31. Imprisoned Lightning - Lords of Serendipity

Here you go, my darling.

Devi accepted a glass goblet of cold, fizzing Coke.

And don’t worry, the ice cubes are filtered water.

Thank you, Menaka Aunty.

How are the fans? Too much? Too close?

Actually, yes, Aunty. Sorry, but can you?

Of course! Of course! I won’t even call the servant. I’ll do it myself.

Her gold bangles shaking, the old woman moved the fans away from Devi, who kept typing. She was sitting at a massive desk in an upstairs room of the largest house in their village. Through the window she could see the statue-filled front yard. To the right was her own house. She did not look to the right.

Menaka Aunty had seen Devi walking by herself one night, after she received her final rejections. The rich old woman called Devi to the verandah and asked about her university plans. Not knowing where else to go, not having anywhere else to go, Devi went and told her what had happened. A version of what had happened. The old woman had immediately offered to do what she could to help, reminding Devi that she’d offered in the past, and if Devi had only listened then? Maybe she’d already be in America.

But the old woman didn’t mention wanting to pay for part of Devi’s studies in exchange for Devi helping her get to America. That seemed to have been forgotten. Instead, she offered Devi a computer to continue her work, a clean and quiet house, cool drinks and treats. Devi had been coming here most nights for many weeks after finding out the truth about Johannes.

That day she’d messaged him after leaving the British high commission and it seemed he’d finally messaged back, but then she had been shocked to speak instead with Johannes’s brother and find out Johannes was dead. Her world spinning, falling apart, when his brother had asked her if she was Johannes’s fiancée, she had said she was. She felt more firm, more focused in her crying, her anger. And what an effect it had on him—his face! Would this work with others? Would it help her gain admission to an overseas university? It was worth trying. It was better than the other option: Thathi selling her to a Dubai job agent. When Johannes’s brother had asked her to meet his parents, she had declined and then ignored his repeated requests. This also felt very good, very ethical. Eventually, the requests stopped. Because even if she thought she could, she didn’t want to lie to his mother. To another mother.

Besides, she now had what she needed: the knowledge that Johannes had killed himself because he didn’t have enough money to retake a course in statistics. Devi wasn’t familiar with the subject but had looked it up. She’d also looked up Arcadia Tech. Which wasn’t Oxford Cambridge or the rest. But who cares? It was a university in America with boba tea and a concrete beach. Lying on her cot and walking around the village after she spoke with Johannes’s brother, Devi felt her Ochpys dream dry up and crack and drop away, like an old skin. And eventually, really very suddenly, Devi became something sleek and new. Johannes might have tricked her, but the university had beaten him. To death, in fact. And now, for tricking her the way he did, for taking her money, her family’s money, for all the work her family had done, which had left them the way they were, Devi would honor Johannes, her beloved, dearly departed fiancé, as he deserved. She would take that same statistics course in his memory. Devi would do whatever she had to do, to begin her university studies at Arcadia Tech. Devi would trick the university. She would beat the university.

She had nearly completed the best and final version of her letter of application: a personal appeal to the vice chancellor, complete with life story, family story, and the story of her tragic courtship. In fact, on her nightly visits to Menaka Aunty’s, she had written two letters: the one she would send, and the one she would print and read to the old woman, which included a quotation from the poem at the base of the Statue of Liberty and also praised Menaka Aunty’s generosity and added that America itself would be fortunate to have such a generous person living there someday. Devi liked that wording, mostly because it was her own, but also because she knew it would make Menaka Aunty happy and risked nothing. The letter Devi read to her would never be sent. By the time the old woman figured it out, Devi would be safely in America, taking the famous Intro to Statistics for Non-Majors course and hanging out with friends on the famous Arcadia Tech highway beach.

Are you ready to print the new version of your letter and read it to Aunty, darling?

Almost, Aunty.

Okay, okay. I’ll leave you to it and make sure the boys stay in their room, then I’ll go get us some nice chilled biscuit pudding! Come down when you’re ready, okay? My darling little prisoner of lightning!

Okay, Aunty.

The old woman called the servant to walk in front of her while she went down the stairs. When Devi could no longer hear her peeling gold slippers slapping against the black tile floor, she took the latest printout of the real letter out of her waistline, unfolded it, and made corrections. She added the corrections to the digital version. Now it was ready. She cut and pasted the document into an email and typed in the address for the president of Arcadia. She closed her eyes. She could see herself there. She didn’t need to dream it true. She was making it happen.

Devi! Print your letter and come down! I’m waiting!

Devi saved a draft of the real letter, logged off her email, and cleared the browser history. She would send it from her phone when she left.

But first, a final performance.

She went downstairs with a printout of the fake letter. Menaka Aunty was sitting on one of the many polar-white leather sofas in the large round foyer at the center of the house. There were sweating silver goblets of thick brown pudding on the gold-rimmed glass coffee table. Devi could hear gunshots and yelling coming from behind a closed door. Menaka Aunty’s grandsons were playing video games.

Don’t worry, child, I’ve told them to stop PlayStation when you practice your letter for me. Actually, they said they want to listen as well. I have been telling them all about you and they have become very interested in your plans. Shall I call them out now? Ruan! Ranil!

Two young men came out of a nearby room, shutting behind them a dark loud space full of flashing. They had glazed eyes and mouths that suggested they’d been fed many, many sweets. They sagged everywhere above the waist. Tiger Balm bellies. Below, everything looked tight. They were wearing pink Lionel Messi football jerseys over shiny black Adidas shorts. The shorts were tight, so tight, in all the areas. Menaka Aunty’s grandsons were in their early twenties, like her own brothers. But Devi’s brothers had friendly eyes. They were thin. They had ropes of veins running down through their arms to their callused palms. Her hardworking, sweet, loyal, good brothers. Who would be so upset to know these boys were looking at her the way they were. Devi gritted her teeth. Sweet and loyal and good got you nowhere. It just got you suicide.

So, Devi, my brilliant girl, tell me.

Tell you what, Aunty?

Which one?

Which one, Aunty?

Which one do you prefer?

Sorry, Aunty, I don’t know what you mean.

The old woman stared at her, nodding to herself.

Of course, child. You’re so very innocent of such things. That’s why I am helping you go to America for university. Don’t worry. You don’t have to make such a difficult choice, between my handsome grandsons. Let’s get back to our work, okay? Idiots! Leave us!

Can we have more biscuit pudding, Achchi?

Okay okay, go and take and come quick and go.

They twaddled down the hallway to the kitchen, calling to the servant to fill more bowls.

Do you want them to hear you practice your letter, Devi?

No, Aunty.

Okay. Just for me? Fine. I don’t mind being an audience of one.

The two of them waited to have the living room to themselves again. Spooning brown pudding in their mouths, staring at Devi the whole time, the grandsons finally went back to their gaming room.

When the door shut, Devi read the fake letter she’d been working on, which ended,

Does your powerful country truly want to live up to the truth of the famous poem by Emma Lazarus written at the base of your Statue of Liberty? Does it want to offer worldwide welcome to the most deserving? If so, then, please consider me for admission to Arcadia Technological University. Living in Sri Lanka, dreaming of going to university in the United States, I am imprisoned lightning. Set me free, into America.

Us, said Menaka Aunty. Us.

Sorry, Aunty?

It just sounds better, doesn’t it? “Set us free, into America”?

Right, but only I’m applying, no?

Us. Change it to us.

Okay.

Let’s go back upstairs now.

Why?

To send the letter.

Send the letter?

Yes. You are going to send the email to the university from my computer.

No need, Menaka Aunty. I can do this on my phone.

After all I have given you, to write this letter, do you really think I’m going to make you send this from your broken little device? Or from your own email?

What do you mean, Aunty?

Go upstairs. Now.

I should go home now, actually, Aunty. It’s getting late. Ammi and Thathi will be worrying.

Your ammi cleans toilets in Colombo and your thathi is a useless drunk. Go upstairs now.

Aunty—

Go upstairs right now, or I will call my grandsons to take you upstairs for me. And I won’t pick which one. Both will take you.

Menaka Aunty went upstairs, easy and fast, no servant called for help. Devi followed. The old woman was already at the computer.

Standing beside her, Devi was told to open her files and cut and paste the letter she’d just read into a different document that was already on the screen. This looked like it was written by her and was addressed to the president of Arcadia Tech. The letter Menaka Aunty had prepared ended with a request for information regarding Form I-20, in order to proceed with requesting an appointment at the US embassy in Colombo for the F-2 dependent visa.

Aunty, sorry, but I need a different visa. Can you just send this to me and I will correct and send it myself?

No, Devi. I am sending this. My email address is much more official than yours. And I will notify you of the results. Look at your face! Don’t worry, child! After all your hard work and all my support, there is nothing to correct. Your application is letter-perfect. There! It’s sent!

Why did you do that? This is my plan!

Tone! Speak to me like that again and you’ll feel my rings!

Sorry, Aunty, but I have no dependents. I just need a visa for myself.

Also a visa for your future husband, darling. Which one? Pick one of my grandsons, or I will pick one for you.