A History of Burning by Janika Oza

Author:Janika Oza
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2023-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

Latika & Arun, 1972

A MAN CAME TO THE door that morning, someone Latika didn’t recognize. The radio informed them they had seventy-seven days left. The rains had pounded the earth to a soft pulp overnight, and now the intoxicating smell of hot clay filtered through the bars on the window. Harilal sat on the bedroom floor, a line of drool dribbling down his chin. Arun draped one of Latika’s embroidered chunnis over his face. He snatched it away, grinned “peeku!” and Harilal roared with delight. A tiny lizard darted up the wall behind them, the green of its body nearly translucent. Since his briefcase was taken, Arun had stopped going into work, and now Harilal was more attached to him than to her—only Arun could conjure that deep-belly laugh. She watched from the desk, papers spread across the surface, and laughed with them.

There was a knock at the door. When Latika opened it, a soldier waited. His ratty tan uniform barely reached his ankles. She realized that he was only a boy, his limbs lanky, the bulge of his Adam’s apple stretching his skin taut. He dropped a letter into her hands. “An order from His Excellency,” he murmured, eyes flitting left and right. Then he was gone.

She tucked the envelope into her waistband and shut the door. Framed on the living room wall was the photograph from their wedding, the sunlight dappling Arun’s coif, the string of jasmines spilling from her braid. Just as the photographer clicked, Arun had turned to her, lifting his hand to smooth the flowers down her hair, and that’s how they were captured then, now, forever: Arun facing Latika, eyebrows knitted, absorbed, and Latika, his subject, face washed out by the harsh light. They had laughed over the photograph, but when it came time to decide which to frame, they could not imagine a better one.

Arun came into the room, baby perched on his hip. “Who was that?”

Latika fumbled with her kurti to make sure it bore no trace.

“Just Ma dropping by. Dinner’s almost ready.” She spoke quickly, her voice even. She wasn’t sure why she lied, but as she did a thrill rose up her spine. The boy had no doubt come for Arun: she was an Asian woman, passive, homebound—what business could he have with her? And yet he had given her the envelope, his mind clearly elsewhere. He couldn’t have known what that would do to her, for that power to be placed in her hands.

Arun’s body relaxed. He set Harilal down, where he tottered forward on unsteady legs. “I’ll just get ready.” Latika nodded, relieved. His trust was immense.

That night, as Arun slept on a stomach full of Ma’s cooking, simpler now because of the food shortages, Latika opened the envelope. The letter bore a waxy red government stamp, typed on thick cardstock.

Mr. Arun Jani,

Under strict word from His Excellency, President for Life, Doctor Idi Amin Dada, you are hereby ordered to cease publication of your weekly press, JICHO. This

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