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  Andrews’s small hut also broadened in no time. ‘Good earth, bamboo, and fantastic masons,’ Andrews would say, with pride. At first, when he had begun his life in the forest there was only a room and a kitchen and half a mud wall in between them. Gradually he built a room for Shaly, then added a dining area the next year and a hall at the entrance after that. Three more bedrooms were added to the main structure in the following years, with bathrooms both attached and separate. Andrews was the main mason, and did half the work himself. Rita prepared tea and boiled tapioca for the workers. For Shaly, it was like festival time, with lots of people around and work in progress. As the house expanded, the tree came nearer.

  One day three workers came and said they had come to cut the tree down. When Shaly found out it was Andrews who had sent for the woodcutters, her face fell. Rita asked them to cut the cotton tree as well. Such a mess, she said. That tree had been her headache for a long time, with the cotton shreds always spreading around, her broom knew no rest.

  The leaves scattered. Where is the broom?

  The flowers fell down. Have you seen the broom?

  Who is going to clean this mess? It is spreading fast, it is spreading everywhere.

  Oh, don’t walk beneath that tree, the seeds are heavy, they may fall on your head.

  Shaly, do you hear me?

  But Shaly had a secret liking for that tree. It reminded her of the Russian stories she had read as a child; seeing the cotton fly around, she imagined the tree rained snow around her house, on top of the school building, on the ground, everywhere—white, sweet balls of snow. She wanted apple trees, snow, gingerbread and an original Christmas tree. The cotton tree that Rita Mama had decided to cut down was the one and only substitute for all these dreams put together. The soft white shreds of cotton would suffocate her in her dreams hereafter, as if the crime were hers.

  The cotton tree was history by half past eleven in the morning. Rita gave the woodcutters black coffee and tapioca cutlet. Now, it was the turn of the big fat tree. Shaly started crying. She had seen a bird’s nest on top of that tree. Weeping, she said to Rita Mama, ‘You are destroying the birdie’s house to make your own house look more beautiful. You are bad.’

  In the summer she had found two eggs on the flower bed beneath the mango tree, two exquisitely beautiful blue-green eggs. She had had no idea how and when they had fallen down. She took them in her hands and patted them gently. How smooth, soft and silky the shells were. She took the eggs inside the house to show Rita Mama. But Rita Mama, her face looking as if it had been pickled in vinegar, said that the eggs would never hatch; birds wouldn’t care for what human beings had touched. When Andrews came in the evening, she asked, almost in tears, ‘Is it true that all the things human beings touch turn bad?’

  Andrews shuddered at her question. He shook his head and gave his shoulders a shake, it could be yes, and it could be no as well. She waited for the birds to fly away, and when she saw them leave, she placed the eggs inside the nests, cautiously. She was sure the birds had not seen her touching their eggs. The next morning, she saw a rattlesnake on the tree, its belly somewhat swollen.

  In the night, two hatchlings came out of the broken shells. Their heads were bluish green in colour, but they had no feathers. Only then did she notice that the hatchlings still carried the shells on them. Hurriedly, without paying much attention, she smashed the shells. The hatchlings got crippled: they could neither fly nor walk, they crawled all over her. She cried aloud in her sleep.

  ‘Wretched girl! Won’t let other people sleep,’ shouted Rita Mama.

  Even after that sorrowful incident, many eggs hatched in the forest, on the trees in front of her house, and even on the top of the school building. A lot of birds flew away, some died, days and years passed by.

  Was it two in the morning now? There was a light inside Kamala’s room. Hadn’t she slept still? How would she drive in the morning if she didn’t sleep? Let me try to get some sleep, somehow. Shaly tried to close her eyes, but she saw neither sleep nor darkness. She imagined growing a beak like a woodpecker, pecking through the bark, stripping it down, into the darkest forest, tap, tap, tap, into the heart of Aizawl. The forest was a place of music, and that is where Shaly always wanted to go, to fly away like a Mexican lovebird. Rita Mama’s changing roses must be sleeping now, she thought, who’s there to guard her parrot green house at night? A woeful cry doubled up in the back of her throat. ‘Hey girl, are you responsible?’ someone asked. A woodpecker pecked vigorously on the trees. Someone was playing khuangpui, the big drum in the forest, and some teenager sang an old English song, imitating CSNY in his melancholic voice, ‘Midnight, that old clock . . .’

  The woodpecker stopped for a while and listened, and a little later repeated after the boy, ‘Midnight, that old clock . . .’

  21

  The little holes, the acid designs on the bleach marks in the crotch of her panties, like a beehive, sometimes reminded her of the futility of living biologically. Love has the fragrance of henna flowers, the piquant, burning sensation of pepper buds. It makes one wet with happiness and leaves the eyes sore with desperation.

  Body of a woman, white hills, wrote Neruda. Her aesthetic sense and longings developed with his words, the words of the poet. Every word, every single letter was in praise of woman, her curves, her apples, her magnificent fluids. No one ever praised a dick; there was not even a mention of the word ‘phallus’. Even if someone had praised the little head in the colour of a pig’s bottom, showing off occasionally with a miniature clit or some suggestive small opening, such writings were not available amongst the rude provincials she had grown up with. Pubic hair, she thought, belonged to women only; it had taken years to learn that men had such undergrowth too. The phallus remained a misunderstood idea in the mind, a word never materialized; a concept to impregnate wombs. ‘Impregnated female bodies’ would have been a much better phrase; ‘womb’ was not so sexy and a reminder of responsibilities, an overrated word. Poets, writers, writers of the Yellow Pages, they were all voluble on manipulating the female body—not a word on manipulating the male sex organ, the male anus. The world, she realized, was a strange concoction of lies. Men wrote about women; women wrote about women; men admired women; some women who followed the aesthetics of words, the tragic beauty of written matter, admired women. Like Madhavan, the first time she masturbated, she had imagined the flesh around the hips of a woman. And perhaps, in her own way, the flesh of her own newly rounded, softened chest. Thanks to porn, the children could never think of half-baked, obscured sex any more. Thanks to porn—not available in her adolescence—she grew up thinking sex was beautiful, that the body of a beautiful woman should be manipulated beautifully. Kamala was raised by love, by the sweetest thoughts of love. She was like Cupid, who, while sleeping among roses, was stung by a bee. The bee was a relative, not harmful, but a sting is a sting.

  Among her friends, he was a hero, who with a single glance was capable of making female spaces wet. Passionate love, Mannered love, Physical love, Vanity love, she read as she waited leaning against the protruded roots of an old banyan tree outside campus, cursing him for being late for she was not allowed to travel on her own. While he, after his classes, went straight to the football ground, and sometimes forgot about her, the young woman sitting on the roots eating a mango or a banana in disgust. Funnily enough, he scolded her for his delay, and unbelievably, she expressed her apologies. Maybe it made them laugh now to think how absurd they were back then. It had taken them decades to understand why they grew up like that, him arrogant, and her, submissive. ‘The families,’ she said. ‘The families,’ he said.

  One of those days, he started wandering around the rustic neighbourhood like a country cousin who considered physical pleasure an added comfort of Sunday afternoons. Soon the girls started talking about him as ‘handsome Madhu’, and only then did Kamala notice that he had grown to become what people called ‘manly’: his chest fuller, his waist narrower, his biceps com
pact, his features sharp, his torso covered in hair and a thin line stretching down temptingly towards his navel in a whisper, the innocence missing in all these features. Who is he, she asked herself, a homespun Greek god, the prince of some children’s classic tales, or the Tirthankara of the history textbooks? It seemed even the hair in the centre of his chest would have the erotic scents of dreams, of mild acid. But she couldn’t hear the voice within that said: What pleasure to kiss, to be kissed.

  And Kamala asked herself why she didn’t feel anything for any man, and she wondered why the girls were so crazy after him.

  He climbed like a monkey to the topmost branches of the tree, and plucked champak blossoms for girls, and she was always the go-between. The perfumed flowers that grew in abundance in the courtyard of Kamala’s house were just a token of love he threw to the girls who praised him through the concealed gleam of their eyes and hushed smiles.

  ‘Do you really love any of these girls, Madhu?’ she asked.

  He looked at her as if she were saying something incomprehensible.

  ‘You need not come to my college any more. I can’t tolerate a cousin like you.’

  ‘Thank god, Kamala darling! That’s the one task I hate. Do you know how much time I waste on this? You are a grown woman, you can come home on your own. I will talk to your mother, and remember, if this works out, I will be grateful to you.’

  ‘So you’re saying you don’t enjoy the company of my friends?’

  ‘Don’t talk as if I haven’t seen girls in my life, or as if you are the only person who is going to college.’

  ‘Of course not! You are also a college student, but pathetically, a men’s college, where you starve for a whiff of perfume.’

  ‘Wait and see what I have got in store for you. Today onwards you are going to be on your own. I don’t care what your mother says about it, do you understand; don’t expect anything from me any more.’

  And that was how it was.

  22

  With a thick book in his hands, Aadi opened the doors to the wild rush of wind. He had had his shower early in the morning and his things were ready. But it was still dark outside; light was on the way, riding on the ticking of some old clock. The wind was strong, and pushing him a little to the side of the door, it rushed through the narrow path he opened for it, and the book in his hand fell down on its spine. The wind rushed through the leaves of the book like a robot scanning the pages, devouring the contents. He bent and picked up the book and read a few lines from the page the wind had opened for him.

  As so he grew into his larger self,

  Humanity framed his movements less and less;

  A greater being saw a greater world

  The wind was getting stronger; it knocked down everything in its way, papers on the wall-mounted table, burnt-out candle remains, and Kamala’s driving gloves. It made little bits of paper fly in the empty entrance hall in circles, and outside the house, in the garden, he saw dust rise to the sky like tiny whirlpools, curtain plants and bougainvillea swaying in a frenzy. It really means a lot to abandon a house, he thought, it takes much courage. When he contemplated the mornings that were to come, he felt pained. He said to himself, ‘Tomorrow, there will be a wind, similar, or almost the same, but we will not be here. The wind, where we are going to live, will have a different scent, entirely strange to our olfactory systems.’ From the innards of the empty house he heard his mother’s voice echoing, ‘Let the winds slow down a bit, let us wait. Aadi, have you taken everything? Is there anything else . . . have you checked? Hey, where are you?’

  ‘I am here, on the veranda,’ he said.

  She came out in a hurry, her face drawn and paler than usual, she looked really sick. She tried to take the book from his hands.

  ‘No, Amma, let me keep this with me for the journey.’

  ‘Reading inside a moving car is not good. Give it to me, I will keep it in my bag.’

  ‘Not for reading, it is a gift from a friend.’

  She stood silent for a while and cautiously watched his gestures. She saw nothing but the morning wind caught in his eyes.

  ‘Which book is that?’ she asked.

  ‘Savitri,’ he replied.

  She went inside. She didn’t ask which friend it was—it seemed she didn’t want to know. People, each minute, are forced to leave behind something dear to them, it happens everywhere, not too much to cry about. Let him carry his book. Now the wind, with the strength of a gale, knocked down the packets of snacks she had placed on the table two seconds ago. The electricity went off; the house was engulfed in darkness. He felt he was growing wings like a butterfly, he also felt his wings were too soft, too fragile to resist the maddening rush.

  ‘I think we had better wait till dawn.’

  ‘Are you sure nothing’s left upstairs?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, I have checked it twice.’

  The incandescent white tube of the emergency lamp was throwing light and shadow patterns on the walls inside, the blown-up figures of kaleidoscopic images.

  ‘Would you like to have one more tea before we go? I am going to make a cup of coffee for Shiva.’

  ‘I would like to have some tea,’ Aadi said, and it seemed the word itself invigorated his senses. He wished the wind would not abate and that they would be stuck. He wanted to sip from his teacup for a while, and watch the gusts of wind endlessly blowing outside his lovely apartment. Kamala came outside and sat on the veranda, sill watching him silently, wondering what he was thinking. When she saw him looking at her, a sudden unease fell over her features and she forced herself to ask a question: ‘How is it? I mean, have you read that book?’

  ‘No, Amma, I got this only last week.’

  ‘Maybe we could make a trip to Auroville sometime. I think it is an eight- or nine-hour drive from our home, you would enjoy it. It is some sort of an experimental township, or rather a lonely planet—that’s what the inhabitants call it, a place dedicated to peace alone.’ This offer was nothing new, but every time, at the last hour, it got cancelled; when it came to managing Shiva, they would stumble on the practical difficulties.

  ‘Ha ha, ho ho, what wind is this? We need ballast before we fly away!’ Shaly brought the tea, no tray, no biscuits. Aadi looked at the dented old steel glasses with a frown on his brow.

  ‘No need to give me looks, dear, your mother has packed away everything that was in good shape in this house. I dug out these glasses from the abandoned heap and washed them clean so you can enjoy your tea in peace.’

  ‘Shaly, we should take him to Auroville once. But let him finish reading Savitri first.’

  ‘That’s great. Auroville is a very good idea, and Puducherry is amazing. You’d love the place, even the breeze has the scent of Bacardi Breezers.’

  ‘I am taking my children, not going for a booze party. Grow up, please!’

  ‘Oh God, I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke? I don’t think it’s a picnic place, children might get bored there. Goa and Pondy and the like are meant for booze bums, not for kids, and above all it is very hot, you get the sun straight on your face.’ She went on explaining for a while. She didn’t ask or say what did all that matter to Kamala who had lived a life of her choice, didn’t say that her son, no longer a small boy, should do whatever he likes, let him fly away.

  Kamala felt unease, as if memories of her adolescence were mocking her; her mother begging her not to go, and she nevertheless going out, bringing unbearable pain to her mother’s face. Words kept flowing from her mother’s mouth, and she thought she saw a piece of white cloth, exactly like the ones with which her mother used to blindfold Kamala when they played together. The situation grew tense, and Shaly was tangibly disappointed with the look on Kamala’s face.

  Aadi felt compelled to ask something. ‘Have you been to Matri Mandir?’

  ‘Do you mean the golden egg?’ said Kamala.

  ‘How do you know all these things?’ said Shaly.

  ‘The Internet! I would
love to go there. The place looks perfect, and I want to travel,’ Aadi said.

  Travel, a beautiful concept. All travels need not be beautiful, though it was a word capable of abolishing the ruinous energy harboured within, and refilling wonders, surprises, tastes, love and the pleasure of listening to someone speak at an evening supper. Every man carries within himself his natural dose of opium, ceaselessly secreted and renewed, and, from birth to death, how many hours can we reckon of positive pleasure, of successful and decided action? If possible, let your arms swing at ease—travel light, like the monks say; heavy baggage will drag you back, you will lose your interest in moving forward, you will feel each step weighing upon the earth and the earth weighing upon your shoulders. Touch the universe, be a part of it, realize the universe within. Aadi wished he could travel, but with Shiva in the background, travel seemed a distant possibility. All teenagers do not live in soothing, green shade. Aadi stood beneath a liquefied yellow sun, green shade merely a desire.

  The wind abated a little. Dawn appeared among the branches.

  ‘Aadi, finish your tea quickly and go and check once again if you’ve left anything,’ said Kamala.

  ‘That’s right, Aadi, hurry. Why waste time chatting?’ remarked Shaly.

  In the bedroom, Shiva had finished his coffee. He was ready, and a bit anxious about the journey. Aadi helped him into his chair and wheeled him to the entrance.

  ‘It is very windy outside, isn’t it?’ Shiva asked.