no response.

"When I was a child, he raped me." Anita turned toward me so that there would be no mistake as to who "he" was.

"Remove the child!" Bittu's wife, Sharmila, shouted. Rohit immediately stood and took Asha out. We all waited in silence. I wondered what would happen if I got up and left. In a day of impossible things, this appeared no more unlikely than anything else.

The story was told again. Sharmila kept interrupting with questions, because she found everything so unbelievable, and Bittu repeatedly told her to hush. Nobody said anything to me, though they watched me with such attention that I began looking at the floor. The floor was made of a yellow stone with green specks in it. I wondered what would happen to Anita. Nobody was going to take her into their home after this rumor spread, and it would spread, because scandal always did.

At some break in the story, which had been going in circles, Sharmila said, "Bring the older people. Something must be decided."

"Yes," Bittu agreed, and went to collect the men of his and my generation and the one person, his father's sister, surviving from the previous one. They gathered, one by one, in Bittu's front room. These were Radha's cousins and they had known me for thirty-five

years, during which, just because I was the family's son-in-law, whenever we met in the street they felt compelled to buy me a cup of tea or a cold drink.

Anita told the story again. It was late afternoon. The audience was louder now. "In the old time we could have killed him," a man said. The members of the group egged each other on.

"The police would not care if we did."

"Look up," shouted Koko Naniji, Radha's aunt. I did, and the glares made my head drop again.

Anita looked with great concentration at whoever spoke.

"What were we thinking when Radha was married to him?" someone asked.

"Poor Radha," people periodically said. I wondered whether Anita realized that the loyalty of Radha's family was to Radha, not to her. Sharmila and Vibha made tea and began passing around teacups. I was given one also, which I found comforting.

"Get the girl away from him."

"Who, Asha?"

"Ashaalso."

"Anita needs a home of her own."

"Homes don't grow on trees."

"Neither do daughters."

"She needs protection."

"We are here."

"She can't live with us forever."

"Why not?"

The decision was made by acclamation. Marry Anita. Then people began murmuring about the dowry. "In this bad world no one will marry a widow, especially one who doesn't work and has a child, without a dowry."

"Will you give her a dowry?" Koko Naniji asked.

It took a moment for me to realize that the question was addressed to me. I looked up to say yes, and this time my head did not fall. If Anita got married, my responsibilities would end.

"I don't want to marry," Anita said.

The voices trailed off.

"What do you want, daughter?"

"I don't know."

"Think of Asha," Sharmila said.

Anita looked at the faces watching her. Evening had come and there were shadows in the room. Soon the lights would be turned on.

"What do you expect from us?" Bittu asked.

Anita did not answer.

"Rahul is a widower," someone offered. For a while names and suggestions were exchanged. It seemed Anita's desires had been ignored.

People began dispersing back to their rooms. No one made Anita an offer to let her stay with them. Koko Naniji was the only one to even acknowledge we were leaving. She did this by giving advice. "Lock him in his room at night. Give him a bucket to piss in."

The stars were out as we walked through the narrow alleys that connect Sohan Ganj to the Old Vegetable Market. A wind carrying dust and bits of gravel coursed around us. The sounds of people leading their lives, cooking, talking, listening to the radio were everywhere. I wondered if Anita's anger had at last eaten everything it could reach.

I opened the flat door and let Anita and Asha enter before following. "Go take a bath and change your school uniform," Anita said. Asha left to do so. I realized with surprise that I would sleep again on my cot tonight.

I sat on the sofa in the living room. Anita went to the phone and, after looking something up in the phone directory, began dialing a number. I did not dare ask whom she was calling. The fluorescent light above me thrummed.

"Hello, this is Anita. I'm Mr. Karan's daughter. Yes. Is Mr. Mishra there?"

ELEVEN

T

he phone is black, heavy, with a metal bottom. There are brown stains on Pitaji's scalp. I wonder whether they mark where his skull is softest, like bruises on a cantaloupe. The triumph of telling the world faded when I sat in Bittu Mamaji's rooms. I smelled masala roasting, somebody's dinner, and thought. What now? Calling Mr. Mishra is joyless. As I explain to him what Pitaji did, fear for the future clambers into me. Pitaji wheezes while I speak.

"Do you want to talk to Pitaji?" I ask when I am done.

"No," Mr. Mishra says. He stays on, and I have nothing to add. I put the phone down without saying goodbye.

Pitaji stands and, looking at the floor, walks to his room.

Asha is asleep on our bed. The side of her face is pressed into her pillow while one arm stretches ahead as if she were swimming.

After half an hour, I shake Asha's shoulder and say, "The whole

world is dying for you and you're asleep." She opens her eyes immediately, as if even in sleep she is waiting. "How old are you that you need this much rest?"

I decide to clean the flat. It is my flat, too. I mop on my knees. Asha dusts. I want to punish Asha for sleeping all day. She had slept while sitting on a chair at Bittu Mamaji's and almost fallen off. I suffer and she cannot even watch.

As I swing the gray rag from side to side and crawl over the floor, I keep thinking, I have nothing to threaten Pitaji with. To be angry without power is to be ridiculous. Asha finishes before me because dusting is easier. She does not thank me for doing the harder labor. She goes to bed again. Kneeling in the common room, I call out, "If it weren't for your school, I would live with Rajesh." The words shame me. I stop working and stand. To be hopeless means believing there is no future different from the present. I leave the bucket and rag where they are and go to Asha.

I lie beside her. I ask Asha to drape herself over me. I used to ask Asha to do this sometimes when Rajinder was alive. I repeat my request until she complies. Asha smells like sugary milk. I smooth the back of the gown she is wearing. "This flat is mine. We are going to live here forever," I say Her breathing does not change and I realize that I can offer her no safety.

Pitaji stays in his room that night.

I worry over my choices.

I cannot marry. Marriage would mean having to share what little I have with a stranger.