Tulsi Vivah Page 3

  Arjuna was distracted by his mother. She’d turned in her chair and now she closed her eyes, lips pressed tightly together as she rubbed her hip. As if sensing his gaze, she looked around and smiled. Creases at the corners of her eyes betrayed the pain.

  He imagined her holding a newborn baby that cooed and kicked in a tiny outfit the color of Krishna’s skin. His mother’s smile was freer in his vision.

  “Yes,” Arjuna said, tracing around the rim of his glass with a finger.

  Sharanya exhaled. “Oh, good. I always wanted a big family, but with all the problems of overpopulation, I feel like just two or three is best.” She looked at him expectantly.

  “Yes.” He tried to think of something intelligent to say and failed. He prayed she would put his dullness down to nerves and that he could muster up some enthusiasm before the wedding.

  “Let me top up your drink,” she said. He’d been sipping it just for something to do, but was relieved when she took his glass to the kitchen.

  Knowing his cage was still under intense scrutiny, he turned to face the degree certificate and breathed deeply. The constant dull ache in his stomach was worse when he filled his lungs, but he needed to focus.

  “How are the lovebirds getting along?”

  His mother had walked up behind him, her eyes bright with hope.

  “She seems great. Very nice.” It didn’t feel quite enough. “And pretty. She’s very pretty. Nice nose.” That didn’t sound like something a straight man would comment on, but what the hell was he supposed to do? Tell his mum Sharanya had great breasts?

  Mum squeezed his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope you’ll be happy, beta.”

  “Me too, Mum.”

  WHEN HE was back home, alone, and the air contained oxygen again, Arjuna took a box from the wardrobe and sat on his bed with it. He took out a knitted jumper with a reindeer on the front, real baubles hanging from its antlers. It was hideous, and Kris had worn it even though it was made for frosty Christmases in London.

  He held it against his face and breathed in, rocking back and forth on the side of the bed and swallowing a sob.

  When he regained control, he put down the jumper and sent a text message that had been sitting in his drafts folder for days.

  He tried not to think about it popping up on a phone at the other end.

  It was early for Tulsi puja, but he needed the familiar ritual, and he needed the distraction. Maybe she would instill in him some of her undying devotion to Shankhachuda, the demon whom she had married, not for love, but because Brahma had commanded it.

  Sharanya wasn’t a demon. None of this was her fault, and he needed to stop the bullshit excuses and put everything he had into their relationship. He wouldn’t make her suffer for his decisions.

  He tried to clear his mind before he began. He stared at Tulsi, willing all other thoughts away, and blinked as his eyes focused. He purified his hands quickly, then stepped closer to Tulsi, around the aasan mat, and peered at her outermost leaves. They were brown and curled at the edges, dry to the touch. He walked around the plant, fighting down horror as he saw the blight from all sides.

  He checked her water levels, though he knew they were fine, and then tested the pH of her soil the way Kris had shown him. Everything was as it should be.

  A knot grew in his stomach. He searched online for a new humidifier and lamp, and was about to place an order when someone knocked on the door. More of a thump, actually. He leaped down the hall and kept his hand still on the doorknob for a moment before opening up.

  Kris looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, and his always-messy hair looked like it’d been brushed with a holly bush.

  “Sorry, I don’t have a key to give back to you,” Kris said. The words were slurred. “Will your wife be allowed one, or will you make her skulk around and hide from the neighbors?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Hey, Captain Obvious. Your wife must be so thrilled to have such a perceptive husband.”

  Kris tripped over his feet as he entered—apparently only so he could slam the door behind him—and Arjuna stopped himself putting out a steadying hand.

  “Where’s my stuff?” Kris demanded. “Give me my damn stuff.”

  “It’s in here.” Arjuna led the way to the living room. The footsteps following him stumbled on the rug, and Arjuna closed his eyes.

  “Wow, doesn’t look like much.” Kris grabbed the box and shook it hard. “Three years didn’t make much impression on your life, did it? Here.” He dipped a hand in his pocket and threw something. Arjuna caught it automatically.

  “Early wedding present,” said Kris. “Hope you and your wife have a very long life together.”

  “Kris….”

  “Fuck you.” He looked around the living room, then blinked several times and did it again, more slowly. “Where’s my jumper?”

  “What?”

  “My Christmas jumper. It isn’t in here.” He shook the box.

  “Oh. I must have forgotten it. One minute.” Arjuna went to the bedroom and took it out from beneath his pillow. Why did Kris want the damn jumper? He held it to his face, pressing it against his eyes, but the contorted shadows didn’t erase the image of Kris looking drunk and vulnerable and on the edge of not coping.

  He couldn’t go back to the living room now, not until he had a grip on himself. He would apologize, and ask for forgiveness, and he didn’t deserve it.

  Instead, he looked down at the object Kris had thrown at him. He expected it to be lube, or a butt plug, or even the joke fluffy handcuffs Kris had come home with one night. But it was a plastic doll, six inches tall, of a man in a white dhoti, holding a bow and arrow. Arjuna, the archer who rode in a chariot with Krishna in the Mahabharata. Years ago, Kris had complained he only slept well when Arjuna was with him. Arjuna gave him the doll, and on the rare occasions he went to Kris’s house, it was on the pillow where Arjuna slept.

  The door slammed.

  Arjuna jumped up and ran to the living room, hoping it was a nonexistent breeze that had shut the door. He had more to say. No, he didn’t, but Kris did. Must have. He had more to shout, more names to call Arjuna, maybe a punch.

  Kris would never punch him.

  The room was empty.

  Kris was gone. And so was Tulsi.

  ONE OF the sales assistants raised his eyes as Kris strode into work with Tulsi under his arm. “You look like shit, boss.”

  Kris swept past him, eyes fixed on the Indoor Plants sign at the end of the long hallway. “You’re fired.”

  “You look amazing, boss?”

  “Better.”

  Kris passed the gift shop, the coffee shop, and the outdoor furniture sections, and into the damp heat of the greenhouses. Mira stood at a display of succulents, sticking price labels onto a shelf of zebra cacti.

  “Present for you, Mira.” Kris dumped Tulsi on the edge of the display and wiped his hands on his jeans. “It’s a sick plant for you to do your thing with. Let me know when sh—it—is better.”

  Mira looked around with interest. When she saw the plant, her face darkened, and she backed away several steps. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not taking on a sick Tulsi.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how much bad karma you get for killing Tulsi?”

  “I’m not asking you to kill it.” He shot a look at the plant. “It just needs some attention. Give it some of that new food we got in. The mint stuff.”

  “No way. My sister tried to raise three of them from seedlings, and all of them died. She’ll be lucky to come back as a cockroach in her next life.”

  Kris rubbed his head. Why had he stolen the damn plant anyway? It would serve Arjuna right to watch it die. “This one isn’t a seedling, is it? It’s well established and just needs a bit of nursing. Please, Mira. You’re the indoor-plant whisperer. Magic hands. Goddess of herbs. And so beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?”

  “Oh, shush.” Mir
a took a step closer and leaned forward gingerly, as if the plant were going to throw out a twig and poke her in the eye. “Looks like she’s dying to me.”

  “She can’t die.”

  Mira frowned at him. “Why do you care so much? You’re not Hindu, are you?”

  “No. I… look, it matters. Please help your poor, hungover boss.”

  “Because it’s my fault you drank too much?”

  “Yes. You should’ve come round and stopped me before I started drinking orange liqueur straight from the bottle. You can apologize by looking after the plant.”

  “You shouldn’t be spending your evenings alone. You need friends at a time like this.”

  “I had a friend. Karl came over, and we pretended to care about the cricket match.”

  “He let you drink neat orange liqueur. He’s not a friend. Anyway, you need to eat, not drink.” Mira pushed his hair out of his eyes and pinched his cheek. “I brought you lunch.” She ducked behind the counter and emerged with an ice cream tub. She lifted the corner, and the smell of mustard seeds and garam masala wafted up Kris’s nose and settled behind his eyes, which threatened to cause a scene in the middle of the indoor plant section.

  “Thank you. You’re the best. But the plant, Mira. It’s important.”

  Mira sighed and reached out a finger at arm’s length to feel one of the dead leaves. “I don’t think I can revive her, but maybe…. Are you busy on Sunday?”

  “Yes. So are you. We’re working.”

  “Before work.”

  “Before? I have extensive sleeping plans, but I suppose I can rearrange them.”

  “Okay, then you can come and meet a friend of mine who specializes in Tulsi plants. Then you’re going to have a good breakfast whether you like it or not.”

  “This friend won’t mind you inviting me for breakfast?”

  “No. She won’t be cooking anyway. We’re going to the temple.”

  It was Kris’s turn to back away. “No way. I mean, they won’t want a hell-bound atheist souring the mood, will they?”

  “Everybody is welcome. You’ll find it hard to sour anybody’s mood during mangala-arati.”

  “No, really. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “The plant can’t be that important then, can she?”

  “Why do you hate me?”

  “Don’t be a drama queen. Do you want advice or not?”

  “You have no idea how much advice I need.” Kris sighed. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’ll pick you up on the way. There’s just one thing….”

  Kris braced himself.

  Mira traced Tulsi’s plant pot with a fingertip. “Well, you see, things start quite early in the temple.”

  “Right….”

  “So I’ll swing by about….” She cleared her throat and mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, I think I misheard.”

  “I’ll see you about four in the morning.”

  “I misheard again.”

  “No, you didn’t. Arati starts at four-thirty and we need time to get there.”

  “Jesus. Fine. You’re fired too. Everybody’s fired.” He rummaged in his pocket for the blister pack of aspirin and headed to the staff room for a glass of water.

  “Don’t forget your dal,” Mira called after him. “You’re getting too skinny.”

  KRIS HAD never met a Hindu nun, and this one wasn’t what he’d expected. She was whiter than him, for a start, with pale blonde hair that blended into her yellow sari and made her look colorless. The exception was her piercing blue eyes, which seemed mocking and all knowing. She looked him up and down with those eyes, and he straightened his spine in defiance.

  Mira left them in the temple’s greenhouse to go to worship, and Kris fought an urge to ask her to stay. The nun looked like she would pull no punches in telling him exactly what she thought of him.

  He wasn’t sure why the hell he cared. If her mind was too narrow to accept love with too many Y chromosomes, he didn’t give a shit about her opinions.

  But he avoided her eyes all the same. The greenhouse was very like the garden center’s, except that all it contained was rows and rows of Tulsi plants. None of them looked as large and lush as Arjuna’s—at least, as large and lush as it had been.

  “I’m Tulsi Maharani,” said the nun.

  “Oh god, Tulsi?” Kris blurted out, turning his attention back to her. “You’re not the plant, are you? I mean, a… thing… of the plant… or the goddess… or, you know….” He trailed off and dug his fingernails into Tulsi’s pot. The pot was made of marble, so all it did was hurt his fingers.

  “No, I’m not a manifestation of Tulsi.”

  Goddamn it, that’s what he’d meant to say.

  “I was given the spiritual name Tulsi because I serve her. You can call me Tricia, if you’re more comfortable. That’s my birth name.”

  “Oh. Right. Tricia. Hi. I’m Kris.”

  There was a short silence.

  “You came about your Tulsi plant?” She nodded at Kris’s arms, which made him conscious of the plant’s closeness to him. He wanted to put it down but that would mean touching more of the plants to make room, and he probably wasn’t allowed to do that. Arjuna timed his Tulsi worship after showers and cleaned around her obsessively.

  Kris shuffled his feet at the memory of Wednesday night, when he had returned home with the stolen plant. He’d glared at her for an hour while he finished off the bottle of gin, then shut her in the downstairs toilet with vindictive pleasure.

  He cleared his throat and handed it out to Tricia. “Yes. It’s… not well.”

  Tricia placed the plant on a shelf, bowed to it, then examined it. Her fingers darted over the leaves with the lithe, efficient movements Arjuna used to make chapathis or flick the purifying water onto his worship mat. Kris couldn’t look away.

  “Who looks after her?” Tricia asked a minute later.

  “Not me,” Kris said without missing a beat. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Just wondering. It’s usually the woman of the household.”

  “I’m gay,” Kris said, loudly. He hoped that if Tricia didn’t demand he leave, someone passing the greenhouse might. Maybe a man. A big man who would get violent. Kris could do with a good fight—one he would definitely lose because the only gym equipment he used was the vending machine—especially with someone from the temple.

  But he couldn’t fight a woman, let alone a nun. Being raised Catholic had many lingering effects, and the only pleasant one was a delicious thrill during masturbation.

  “So you’ll be nursing her?” Tricia asked. Kris assumed she hadn’t heard what he’d said but couldn’t think of an excuse to repeat himself.

  “No, I brought her here to leave with you. She—it—will be happy with all these friends.” He waved an arm at the rows of plants. “I’ll pay. Or make a donation. Whatever you like.”

  Tricia studied his face, then felt the plant’s soil. “Do you know much about Tulsi?”

  “Sure. I manage a garden center.”

  “Not the plant. About Tulsi as a person.”

  He eyed Tricia. “No. I’m sure she’s lovely, but I’m just here for the plant. I need to heal it.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She said nothing but carried on looking at him.

  “It’s a friend’s,” he said finally. “He really cares about this thing, and I want to revive it for him. He’s the Hindu one. I’m an atheist.” He remembered to raise his voice for the last part, but no large, violent men seemed to be in earshot.

  Tricia didn’t seem to notice, again. “Why didn’t your friend bring her?”

  “He—” Kris swallowed. “What does all that have to do with it? If you don’t want to help me, then fine.” He reached for the plant, but Tricia was standing in front of it, and he wasn’t sure he should touch a nun.

  She didn’t move out of the way, even when he reached awkwardly behind her.

  “Yes,”
she said, “I can see you need help.”

  Kris narrowed his eyes. The words seemed more dry than malicious, but the nuns of his youth had had their sense of humor surgically removed along with their compassion.

  “You’re here until breakfast?” Tricia asked. “Okay, then you can watch what I do with my Tulsi plants and see if your friend is missing anything. How long has he had her?”

  “I don’t know. At least three years.”

  “And she’s been healthy until now?”

  “Yes.”

  Tricia cocked her head at him like he was an interesting Sudoku puzzle. Kris tried to look casual as he stepped behind a leafy plant.

  Her voice drifted through the leaves. “Did you know there’s a festival for Tulsi next week?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You should come. We’re putting on a play, and you can see why she’s so important to us.”

  “I can’t go into your temple. I’m gay. And an atheist.” He glanced at the door, but nobody was in earshot.

  Tricia dropped her trowel onto the wooden table with a clang and faced him. Kris gave a grim smile of satisfaction at her tight-lipped anger.

  “Are you hoping if you say it loud enough, the gods will send a bolt of lightning to strike you down?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Kris, realizing he sounded about twelve but not feeling equipped to verbally spar with a nun at 4:30 a.m.

  “What, you think I want you put to death for being a gay atheist? Oh, sorry.” She cleared her throat and shouted, “Gay atheist!”

  Somebody did hear that time. A group of men in orange loincloths stared as they walked past the greenhouse. Tricia didn’t seem to care.

  “Are you making fun of me?” Kris asked.

  “Yes.”

  He had no idea what to say.

  “Did you know Krishna married a man?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Yes, Iravan. Iravan sacrificed himself to a goddess, but before he died, he wanted to be married. Krishna took the form of a bride and married him.”

  “Wow!” Kris pressed a hand to his chest. “A man marrying a woman. Revolutionary!” He dropped his hand. “Hardly a victory for gay rights, is it?”