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  ‘Yes,’ said Aadi.

  This was an old house, the garden was older still. Once again Kamala went through abandoned rooms and voids and came out and locked the house. She straightened the flower pot the wind had knocked over and put the key inside it. Now this key, the lock, the door and what lay beyond it belonged to the owner, and he would come and collect it as directed.

  Tears welled up in Shiva’s eyes, and Aadi gripped his shoulders gently as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, baby, we will get you a new one.’

  ‘Now, just walk, keep walking,’ said Kamala.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Aadi asked Shaly, who was trying to lift a heavy black American Tourister. Aadi trailed after Kamala, wheeling Shiva’s wheelchair. Shaly was the last to step out of that beloved house, for she was in charge of the baggage. She didn’t let Aadi or Kamala carry the bags. She felt, once again, that she was waving goodbye to the forest in the hills. Each failure is a fall from the woods to the glade. She felt like crying aloud, as she had not cried before. How beautiful Kamala had been once—she was her own woman, like green woods and blue sea, like a clear stream of water. She lifted her face and looked upstairs, to her room, the window of which was open. She saw a woman there, the ghost of her shadows, who was spying on her, spying on each of them who was abandoning her and moving towards the car. She remembered clearly, how tense Kamala had been once.

  ‘No, Shaly, I don’t want to,’ Kamala had said. ‘I am not free like you, I have responsibilities, I am responsible for the two souls I brought on earth. They need me and I need them.’

  ‘I thought this would lighten your mood swings. But if you don’t feel like taking it, then it’s okay, I won’t force you. I thought I would give you a taste of life. There is nothing wrong in getting some happiness free of cost.’

  ‘I understand, but I am afraid I don’t need surplus happiness.’

  ‘All right, all right, but that sentiment, that of the two souls and responsibilities, that sounds a bit outdated.’

  Shaly pulled the bags and walked behind them. Mother and sons slid along like snails. Who am I to them? What do they think of me? A web of sadness linked the three of them, yet somehow she was there too, trapped, even though she was there of her own free will. But she was invisible, someone who didn’t touch even a single strand of the web, not even the thinnest. She sat on their sofa, slept wrapped up in their quilts, operated their remote controls, opened their fridge, heated things in the oven and used their toilets, electric bulbs, floor mats. Even if she ran naked among them, they would not notice her presence, would not acknowledge anything that belonged to her. Happiness lay shrouded and shuttered between them, they were afraid to laugh aloud, they were not sure of anything, not even themselves. However hard they tried they couldn’t lift the shroud that was heavy and brocaded in a strange fashion, they couldn’t unveil the corpse of happiness—day after day, almost on an hourly basis, its heaviness increased. If only people were willing to sit around a table, face-to-face, and talk. If only they were willing to argue before taking decisions, if only people were a little less complicated.

  Aadi and Shaly helped Shiva into the back seat.

  ‘I know you are tired. Can I drive?’

  ‘Hey, no. I am perfectly all right. I may get really tired if I just sit idly.’

  When Shaly asked her again Kamala looked at her harshly. They all knew she didn’t like someone else behind the wheel, even if it was Shaly.

  But Aadi knew how important it was for her to get the Michelin down the road on her own.

  23

  Rhea had left Bangalore much before Aadi. Last year.

  Aadi remembered how kisses rained down like leaves from deciduous trees, how in the heat of summer, under the blazing sun, mayflowers blossomed in a line, like a forest caught on red fire; how, windswept, he got carried away like a butterfly, leaving Shiva behind on his bed. He was just a teenager then, a tender boy. And maybe that was the reason he cried all night when she left him. Why he cut his arm—a long gash—dipped his finger in the blood and wrote love letters on sheets of handmade paper. That ink, to this date, remains and should be branded as the lovesick teenager’s favourite. People should not treat it as trivial, because it is not; the butterfly has to go through many stages to reach its glory. When the ink dried on the paper, he smelled it, and the scent cut tragic paths through his olfactory senses, forcing him to write more. He thought the dried-up letters were heavier, and thus slowly, very slowly, his mind became calmer.

  But he continued chiselling out love letters or her name or the age-old happiness of his name plus her name is equal to love on the bark of trees or on the river banks.

  ‘So you are the one.’

  He turned his head to see who it was. It was the senior disciple Anuraktha, the one in charge of the PUC.

  ‘Do trees get hurt, Aadi?’ he asked.

  A whiff of sap from the freshly cut wound of the trunk filled his nostrils; his fingers, he realized, had the same smell. Like a child who has made a grave error, he looked uncertainly at Anuraktha.

  ‘Our tools should be sharp, be it pen, a chisel or a scythe, or even a stone. But we should leave the decision of when and where to use them to our consciousness.’ Anuraktha embraced him and asked, ‘Which section were you in, in the morning?’

  ‘I was in the perfumery,’ said Aadi.

  ‘Good. Is this your leisure time?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Do you play drums?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Guitar?’

  ‘No, I like to listen to music.’

  ‘Music demands a lot of patience, it is work and passion on a daily basis and time plays a key role. Okay, now tell me, what are you really interested in?’

  ‘I . . .’ he hesitated for some seconds and said, ‘I would like to write poems.’

  ‘That’s really great, come with me.’

  Aadi followed Anuraktha, like an infant follows its mother. When he noticed that Anuraktha had no sandals on he decided to tread as softly as he could, and on reaching the building he took off his Nike shoes. He walked barefoot on the long veranda that led to a Dutch staircase. The walls on either side had photographs of the Divine Mother, adorned with red hibiscus and white plumerias. The floorboards creaked as they stepped on them. The staircase led to another long corridor that ended at a very big closed door.

  Anuraktha pushed the door open. Except for the very tangible beam of light that filtered through the single glass tile on the ceiling, it was dark inside. A piece of sky was clearly visible above the glass tile. Aadi turned back to look at Anuraktha, but he was not there. He heard some pigeons cooing, the Dutch stairs creaking, someone descending—maybe it was him. Aadi searched on the walls for switches, and he opened the windows and drew the blinds to let in more light. The room was exceptionally big with high ceilings and Victorian model ceiling fans, which had wider, longer blades. He saw the stacks of bookshelves that reached up to the ceiling, the sunlit library seats and tables, the stepladder and the silence. He flipped on some of the switches and a few of the fans whirred, breaking the silence. A light came on in the corner. There was enough light so he didn’t bother to search for more. He remembered that in one of Rhea’s notebooks the words ‘A library card is your key to the world,’ were written in golden letters. He looked at the stacks and saw his passport, visa, and travel tickets and smiled; there was even an invitation to the lounge, to the sumptuous display. He walked towards one of those shelves. He had no idea what to look for—poems, fiction, history. Did he really need any books? For some time he wondered why Anuraktha had brought him into this room. Was it some sort of detention room for harming the trees in the garden? He touched some books, read their titles and that was all. Like a child who lost track while counting stars, he looked above in desperation. It was almost the end of summer; the first raindrop fell on the glass tile above, blurring his view of the sky, making the birds fly and dimming the lights inside. He closed his eyes and
cautiously took a book off the shelf. Whatever book it was, he kissed it before opening it, and then, to the sound of the first drops of rain and the cooing of pigeons, he opened his eyes to look at the title.

  Savitri.

  It was to return the book that he had gone back, again, last week. He wanted to meet Anuraktha. This was a book from his personal library, though, and for this reason he was not sure whether to return the book or not. It could very well be a gift—but for hurting the trees?

  They had started their preparations to go back to his grandmother’s house two weeks before she died. His mother was busy settling the problems she had to sort out.

  He really had no idea what had to be done with such a thick book, for it was neither fiction nor the poems of a teenager’s choice. Sometimes he placed his head upon that tome and slept. Finally, he said to his mother, ‘Amma, I have to go to the ashram to meet someone.’

  Anuraktha smiled when he saw the book in Aadi’s hand.

  ‘Why do you want to return it so fast? I know you haven’t read a single page from it.’

  ‘We are going back to our mother’s house. Most probably we will be settling down there. I don’t think I can continue somewhere here for my higher studies.’

  ‘In that case, you can take the book with you . . . it is yours.’

  They both had tea together. ‘Is it to your taste?’ Anuraktha asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Aadi said.

  ‘Do you know the name of this tea?’

  Aadi thought for a while and said, ‘Chamomile.’

  ‘No, it is called “Lost Love”. Pure and simple, isn’t it?’

  Aadi smiled bashfully, and Anuraktha joined him.

  Their car had reached the first toll booth. Each line had long queues of vehicles that honked incessantly. Unmindful of the noises outside, Shiva slept peacefully. Kamala missed the hump in front of her and the car came to a sudden halt. She fired up the engine in distress and reached for the money in the dashboard; Shaly took a hundred-rupee note from her pocket and handed it to her. Meanwhile, waiting for their turn, Kamala drank from her water bottle, and inquisitively looked at the car ahead, whose driver was shouting at the girl in the booth. Aadi saw his mother’s face in the rear-view mirror; he looked at it for a while. She had dark circles around her eyes and she looked very pale, like a flower about to whither. He felt sad.

  Once they crossed the toll booth, she pulled the car off the road to have breakfast. They had to shake Shiva really hard to wake him up; it was obvious the boy had not slept a wink the previous night. Highways are always open spaces, vast expanses where you get the maximum sky. The children were happy and they sat near the glass walls of the restaurant and ate dosa and chutney looking at the rows of hills in the distance. Shaly ordered pongal and when it came she divided it into four equal parts.

  In groups, in clusters, like little bouquets, butterflies rose from the endless rows of flowers and flew around like another set of airborne blossoms. On the divider of the huge tarred highways, flowers of every possible creamy colour, particularly the small varieties of frangipani and plumeria, bloomed in clutches, obscuring the leaves. Just above them floated thick masses of silky white clouds and in between fluttered the butterflies with their gaily coloured rice-paper wings moving up and down. You don’t get to see such vast skies in the city, such immeasurable stretches of happiness. The butterflies flew from the flowers to the skies and to the windshield of the car. Each time one of them hit the windshield, Kamala sighed anxiously. The children were confused: ought they concentrate on the colourful spectacle of flowers and butterflies, creamy-white clouds, the beautifully tarred roads and the blue sky in the middle, or admire the long line of hills made up of round hanging rocks that stretched along both sides of the road against the crystal blue sky, dotted with green trees. The sun was already up; Kamala stretched her left arm and opened the case on the ceiling to take out her sunglasses. In a second she realized that she had forgotten her driving gloves on the table back at the house, but she also remembered checking the table twice. Maybe, she thought, the wind had deposited them somewhere on the floor. With her sunglasses on, Aadi felt her face looked better, the creases of stress were hardly visible and her expression appeared more serene. The car gathered speed to compete with the butterflies. Kamala swayed her head in appreciation of the music, occasionally putting a piece of Dairy Milk chocolate in her mouth to ward off sleep. Kamala had insisted on not having liquor in the car—it was not just the check posts, it was a policy—so Shaly had kept some Rémy Martin cognac chocolates to boost her own palate.

  When he woke from his next stretch of sleep, Shiva said in a complaining voice, ‘Could you please change the music, this is getting on my nerves.’

  Someone must have pressed the remote control, for, abruptly, Kumar Gandharva stopped singing. Kamala, without realizing this, sang one more line: Mori maa . . .

  24

  By the time they reached Krishnagiri, the children were fast asleep. The car was flying. Shaly checked the speedometer. Kamala sat behind the wheel unmindful of the way the engine accelerated, from one-forty to one-sixty—the speed warning alarm sounded and the light blinked on the display. The road had sharp curves and unexpected steep dips and climbs, and the hanging rocks on either side proclaimed the danger at signals and turns. There were no cameras to check their speed and the road was rather empty, deprived of competition honking. The hills here were formed out of solid, huge—very huge—boulders, like installations, magnified white pebbles collected and put together in different patterns with the help of big machines. On the divider, Shaly saw a signboard, half of which was hidden by the flowers: ‘Drive like hell, and you will soon be there.’

  ‘Kamala, please slow down. If you are not feeling well, I will drive the car. Please listen to me.’

  Shaly couldn’t read the expression in her eyes through her large Prada glasses, but as unsure as she was she continued, ‘You know the condition of the tyres better than me, how worn out they are. They look almost like four eggs. How many times have I warned you to change them! And look at you, at the way you are driving, at this speed, with these tyres.’

  Kamala pumped the brakes and Shaly screeched, ‘Listen to the noise, it sounds awful, step on the pedals more gently!’

  Kamala turned her head to look at Shaly, ‘Why the hell do you behave like someone with OCD? Why do you panic so much? You are going to frighten the kids.’

  ‘They are sleeping.’

  ‘Ah yes, then what is your problem, Shaly? Why can’t you just relax, or better yet sleep, or do something better than backseat driving?’

  ‘Yes, I was thinking of having lunch, but I guess we need to reach either Dharmapuri or Salem to find a nice restaurant.’

  ‘So you mean to tell me that your problem is hunger?’

  Shaly didn’t say yes or no. She just sat there looking outside; she was relieved the speedometer showed one-ten.

  ‘Do you remember, Shaly, how happy you were with me? You used to tell me that you felt very secure when I drove. The engine and the woman behind the wheel have not changed, but what has happened to you?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t deny it; you used to drive me around slowly, maximum a hundred, as if you were the chauffeur of the President of America. But not any more.’

  ‘That’s news, Shaly. I have never thought that the President of America would be travelling under one hundred kmph.’

  ‘No wonder it is news for you, and that’s exactly why I told you that you are out of your mind. There is a lot of difference between a high speed rating tyre and a normal one, mph and kmph, the machines and the roads. My bad, I should have said the President of India, instead.’

  Both of them sat silent for a while. Eventually Kamala admitted that she was losing control. Shaly begged her to pull the car off the road, to which she said, ‘I am sure nothing bad will happen in my life again.’ Then she pointed towards the sign of a petrol pump and said, ‘Let us stop there for a while, we can fill the ta
nk and use the loo as well. This is a beautiful place—we used to stop here for some fresh air.’

  What Kamala said is true, thought Shaly. The place was boundlessly beautiful. One could take a closer look at the huge boulder rocks, each standing atop the other in threateningly precarious positions. There were a lot of small teashops beneath the rocks, and some people were trying to climb up the rocks. Some were busy taking selfies, and others were shouting at those who were climbing. Had time permitted, they would have definitely gone up there. Shaly wanted to wake up the kids and show them, but Kamala didn’t let her. She knew once they were up they would start asking for the hotel, troubling her with questions. Shaly couldn’t understand why Kamala still considered her teenage children toddlers.

  ‘There is no guarantee, no security for anything,’ Kamala would say a hundred times a day. The thought troubled her to the extent of tempting her to take the most chaotic decisions, moves one might not even imagine. Her decision to leave Bangalore, her decision to avoid her mother’s funeral, her decision to live a life on drugs—everything about her served as an example, revolving around her idea of securities and guarantees. What does she need the guarantee for, thought Shaly. Now if her children woke up, she would consider that a threat to her security, her safe-mode drive. She felt the speedometer exaggerated. Strange woman, why was she so afraid, so anxious, what was she worrying about so much? Wasn’t it possible to live a life without encounters, aims and a future prospectus?

  How peaceful it was on the hills above. In the morning, along with the smoke that rose from the chimneys, music flowed from within the houses, from the streets and forest paths. Not just birds, each mind was in tune to the rhythm of music, each body swayed in dance. There people shared ‘love’, something difficult to find on the plains where people were afraid of that beautiful word.

  ‘Can we go?’ asked Kamala.

  ‘Can we go there?’ Shaly pointed to an assembly of mounted boulder rocks.