The Girl in the Garden (13 page)

“No!” Nalini Aunty gasped, her face a mix of shock and thinly veiled glee. “I always suspected there was something off about that Thara. Poor woman, though, so sad, really. Her life is over.”

“Are you through with all this silly talk?” Sadhana Aunty had appeared outside, her hands balanced on her hips, and her mouth pressed into a frown.

“Oh, Murthy was just telling me—” began Nalini Aunty, but Sadhana Aunty silenced her.

“Nalini, you forget yourself. I don’t care to hear of it. Now, Murthy, if you have delivered whatever you were meant to deliver, please go. You are no longer welcome.”

Murthy drew himself up with a haughty air and tossed a packet of envelopes onto the front step, where they landed in a heap at Sadhana Aunty’s feet. Her frown stiffened and she eyed the letters in distaste.

“There you are—it looks like that Sardarji brother-inlaw of yours wants your sister back, God only knows why. She’s nothing but trouble, that girl.” Murthy shook his head from side to side, then pedaled briskly away, the wheels of his bicycle kicking back swirls of dust.

Even though I was mad at Amma, Murthy’s words made my blood boil and I glared after him.

Nalini Aunty reached out for the letters, but Sadhana Aunty swept up the pile and began to shuffle through it.

“Rakhee, your father has written a letter to you also,”
Sadhana Aunty said. She handed me a white envelope with my name printed across it in Aba’s familiar reassuring scrawl.

“Can I bring Amma her letter, too?”

Sadhana Aunty paused and looked at me with a glint of distrust. To my surprise, she handed me another envelope. “Very well, but bring it to her at once. Do not loiter.”

I carried the letters into the house and found Amma sitting on her bed. A book lay unopened in front of her and she was examining her knees. She looked as if she had not yet bathed even though it was late in the afternoon; her hair was greasy and unkempt. She had closed the curtains and a patch of light, dull and unflattering as dirty dishwater, squeezed through an opening and fell across her weary face.

“Letter from Aba,” I said casually, and dropped it in her lap.

I wanted to wait and watch her read it, but as if sensing my intentions she said: “Thank you, molay, now run along.”

I meant to obey, but I found that when I tried, I could not move from the spot. My mind kept replaying the scene I had witnessed the night before between Amma and Prem, how she had actually allowed that man to kiss her. The words seemed to spill out of their own accord, harsh and accusatory even to my own ears:

“You were never planning on going back to Aba, were you?”

“Rakhee.” She stared at me with wide, blank eyes. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s true, isn’t it? And you know what I think about that, Amma? It’s stupid. Look how sad you are here.
If we could just go back home, I know it would all be okay and that you could be happy again.”

Amma had been watching me speak in silence, but then her face changed and she spoke, spitting out the words: “Happy! When have I been happy? What do you know of my happiness?”

I stumbled back, startled by the bitter tone of her voice.

Amma covered her face with her hands and let out an anguished moan. Then she began to rub her temples with quick, manic strokes. After a few moments, she became still again, and sighed deeply. Her voice was hoarse.

“I’m sorry, molay, I don’t know what I’m saying. Forgive me, I am not well right now. We shouldn’t be discussing this. Why don’t you leave me be for a while. I must rest.”

I went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, overcome. Part of me was furious at Amma, but the other part still loved her, wanted to put my arms around her neck and protect her. I couldn’t give up so easily. I needed to make Amma see reason.

A long time passed before I remembered the letter I was still holding in my hands. It was even more crumpled than before, and I realized I had been squeezing the paper in my fists. I smoothed it out and began to imagine Aba speaking to me, his familiar voice a balm to my injured soul.

His words were simple, strong, unsentimental. I could almost feel Aba’s hand on my shoulder and his wise, handsome face lost in thought, the way it was when he helped me with my science homework:
Well, this is quite a quandary, isn’t it? But don’t worry, there’s always a solution, Rakhee. There’s always a way out.

I held the letter in my hands, rubbing my fingers across the paper. In a flood of emotion, I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply, the way Muthashi did when she embraced me. It smelled clean and fresh, like home.

Early the next morning, just as I began to rouse myself from the depths of sleep, I heard my bedroom door creak open and soft footsteps padding across the floor toward me. I shut my eyes and pressed my arms against my side, stiff and alert as a soldier.

“Are you awake?” It was Amma.

I opened my eyes.

“Me too,” she said. “I can’t sleep.” She pulled the sheet back, crawled into bed next to me, and held me close. I
felt her tear-stained cheek pressed against mine, and her hot breath in my ear.

“Please forgive me, molay. I’m sorry for shouting at you yesterday. I wasn’t myself. You know how much I love you, don’t you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Oh, you’re still mad at me. I don’t blame you. I’ve been awful, haven’t I? Let me make it up to you—why don’t we hire a car and drive into town today for ice cream? Meenu and Krishna can come along, too—would you like that?”

“I guess so.” The idea of getting away for a few hours seemed too appealing to pass up.

My cousins were giddy at breakfast.

“Why are you not smiling, Rakhee? We are going for ice cream. Sweet, delicious ice cream!” said Meenu.

Gitanjali, who was joining us on our excursion, had dressed up in a fancy blue salwar kameez, and I detected a hint of unnatural red rubbed onto her lips.

“Why are you dressed like that? One of your simple cotton saris will do well enough for a trip into town,” said Sadhana Aunty, glancing up from her cup.

Gitanjali ignored her mother and sat down. “Fine, I’ll change after breakfast,” she said.

Amma entered the dining room, wearing a pale green sari with her hair in a glamorous bun.

“Is Muthashi coming with us?” I asked her.

“No, I’m afraid not. She’s getting too old to handle these long drives, especially in this heat,” she said. “Is everyone ready?”

Muthashi stood up eagerly from her place at the head of the table.

Amma and Sadhana Aunty exchanged looks.

“But, you’re staying here, at home, with Sadhana Chechi,” said Amma in a soothing tone.

“Yes, I need you here with me today,” added Sadhana Aunty, standing up and moving toward Muthashi.

“But I want to go. Why can’t I go?” Muthashi’s voice cracked. Again, she reminded me of a child.

“It’s too far,” said Amma. “You’ll get tired.”

“No, I will not. I’m going to go. I want to go! Let me fetch my shawl.” Muthashi shuffled out of the room.

“You’d better all hurry up and leave,” said Sadhana Aunty with a sigh. “Gitanjali, there’s no time to change now—just go as you are.”

“But what about Muthashi?” Krishna said.

“Don’t worry about Muthashi. Come.” Amma herded us out the door.

At the bottom of the front steps, a black car was waiting on the road, and the driver leaned against the door with his back to us, whistling a tune. When he heard us approaching he turned around and I saw that it was not a driver, it was Prem.

I grabbed Amma’s arm. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“Rakhee, stop being rude. Prem Uncle has kindly offered to drive us,” Amma said in a low voice, and shot me a warning glance.

“Everybody in,” said Prem, pretending he hadn’t heard this exchange, and my cousins happily piled into the backseat. I squeezed in beside Krishna.

Before I could further indulge my anger by slamming the door, I heard Muthashi’s frail voice.

“Come back,” she called. “No!”

We all turned to see her struggling down the steps toward the car. “Wait!” she cried. “I want to go.”

Before she could reach the bottom step, Sadhana
Aunty caught up, looped a firm arm around her waist, and pulled her back. “Go, go now,” she said, waving her free hand at us.

“You’d better start the car, Prem,” Amma said in a soft voice.

“No, wait for me!” I heard Muthashi wail as we drove off. I turned around and through the back window I saw her standing, a pathetic figure in white. I watched her until we turned the corner and she disappeared.

We drove in silence. I stared out the window and watched an auto rickshaw holding two sari-clad women whip in front of our car at top speed and careen around a corner.

Finally, Gitanjali spoke: “Thank you for driving us, Prem Uncle.”

“You’re very welcome,” Prem said. “It gives me a chance to get out for a day. You know, it’s been years since I’ve been back here, and after the madness of Trivandrum, the slow village life can be a bit too much to take in long stretches.”

“Trivandrum? What’s there to do in Trivandrum?” asked Meenu, leaning forward and resting her chin on the front seat.

“I teach English at a college there.”

“Prem is a very talented poet,” said Amma.

Meenu, who seemed bored by this response, reclined and began twiddling her thumbs.

But now I was curious. “Why did you come back here then? Especially if you like big cities?”

“Well…” Prem paused for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said with his usual confidence, “My parents are getting old and I’m their only child. It’s my duty to come back and see them from time to time.”

“How
are
your parents doing?” said Amma. “I feel terrible. I’ve been so wrapped up in things at Ashoka that I still haven’t had time to pay them a visit.” Amma’s tone rang false to me—I knew she had not been busy—and it must have sounded so to Prem as well.

“They are doing fine—though getting old and a bit lonely. They would love to see you. Why don’t we stop by on our way back from town?”

Amma did not answer him. Instead she turned around and gave me a smile. “Rakhee, did you know Prem’s father used to work with Muthashan at the hospital?”

“Yes, and they were the best of friends,” Prem added. “So, it’s settled, then, we’ll visit them later this afternoon.”

Amma opened her mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again and began to stare out the window.

When we arrived in town Prem let us out in front of a dress shop while he parked the car. An excess of stalls crowded the streets, which were clogged with mustachioed men and women swathed in bright saris and salwar kameez, their shiny black hair wound into pendulous braids that emanated the pungent scent of coconut oil.

“Let me just browse until Prem returns,” said Amma. We followed Amma into the shop, and I marveled at the stacks and stacks of neatly folded fabrics in brilliant hues and various textures. The man and woman behind the counter who had been conversing casually leaped to attention when they saw Amma.

“Hello, madam, how may we help you?” said the man in exaggerated, saccharine English.

Amma sat down in a chair the woman offered her and waved away the tumbler of lime juice she held out on a tray.