Lola Milford

My name created a kind of confusion in her.
‘A name in Sanskrit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you speak Sanskrit?’
‘No.’
‘Then?’
‘Malayalam language is influenced by Sanskrit.’
‘Even then, can there be a name that could mean ‘the king of lotuses’?
‘King of Lotus?’ I felt embarrassed. I replied. ‘We worship Lotus.’
She looked shy. When I encouraged her, she asked me how lotus became
an object of worship.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What did O’Brien say?’
‘I don’t know.’
She looked shy even more.
‘What do the petals of lotus signify?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do the seeds of lotus signify?’
I was beginning to feel irritated. The conversation between us was starting
to feel like an interview to me. Feeling a little bored, I replied. ‘I don’t
know.’
‘I’m going.’
There was a mischievous smile stuck in her eyes. She left. In my four
months of American life, it was the first time that I saw an American
woman shy. (A shy American girl was only a figment of imagination for
me. That might also have been the reason why I was infatuated with Lola.)
A page from the diary…
…Seems like I have fallen in love with Lola Milford, who studies literature.
Let it be. A girl like Lola…
… beautiful…
… adorable …
Intelligent… knows how to speak…
Why did you touch my leg with your leg in the restaurant today, under the
table?
Then, why did you…
Anyway, I am not reading anything these days. This girl has made me crazy.
I’d like to meet her now. Now, in this night, in this night itself…
She had cropped her hair short and kept it spread on her forehead, like
Audrey Hepburn. I asked her, ‘Is Audrey Hepburn your favorite actor?’
‘No. Shirley McClain…’
I thought of Shirley’s eyes. Their soul was innocence.
I said. ‘Lola’s eyes are just like Shirley’s.’
‘Flattery’
‘No’
‘Yes’
‘No. No. The most beautiful I have seen. The most innocent…’ I said, ‘…is
you.’ She suddenly downed her head. Then, grabbed my hand. I noticed
that her eyes were misty.
‘I…’ She struggled to say something.
‘Tell me.’ I said. ‘What is it?’
She pressed my hand without saying anything.
Lake of the Clouds lay covered in darkness in front of us. Snow had
started falling on the water. A motor boat was seen passing through the
distance.
Lola murmured, ‘I… I…’
Her lips started trembling and her hand that held my hand started
perspiring. Whatever it was, I knew that she was never going to complete
saying it. I also knew what she was struggling to say.
Michigan…
The night before returning to Ohio, I kissed her while standing on top of
St. Croix River. Silence had stagnated around us. While walking towards
the car, holding my waist, she murmured, ‘I’m a virgin. Keep that in
mind.’

There was a black mole on Lola’s neck. She was sad about it. One of her
teeth, the fourth one from middle on the top, was artificial. Girls from
Southwest America are much more beautiful than the rest of the country;
they also have superior imagination. Lola has both in abundance.
Whenever she used to talk about Texas, her birthplace, she used to slip
into poetry.
The cold breeze from Corpus Christi Bay…
The wide park on the banks of San Antonio River…
Come… Come to Texas once…
She used to write poems; never published any.
‘Why don’t you publish?’ I asked.
‘Because, I don’t want to be a second rated writer.’ She said. She was
proud of American literature. She used to go mad while talking about
Mark Twain. She believed Mark Twain to be the greatest novelist in the
world. Once when talking about it she invited me.
‘Let’s go to Missouri next Sunday.’
‘Okay.’
Missouri…
At Hannibal, we stood under the giant statue of Mark Twain. The river
that he immortalized flowed in front of us.
Lola talked about American literature, passionately.
Christmas!
I used the Christmas vacation to visit Las Vegas. Lola also was with me.
She appeared to be very sad. She hated Las Vegas. I asked. ‘What is it?’
She told me about her father for the first time.
He made money after coming to Ohio from Texas for business. He wasted
all his wealth in Reno and Las Vegas, playing Roulette. After losing
everything, he became a vagabond and was sentenced by a court for
murder. I heard about John Milford for the first time. His wife was a
prostitute; a low class one at that, who made infrequent appearances in
TV and movie screens. When Lola started growing up, John took her to
Ohio. Lola never saw her mother after that.
When we crossed the Reno Arch, Lola leaned on my shoulder.
‘It was here that my father destroyed himself.’ She wept. She drank
uncontrollably, that day. Her childish cheeks and face turned red in the
heat of liquor. She abused the State of Nevada, in an inebriated tongue.
‘Is there a city like this in India?’
‘No.’ I said, proudly.
‘Then, I also want to come to India.’
In that evening, when she became completely sober… when we were
riding two hired female horses through the shades, she asked;
‘Can I come to India, too?’
I did not say anything.
‘Can we marry?’ I asked. ‘I’m a Hindu. I don’t know if a Hindu is free to
marry a Christian here.’
‘Then, can’t you convert to our religion?’
I smiled. I felt a stupid belief that converting to another religion for a girl
would pave the way for slavery. We stopped when we reached the banks
of Lake Tahoe. She said to me suddenly.
‘We could stay here.’
I felt indifferent. Seeing that, she asked. ‘Do you have to take American
citizenship if you have to stay here permanently?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do I have to take Indian citizenship if I want to come and stay in India?’
‘I don’t know.’
My indifference agitated her. She abused both countries; Indian
citizenship and American citizenship, India and America, Christian and
Hindu, Hindu and Christian… for some time, she behaved like a
madwoman.
I described my circumstances to her while sitting in a hotel in the capital
of Arizona. I would never be able to marry my Lola. You shouldn’t despair.
‘No. I won’t.’ She said. I noticed her voice weakening.
I said about my situation in detail. The family that is depended on me…
the poverty of my country… the poverty in my household… (If it wasn’t for
this scholarship, I wouldn’t have been able to come here!) Someone like
her, who was born and brought up in the U.S, could never be happy there.
There are no big cities and beaches like here. There’s only poverty there...
It seemed she did not understand.
In front of us, below us, tall buildings of Phoenix lay scattered. The
orchestra sang about something in a hurry. She looked at me bewildered.
‘Poverty?’
She came to my room the day Marilyn Monroe died.
‘Our biggest star was a fool.’ She was sad. ‘Anyway, it is better that these
kind of asses die.’
That day we talked about suicide and the reasons for that, elaborately. She
believed anybody who committed suicide to be a fool. Whoever they may
be, whatever the reason may be.
I said in the middle, ‘When one gets sad beyond a limit, sometime…’
She became silent, suddenly. After a minute, she asked. ‘How many days
are left for you to go back?’
‘Three months.’ I said. I have thought several times later, about why she
asked me that question at that particular time.
Lola said to me a week before I returned, ‘This one week is mine. I will
spend it the way I want. You should obey me.’
I agreed.
‘How are we going to spend this one week?’
When asked, she replied without thinking, ‘This one week is our
honeymoon. In Southern California.’
She said that as if it was an easy thing. She had a lot of money, as an aunt
of her had given it through a will.
Southern California… the famous Hollywood; wide streets with Orange
trees; Rose bowl Stadium… In a house that was on one of the cliffs that
stuck out to the ocean, in La Jolla…
She had said the truth. Lola Milford was a virgin, till then.
Mother had written to me earlier: They want to have the wedding as soon
as you come back.
My future wife, who grew up with me, wrote: ‘I want to see you.’
Through that white night
We two sat on your window sill.
The poems of Zhivago.
‘Imagine that a child of yours is inside me.’
‘Then…’
‘I will give birth to him. Right?’
‘Yes. Then…?’
‘He’ll grow up with me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Um. He will grow up like you. When he becomes like what you are now, I
might be very old then, I will kill him.’
I felt sad. But I asked her, playfully. ‘Then, why don’t you kill me, now?’
‘I don’t think I can do it.’ She said. She wept with her face pressed against
earth.

‘Shouldn’t have happened. All these…’
A wind started blowing from the valley which had millions of Azalea
flowers. Her hair started dancing, caught in that wind. I put my hand on
her shoulder. She jumped up and rubbed her eyes.
After looking at me closely for a minute, in a new state of excitement, she
said while kissing my fingers, ‘Forgive me.’
Southern California is the land of sand dunes. There always is a hot wind
permeating in the atmosphere.
Giant Joshua trees stood in thirty feet height, carrying heavy bunches of
fruit. Whenever wind blew, the branches shook and danced. Flowers fell
in single and a group.
I captured Lola in the camera, in the background of a bunch of flowers.
She posed, smiling beautifully.
After taking the photo, she murmured as if to nobody:
‘It seems I too will do that stupidity.’
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The stupidity that Marilyn did.’
The bells in Santa Barbara Mission tolled in a sad tune. The twilight flew
low. The doors of the ancient church closed silently. A bell toll from
another church from somewhere reached us, draining through the mist.
In the darkness, lying on my lap, Lola asked.
‘Isn’t that my way?’
I said. ‘Don’t talk stupid. You should see me off, happily.’
She did not say anything.
I felt sad.
A lot of faces that I saw, in the San Gabriel Mission and the St. Charles
Boromio that stood facing the Carmel Bay, entered my mind.
The brides and grooms of eternity!
‘You should never do it.’ I said. ‘It’s a kind of cruelty.’
The long black robes that were moving in the distance melted into the
dim light of the valley. Fog covered the Orange treetops. I wiped her wet
cheeks. The last day.
Lola pretended to be highly energetic. But, I knew that was just a mask.
We wandered through the streets until it became too late in the night.
She kissed me whenever we reached the dark spots in the streets.
Nightclubs were becoming louder. We were not talking to each other. I
feared that Lola’s facade would cease to exist anytime and that she would
break into sobs.
It happened in a turn. We saw three youngsters taking a girl, who was
only wearing a bikini, into darkness. That girl was drunk. She kept
abusing someone, in an unclear voice.
They disappeared in the darkness. After sometimes, someone sang in a
raspy voice.
‘Golden memories, and silver Tears…’
Lola said, ‘Let’s go.’

We walked again. She was struggling to say something. After we walked a
lot, she asked.
‘That stupid girl was trying to forget something by drinking and
fornicating, right?’
Her voice had the shade of tears. I stopped her and looked into her eyes.
They were filled.
‘Let’s walk back.’ I said. We walked towards the hotel. The doors closed.
We were alone.
It was too late in the night. We could see the morning coming closer.
I sat on the bed. Lola sat on the floor, near my feet. She kissed my hands
gently, occasionally. Some other times, she looked at her face, silently.
It was hard for me to believe that she was an American, in those minutes.
We parted ways in the morning. There was going to be no chance of
anything like meeting again.
You consider that I am dead and I will consider that you are dead. Farewell
to the lips that kissed.

(Translated by Manu S Kurup from P. Padmarajan’s Malayalam short story ‘Lola’ published
in the year 1965.)