Chapter 35: Malena's story
Malena sings the tango like no one else
and into each verse she pours her heart.
He whirled her around the floor. They danced to this song every day. She and him. Her pigtails flew around her, slapping her cheeks as she spun. He held her close to his heart, her laughter mixing with his. She reached his heart exactly, when she stood on his toes as they danced. Anshu clapped his hands in glee. He loved to watch them spinning around crazily. And then, when they'd finished dancing she slipped off his feet and went to Anshu. She held out a hand to him imperiously. He took it and then she proceeded to dance with him. She led, of course. Anshu always let her lead. Within about a minute their attempt to tango had been reduced to their usual jumping around. He spun her. She spun him. They did the Tango walk pretending to be serious. Somedays he would put the plastic rose from one of their mother's vases into his mouth as he danced. He loved doing that, Anshu. He thought it was funny. And she laughed because it pleased him.
Her voice is perfumed with the weeds of the slum.
Malena feels the pain of the bandonen.
She puffed on the joint, as Anshu watched her, wide-eyed. They were hiding out in a dark corner on their way home from school. She smoked frequently. Only marijuana though. Nothing stronger. She only needed to dull the pain. It was enough. She never let him smoke. Even though he begged her every day to let him try. He was always too young. He had a cold. He had an exam the next day. She didn't have the money for a joint that day. He had to be content with inhaling the strong smell of ganja that pervaded the air when she lit up. It always made him feel slightly giddy, that heady scent. When she finished, he would hand her the gum he always had in his bag. She usually popped two in her mouth, hoping it would work better than one. She also carried a small bottle of perfume in her bag, so she could spray herself before they got home to Auntie. Home was with Auntie and Uncle now. Ma and Dad were gone. Anshu liked to call Auntie "Ranty" behind her back. It didn't help that her name was Rati. Rati Auntie. Ranty.
Perhaps there, in her childhood, her lark's voice
filled with that dark tone of the back alley;
Anshu lay in Malena's lap, coughing. He'd been so sick lately. So very ill. First the flu. Then the headaches. Now this cough. She felt a sudden wetness on her Pajamas. She looked down to see a red patch seeping through her pink, Victoria's secret PJs. Then he coughed again. Coughed like his lungs were so full, he could barely breathe. Red spots of blood flew everywhere. Her face was streaked with a line of droplets across her forehead. She looked at him, horrified. There was blood at the corners of his mouth and on his lips, making him look a little scary. He was so pale too. He looked like a vampire, she thought. She laughed hysterically. When she told him why, he laughed too. She hugged him close as tears ran down her cheeks. Then she called the ambulance. While they waited for the ambulance to come, she sang him their favorite song. She knew the Spanish words now. She even knew their meaning. He fell into a heavy slumber nestled in her lap, the song he loved best, lulling him to sleep.
or maybe that romance is only mentioned
when she becomes sad with alcohol . . .
He ran his hands up her back feverishly. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer. So close, that they were almost fused together. She wanted him so close that he would become her. They kissed passionately, desperately, breaths intermingling, teeth nipping roughly at swollen lips. Malena had never wanted anyone like she wanted Peter. Peter had never wanted anyone but Malena. He pushed her against the wall of the empty room, uncaring that they were at school during hours. She didn't care either. She cared about nothing anymore. Ma and Dad were gone. Anshu was gone. Peter was here. Peter held her. He did things to her that made her forget. If only for a few minutes, she forgot. He was unhooking her bra when the door to the room opened with a deafening creak. She looked up. Her uncle the janitor, stood there. Watching. He watched as she clutched her bra to her and straightened her clothes. He held the door open for her. She heard a loud crack when she reached him. It was him, she realized. He'd slapped her across the face. She laughed hysterically. That night, she stood cowering in front of him as he drank his whiskey. He looked at her contemptuously, like she was dirty. He told her that since she liked to rut, he had found her a stud.
Malena sings the tango with a shadowed voice;
Malena feels the pain of the bandonen.
She shivered in the cold, London air. They were at the edge of winter. She had one backpack filled with her belongings slung across her shoulders. 2 tops, 2 pairs of underwear, 1 pair of PJs, a photo frame, an iPod, an old cassette with the magnetic tape fraying, a plastic rose, an ancient packet of her mother's bindis, a cigarette lighter, Anshu's toy airplane, her father's leather shoes polished to perfection, and 3 books. The first was David Rieff's "Swimming in a sea of Death". The second was James Watson's "The Double Helix". The third was Anshu's well-worn copy of "Watership Down". She had nowhere to go. So she went everywhere. Peter wouldn't go with her. College, parents, career, life. All good reasons. She went by herself. Train stations, bus stations, malls, public gardens. Wanderlust, she told herself wryly. She had a bad case of wanderlust. Until she found her bench at Waterloo Station. That was like coming home. Her laughter was no longer hysterical. In fact, she had stopped laughing. Life's jokes were no longer funny. She couldn't make lemons out of lemonade anymore. She was tired. Malena was so, so tired.
Your song
has the coldness of a last encounter.
Your song
is bitter with a salty memory.
He followed her. She moved in and out of sight like quicksilver. She was like a mirage, he thought. So near, within his grasp almost. Then she slipped away. Always she slipped away. He wanted her. He deserved her. He owned her. He had paid for her. She was to be his wife. His ticket to stay in the UK. And yet she never even looked at him. At first he had begged. Begged her to marry him. He was a kind man, he'd said. He'd take care of her and their children. But she never understood. She never even talked to him kindly. She looked at him like he was pond scum. Filthy. He hated that. When she looked down on him. It made him feel ashamed. Ashamed that he couldn't say "innit" like her. He said "Isn't it" painstakingly, every syllable enunciated clearly. Ashamed that he hadn't gone to college. Ashamed he didn't enjoy her loud English music. And she made him angry. Angry she wouldn't listen to him, her affianced husband. Angry she'd run away. Angry she'd been disrespectful. Angry she'd embarrassed him and her family. The men laughed at him. He couldn't control a mere teenager, they joked. His fury erupted. He could control her. He would have her. She would marry him and bear his children. It was ordained. And when he chased her down to that narrow back alley that warm summer afternoon, he felt a violent rage course through him, adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his heart beat faster, louder. He beat her, silenced her, tore at her clothes. Humiliated her. He broke her. And when she lay there sobbing, begging for mercy, pleading with him to spare her life, he felt a sudden emptiness. He could have her now. She wouldn't be able to do a thing. And then, he didn't want to anymore. For she was defiled now. Spoiled forever. He spat at her, and walked away.
I don't know
if your voice is the bloom of sorrow;
I only know
that in the murmur of your tangos, Malena,
I feel you are better,
much better than I.
He watched over her. He came every morning, and left only at night. He watched her bruises heal. From black to purple to yellow. Watched her bones rejoin painfully. Saw her hair go from a long, tangled curly mess to a silky ponytail that hung down to her waist. Watched her elbows fill out a little. She was no longer as hollow as she'd been. She grew a few slight curves. Her lips curved occasionally to smile. The smile even reached her eyes when Sheila and Nita came to visit. He liked to see her smile. It made him happy, that warm smile. And when Malena slept silently, she reminded him of her. Of another girl, who'd been a teenager a long time ago. Who'd been cast off by her family. Who'd fled to Mumbai and then the UK in search of help. Work, education, sanity. And who'd found it all. And she'd done it on her own. No one should have to do it on their own, he thought. Malena would never be alone. What he hadn't done for Khushi, he would do for Malena. Be there.
Your tangos are abandoned creatures
that cross over the mud of a back alley
when all the doors are closed
and the ghosts of the song howl.
She climbed up the stairs slowly, like an old woman. Her hand was still in a cast, and her legs still hurt, making it hard to walk easily. But she wouldn't let him, or anyone else help her. She made it up on her own. Then collapsed onto the bed with a gasp. Khushi drew the duvet over her, and left her to rest. The room had light colored curtains that blew gently with the breeze. Malena didn't let Khushi close them. She liked the gentle sunlight filtering through. The warmth of the Sun caressing her skin as she lay there. Malena's eyes flitted to the nightstand. A photo of her in pigtails, her arm around Anshu, with their parents smiling in the background stood there. The bookshelf next to it was filled with books. Science, History, Romance, Poetry. Watership Down. It had everything. An old style Boombox stood on top of the bookshelf. It only ever played one cassette. A 1941 Tango that went by her name. Malena Tango. As for Malena herself, she was home.
I tried something different here. Did you like it? Tell me what you think.
Cheers!
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