In August, Baram moved his small collection of possessions out of the couple’s hut. Suraya spent the morning cleaning the room and preparing it for her nuptial night with Jandu.
Jandu spent the day hunting.
He swore to himself as he searched the forest vainly for food. The religious sages in the retreat had stripped the forest of game. The Parans’ food stores ran out the previous week, and now they were living off milk and whatever greens and fruit they could gather. Jandu realized they would have to start begging soon, if he didn’t have better luck finding deer.
Hunting kept his mind off the upcoming evening, at least.
His family, hunkered down in panicked hunger, was desperate to make the rest of their communal living pleasant. Baram and Yudar never fought anymore, and all of them enthusiastically supported this previously agreed-upon switching of marital partners in an attempt to keep everyone else content. Even though Jandu knew Baram and Suraya were truly in love with each other, both of them were willing to sacrifice their mutual happiness in the name of harmony with the family.
But now, on the eve of consummating his marriage, Jandu decided they were all fools. It had been fun to think of how close they had all grown, living together and depending upon one another in the wilderness, but it was unreasonable to expect that harmony to continue purely based on some ideas they had the day they had met Suraya. What was it about Yudar and his damned devotion to rules?
Jandu was angry at himself for not being more adamant about abdicating his year with Suraya. Now, in the name of family peace, Baram would stifle his jealousy and be torn from the woman he loved. Suraya would have her third sexual partner in as many years. And Jandu would sleep with someone he didn’t want to.
Jandu decided that he would not go through with it on the grounds that Suraya was pregnant with his niece or nephew. The mere thought left him chilly with horror. He had to make them understand.
But his courage faded as he returned home and ate dinner in silence. He didn’t want his brothers to suspect the real reason he didn’t want to sleep with Suraya. He didn’t want anyone doubting his masculinity.
Baram had boiled down milk to thicken it and added roasted barley to make a porridge, seasoned with tamarind. They drank whey. They remained hungry after their plates were cleared.
Baram’s attempts not to appear hurt or angry made dinner more uncomfortable. Jandu knew his brother too well. Baram kept skipping stones, a sure sign of his unhappiness. Yudar picked at his dinner. He looked sunken into himself, deep in thought.
Only Suraya seemed calm. She drifted between the backyard and the hut, gathering their leaf plates and throwing them into the fire, sweeping the inside of the hut, putting away the few food stores left. She showed no apprehension on her face, only a calm serenity. Jandu half-suspected she had secreted a bottle of wine somewhere and had drunk herself into a pleasant coma.
A bottle of wine was exactly what Jandu needed now. Anxiety washed over him in sweeping waves. He looked at Suraya’s body, which had grown thinner but was still voluptuous and curvy, her large, round breasts threatening to burst through her zahari top, and tried to focus on how sexy she was. But he had known her too long in too fraternal a fashion to conjure any lust.
Suraya casually picked up Jandu’s chest of personal belongings. She struggled with its weight.
“Jandu,” she said softly. “Can you help me carry your things into the other room?”
Jandu felt his face redden. “Sure.” He grabbed the chest from her, and followed her out of the hut into the other building.
He had spent little time in this separate room. Its coziness contrasted with the drafty hut he’d slept in for the past year. The sandalwood bed gave off a sweet scent. The mattress was small, made of cotton cloth stuffed with grass and leaves, and strewn with the furs Jandu tanned months ago. Suraya’s zaharis hung around the small space, serving as decoration as well as storage. The room had a feminine touch, and smelled sweetly of camphor and butter.
“Where should I put it?” Jandu asked. Suraya pointed to a bare corner of the room. Baram’s chest had lived there only a few hours ago. The thought brought a sheen of sweat to Jandu’s forehead.
Suraya sat on the edge of the bed, and looked to Jandu coyly.
Jandu put his chest down and then stiffly sat beside her.
“This is uncomfortable,” he admitted.
Suraya laughed. She put her arm around him. “Remember how you once comforted me when I became Baram’s wife?”
Jandu grinned down at her. “Yeah. You were scared out of your wits.”
“I’m not scared now,” Suraya whispered.
“No. But I am.”
Suraya laughed again. She hugged Jandu to her tightly.
Jandu hugged back, hoping she didn’t notice the tremor in his body. Their embrace felt nice. He always loved holding Suraya. If they could just do this, everything would be fine.
But Suraya slowly lowered Jandu’s body on the bed. She stared down at him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jandu said quietly.
“I want to,” Suraya said.
“But Baram—”
Suraya broke his speech with a kiss.
Suraya had her eyes closed. Jandu stared at her. Keshan always stared back at Jandu when they made love.
Jandu quickly shut the thought out of his mind.
Suraya kept her lips on his, wanting more. Jandu’s skin crawled with revulsion. He didn’t want to stick his tongue in her mouth. But Suraya wasn’t giving up. She prodded his lips with her tongue, seeking entry. Jandu realized he would just have to go with it. He closed his eyes and thought of Keshan.
As his hands explored her body, the differences were too stark to let his imagination wander. Where Keshan’s muscles were firm, his arms tight, his flesh taut, Suraya was soft and curvy, smooth. Jandu preferred lying still, letting Suraya touch him, imagining her hands were Keshan’s.
Suraya reached the hem of Jandu’s trousers, and hesitated.
Jandu swallowed. He closed his eyes firmly, and then quickly undid the knot of his dejaru.
He turned quickly, crouching over Suraya. He kept his eyes closed, and blindly felt for the knot of her zahari. He untied it by feel. He opened his eyes and looked down at her face.
Suraya stared up at him, a look of fear on her face. Jandu realized he was going about this all wrong. He was rushing her, not taking his time, not kissing her or showing any affection at all. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would go through the motions, but he was incapable of pretending to feel something he didn’t.
He reached down to open Suraya’s legs, and with clumsy anxiety, entered her. Suraya sucked the breath back into her throat. Jandu looked at her long enough to make sure she wasn’t crying, and then pushed inside of her, scrunching his eyes tight again, imagining the flesh was Keshan’s flesh, imagining he tasted Keshan’s skin, smelled his coconut clove scent, felt his muscles underneath his hands.
Jandu sped up his actions, and then, after intense concentration, he came quietly, stifling any moan he would normally make.
Jandu wasn’t sure if he should continue his actions or not, but he didn’t really think Suraya enjoyed this any more than he, so he stopped moving, pulling out of her quickly.
He rolled beside her and pulled up his dejaru quickly, retying the knot.
Suraya retied her zahari and stared up at the ceiling. She looked pale and horrified.
Jandu burned with shame. He knew this had been a bad idea. Now Suraya would hate him for being such a terrible lover.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Suraya didn’t answer. She continued to stare at the ceiling, as if in shock.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Jandu rolled over on his side.
“What do you want to do, Jandu?” Suraya asked. There was pain in her voice, accusation. “You find me so disgusting, you can’t even look at me.”
Jandu’s eyes widened. “What? That’s not it at all!”
“You are the one who won me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Suraya turned her back to him and curled up on herself, knees to her chest. “It just means that you’re the one I chose, and yet you’re the one who is most distant.”
“I won you because I wanted to win. I wasn’t trying to win you, especially.”
“How romantic.”
“I’m sorry,” Jandu said, “but I’m being honest.”
Suraya had tears in her eyes. She stared at him, heartbroken. “If it isn’t me, then, what is it?”
Jandu sighed. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Suraya, for the last two years that I’ve known you, you have been my sister. I think of you as my sister. You’re pregnant with my brother’s child. However depraved I may be, I am not a sister fucker.”
Suraya’s eyes grew wide at the expression.
Jandu swallowed. “The truth is, we’ve been friends for too long for me to think of you in any other way.”
Suraya studied Jandu’s face carefully. Color came back to her cheeks.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Jandu said. “But it’s better to be honest.”
Suraya seemed to let out a thin breath she had been holding. She pulled the thin cotton sheet around her, and nodded. She tried smiling.
“Sister fucker, huh?” she said quietly.
Jandu laughed. “Yeah. That’s what I feel like.”
“I think I understand,” Suraya said.
Jandu stroked her head. “I do love you, Suraya—as a sister.”
Suraya reached out and stroked Jandu’s shoulder. “All right.”
Jandu smiled shyly. “You know, if you want to go back to Baram, I’m all for it.”
Suraya studied Jandu’s face. Her gaze was so intense, Jandu began to panic.
“What?” he asked nervously.
“Nothing.” She smiled slightly. “You are just… surprising. That’s all.”
Jandu closed his eyes, luxuriating in the softness of the pillow beneath his head, the warmth of the shared sheet. “I’d prefer to pretend like we’re man and wife, however, just so I can stay here in this comfy bed of yours.”
Suraya rolled over and placed a soft kiss on Jandu’s cheek. “It’s all right by me if you stay. We can just keep each other company in the dark.”
Jandu put his arm around her, and closed his eyes again. “That sounds perfect.”
◆◆◆
Their marital life fell into an easy pattern. During the day, Jandu made sure his relationship with his wife was loving and enjoyable. He didn’t want his brothers to suspect anything, and so he showered affection on Suraya every chance he had. He included Suraya in almost every activity, and the two of them walked the lake shore, collected interesting plants together, and made up stories about their enemies. Their favorite game was, “what disease does Darvad have?” where the two of them would sneak off by themselves for hours, drink milky tea and crack each other up with new, imagined ailments that pocked Darvad’s skin and bloodied his sex life.
At night, the two of them settled comfortably together in the bed, curled around each other in the small space, and slept soundly. Jandu never tried to touch her after their wedding night. And Suraya never again made any advances either.
Life would have been pleasant, if they weren’t desperately starving. By the time Suraya’s pregnancy showed, they had no food stores left, no fresh meat, no fish, and only a thin supply of milk from their cow. Baram looked Jandu in the eye one morning, and then pointed his finger at him.
“You are going to have to beg,” Baram told him. He pointed to the door. “So go. Beg.”
Jandu scowled. “Why do I have to do it?”
“You want Suraya to beg?” Baram shouted.
“No!” Jandu glared. “I want you to beg! Or Yudar!”
Yudar held out his hands in the sign of peace. “I cannot take anything from pilgrims. I would rather starve then lead them to starvation.”
“Starve, then,” Baram spat at him. “But someone is going to have to feed the rest of us, and so it’s up to you Jandu.”
Jandu stood up and approached his brother. Even though Baram was several inches taller than Jandu, Jandu still looked angry enough to make Baram back up a step.
“Why don’t you beg?”
Baram smiled. “You’re the youngest. You do what I say.”
“But—”
“Besides, I look intimidating. You look like an innocent, malnourished peasant in ripped clothing.”
“No. You have to come with me. I’m not doing this alone!” Jandu grabbed an empty rice pot angrily, and stormed out of the hut.
Baram did come with Jandu the first few times, walking down the pilgrim’s trail several miles from where Jandu sat, begging rice and grain off the travelers. But Baram was right, he looked too big for people to easily pity him. Alone, Jandu received twice as much. Soon Baram stopped accompanying him.
Jandu hated begging. The indignity devastated him. He had passed by beggars in the street back when he was a prince and despised their sad, pitiful eyes, detested the way they reeked of spoiled milk and soiled clothes, found their whole presence demeaning. Now here he was, the son of King Shandarvan, a fucking beggar. The shame was unbearable and yet it fed him and his family.
“Please help me,” Jandu grumbled, holding out his begging bowl to the holy pilgrims, keeping his head down so that they couldn’t see his blue eyes. No one would ever have guessed he once slept on feather beds. His clothes were stained and torn, his skin had darkened in the sun, and his hands had grown rough and calloused with chopping wood. The bones of his cheeks and ribs stuck out prominently.
“Help,” Jandu mumbled. Occasionally someone would stop long enough to pour some rice from a sack into his bowl. It was considered bad luck to ignore the pleas of a beggar while on a holy pilgrimage. For once, their proximity to the retreat worked in their favor. But many pilgrims chose not to stop. There were too many hungry mouths, too many desperate people in these times to help every one of them.
When someone did give Jandu food, he fell to his knees and touched their feet, as was tradition. He had done so for several days before he realized that none of the pilgrims were Triya. He was touching the feet of Suya and Chaya caste men and women, soiling his purity.
Jandu tried to resurrect some of the old indignation he would have felt, dirtying himself with lower caste skin, but the truth was, a foot was a foot. The Parans might have been the only Triya on the mountain, but they were the ones that were starving. Suddenly, religious status seemed unimportant.
Jandu pushed the thought from his mind, but he couldn’t help but notice that the clearly Chaya-caste pilgrims were more likely to give him something to eat than the better-off, Suya merchant caste. The poorer were more generous with the little they had. It made Jandu feel ashamed of the way he used to mock the Chaya. It also made Jandu miss Keshan even more, hearing Keshan’s chiding voice in his mind.
Once, late one evening when Jandu had struck out with every pilgrim who wandered on the trail, Jandu followed a lone merchant making his way to the retreat to sell herbal medicines.
“Help me,” Jandu pleaded, walking alongside the man with his bowl out.
The man was shorter than Jandu, and older. He eyed Jandu warily. “Leave me alone.”
Jandu followed him. “Please. My wife is pregnant.”
“Bugger off.” The man quickened his steps. Jandu kept pace. The man watched the way Jandu strode up the hill and frowned. “You do not walk like a beggar.”
“I don’t?” Jandu looked at his feet.
“You walk like a thief.”
Jandu narrowed his eyes. “What kind of fucking thief follows assholes like you up a mountain begging for a handful of some fucking rice?”
The man stopped and glared at Jandu. Jandu squared his shoulders and stared back.
“Fuck you,” the man said finally. He spat in Jandu’s face and walked up the hill. Jandu’s fists tensed, and he dropped his begging bowl.
Jandu’s face clouded with rage and he took off after the man. He caught the older man easily, grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him around.
“If I wanted to take your money I’d have fucking well done it and left you dead on the side of the road. You want to know why I don’t? Because I’m better than that, you prick.” He let go of the man’s shoulder, and watched him sprint up the trail in a panic. Jandu waited until he was out of sight, and then stooped down to pick up his begging bowl again.
He felt beaten.
But he continued to beg the rest of the winter. He thought the humiliation would wear off. He thought that spicing up his begging with telling jokes, or offering to read palms, would bring some joy into the situation. But there was a constant, sinking, understanding that Jandu was as low as he could get. It would have been easier if only he had gotten a letter from Keshan, but none came.
The winter months passed and as the air sweetened with blossoms and fruit finally hung throughout the forest, and the sky tumbled and rumbled with the threats of monsoon rain.
But still no new word from Keshan arrived.
Jandu’s letters collected under the stone statue in his forest clearing like the leftovers of an abandoned library. He built a bigger box to store them all. Mice had gotten into the box and chewed on the pata cloth, ruining one of his better sketches. Three months without word from Keshan turned to four, and Jandu’s optimism, the spark that had heated his family through the chilly first year and a half and brought a little light into their dark situation, faded from his heart completely.
On his way back from begging one evening, he checked the forest clearing to find that his box of letters had been knocked over by some wild animal, his precious words strewn around the forest floor like leaves. He let out a strangled cry and rushed through the glade, picking up his letters and putting them back in the box with trembling hands. When he returned the box in its place, with all letters accounted for, Jandu leaned against the statue and covered his face with his hands. Something broke in him. He could feel it, in his heart, a gentle snap, and he covered his face with his hands and wept. He lost his sense of righteousness, his sense of duty, his pride. And, worst of all, he had somehow lost Keshan too.