Authors: Uma Krishnaswami
Naming Maya (11 page)
Mami's son comes that evening as promised. Except for his head of thick black hair, and the suspicion of a mustache on his upper lip, he looks just like Mami. He has her ready laugh. He has her gestures.He tries to persuade her to go home with him.
“I can't,” she says. “I have to stay here with Prema. When she came here to sell this house I promised her I would stay here and cook for her.” She sets her chin, and will not budge.
He says, as if he's bargaining with a young child, “If we let you stay here tonight, will you come with me to see a doctor tomorrow?”
Mami waves him away with a little laugh. “We'll see. Tomorrow. All right, all right. Go home. It's getting late.”
“Poyittu varain,”
he says, the Tamil goodbye that really means “I'll be back.” But before he can keep his word the next day, Kamala Mami falls apart like a stack of papers in a good stiff wind. And she is not laughing.
he says, the Tamil goodbye that really means “I'll be back.” But before he can keep his word the next day, Kamala Mami falls apart like a stack of papers in a good stiff wind. And she is not laughing.
The day is hot and still. On her way out to check the mailbox, Mom has no doubt been trapped by Mr. Rama Rao, and is deep in a meteorological discussion with him. I go to the dining room to get myself a glass of water from the refrigerator that stands against the far wall. That's when I see her.
The moment I set eyes on Mami I know this is beyond anything I've ever seen before. She sits in a corner, bunched up close to the ground. And she weeps as if her heart is breaking. She makes no effort to cover her face or turn away. She just sits there and cries in long soft sobs.
“Mami,” I say.
“I couldn't keep my word,” she says. Over and over. “I told you I would take care of your daughter. How did I know she would go so far away? How could I know?” She can't hear me, see me.
Think, Maya. No time to dawdle. I stand there, watching her the way I watch a horror movieâcan't look, but can't bear not to look.
“What a life she's had,” she cries. “What a terrible, terrible life.”
It's impossible to keep a single thought in my head long enough to become a decision.
Mami cries louder, in long jagged breaths, as if her lungs can barely fuel the sadness bursting out from inside her. I can practically see them, the ghosts in her brain that are making this happen. I see that I was right to be afraid for her, back when I first suspected something was wrong.
No time to dawdle. I run down the hallway, fling the front door open, and race outside barefoot, not caring that the gravel hurts my feet.
Mom is nowhere to be seen. She must be inside the Rama Raos' house. I hesitate a moment. Should I go in there and get her? Then I remember the words of Mami's daughter-in-law: “Tell me if anything goes wrong.” I know what I need to do.
I head for the corner of C. P. Ramaswamy Road and the cross street with the police station and the tree with the trunk as big as a house. I take this road in the longest strides and biggest gulps of breath I can manage. The next cross street houses the bank.
Inside the Union Bank I search the faces. From behind the counter where she's handing papers to a teller, Mami's daughter-in-law meets my eyes in startlement. She whispers something to the woman she's working with and ducks out to talk to me.
I say, all breathless, “It's Mami. You need to come. Now.”
She says, “Wait here.” She returns in a moment, purse in hand. “It's all right,” she says. “Let's go.”
Only when I get back to the house with Jana do I realize I'm still barefoot. My feet are filthy. Perhaps Ganesha kept an eye out for me, the way I've tried to keep watch over Mami. I could have stepped on nails or broken glass and not even known it.
I leave Jana alone with Mami, and go upstairs. I quickly pour water over my poor feet, and rub them against each other. The water is dark brown as it washes the dust of the street away. The gecko's nowhere in sight.
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We get ready to take Mami to the hospital. Mom, surprised out of her conversation with Mr. Rama Rao, goes to wave down a taxi for us. I stay with Mami while she sits and gazes into the distance, recognizing no one. Her daughter-in-law stares as if she is seeing her for the first time. Mami's tears have stopped flowing now, but every once in a while a tatter of a sob still breaks free from her. Sometimes her hands clasp and unclasp, fluttering like monstrous moths, and then are still again.
I am grateful when Mom returns, telling us she has
a taxi waiting outside. It takes all our combined strength, Mom and me and Jana, to get Mami into the cab. For once, Mr. Rama Rao is at a loss for words. He sits on his porch and watches us openmouthed.
a taxi waiting outside. It takes all our combined strength, Mom and me and Jana, to get Mami into the cab. For once, Mr. Rama Rao is at a loss for words. He sits on his porch and watches us openmouthed.
At the hospital, the three of us and a doorman have to get her out and into the building. She fights like a cat.
The hospital is crowded. Once we have her inside, Mami becomes still. She will not look at us. A nurse shuffles patients in and out of examining rooms behind green curtains. When it's Mami's turn, she goes without a fight.
A resident tells us they will probably transfer Mami to an observation ward. Mami's daughter-in-law is in a daze. “We'll have to run a series of diagnostic tests,” says the resident, with the air of one who has explained everything perfectly. “Are you relatives?”
“I am,” says Jana, and so of course he turns to her and ignores us completely.
“Will she be all right?” Jana asks.
“Don't worry.” The resident adjusts the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “Come tomorrow. By tomorrow we might be able to tell you more.”
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In the evening, Jana and her husband both show up at Thatha's.
“I'm so sorry,” Mami's son says. “So much inconvenience you've had to put up with.”
“It's all right,” replies my mother. “What will you do now?”
He shrugs and smiles. “I will take her home with us when they discharge her from the hospital. She has always insisted she can manage on her own ⦔ He trails off, and then says, “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of her.” He aims the words at Mom but he looks right at me.
I think of Mami cooking for us, telling stories I can hear from my place on the
oonjal,
singing for herself and no one else. Mami in a rage when she was sure Prasad the real estate man was a murderer wanted by the police, an ax-wielding maniac out to get us. Mami reciting the names of the goddess, all rattly like pebbles rolling down a mountain.
oonjal,
singing for herself and no one else. Mami in a rage when she was sure Prasad the real estate man was a murderer wanted by the police, an ax-wielding maniac out to get us. Mami reciting the names of the goddess, all rattly like pebbles rolling down a mountain.
And I feel sad. Oh, not for Kamala Mami. She carries worlds around in her imagination, and why would I need to be sorry for someone who has that? I feel sorry for myself because I won't have her around anymore, and I am fiercely jealous of the people who belong to her, as I do not.
The smell of disinfectant in Mahila Hospital is unimaginable. It hits us as we walk in the following morning. It is so thick it goes up my nose and lodges in my sinuses. I have the feeling I'll be able to smell it years from now, when I am far away from this place where silk cotton trees make umbrellas over the courtyard outside, and where, inside, the walls are busy with white and green tiles.We check in at a counter, where a man in a blue uniform writes our names down twice, once on a form and once in a ledger. I wonder what they'll do with the names of all the visitors who come to see the patients in this rambling red brick building. Will anyone ever read them again? Jana arrives and I snap out of my daydream.
A nurse's aide in a green sari, almost matching the tiles but not quite, leads us to the observation ward. She turns us over to a nurse at the desk. “Is she expecting you?” The nurse bites her words out.
Mom dithers. Jana says, “I am her relative.”
“And you?” Nurse Barracuda glares at us.
“They're friends of the family,” says Jana.
The nurse points us to a waiting room and says, “Wait there. I'll bring her to you.”
Pretty soon she reappears with Kamala Mami. Jana talks to her in the loud voice people reserve for those who are deaf, foreign, or a little slow. She pronounces each word clearly and carefully. “How. Are. You?”
Mami digs in the folds of her sari and extracts something. “What. Is. That?” enunciates her daughter-in-law, tugging her sari around herself,
whoosh-whoosh
.
whoosh-whoosh
.
Mami jerks her head at me, away from everyone else. I sit down next to her. “What?” I ask. “What is it?”
It's a little accordion-folded book with parchment-like pages bent from age and use, Tamil letters rolling across the front.
“I want you to have this,” she whispers to me. “Lakshmi Sahasranaman. Your name comes from there, Maya. Mahamaya. Remember that.” She opens it, and shows me,
-
-
-
, m-a-y-a. She presses the book into my hands and leans back, exhausted.
---, m-a-y-a. She presses the book into my hands and leans back, exhausted.Kamala Mami and I sit and stare companionably at
the little book. My name in there! I speak, finally, and to my surprise the silence doesn't shatter the way silence is supposed to. It just parts and makes way for what I have to say. “Are you sure you want to give me your book? Won't you need it?”
the little book. My name in there! I speak, finally, and to my surprise the silence doesn't shatter the way silence is supposed to. It just parts and makes way for what I have to say. “Are you sure you want to give me your book? Won't you need it?”
She smiles, and says, “I have another one, don't you worry.” With a shock of pleasure I realize it's a Two-Gift!
She nods encouragingly at me and waves the little book away. I slip it into my tote bag, tucking it between my camera and my wallet.
I take her rough hand and hold it, wanting to smell familiar smells of flowers and hair oil and diesel fumes from the bus, but I smell only hospital disinfectant.
“You should go home,” I say.
“Home,” agrees the nurse from the doorway. “She'll go home soon. She's so much better.” She beams at us, barracuda transformed into angelfish.
“Illai, ma,
Kamala? Isn't that so, dear?”
“Illai, ma,
Kamala? Isn't that so, dear?”
But Kamala Mami doesn't answer. Instead she pats my hand with her dry-as-dust ones. Then she leans over and says to me, “What a terrible thing, to take a young girl like you to jail,” and I realize that her mind has gone off on its journey to the past again.
I take a picture of her, although my hands shake so I can barely hold the camera straight. She gives a
crooked grin, then asks Mom to take one of her and me together. I sit next to her, and try to smile, wondering who she thinks I am. Mom aims and clicks. The flash goes off in a little explosion of brightness, leaving small bursts of color whizzing about in my eyes.
crooked grin, then asks Mom to take one of her and me together. I sit next to her, and try to smile, wondering who she thinks I am. Mom aims and clicks. The flash goes off in a little explosion of brightness, leaving small bursts of color whizzing about in my eyes.
“The house?” she asks Mom, and I see she is back in our reality.
“Prasad's still talking to buyers,” Mom tells her. They look at each other a long time.
Finally Mami waves her hand like an empress dismissing her subjects. “Sell it,” she commands. “It's only a house. The real rememberingâit's inside.” She thumps what Sumati would call her boozum.
I open my mouth to say something to Mami. Goodbye, maybe? Good luck? What can I possibly say?
She spares me the trouble of figuring it out. She leans over and whispers so close in my ear her warm breath tickles, “Sometimes people leave our lives. It isn't a thing to cry about.”
I shush, humbled. What do I know? She is an ocean of story, filled with answers to questions I have barely begun to ask.
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