The Hero's Walk (22 page)

“Ayyo!” wailed one of them, and grabbed Nandana. She was an old person with white hair and lots of bangles that tinkled loudly as she moved. She said something in Kannada, but Nandana couldn't hear it properly because her face was squished against the lady's
chest. She gazed at Nandana. “Look at her,” she said. “Look at her. So sad. So thin. Do you know who I am?” She clasped her again.

“How will she know, Ammayya?” said another woman. Nandana recognized her right away from her mother's photographs. It was the Mamma Lady. “She has just arrived here, poor thing. How would she know who we are?”

Nandana squirmed in the old woman's embrace. The necklaces lying on her spongy chest were biting into her cheek. She smelt like peppermint and cooking oil.

“Do you have any chewing gum?” she whispered into Nandana's ear, and then released her. “So thin she is,” she continued, staring at Nandana with grey-green eyes. “I thought all American children were healthy and fair.”

I am not American, thought Nandana. I am Canadian.

Mamma Lady touched her head and held her now, gently, not like the old woman. “Poor child, such a big shock she has had. Naturally she will look pulled down.”

Then a young man who Nandana knew must be her mother's brother, helped a man in a red uniform pile some of their suitcases on top of his head. She was sure that if he moved, it would all topple down and kill him. But they reached the taxi stand safely, and she and the Old Man and Mamma Lady got into a black car that looked like a toffee. As they careened through the streets, Nandana was frightened by the way the driver kept looking over his shoulder and talking to the Old Man. Sometimes he stuck his hand out of the window and waved to let people know that he was turning, but sometimes he forgot and cars would suddenly stop or swerve past with squealing brakes. Nandana shut her eyes tight because she was sure that they would get smashed up at any minute. When she did open her eyes a couple of times, she thought that she was in a zoo—on either side of the car were hordes of cows and a few enormous creatures that she found out later were buffaloes. They looked ferocious with their big curving horns, and she was afraid that they
would charge the taxi and push it over, stick their heads inside the window and thrust those horns into her. She was glad that she was sitting in the middle, between the Old Man and Mamma Lady.

That night, as she lay in the hard, narrow bed that Mamma Lady said was her mother's, questions buzzed in Nandana's head. How long was she going to live in this old house that was full of strange noises and dark corners? Was she supposed to go to school here? Who would help her tie her shoelaces exactly the way she liked them? She was glad that her mother's brother slept in the same room—right across from her on another narrow bed. She had warmed to him right away. But she still hoped that she would not have to live in India, in this old house, for very long.

S
RIPATHI CAREFULLY CAPPED
his pen and replaced it in the box. Since his return from Vancouver, he had felt less and less inclined to write his letters. He would spot something in the morning papers that aggravated him and then a moment later would wonder what use it was writing about it to anyone; it wasn't as if anything was likely to change as a result. Even the pleasure of looking at his box of pens had disappeared. But he
would force himself to find a sheet of paper, pick a pen at random, dredge the sarcasm up out of himself and begin to write. Because he knew, deep inside, that he needed the routine of reading, of thinking about something outside of himself, and of writing to keep sane.

“Chinnamma, wake up! Time for bath and school.” From his usual spot on the balcony he could hear Nirmala in Arun's room coaxing the child out of bed. She slept there now, in Maya's old cot, her eyes gazing up at the same roof that had once sheltered her mother. Nirmala had taken pains to make the room pleasant for the child, moving Arun's papers to the desk and shelves in the landing between the two bedrooms. A fairly new, yellow polyester sari had been turned into a pair of window curtains, and the cotton-beater had come in to fluff up the filling in the mattresses and pillows. Nirmala had hung a few photographs of Maya and Alan over the child's bed and lined the shelves of the large wooden cupboard with fresh newspaper. The wall cupboard had been emptied of its old boxes, bags of clothes and books. The two jackets that the child had refused to leave behind in Vancouver—Maya's red winter coat, and Alan's grey one—were hung there. Nirmala had also stored the suitcases and other unopened boxes full of memories. Someday, she told Sripathi, she would open them all out. In one corner of the room, she had placed a large wicker basket for the child's toys. They lay scattered about, bright and unexpected in this old home. Every morning Koti uncomplainingly gathered the toys from all over the house and put them back in the basket, and by evening they were all out again—little square blocks in blue and pink and purple, dolls, tiny pots and pans, coloured pencils and crayons. Once Sripathi had nearly stepped on a small pink box that opened to reveal a detailed house (complete with kitchen and bath), with three minute dolls inhabiting it. He had been fascinated by the perfection of that plastic home and wondered what his grandchild's
imagination did with those little dolls. He had seen her with it often, her lips moving soundlessly, her face absorbed, as she played with the tiny family in its pink and perfect nest. Sripathi had rarely bought toys for Maya and Arun. They had invented games out of smooth stones, seed pods, sticks found in the backyard, cowrie shells. He vaguely remembered a rag doll that Nirmala had made for Maya, but he could have been imagining it. Arun had a red double-decker bus bought at the smuggled-goods market.

Nirmala's voice again, beseeching: “Come on, darling child, your bath water is nice and hot.” Regardless of the girl's silence, Nirmala would often speak to her as if they were conversing. “Do you like your school? I am sure you do. Otherwise you will tell me, won't you? You know that your Ajji-ma loves you, no?” When she was with Nandana, Nirmala never revealed her private misery over Maya's death. It was only late at night, when she lay beside Sripathi, that she let her mask of practical, bustling good cheer slip. And the agony flowed out of her then, burning them both.

In the first-floor flat of the apartment block next door, Mrs. Srinivas lovingly scolded her two fat sons as she got them ready for school. Both boys stood on the balcony in tight white underpants, pouting and giggling and pushing each other as their mother massaged them with mustard oil before taking them for a bath. Every now and again she stopped cooing to shout instructions to the servant boy, whose sole responsibility was looking after her dotty father-in-law, Dr. M.K. Srinivas. The old man had to be watched every minute of the day, as he would often escape from the flat and lurk in the narrow passage between the two apartment blocks. From there he would peer out slyly until he spotted schoolgirls passing by, and then leap out holding his penis. “Do you want an ice cream, girlies? Tasty-tasty one, henh?” he would drool, waving his ancient brown organ and giggling happily as the girls ran away shrieking. Because
of his unsavoury habit, the old man was better known as Chocobar Ajja, and he now prowled in childish nightmares along with a host of other spooks and apparitions. “Lunatic Mansions” Ammayya sourly called the apartment block for the number of odd people who lived in it.

The sight of the two boys reminded Sripathi of Arun and Maya and the same ritual that used to take place every Sunday out on their terrace. Nirmala used to oil them down before a hot bath, “To make your limbs smooth and supple,” she used to tell them. “So you can become strong like Shravana in the old story, who carried his blind old parents in baskets slung across his shoulders.” And Arun would ask worriedly, “Will you and Appu become blind too, when you are old?” While Maya, ever practical, would want to know how they would carry Appu if he became any fatter than he was now.

Gopinath Nayak leaned out of his balcony and hailed Sripathi with a folded newspaper. “Good morning, sir. How are you?”

Sripathi waved a greeting.

“Trouble in Assam again,” commented Gopinath cheerfully. “Looks like there is trouble in all our border areas, what do you think, sir?”

“Gol-maal politics as usual, that's what I think.”

“Thank God these things don't happen in Toturpuram,” Gopinath remarked smugly.

“You can't be certain of that. All sorts of ruffians are moving in. These days it is dangerous even to walk to the temple after sunset.”

“That, too, is true,” agreed Gopinath. He read the paper for a few more minutes and said. “Isn't Arun Rao your son?”

“Yes, why?”

“No-no, nothing much. Just this small article here about the protest march he organized yesterday against mechanized fishing trawlers. Ruffled a lot of powerful people's feathers, it seems. He should be careful, these trawler owners are rich and don't like
problems. You know he could get into trouble, sir, interfering in other people's business.”

“Yes, we should all learn to mind our own business, but how many of us do?”

There was an awkward silence. Then Gopinath said stiffly, “I just thought that you ought to know what your son was doing. No offence meant.” He folded his newspaper carefully and disappeared inside his apartment.

From the bathroom in Arun's room came the sound of water being poured from one bucket into another—Nirmala mixing cold water with hot in preparation for the child's bath. It was water day, but Sripathi had not been disturbed all morning. During his absence, Arun had taken over the task of filling all the pots, pans, drums and tanks in the house and now continued to do it. He woke up unusually early, too, and frequently Sripathi, lying dry-eyed and sleepless in bed, heard him moving softly around in the kitchen.

Now Nirmala hummed snatches of a tune that she used to sing for their own children. “Hurry up, hurry up!” she urged, as Nandana dawdled over her teeth-brushing. She insisted on bathing the child just as she had Maya and Arun. Sripathi had thought that Nandana would object, but to his surprise, she stood acquiescently while her grandmother soaped her and scrubbed her and sang to her. Not a word escaped her small, tight lips, though. It was now a month since their return from Vancouver, but the child showed no desire to speak. She obediently allowed Nirmala to comb her hair, feed her and pat her to sleep, but she avoided Sripathi, ducking into her room when she saw him. He was hurt by her rejection but made no attempt to approach her either.

“Okay, now dress yourself,” said Nirmala. “Then come down for breakfast, yes?” She came out of the room wiping the perspiration from her forehead and peeped in at Sripathi. “Will you make sure that she hurries up? Every day she dawdles, and the rickshaw fellow says he won't wait if she isn't at the gate by eight o'clock.”

Sripathi nodded and continued to gaze out of the balcony. “You are all right, no?” Nirmala asked. “These days you just sit there doing nothing.”

With an effort Sripathi used his old acerbic tone. “What do you want me to do? Work twenty-four hours? Not enough that Kashyap is breathing down my neck at the office, even in my own home I can't take some rest?”

“I am just asking, that's all,” said Nirmala. She sounded relieved by his tone, and he was pleased that he had managed to fool her. He waited for her to leave and then looked anxiously at his wristwatch. Only six-thirty. The evil time started at eleven on Wednesdays, so there would be no problem leaving at seven-thirty as usual. It was Monday that was a problem, because rahu-kala, the evil time, started at six-thirty and went on until eight.

Since his return from Vancouver, Sripathi had gone from being an intensely rational man to a deeply superstitious one. He checked the almanac that Nirmala kept in the gods' room for the hours during which Saturn presided, and he refused to go out then or even to begin any work. He had memorized the little rhyme—Mother Saw Father Wearing a Silk Turban on Thursday—to help him remember the order of the evil hours: on Monday from six-thirty to eight; Saturday from eight to nine-thirty; Friday from nine-thirty to eleven; and so on. Now he went late to work on Mondays and got home late every Thursday because he left the office only after five, by which time Saturn had stopped casting its malevolent shadow on the earth. On other days, he sat in his tiny cubicle at work without writing a single word for two hours, until the evil time had passed over his helpless head. He knew that he was inviting a reprimand from Kashyap Iyer, who had suspended all criticism for the past three months as a sign of respect for Sripathi's grief. But he had a business to run, not a thriving one either, and sooner or later he would lose patience and summon Sripathi to his office. But even that did not seem to matter any more.