The Hero's Walk (43 page)

A
CHILD'S LAUGH
. The steady patter of rain. Gutters grumbling with the overflow. The whoosh of traffic. Gopinath Nayak singing. The Burmese Wife and her upstairs neighbour screaming at each other over another set of chopped saris. All through the week, Sripathi lay in bed and swam in the warm, familiar tide of sounds. He was not aware that the doctor had agreed to come that night and had left a prescription for his fever and restlessness. Several nights Sripathi had woken in a panic, still feeling the rain slapping against his face, dirty water swilling about his calves, wondering whether he, too, was dying alone on the street like his father. Then he had heard Nirmala's soft, snuffling snores beside him, touched the curve of her back and slid back into sleep. At home, I am at home, he thought drowsily. He had no memory of the preceding few days. The last thing he remembered was his visit to Nandana's school. Did they find the child? He lacked the energy to ask. Now he was awake at last, and free of the dark, churning tumult that had filled his mind since the death of his beloved daughter. In the dull afternoon light that struggled into the room through the ajar balcony door, he stared at the mouldy ceiling until his eyes drooped with the effort of staying open. Soft footsteps approached, but he didn't open his eyes. Nirmala he recognized by the sound of
her toe rings striking the floor, but he couldn't decide who had come with her.

“Ajji, is he dead?” asked a hoarse young voice in a whisper. He felt Nandana's breath splay over his face. So they
had
found her.

“Tchah, don't say such things,” whispered Nirmala, touching Sripathi's forehead. He liked the comfort of that touch. “Your grandfather is just asleep. See, no fever also.”

Her hand was replaced by a much smaller one. There was a brief silence as the two surveyed Sripathi.

“Why is he wearing that string?” asked Nandana. Sripathi jumped as a small, cold finger traced the path of his sacred thread across his chest. He was ticklish. He opened his eyes, unable to keep up the pretense of sleep any longer. Simultaneously, he realized that the child was speaking.

“Look-look, he is awake! Ajji,” said Nandana, stepping back from her close examination of Sripathi's bare chest and the thread that cut across it, looping over his left shoulder and disappearing down his back. “Can I ask him about that thread?”

“Why not?” said Nirmala, relieved to see her husband awake.

“She can speak?” he asked, his own voice sounding strange to him.

“Yes, and whole day she has been going bada-bada-bada. Haven't you, my mari?”

“I want to know why he is wearing a thread,” said Nandana, retreating behind Nirmala and peering at Sripathi.

“It's to keep me tied together.” He tried out a small joke, slightly upset by the child's wary gaze. She was afraid of him. He got a severe look from Nirmala.

“Okay,” he amended. For the first time since they had returned from Vancouver, he realized that he was talking to his grandchild without the pain of seeing her mother in her face, her eyes, her voice. “It is to scratch my back. And to remind me of my responsibilities.
See, six threads.” He separated each of the threads in his jaanwaara with the tip of his index finger. “One each for you and your Ajji. For Ammayya and Putti and Arun and Maya.”

“What about my daddy?” demanded Nandana. “Why did you forget my daddy?”

“Okay then. Let's leave Ajji out and make this one your daddy's thread.”

“Tchah! Always joking and being foolish. Don't listen to him, my darling. Come, let him sleep. I will tell you what that thread is for, and you tell me about your daddy.”

“You said you would show me pictures of my mom when she was my age.”

“Yes, yes, that also.”

“And the wedding sari with a thousand lotus flowers that you said you would give me when I grew up.”

“Yes, child, yes,” promised Nirmala.

The sari had been specially created for Nirmala's grandmother's wedding by a master weaver in Kanjeevaram. Somewhere among the fragile veins of gold and turquoise silk, among the two hundred cyan peacocks, three hundred magenta jasmine buds, the tangle of leaves, creepers and blossoms—somewhere in that grand outpouring of the weaver's imagination was hidden a gold elephant for luck and for strength.

When she was a girl, Nirmala had stretched the seven yards of silk across her grandmother's bedroom and searched for the elusive design. Her grandmother had never found it, and the sari had been passed on to her own mother and then to her. It lay there in her cupboard, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, with a slice of sandalwood in between. Every six months for years, she had shaken it out carefully—allowing the delicate smell of sandalwood to float out—folded it in a different way to prevent the gold thread from breaking and put it back in the cupboard.

“Yes,” she said again. “And we will look for the elephant hidden in that sari.”

Another cyclonic system followed on the heels of the one that had just passed and brought a heavier downpour. Now the people of Toturpuram, who had so longed for rain, cursed it with every breath. The water in the Big House compound, which had subsided a bit, began to lick again at the edges of the verandah. Brown and black worms, swept out of their holes in the earth, coiled and uncoiled like burning rubber on the damp tiles, and in the evening the house rustled with flying ants blindly hitting the light bulbs. By this time even the street urchins had stopped sailing their paper boats in the flooded streets. Instead they huddled under flapping plastic sheets, which were dubiously moored to the pavement with stones and bricks, wailing and fighting with each other. Hoardings crackled with the force of the gale. A small village nearby was swept away, all of its inhabitants killed except for an old woman in a mud hut. Miraculously alive, still surrounded by her chickens, a stray dog and a goat, she seemed blissfully unaware of the storm.

The schools had declared a holiday until further notice as the weather bureau had issued a severe storm warning. Some areas of the town were so heavily waterlogged that it was impossible to go anywhere at all. Fortunately for Nandana, there were the children in the apartment blocks to play with. Her escapades had made her a minor celebrity among them, and she was being constantly invited over. She was a heroine. She had ventured into the tunnel and survived. She had even been kidnapped by the crazy lady and come out of it unscathed. And she made the most of it, telling stories of the monsters that lurked in that dark tunnel, how they had threatened her and how she had thwarted them. However, she could not share with anyone the great empty feeling that had come to her in the lost girl's small, mournful room—the understanding that her parents were dead. Now she trotted alongside Nirmala, eagerly
chattering as if a dam had broken inside her. She was full of questions and comments: Why are there so many mosquitoes? Why does it scratch when they bite? I don't like the taste of Indian milk. I like chocolate cake, but my daddy's favourite was tiramisu. My mommy said that there are lots of ghosts in the back garden, especially under the mango tree. Why do you walk so slowly, Ajji? I want a kitten of my own, please. Only Ammayya was irritated by the constant sound of that childish voice. “Pah, like a fly in a bottle she is! I am getting a headache listening to her.” But the rest of the house was enchanted by her liveliness.

The morning when Sripathi's fever broke, Nirmala decided to visit the Munnuswamys. She had made some fresh chakkuli to take to their house—a token of her gratitude for their support the night of Nandana's disappearance. Carefully balancing the tray of crisp, golden rings, Nirmala put on her slippers and stepped gingerly off of the verandah and into the front yard, which seemed to have dissolved into a brownish swill. The water was deeper than she had expected and she almost lost her balance. She hitched up her sari with one hand and waded cautiously towards the partially opened gate through which water from the road gushed into the Big House compound.

Nirmala had never been inside Munnuswamy's house. All her conversations with Mrs. Munnuswamy had been conducted over the wall or near the gates. It was a large and well-maintained abode. Inside and out, the walls were painted a horribly bright shade of copper-sulphate blue, but the dadoing was white and, mercifully, relieved some of the pressure on the eyes. And at least there was no sign of water damage. There were ornate ceiling fans in every room, with small chandeliers dropping from their centres. Envy pinched at Nirmala, and resentment too. So much money they must have to keep such a big house so nice and clean, she supposed. She thought about Big House, so rundown, its state of disrepair enhanced during the monsoons, when large patches of moss formed
on the walls and ceilings like maps of fertile countries. They hadn't even whitewashed it for ten or more years. She felt Mrs. Munnuswamy's eager eyes on her, but could not bring herself to say anything. Then suddenly she relented, guilty that she was repaying kindness with arrogance.

“Such a nice house you have built,” she said. “Nice colour also, the walls and all.” The lie didn't bother her much for the pleasure it gave the small, round woman before her.

“My husband got all that paint half-price from a friend. If you want, we can get for you also,” said Mrs. Munnuswamy smiling bashfully. “My husband has lots of contacts. Any problem you have, he can take care.” She paused. “If you want, only.” She then begged Nirmala to sit down on one of the chubby, overstuffed chairs covered in a silky pink material.

“Please, you must take some refreshment,” she pressed, and Nirmala yielded despite the initial prickling of guilt at going behind Ammayya's rigidly orthodox back. The feeling was followed almost immediately by annoyance—with herself. How could she, a grown woman, a grandmother herself, still be afraid of a senile old woman with backward ideas?

“Ishwara!” shouted Mrs. Munnuswamy, startling Nirmala with the strength of her vocal chords. She beamed happily at her guest and said, “Ishwara is a very holy boy. He gets dreams, you know. So clever, you can't imagine.”

After tea, Mrs. Munnuswamy insisted on taking Nirmala on a tour around the house. Nirmala followed her from one bright blue room to another until she thought the sky had fallen into her eyes. But she said only the most flattering things, unwilling to hurt. In any case, who was she to comment? As if her own house was any better. The last stop on the tour was the terrace from where Nirmala had a good view of the surrounding area. Her own home dwarfed by all the apartment blocks, crouching sullen and nondescript in its pool of filthy water.

Mrs. Munnuswamy noticed it as well and, clapping a hand to her mouth, exclaimed, “Why drainage is so bad in your house only? Better do something. Call corporation people, maybe.”

Nirmala nodded and peered uneasily at her home, old and forlorn, stranded in the middle of the rippling grey-green mess. She really ought to tell Sripathi—or Arun since her husband was still unwell—about this. Surely water wasn't supposed to stay for so long, even though it had been raining for days.

Just before Nirmala left, Mrs. Munnuswamy caught her arm, and said hesitantly, “There is something I wanted to talk to you about. Don't be offended, please. My son has been insisting, and I don't know what to do.”

“Is it about my sister-in-law?” asked Nirmala, coming straight to the point.

“Yes. We will come and ask properly of course, but first I thought I should speak to you. It is hard to talk to your mother-in-law.”

“Gopala wants to marry Putti?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you come over, with tambola and all, after Deepavali festival is through? I will take care of everything, don't worry. I know Putti will be happy also.”

Nirmala was amazed at her own daring. To begin with, she would have to deal with Ammayya's hysterics. And Sripathi, how was he going to react? He had cut off their own daughter for marrying out of caste, religion, race. Would he support his sister now? Especially since it was this goonda fellow, the same man whose thugs had beaten up Arun twice.

“You are sure?” repeated Mrs. Munnuswamy, stunned by Nirmala's invitation. She had expected some resistance—shock, or perhaps anger, at the thought of an alliance between her son and the Brahmin girl. A sharp doubt entered her mind. Perhaps there was something wrong with Putti. That's why nobody had yet married her. She looked doubtfully at Nirmala now and got a warm smile in return.

“Yes, why would I simply say it?” said Nirmala.

“You should talk to your mother-in-law first, no?”

“Such matters ought to be settled fast. Neither Gopala nor Putti are young any more. How much longer do you want to wait? Till they lose all their hair and teeth, or what?” Nirmala laughed, in high good humour at her daring.

“What you say is right,” agreed Mrs. Munnuswamy, bustling to an ornately carved sidetable with an assortment of silver boxes on a tray. She picked a small tin, opened it and offered it to Nirmala, who took a pinch of vermilion and smeared it in the parting of her hair. The familiarity of the ritual soothed her. If they could manage a half-foreign granddaughter, why not these people who at least had the same rituals?

Again she waded through the ankle-high water around Big House, wrinkling her nose at the stench of rotting vegetation that wafted up with every movement of her feet. God only knew what kinds of dirty diseases were breeding in the mess. She reached the verandah and, with an expression of disgust, squeezed the filthy water from the ends of her sari, bunching the cloth and twisting it vigorously. Then she held the fabric away from her legs and entered the house. Once again she was struck by the difference between the peeling walls of her own living room—the ancient furniture, the musty odour that muffled all other smells—and the brightness of her neighbour's. Again that sting of envy. And then Ammayya appeared, demanding to know whether she had been to the upstart's house, and Nirmala forgot about the water outside and the sad deterioration of their home.