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  ‘Yes, but not now.’

  The bird that looked forward to flight, that got excited only by the prospect of migrating to faraway places, found itself sitting in the corner of its nest, unmindful of the restlessness of its own wings, and looking after the two hatchlings with broken wings, mending their heavy, neurotically inflexible feathers. Meanwhile, spring kept calling out to her: ‘Far away a magnolia blossomed just for you.’ It must be the wind that covered its naked roots, projected on the surface of the earth, with flowers. The wind said, ‘Come, something lies deep down in the heart of the earth, naked for you.’

  ‘Paru, Parukkutty, Parukkuttiyamma, do you hear? I will give you a list—make me the dishes of my choice. I would like to go for a picnic, at the very least, I would like to go and sit on the roots of that tree.’

  Removing the silver wrapper of the chocolate, Shaly inhaled the aroma of Rémy Martin. The children were talking in the car. Shiva kept asking the same question, and now Shaly understood why Kamala was anxious about them waking up. This was the umpteenth time that boy had asked, ‘How long will it take? When are we going to reach, Amma?’ Children really are something, thought Shaly.

  ‘Would you like some chocolate?’ she asked, extending the packet towards them.

  ‘No,’ Kamala said harshly and rather loudly. Something flew off in front of the windshield and Kamala had to slam the brakes, making a screeching sound.

  ‘I didn’t mean it, Kamala. You know they are my children as well, not just yours.’

  The boys had heard this many times before. Once, years ago, Aadi had got really enraged about this kind of talk in the midst of an argument with Shiva. The boys were secretly discussing Shaly’s role in their house.

  ‘I don’t want to be her son, whatever happens,’ said Aadi.

  Just then Shaly entered the room, and heard him. The child was immediately sorry for embarrassing her; he felt he was demeaning himself. Shiva feared she would turn spiteful on them, for he always longed to please her somehow, to remain in her good books. At first, when she sensed the fear in his eyes, she wanted to harass them, defend herself, but instead she just laughed and said, ‘And may I know who said I want to be your mother? The truth is I want to be your lover when you grow up, understand?’

  She saw Aadi sitting, looking out of the window now, his head down.

  ‘Kamala, we should have bought something to drink. I need to have something. I hope there are some tea shops or cool bars on the way.’

  ‘Yes, cool bars,’ echoed Shiva.

  What they saw on the way was no cool bar but a roadside vendor, selling lemonade and sugar cane juice, and that too on the opposite side of the road. Luckily, Kamala spotted a U-turn near the vendor and taking it, she parked the car under an old tamarind tree. They watched the man passing the sugar cane stalks through the rotating crushers of the motorized machine, squeezing lemons and pieces of ginger into it. It was a delight watching him do that, the sight of something being crushed to death, drained of fluids. He poured the light green juice right up to the brim of the glass cups.

  ‘Where is Shaly?’ Kamala turned around to look for her.

  Aadi walked a few steps in search of her, not too far in the open space, just behind a very thin, sun-scalded tamarind tree; he finally saw her peeing at ease in a squatting position, a cigarette butt burning in between her fingers.

  ‘Shameless woman!’ He walked back.

  25

  The entrance gates were wide open. Suddenly it seemed as though light was no longer light but a well of darkness. Death lingered under the tarpaulin awning of the funeral gathering and on the features of everything, animate, inanimate, blurring impressions. It could be the headlight of the car; Kamala saw the relatives, mostly relatives or neighbours from her native village, getting up from their seats as if to have a look. But no one stepped outside, some of them remained standing and some others went back to their seats. She imagined their conversations.

  Has she reached? The one and only daughter? Why did she take so long? It is only a ten-hour drive . . . surely, she is not coming from America. Is her husband with her? Have they separated? Is he not in Bangalore any more? Why didn’t they come together? At least he telephoned on the day of her death; she didn’t bother to do even that. Poor Madhu, why should he have the sorrow that her own daughter doesn’t have? What a shame. Our poor aunt, look at her fate, her daughter has finally arrived after her cremation.

  The women from the halls were craning their necks to see what was happening in the outside world of men, some of the elderly women even ventured to come out at this late hour. No one extended a hand even though they saw how Aadi was straining to help his brother out of the car. Hatred, accusations and resentment hung in the air without a proper shape. The children looked at their mother’s face. She didn’t seem bothered about anything any more. No regrets, no acknowledgements, no confessions, and no anxieties on her face—nothing except a cold and empty look that proclaimed she no longer had any commitments to worry about.

  There was no ‘mother’ inside the house. There never would be.

  Before entering, she touched the steps by the doorway, and after a lapse of seconds, she bent over and kissed them. ‘Amma, how are you?’ she asked.

  That night she slept on her mother’s bed. She didn’t seem concerned about those who had come with her, not even about Shiva who was sick and Shaly who was an outsider. She went to sleep with the conviction that pain and suffering lay within her, that the self itself was the cause of everything. Though she had ventured into the outer world with a vast sky above her, she realized that she was shrinking into her insides, becoming smaller and smaller, no bigger than a worm slithering and wriggling on the earth. Now she cut a figure more sorrowful than her mother on that old bed—she remembered her mother, in big diapers at the end, double the size of her buttocks, her legs folded and held together and swinging. This room, the size of the matchbox Aadi described, had more space and volume than the world she had seen outside. Its depth knew no bottom, she could dive endlessly. The plastered white walls within which she was confined had no real boundaries. She felt the walls were calling her, the depths were calling her, to a space where time or distance was no longer an issue. Here, Kamala need not panic; she had ample time at hand, no more frets and worries.

  She looked calmly at the thick wooden window with the metallic latch; she even talked to the wood of the window shutters for a while before opening them. They opened with the sound of someone walking on piles of dried leaves. She looked outside and saw darkness, the darkness of the village roads at night. She remembered the tree near the river on which glow-worms blossomed in the night, a spectacle of her childhood memories, the iridescent sheen on the surface of the black water, a vision she regretted leaving behind. How many times had her mother taken her to the river banks that were often lined with wild chrysanthemums or lilies, to watch the glow-worms pirouetting down the stream? How many times had her mother made her swear on her life that she would not go there on her own? What kind of life did my mother live, Kamala wondered, in this small, very small circle of space. Is my life in any way better than the life my mother lived, she asked herself. Who lived a better life? One who knows no life knows no death as well. Even while sinking into the whirlpools of trouble, her mother had been afraid of death. Death had wiped away everything that formed her, everything she had known while alive—relations, love and accounts. I would like to experience death while I am still alive, thought Kamala, the state where everything is erased and at the same time nothing is erased—a moment without relations, bank account statements and identity cards. Life!

  Amma, why didn’t you teach me? I haven’t learned life yet. I thought I knew myself, my likes, dislikes, travels and happiness. The more my happiness increased, the more did my pains. Amma, you should know, I never loved Madhu the way you wanted me to love him, however good he was. The letter I received the day before my wedding, the same one his father destroyed, was my last hope.
I fought for my life, literally, I was fighting for my life then, but the ceremony took place all the same. Why couldn’t I gather the strength, Amma? Where did I fail? Who was responsible for my failure, me or you? I saw you crying on the night of my wedding. You said you felt relieved, you said those were the tears of happiness. That same night I was crying too; crocodile tears of my complete failure. I am happy at least you were sincere in your tears. I know you are not inside this room now, you are nothing more than another soul that has become part of the universe wherein nothing is distinguishable—yet I believe I can see an infinitesimal polka dot beating under the ribcage of the universe, the same rhythm, the same irascible wrath, the same ecstasy of pleasure, the same sea. No one is around me now, no, not even me, but still I am afraid, Amma, I am sick of being worried. It seems awful to announce even now that Kamala could love no man in her life, that her orientation is different.

  It is true that I was afraid of you while you were alive; it is also true that I had a strong dislike for you. Do you remember the rag doll I used to have when I was a child, maybe a child of three or four? You may not remember, those small things were not matters of importance to you then. And now that you are dead, it will be even harder for you to remember, to drag something out of the collective consciousness of the universe . . . just to remember, sounds like a task, doesn’t it? Forget it, Amma, I will tell you how it went. The rag doll was nothing special, nothing of great value; it was just a handmade thing. If my memory serves me, one of my aunts made it, but somehow it was very dear to me. One day while I was playing with my cousins, I slid the doll under my chemise and covered it with a piece of cloth. It didn’t hold there, slipping out every time I tried to fix it there to make myself look like a pregnant woman. It was then that I put it inside my panties; I thought it looked more realistic that way, one of the doll’s feet bulging out of the crotch of my panties and the rest, the head and torso and the two arms and one foot perfect over my belly. I felt happy and proud, but I remember the fierce look on your face, the scornful laughter of the others, and the purple finger marks on my cheeks, which at first I didn’t realize I bore, and then saw in the mirror very clearly, the mark of your hand smudged by my tears.

  Nothing improved in my life; I grew more suspicious, and more disheartened, afraid even to embrace my cousins or share an obscene joke with my friends as a teenager. I thought it was better to be me, to be by myself, with my books and my walls, my dreams for travelling around. I was trying to run away, from the solitude that was terribly demoralizing. Mother, I was sympathetic only towards myself, my feelings, poor me. I entered any place where I thought I would find happiness, without hesitation. I should also be happy in life, I thought. I didn’t stop to think whether the happiness I found satisfactory needed me in turn. Forcefully, I dragged the happiness and tethered it to my bedposts, but it was not as easy as I had imagined. I had to manoeuvre the way the people at my office do for business correspondence, I had to negotiate, make everything profitable, tug my happiness to my own shelves.

  It was I who dragged her along—did you meet her?

  There are lots of women who share apartments in Bangalore. I had seen such women in restaurants that were too crowded, at poker parties and in sentimental libraries, where nobody cared who was who. Different places, different people, where energy and happiness bubbled up in a jiffy. Here again, I failed. I had opportunities to correct myself, in fact I should have corrected myself, but I didn’t, I didn’t bother. Amma, you had accused me of ruining our lives. You said I ruined the life of my children. But now let me tell you, Amma, I think it was you who ruined it all, made things impossible for me. Amma, are you listening?

  Do you remember the day Madhu came here, the day he made a big scene, the day he threatened to take Aadi and Shiva with him? He also told you that he loved me and his children. I thought he was making contrary statements on purpose, just to confuse you, confuse all of us, but I never suspected for a minute that he was so confused. I remember how his father turned his face against the wall and stood motionless, and how you cried, uncontrollably. I wanted to ask you why you were crying so helplessly when your daughter and her children were alive and healthy, but I couldn’t ask it then, which I regret now. Madhu loved himself, only himself but he announced his love for us in public, cunning fox, and he portrayed me as a woman, a dyke, who followed her pleasures neglecting her husband and children. And you were not willing to listen to me, to hear what I was going through. I want you to know all this, even if it is too late now, and I want to ask you one question: How the hell did you manage all this, your marriage with my father, your role as a widow, your task of raising me, and above all, how did you live inside this huge house with its pocket-sized rooms, in the half-darkness? When you get time, if at all you get time, please tell me, for I think, the lives of some women are real wonders.

  The woe of departure brewed in the pots on the gas stove, making the relatives feel depressed about being idle inside the kitchen. A careful voice scolded a girl who knocked down a glass jar full of pickled mangoes. Kamala didn’t go into the kitchen; she was not willing to face any of her relatives. She knew that in the kitchen veranda, in the centre courtyard, inside the family bedrooms, her relatives were busy sharing their memories of her mother, sharing what they knew and what they did not know. This was customary, or rather an undocumented ritual of mourning, and they wanted the dear departed’s daughter by their side, to partake in the games of the grown-ups, to join in their sighs, complaints, nonsense. They wanted Parvathi’s daughter, sitting somewhere on the floor, head down, wracked with an occasional sob, for they believed that would give meaning to the funeral rites, to the relatives lingering in the house of the dead. Tomorrow, hopefully, Kamala thought, they would all go, after the morning prayers and offerings, and hopefully, the house would be peaceful soon.

  26

  It had been one night and a day. Was it raining outside? Shaly tried to open the wooden shutters of the window, which she found really heavy. It took a while, and then she sat on the dilapidated windowsill carved out in the shape of a half circle and looked distractedly out of the window, keeping a count of the people exiting and entering the gatehouse some feet away from the main building. The tarpaulin awning having been removed, she had a clear view of the vast courtyard though it was very dark outside except for the light and shadows formed under the solar lamp. She had been sleeping all day, as there was nothing else to do. At times, inanimate things share some kind of sad dimensions with the living souls around: perhaps that was the reason she smiled at the old, frosted glass panes and at the solitary electric bulb that was suspended above the bed, a very old-fashioned electric bulb, whose filaments, she checked, worked. In Bangalore, she thought, the four of them were in four separate rooms and here they were on four different continents. Where are the boys, she wondered, and remarked on how they had all come together in one car and then been sucked up individually by hostile black holes. But now a fear much stronger and more lonesome startled her, she felt it under her skin; she whispered that she was an outsider. This is not mine, these are not my things, I don’t belong here. She noticed the food tray on the table, and lifted the lids to see what was inside; someone might have brought it there while she was asleep. Not very long ago, she could tell, from the warmth and smell of the dishes. Could it be Kamala? She wondered why Kamala was behaving like a total stranger. What had happened to her? The previous night, she had called her before going to bed and Shaly had to strain to understand her as the reception was very poor here. What she understood was this: ‘The relatives will be leaving by tomorrow evening after the rituals, so till then you take rest. I will join you later.’ How very official! Couldn’t she just come up a few stairs? Am I supposed to go down . . . do I have the freedom to do that? They hadn’t discussed anything like that so far. What does she think of me? I didn’t even drive the car, why on earth does she want me to rest for two long days? I am tired of sleeping; I can’t afford any more sleep.
No WiFi, no proper cell phone reception, no sense of time—this was torture. In Bangalore, people worked like machines, no time for a good night’s sleep, and no time for sex. There people saw each other without really seeing, and did things without doing; there was always a veil in between them, some sort of an excuse like the one among the many you make when you don’t want to kiss a certain someone. There, time was movement. Thinking of time, she felt her nerves tightening; she was in need of time, in fact, running out of it, with a lot of work on the finishing line. Mistress of mistakes, she placed her hands upon her brows, why did you set out after them?

  Shaly opened the doors of her room, which had once belonged to Kamala, and stepped into the long corridor outside it. The room, the corridor, the building, everything reeked of prehistoric aliens from another time, another space. There were bird droppings all over the floors of the corridor—must be the pigeons, she thought, for endless cooing echoed from lintel shades. The night they arrived, she had been startled by the sudden, almost unexpected, flapping of wings and the abrupt flight of a flock of birds from the windows of her room, reminding her of some old English movies she had seen—was it Agnes of God or Birds? She couldn’t remember, but she asked the woman who accompanied her upstairs to shut the windows immediately. While the woman was busy closing the heavy shutters, she got a glimpse of the backyard of that ancient mansion, a wilderness of branches and creepers, which at that point bore no resemblance to the forest she had always known, and seemed nothing but spooky, making her wish for the shutters to be closed at once. With each step she took, there was a flutter of wings at the windows, agitated beatings, and a heavy feeling that something unpleasant hovered overhead. Both of them had lost their peace of mind, she thought, the birds and the human being. The next uncanny thing she found in the room on that same day was the electric bulb—it had been years since she had been exposed to such a primitive source of light. Immediately, she had turned it off—she didn’t want all the objects bathed in that harsh, eerie yellow light, and certainly didn’t want her room to look like the ghostly viscera of dark rooms for developing negatives—but now she could look at the filament with a greater interest, and smile at the way it flickered non-stop. The light fell into a circle on the black shiny floor, like spotlights for performers, falling on some droppings—it was clear they were not expecting any guests. A big rocking chair with one arm missing was in the other end of the veranda along with some piled up, old, dilapidated furniture and a beautiful round table with the head of an elephant carved on each leg, the ivory looking unbelievably real. If real, it was a shame. She detested such showiness. What she liked on the veranda were the windowsills; she counted twelve at a stretch where two or three people could sit at ease looking outside, which was a luxury. She sat on one of them and looked outside. The beauty of the courtyard was quite exciting—she had noticed it on the night they arrived but since they were in mourning and the relatives were throwing hostile looks at them, she didn’t show any special interest in it. She remembered clearly how and where they had parked the car and walked parallel to the entrance gatehouse, from which a slightly winding path of brownish-red laterite flagstones ran along the length of the courtyard to the main building, which was half-hidden then by the tarpaulin awning. She also remembered the difficulty with which they had wheeled Shiva across the path, for at certain points, some laterite stones had come loose, giving the path a dishevelled, old-world look. One had to walk cautiously so as to not fall down. The frayed edges of ancient trees marked the boundaries of the courtyard and there used to be small and big piles of dead leaves all over the ground. But the courtyard seemed rather neat today; someone might have cleaned the ground for the rituals in the morning. Suddenly her gaze caught on something—something was moving in the rose apple tree, shaking its branches violently. It was dark and almost the size of a ball of yarn—she felt a shudder run down her spine. Could it be a flying rodent? The light from the solar lamp fell straight over the tree, giving the rose apples a lustre. Was it love jiggling, shaking its ass inside the darkness of the branches? She walked down the stairs, the old caracole stairs with landings in between sections of stairs, decorated with pineapple finials of carved rosewood that seemed real except for their wooden colour. She touched the pineapples, felt the contours under her skin. Suddenly a bell rang out, startling her; she realized that she was descending the stairs like a thief. She looked around in fright and to her great relief she found that it was the clock. It went without saying that that too appeared to have been dug out from the bottom of history, its gong like an asthmatic patient. ‘It is time, it is time, go, get out of this place, it is not for you,’ the clock told her. That was when she noticed the shadow of the long rope that hung down from the ceiling to the landing on the floor, looking enormously exaggerated, spooky.