Indira by Doug Sovern

8/10/2019 Indira by Doug Sovern

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And then a rumpled and furrowed man with no plate in his hands and hair like a $ust%

blown milkweed barged through the crush of sycophants and engaged Indira in fierce

debate over what sounded like 5here%is%it%stan and )ow%odd%a%bod, and 6pper &esh

and -ower &esh and maybe even 1ifty%Yard &esh, and it seemed to be an important

conversation about her support for the Arabs and why she believed religious fanaticism

must be opposed whether it’s in 7arachi or +el Aviv, but what the boy beside her really

wanted to know was why the administration was derelict in refilling the meatball tray.

ut then as the skunk lady turned stern and began to scold the milkweed man, the

hungry boy could not help but interrupt, turning to her and asking innocently, loudly,

ut they want to kill the ews, so how can they be your friends*

And after the gasps of his father and his father’s colleagues and his father’s boss,

Indira filled the hush, asking the boy his name. Isaac !insberg, he answered. 5ell, Isaac

!insberg, she insisted, things are not always as simple as they seem. ut let me try toe4plain, she said, her smile gone. 2very people should be free. ust as India had to fight

for independence from the ritish, so are the Arabs of /alestine demanding theirs, and

they should have it too. I would give every drop of my blood for my country, not because

I am )indu but because I am Indian. +he ew is no better than the "uslim when he

oppresses in the name of his !od.

ut it’s not about !od, the boy said simply. Isn’t it $ust about staying alive*

You are too young to understand, the prime minister snapped. +hese matters are

comple4. /erhaps your father will e4plain. ut instead &ean !insberg, forcing a grin

toothier than the peaks of the )imalayas, was apologi8ing3 )e’s $ust a boy, Your

24cellency, I don’t think he’s even had social studies yet. /lease, the children have taken

far too much of your time, I’d very much like you to meet /rofessor )assan, and he was

pushing her across the room, glowering back at his son in a scowl of disappointment.

And then after his father deposited Indira in the ideologically sympathetic embrace of

the esteemed /rofessor )assan, the boy noticed a woman he hadn’t seen before, a slight

and haunting grad student with porcelain skin as creamy as the milkweed man’s hair.

She caught the eyes of the dean and lost a token battle with her lips to keep them from

smiling. )is father hoped no one saw his return smile, or his furtive glance around thecrowded room to make sure no one saw it, but everyone was focused on the once%again%

enchanting Indira, with her amber folds and magnetic laugh and e4otic wisdom,

everyone, that is, e4cept the boy.

And when /rofessor )assan and the dean were done rehabilitating "rs. !andhi’s

image in the room, they ushered her back toward the food, and now the boy saw that she

really didn’t glide at all, it was more like a clumsy stumble, and he saw too her shoes as



they scuffled on the hem of her wrap, trampling it into the dingy gray of the worn

linoleum floor.

And now the one gray swath through her otherwise $et%black hair seemed more like a

landing strip for Soviet "i!s come to help her beat back the /akistanis, or maybe it was

a map of the road to /un$ab, so she could point the way to the !olden +emple when it

came time to slaughter the Sikhs, and on closer inspection, it bent and curved and

widened like the mighty !anges itself, with the ashes of her enemies curling in dark little

tufts on the banks of her widow’s peak.

I haven’t much more time, Indira was saying. She was off to meet with Ni4on. A sly

one, that, she let slip, and +ricky &ick thought the same of her3 a witch, a clever fo4,

always a move or three ahead, playing him for a sucker while she swatted shuttlecocks

with his long, long list of enemies.

And then it was on to dessert, none for her, thank you, apu always told us we mustnever eat sweets, but perhaps a bit of &ar$eeling, and then she fi4ed her ga8e on the boy

again, as if she were the doting mother not $ust of all India but of a ceaselessly hungry

ten%year%old too, and she said good%bye3 You must come see us in &elhi, it is such a

lovely place. Yes, of course, said the dean, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, son,

though they all knew that it would never happen. And the boy pundit, meeting the ga8e

of those shark%dead eyes, felt what perhaps no one else could, not the porcelain girl, not

the milkweed man, not venerable /rofessor )assan'certainly not his father, the dean'

that one day she would give every drop of her blood, hallowing the ground an even

deeper red than the scarlet bits of tandoori chicken left on his plate.

Indira by Doug Sovern

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