The Hero's Walk (44 page)

“Yes,” she said. “I took some chakkuli to thank them for their help.”

“Why suddenly so friendly you have become with them?” asked Ammayya suspiciously.

Nirmala hesitated, wondering whether to break the news of the
proposal that would be arriving for Putti. This was probably not the most propitious moment, she decided. She had to think of a strategy first. Tell Putti and Sripathi and Arun. Get them on her side before telling Ammayya. The old woman noticed her hesitation and pounced on it, shaking it like a rat.

“What?” she demanded. “What you are hiding from me?”

“Nothing, Ammayya. I was just thinking how kind they have been, and we …”

“Liar! Something else you are hiding. I know you too well, Nirmala.”

Nirmala thought quickly. “Well, Munnuswamy's wife said she could get us some wall paint half-price, and I was wondering whether you could lend some money to buy. The house needs painting.”

As she had expected, the idea of lending money put Ammayya off the scent immediately. “Money? My husband left me a pauper, and I have to live on my son's charity. Where do you think I will get money from?” she grumbled, retreating hastily into her room.

Nirmala made her way up the stairs, still holding her soggy sari away from her legs. First she would tell Sripathi about the proposal, then Putti, then Arun, and finally Ammayya. If her husband dared to do ooin-aayin about caste and creed, she would remind him of their Maya. Cruel tactic to get her way, but sometimes cruelty was necessary. Squelch-squelch-squelch, she climbed, her feet cold. But Nirmala barely noticed, so busy was she, plotting a marriage for her sister-in-law. A happy occasion was needed in this house. It could be a small wedding, no need to call the whole world. Maybe even an Arya Samaj wedding, which would be over in five-ten minutes and cost less than a traditional one. If everyone agreed, of course. It would be nice to have a full-scale celebration, but money was a consideration, naturally. In her stolid, practical way, Nirmala had decided that the best way to deal with her own loss was to put it behind her and forge on.

She went upstairs to tell Sripathi about the water around their
house, hoping to find him awake. She found Arun sitting at the edge of the bed, conversing with his father.

“The boy has a job,” Sripathi said, before she could open her mouth.

“What? When did this happen?” she asked, surprised.

“Why are you both so astonished?” Arun wanted to know. “Even Appu acted as if I had won the Bharat Ratna or something. It is a small job in Delhi.”

“So far away?” Nirmala said.

“An environmental group—non-governmental, so the pay is not great—but it is what I want to do. I will be able to send some money home; I don't need much for myself.”

Sripathi cleared his throat and said, “You might not have to. I am selling this house. I have decided.” He didn't know when he had reached the decision, but now that the words had left his mouth it seemed perfectly right. “Yes, that is what I shall do.”

“Why didn't you tell me all this? I always come to know last of all. Is this not my home too?” demanded Nirmala. “What will Ammayya say? You haven't talked to her about it, have you?”

“It is the best thing for all of us,” said Sripathi. “This property is worth a lot of money. We will need money from the end of this year. I might not have a job for much longer.”

“But what will you do sitting at home?” There was dismay in Nirmala's voice. “The whole day you will be here?”

“Don't sound so worried,” Sripathi said ironically. “I will keep out of your way. Maybe I will start giving tutorials in English and mathematics.” He leaned back against the pillows and stared out of the open balcony door at the apartment block. Soon, he thought, soon they would all be living in one of those boxes. He didn't mind after all. This house was like a grindstone around his neck. There were too many memories haunting it—some good, it was true—but it was time now to create new memories.

T
HE DEEPAVALI FESTIVAL
had come and gone. A number of the apartments kept the strings of electric lights hanging from their balconies, perhaps to make up for the heavy darkness that had descended on Toturpuram since the rains arrived. Although they had decided not to celebrate the festival this year, Sripathi had bought a box of sparklers, some fountains and ground chakras for Nandana to play with. He had also bought her a small packet of coloured pencils and a set of hair clips, dithering a long time over the choosing of these gifts. It had been more than twenty years since he last purchased something for a child. Nirmala, too, had got Nandana a new frock and some pretty, multicoloured plastic bangles, and had made a few delicacies to mark the festival of lights.

“But should we be doing this?” Sripathi had asked on Deepavali morning, suddenly overcome with a bout of guilt at celebrating so soon after a tragedy.

“What is gone is gone,” Nirmala had said as she rolled out thin discs of puri dough in the kitchen, her bangles tinkling briskly. “Wipe your hands and carry on, that is what I say. I will always miss my Maya, but tomorrow's meal still has to be cooked, no? The child's future is more important than past sorrows.”

In the weeks that followed his breakdown and slow recovery, Sripathi watched his wife, admiring the sturdy resilience that allowed her to cut and cook every day, trudge up and down the stairs to oil, bathe, cajole and care for Nandana, or sing her to sleep after dinner. He had lived with her for thirty-five years, and still he had not learnt her optimism. He looked always over his shoulder at the night instead of waiting hopefully for the next day.

It was the middle of December now, and the cyclonic activity over the Bay of Bengal had again intensified after a brief hiatus. It was impossible to keep schools and offices closed indefinitely, although the streets were still drowned in water. People went about their daily lives with a shrug.

“What-what will happen, will happen-ay-happen,” said Balaji, the bank manager, one morning, when Sripathi was squeezing through the gates of Big House. He had gone to Advisions, but only to work out the notice of resignation that he had handed in a month ago. Better that than to wait like a dog for Kashyap to throw him out. At least he had some dignity left.

Balaji continued to hold forth. “If my fate is to die of drowning, so be it.” He adjusted the bright woollen balaclava cap, a size too small, over his large head and shrugged. There were many of those caps around Toturpuram this year. Beauteous Boutique was doing a roaring business in woollen caps and sweaters, not to mention mufflers, gloves and socks, as a result of the lingering cold. The cyclones had brought the temperatures in Toturpuram down several notches. Kumar Jain, the owner, had even managed to sell woollen jackets to the Palanoor family, who were convinced that the polar ice cap had finally made its move to Toturpuram. The shopkeeper had bought the consignment of woollens from a merchant in Kashmir, whom he had met on a family holiday in Delhi several years ago.

“Poor fellow,” he had told the Raos when they had gone to buy Nandana's Deepavali dress. “It is my duty to help my Kashmiri brothers. He said that he did not even have money to feed his family
the next day. I was in tears, you know. Ask my wife. She will tell you how I was nearly in tears.”

His wife had nodded her head and looked worshipfully at her husband. “He is a very sentimental person, too-too generous and fond of doing charities of all sorts,” she agreed.

“Rascally liar!” Ammayya had proclaimed on the way home. “He must have got the woollens at a price too low to resist and hoarded them till now. And made a 200 per cent profit. Have you noticed his wife's new jewellery? Two diamond florets on her nose. And six gold bangles that I have never seen before, latest pattern that too!”

The house smelled of damp clothes that had been strung up in almost every room. Nothing dried, not even the thinnest of cotton blouses. It was as if the rain had percolated into every pore of the house.

This morning, Sripathi was busy filling water in the kitchen. He heaved one pot out of the sink and replaced it with another. He filled one last container and tiptoed into Ammayya's room, hoping that she was asleep. In the dining room he passed Nandana, who woke up absurdly early every morning. A few days ago, to her intense joy, Arun had brought her a bedraggled kitten. After much debate, during which Ammayya protested loudly and ineffectually, they decided to keep it in a closed basket in the dining room. The child spent every available minute with the creature. She looked up at Sripathi as he passed and gave him a small smile. She didn't speak to him as freely as she did to the others, he knew. Sometimes, while he was on the balcony, he would notice her peeping at him around the bedroom door, disappearing as soon as he looked up.

Ammayya was wide awake in her favourite chair. She was in a bad mood. “Oho, Sripathi,” she started off when she saw him. “There are too many mosquitoes in this house. Why can't you do something? No sleep at all I had, and now I will fall sick.”

“Please, no drama first thing in the morning. I have no time,” he said briskly, peering into the bathroom. He knew that the
grumbling was a prelude to something else. Ammayya was not pleased about the sale of the house, although the thought of having an apartment of her own had mollified her. What she was actually upset about was the marriage proposal from the Munnuswamys' and Putti's obvious delight at the thought of being Gopala's wife.

“Tell me when the tank is full,” he said and headed back to the kitchen. The child was still in the dining room, dragging a small toy on a string across the floor and giggling every time the kitten pounced on it.

“Don't you have school today?” Sripathi asked, watching her play.

“She does,” replied Nirmala, who was also in the kitchen, measuring out cupfuls of ingredients for the snacks she was making for that evening. “The naughty one isn't getting into her uniform. That kitten is too much of a distraction.”

“Why do I have to wear that stinky uniform?” Nandana whined. “Why can't I wear my jeans?”

“Sister Angie will get angry, my sugar,” said Nirmala. “What is wrong with your uniform? You look so smart in it. Now go and wear it, or you will be late.”

“But it scratches my neck and my arms,” argued Nandana. “See, it gives me a rash, an itchy one. I am allergic to it.”

“Nobody is allergic to uniforms. It is the starch that is making you scratch, that's all,” said Nirmala firmly. “From tomorrow I will tell the dhobi not to starch your clothes. Now I am getting tired of all this fuss-muss. Go upstairs, otherwise I am going to ask Arun Maama to take that kitten back to wherever he found it.”

“You are mean,” grumbled Nandana, getting reluctantly to her feet. “I wish my mommy was here.”

“Your mother was my daughter,” said Nirmala. “She would have said exactly the same thing, my sweet chicken. I'll have a treat ready for you when you come back from school if you are a good girl. Okay?”

Just then the doorbell rang. “Three cups of sooji,” she murmured. “Ree, will you remind me that I measured out three cups
already? I'll see who it is.” She hurried out of the kitchen, pausing to shoo Nandana up the stairs, and to the front door, which was wide open already. Over the sound of water running, Sripathi heard Raju's voice. He thought that he must be mistaken, that it was actually somebody who only sounded like his friend. A few minutes later, Nirmala came into the kitchen. “I'll take care of the water,” she told him. “Raju is here. You better go. Something is wrong, I think. I will make some coffee and bring.”

“What a surprise this is,” exclaimed Sripathi as he entered the living room. “The sun is surely going to set in the east today! If we see it at all, that is. Come on, sit down. Why have you decided to visit on this stormy morning, my friend?”

“Oho! Finally you remembered us, Raju Mudaliar,” remarked Ammayya from her chair. All around her were the week's supply of newspapers stolen from the Gujerati couple in the opposite block of flats. “To what do we owe this honour?”

“You know my situation, Ammayya,” said Raju politely. Sripathi remembered that his mother had never liked this friend, a dislike largely fuelled by the fact that Raju always did better than Sripathi at school. He led Sripathi back onto the verandah to avoid any further interruption from Ammayya, who had abandoned her papers to listen to their conversation.

It was cool and wet on the verandah. Raju sat down on the solitary cane chair and Sripathi leaned against the door. “What a way to greet your old friend!” he said, smiling wanly. “Instead of giving me some hot coffee, you ask me why am I here?”

“Sorry, sorry. I was just so surprised. This early, too. And your coffee is already percolating, don't worry. Do you want some idlis also? Have you had breakfast?”