Free Silence and the Word by MaryAnne Mohanraj Page B

cupful. Then I saw her. Sushila
huddled in the far corner of the kitchen, her back pressed flat
against the baked mud walls, her red wedding sari pulled tight
around her, so tight that the heavy silk seemed to cut into her
fair skin. Folds of fabric were wrapped around her fists, and those
in turn were pressed tight against her open mouth. She looked as if
she were trying not to scream, but she didn’t move, or make a
single sound.
    I stepped towards her. “Sushila?” I knelt at
her feet. Her knees were pulled up tight against her chest, and I
rested a hand on one. “Are you all right?” It was a silly question,
and after a moment I understood that I didn’t deserve an answer.
The cup was still in my other hand; at last I stretched it out to
her. “Would you like a cup of water?”
    She nodded, and slowly lowered her fists. I
raised the cup to her lips, and tilted it so that she could drink.
Sushila took a deep gulp, draining half the cup. Her whole body
shivered then, though the water couldn’t have been cooler than
lukewarm, after sitting all night. She shivered again, and again,
her arms now hanging loose at her sides, her eyes wide.
    I didn’t want to ask my next question, but I
had to. “Did Suneel…did he hurt you?” The words almost choked in my
throat. My second sister had married a brute who beat her; she came
crying home every week to show us the bruises, and then turned
right around and went back to him. I knew that there were men like
that in the world; it was part of the reason I never wanted to
marry. But Suneel — he had always been the gentlest of us all. He
had converted to Buddhism a year ago, had turned vegetarian and
mourned every time he accidentally stepped on an insect. He never
teased me like the others had; he’d protected me from the worst of
my oldest sister’s rages. My favorite brother — I didn’t want to
believe that he could have hurt Sushila, but there she was, shaking
before me… .
    Sushila shook her head. No. After a moment,
the word came up and out of her throat — “No.” I was almost as glad
to hear the sound of the word as the sense of them; there was a
crippled child who lived in the alley nearby who could not speak at
all. I raised the cup again, and she drained it in another gulp. I
put it down, not sure what to do next.
    She was still shaking. I leaned forward,
pulled her into my arms. When she was completely enclosed in my
arms, the white of my sari covering the red of hers, she turned her
head, so that her mouth was against my ear. Her breath was hot
against my neck as she whispered, “I’m bleeding…” Before I could
speak, she reached up and took my right arm, her fingers sliding
down to my hand, pulling it down between us, under the sari to the
space between her thighs. Her legs were wet, and when I brought my
hand up, the tips of my fingers were stained red. When Sushila saw
the blood, she started to cry.
    I wrapped my arms around her and held her
tightly, letting her cry against me. My second sister had shared
every detail of her wedding night with us; she seemed to enjoy our
shock and fascination. I knew that Sushila was the oldest daughter
in her family, that her mother had died years ago of a fever. But
didn’t she have any aunts? I stroked her hair, so soft and fine,
and told her softly, “It’s all right…shhh… .” Her shaking eased,
slowly, though the tears still fell hot against my neck, sliding
down my chest and mixing with my sweat, an indistinguishable mix of
salty waters. I held her, and rubbed her smooth back, and whispered
the words, over and over, until she understood.
     
     
    I asked her at breakfast the next day if she
had slept well. Everyone laughed, and Suneel’s face reddened. He
had inherited my mother’s pale skin, and every emotion showed
through. Sushila smiled demurely, and assured me that she had. I
was glad for her, but I hadn’t slept at all.
    I had drunk cup after cup of water after
she’d left, then refilled the