Wings

Misha Rai

Before dying, Great-Grandpapa asks for my newly wedded mother, his voice ringing louder each time he enunciates the alphabet Ns—Nina—in his granddaughter’s name. Great-Grandpapa’s voice is so strong that at first his second wife, that woman, whose conjoining with Great-Grandpapa brought the word bigamy to the family door, thinks he must be dead; surely his illness-ridden friable body is incapable of issuing forth such a resonant voice and so must reverberate as though ripped from that liminal space, where souls with unfinished business pause before their ascension. That woman screams, and my great-grandmother, who has been sitting on the other side of the short betel-nut-stained red cream boundary wall of that housethe nurse’s quarters—on a large green sofa her four sons have transported all the way from the ancestral bungalow, from the other side of town beyond the general hospital, and placed facing the wall with the muck and thoroughfare of the town behind her, stands up and brings her wooden stick down hard twice against the flat top of the boundary wall. This smack and thud is my great-grandmother’s way of asking that woman, whose dalliance with Great-Grandpapa resulted in an illegal second marriage instead of furtive meetings between a man and his mistress, if her husband is finally gone.

There is no language that would allow a conversation between the two women who made up her father’s private life, my grandmother often tells my mother when she comes to visit us in the winters in Delhi from Bihar. Over pots of cardamom milk-tea they speak invariably, behind cupped bejeweled hands, of certain blemishes in the family history. “A butterfly and a moth may descend from a similar order, but their lives and the manner of leading those lives is never the same,” my grandmother will say, as though by rote.
“Neither is their death, Nina. Some dust, some burn.”

Some have their wings ripped, Mother tells Father one night when we are still children and they’re still in the habit of standing in our room watching us sleep. I was not very good at pretend sleepbreathing, nor was my brother at lying still, although we were always very good at running around the various family estates looking for something to catch. One day in the storage rooms of the old hospital building, out of where Great-Grandpapa’s surgery had been run, we find suture hooks no one uses anymore and attach them to the handheld sweep nets that are our hunting weapons and set out on mid-afternoons to capture and impale whatever life there is to pin in our insect books.

The weight of my mother’s face, her 19-year-old unforgiving face, has made her grandfather’s passing difficult. His body lingers that day. He continues to cry out for her, repeating her name—Nina—as though it’s a prayer between sips of water that woman, still wearing her nurse’s uniform, administers. His four sons stand around him a few paces away, temporarily united by the slight touch of their billowy white kurtas. Each hunches protectively into himself, stiff against the softening he feels in his core for that woman as he watches that woman’s love-laden ministrations, unable to stand the pain and humiliation their father is surely reliving in hourly increments. When my mother’s youngest uncle calls out to my great-grandmother he can only get the word Ma out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, but he knows that right now in his pain only one person can soothe him. He leaves the outer room his father has been dying in for the past weeks. My mother’s youngest uncle will sometimes say, when his brothers are no longer in the same room, that his father called out for his first wife even before “I reached my mother,” who would not enter that house and had remained for the duration of her husband’s illness on the other side of the boundary wall. “Papa asked them to move his charpai near the door so he could speak with her.” And his brothers picked up their father’s roped bed and wedged it within the doorframe so that when their father chose to turn around and look out as he spoke, he would see that boundary wall.

When that roped bed is raised above the boundary wall of that housethe nurse’s quarters—over the shoulders of my great-grandpapa’s four sons, each clutching a wooden leg, the people of Siwan think that he has finally passed. The knotted woven rope, which makes up the rectangular frame of the charpai, on which my great-grandpapa had lain since the start of his illness months ago, does not sag from his weight. Years later the town milkman’s granddaughter, who witnessed the event, will inappropriately query my 15-year-old brother about the logic of carrying my great-grandpapa through the town to his original home. “If he had been alive surely family Fiat car would have been summoned?” she will ask my brother, who was at the time unaware of this particular family skeleton. “Why would his sons carry him on their shoulder as though they were taking him for the last rites of the departed?” Unaware of the chasm of emotion she has created in my brother, the town milkman’s granddaughter, who herself was only 14 at the time of this occurrence, will ramble about how the charpai was so straight and taut, almost like the day it had been woven, that people were certain that Great-Grandpapa’s body had been transferred onto this new bed for his final journey to his family home so that the townspeople would not witness the marked curvature of his sins on the roped body of the original bed he had lain restlessly in for the duration of his illness. “We were all shocked when Doctor Sahib called out for your mother—Nina. His twitching elbows (that were visible off the sides of the bed) we put down to after-death shivers that one sometimes sees in the dead.” My great-grandmother walked in front of her husband’s bed, leading her sons and her husband to their ancestral home. “That woman, walked behind your Great-Grandpapa’s family, his true family.”

On the day my mother—Nina—is born, my great-grandpapa lost his feet in a dream. When he visited his granddaughter in his dreams, as she grew older he would fly above her with his bird’s wings stretched out and perch his claws on the branch of a teak tree, the same kind of tree whose twigs he whittled down into earring hoops with his surgeon’s knife so that the earring holes in his granddaughter’s ears would enlarge naturally. This was the gift of that tree to maiden girls whose ears had not yet learned the pain of being weighed down with heavy earrings that sometimes tore at their tender skin and left them bloodied. This was also the kind of tree under which Great-Grandpapa first saw that woman standing in her widow’s white with her two infant sons in tow. “The tree itself has always been hidden from my vision,” he tells his wife after he turns around and faces that boundary wall of his second home, “but now I can’t see Nina either. I am flying too high even though I try not to and she flits firmly in another world.”

My grandmother made the nightlong journey from her marital home to her parent’s ancestral home when her mother finally called for her. My great-grandpapa did not ask for his granddaughter anymore, and my grandmother did not tell him that his only granddaughter—Nina— had refused to come when she was called. She did not tell him of the word wars that had already begun within the newly wedded home of his granddaughter Nina. She did not assure him that he was forgiven for the distrust and rage the women of her mother’s family had inherited and continued to breed because of the humiliation he had brought into their lives and homes. She did not speak to him at all. She held a silver cup brimming full of water from the Ganges to her father’s lips so that he could drink one last sip of water.

Of the thirteen days of mourning that follow, the sky only rumbles and leaks once. In all that time that woman continues to stand outside my great-grandpapa’s ancestral home. She never changes out of the nurse’s uniform she had on for her shift at the hospital when the call came through telling her that that man had gotten sicker. She never calls out to anyone. None of my great-grandpapa’s stepsons stand with her on her vigil. My mother’s youngest uncle can no longer recall that woman’s face, but he remembers the yellowness of her hands on his father’s face and the tender steadiness with which she held the washcloth. The combined smells of carbolic acid and iodine she brought with her calmed Great-Grandpapa in the first few days of his illness. Those smells lingered in the days that followed, putrefying everything. My mother’s youngest uncle remembers that woman twisting that washcloth in her hand and its corners flapping like fettered wings as the men carried the man that woman loved for cremation, and the women who had his name stayed within his ancestral home, mourning in crescendo in their clothes of spotless white.

翅膀

Zhiqiang Liu

Translator's Note

临终前,外曾外祖父想见见我的母亲,那时她才刚刚结婚。每当他一字一顿地念着他外孙女妮娜的名字时,鼻音都要重过上一次。外曾外祖父的声音十分有力,以至于一开始他的第二个妻子,那个与他结婚后让他的家门蒙受重婚罪之耻的女人,还以为他回光返照了;他那疾病缠绕的羸弱身躯必不可能发出这么响亮的声音,因此只得如同从某个临界空间撕裂出来一般震颤着事业未竟的灵魂于升天之前在此弥留。我的外曾外祖母原本一直坐在那栋房子,也就是那个护士的宿舍那满是槟榔渍的乳红色矮院墙的另一侧。她身下的青色大沙发是她的四个儿子从祖居平房一路运过来的。祖居在小镇的另一头,离综合医院很远。沙发面向院墙摆着,祖母坐在上面,身后是小镇的泥泞与熙攘。那个女人突然尖叫,于是外曾外祖母便站起身来,拿她的木拐棍在院墙的平顶上用力地敲了两下,发出砰砰的响声外曾外祖母以这种方式来问那个女人她的丈夫是不是彻底咽气了。那个女人与外曾外祖父有了露水情缘之后,并不满足于成为情人偷偷约会,而是选择了非法重婚。

冬天,外祖母从比哈尔邦来德里看望我们的时候,常常对母亲说,外曾外祖父婚姻生活中的两个女人没法用任何语言交谈。外祖母和母亲喝着一壶又一壶豆蔻奶茶,戴着珠宝的手捧着杯子,一成不变地聊着家丑。“蝴蝶与蛾可能属于同一目,但它们的生活与习性绝不相同,”外祖母像背书般说道,“它们的死也不一样,妮娜。有的隐入尘烟,有的化为灰烬。”

还有的翅膀四分五裂,某天晚上母亲如是告诉父亲。那时候我和弟弟还小,父母仍习惯站在我们房里看着我们睡觉。尽管我和弟弟常常在家里到处乱跑捉东西玩,但我却不擅长装出睡着时的平静呼吸,而我弟弟也不擅长装作安静躺着的样子。有一天,我们跑到外曾外祖父曾经做手术的那栋老式医院楼房里。在储藏室中,我们找到了废弃的缝合钩,并把它们固定在我们的狩猎武器手持式捕虫网上。下午三点左右,我们就开始把庄园里所有的生物全捉起来然后统统刺死,最后再用大头针将它们固定在我们的昆虫书里。

我母亲十九岁时那张恨透了她外祖父的脸,成了她外祖父心中的重担,以至于他生命的最后一程走得格外艰难。他那天奄奄一息,一直迫切想见到她。他的第二个妻子仍穿着护士服给他喂水。小口抿水的间隙,他不停地叫着妮娜的名字,仿佛在祈祷什么。他的四个儿子穿着白色库尔塔衫站在他周围几步之远。鼓起的库尔塔衫相互贴着,暂时将这兄弟四人连成一体。四兄弟都弓着身子有所防备,看到那个女人对自己父亲充满爱意的照料,虽感到心软,却不为所动。他们的父亲必定正在重温与时俱增的痛苦与屈辱,这些痛苦与屈辱是他们所无法忍受的。我母亲最小的舅舅打电话给我外曾外祖母时,嘴里只喊得出一声妈。他不知道要说什么,但他知道此时此刻只有一个人能抚慰他的伤痛。他离开了他父亲度过生命最后几周的外屋。等他的兄弟不再待在同一间屋子里的时候,我母亲最小的舅舅有时会说道:“爸爸甚至在我还没给妈妈打电话之前就要见他这位原配妻子。”可是外曾外祖母从她丈夫生病起就一直住在院墙的另一侧,绝不踏进这个房子。“爸爸让他们把他的床搬到离门近的地方,这样他就能和她说话了。” 他的兄弟就抬起他们父亲睡的编织床,把它夹在门框中间。这样一来,他们的父亲说话的时候,只要转个身向外望,就能看到那堵院墙。

当外曾外祖父的四个儿子各抱着一条木床腿,扛着床翻过护士宿舍的院墙上方时,锡万的人都以为他彻底断气了。那张长方形的床是由打结的绳子编织成的。外曾外祖父自患病的几个月里一直缠绵其上,但那张床并没有被他压得凹下去。镇上那个送奶工的孙女目睹了外曾外祖父被抬回来的过程。多年后,她不合时宜地问我 15 岁的弟弟为什么我外曾外祖父会被抬着穿过小镇回到他原来的家。“要是他还活着,肯定得叫一辆菲亚特家庭用车吧?我弟弟当时并不知道这一家丑。她又问他:“为什么他儿子把他扛在肩上,就像是在为已故的人举行最后的仪式一样?”外曾外祖父被抬回来的时候,送奶工的孙女才14岁。她没有意识到她给我弟弟造成了多大的情感创伤。她喋喋不休,一会儿说那张床是如何笔直紧绷,几乎就像刚编织好的一样;一会儿又说镇上的人笃定外曾外祖父的遗体是后来挪到这张新床上的,为的就是在他回老家的最后一程,镇上的人不会看到他重病缠身辗转难眠之时,在原来那张编织床上明显留下的罪孽痕迹。“萨希布医生喊你母亲妮娜时,我们都吓了一跳。我们看到他的胳膊肘在床边抽搐,都以为那是人们偶尔会在死人身上看到的尸体痉挛。”我的外曾外祖母走到她丈夫的床前,带着她的儿子和丈夫往祖屋走去。“那个女人就走在你外曾外祖父的家人后面,他们才是你外曾外祖父真正的家人。”

我母亲妮娜出生的那一天,外曾外祖父梦到自己双脚消失了。他在梦里见到了他的外孙女。等她长大了,他会如鸟一般张开翅膀从她的头顶飞过,落在一棵柚木的树梢上。他用外科手术刀将这种树的树枝削成耳环给他的外孙女戴上,这样她的耳洞就会自然张大。这是柚木给未婚女孩们的礼物。她们的耳朵还没学会承受被沉重的耳环压住的痛苦,耳环有时会撕裂她们娇嫩的皮肤,让耳朵流血。也是在一棵柚木下,外曾外祖父邂逅了他的第二个妻子。那个女人穿着守寡穿的白色衣服站在那儿,牵着两个儿子。“那棵树一直被挡在我看不见的地方,”他转身朝向护士宿舍的院墙,对妻子说,可现在我连妮娜也看不到了。我飞得太高了,尽管我尽量不飞那么高,可她却在另一个世界里坚定地飞来飞去。

接到外曾外祖母最后打来的电话,外祖母连夜就从她家赶回她父母的祖屋。外曾外祖父不再要求见他的外孙女,外祖母也没有告诉他,他唯一的外孙女妮娜接到电话后仍拒绝前来见他。她没有告诉他,在他外孙女妮娜的新婚家中已然发生了争吵。她没有安慰他说他已经得到了原谅。她娘家的女人相继承受了怀疑和愤怒,代代相传,继续滋生。这都是因为他给她们的生活还有家庭带来了耻辱。她不再同他说话。她把盛满恒河水的银杯举到父亲的嘴边,好让他最后再喝一口水。

在随后服丧的十三天里,天空只隆隆地落过一次雨。这期间,那个女人一直站在我外曾外祖父祖屋的外面。有人打电话给她说那个男人病情加重时,她也没换下在医院值班时穿的护士服。她没喊任何人帮忙,外曾外祖父的继子们没有一个和她一起守夜。我母亲最小的舅舅已经记不清那个女人的脸了,但他记得她温柔地拿着毛巾稳稳当当地给他父亲擦脸时那双泛黄的手。她身上那股石碳酸和碘酒的混合气味让外曾外祖父在生病的最初几天得以平静下来。随后的日子里,这股气味挥之不去,腐蚀着一切。我母亲最小的舅舅还记得,当我的外曾外祖父那个女人心爱的男人被人抬去火化时,她正用手拧着毛巾,毛巾的四个角像被束缚的翅膀一样拍打着。这个冠外曾外祖父夫姓的女人留在他的祖屋里,穿着一尘不染的白色丧服哭丧,声音越来越大。

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