The Hero's Walk (25 page)

And then, a few moments later, she was asleep. Calm and empty of all emotion. What a simple woman she was, thought Sripathi enviously. There were no shades of grey in her mind, no annoying little doubts that lingered and grew like scum on a pond, choking all other thought and feeling.

The coconut trees at the edge of the compound rustled and creaked. In the distance a dog barked frantically for a few moments and then subsided. Restless now, Sripathi got out of bed, careful not to disturb Nirmala, and padded out to the moonlit balcony. His eyes were caught by a vertical line of moving silver trapped between the apartment blocks next door. Why, he thought, surprised, it was the sea. He had never noticed it before and realized that someone
must have chopped down one of the Ashoka trees on the other side of the apartment building. The water pulsed and shivered, contained by the two immobile blocks of cement and brick within which two hundred bodies slept and dreamed, and Sripathi was almost certain that he could hear it sighing against the sands. A bat fluttered past, and small creatures stirred and shuffled in the wild back garden. The sharp smell of ripening limes from the tree below the balcony mixed with the cloying scent of oleander blossoms. He hoped that Nirmala had warned Nandana about those pretty pink flowers, of the poison that they carried in their hearts.

The last few lights in the apartment block went off. Sripathi slipped into bed again and drifted into an uneasy sleep churning with dreams. In one of them he chased after a bus, and the faster he ran, the farther he was from the bus, until at last he realized, with a weeping sense of emptiness, that all along he had been running backwards.

At around four o'clock the next morning, a loud rumble travelled like a tsunami through the moist, heavy air and sent him scrambling out of bed, heart thudding wildly. Thunder, he thought, reaching for his glasses on the windowsill. Thunder at last! But when he looked out at the grey, pre-dawn sky, in which a pale moon still lingered, there was not a cloud to be seen. He waited for another rumble, wondering whether his yearning for rain had translated itself into imaginary sound. If only his longing could touch the still sky and turn it into a churning sea of charcoal cloud. Could one's will, strong and unwavering, touch the hearts of the gods, of nature herself?

Years ago, Sripathi had gone with Shantamma to a music concert. He had been reluctant to accompany her, bored by the thought of sitting through three hours of singing in the dark theatre with its thatched roof and humming mosquitoes. But his grandmother had told him that it was important for his soul. Music, she
had said, had the power to rouse Varuna and Vayu, the gods of the ocean and of the wind, and compel them to fill the clouds with rain. “And some ragaas,” the old lady had assured him—nodding her head and ecstatically keeping time with the flat of her hand on her thigh—“have such heat and passion that when they are sung, a thousand oil lamps will ignite spontaneously. But only when an ustaad, a master of music, produces them.” That certainly eliminated that donkey Gopinath Nayak.

He stretched his arms wide and knocked over a pile of books and papers that had been balanced on the windowsill beside the bed. He tutted impatiently and scrabbled in the narrow gap between cot and wall, pulling out old newspaper clippings, sheets of paper (on which Nirmala had briefly tried to account for all the money they spent each month), a magazine with a sexy film star on the cover and a slim book of poetry by Pablo Neruda—a gift from Maya for his forty-sixth birthday, just a year before her departure for the States. Once in a while Koti went on a cleaning spree and piled everything neatly, according to size. But the order she imposed was only temporary. Like a number of things on the windowsill, the volume of poems, too, had gathered dust all these years, waiting to be put away, read or organized. But Sripathi had not picked it up, even to glance at it. Last week, on an impulse, he had started it, his curiosity aroused after a documentary on the poet had aired unexpectedly on television, in between the Kannada song-and-dance sequences and soap operas that Ammayya and Putti watched avidly. Sripathi liked to think that he was the only person in his family who had any taste at all, but he was also shy about this opinion and felt a delicate, hidden pleasure in keeping it to himself. He had found himself fascinated by the poems, even though he couldn't fathom the poet's meaning at times. He glanced down at the volume in his hand, noticing the slim size. How marvellous that the poet could fill such a universe of feeling and ideas into such a slender book. “
Ask me where have I been / and I'll tell you: ‘Things keep on
happening
,' ” said Neruda, on the page that opened to a bus ticket that Sripathi had used as a bookmark.

And there is nothing you can do to stop them
, he might have added.

He tossed off the thin, well-washed cotton sheet preparatory to getting up. It was too hot for clothes, let alone sheets, but he could not sleep unless his toes were covered. A rat had bitten his big toe once, and when he'd woken up the sheets were damp with blood, and he'd had the terrifying thought that he might be dead or dying. It took him a while to get over the panic and discover a nipped toe at the end of a body otherwise whole and healthy.

Nirmala was still asleep, her mouth open, a small snore emerging now and again. He went over to the balcony to see what had caused the thunderous sound that had awoken him, and then decided to go down to the verandah. To his surprise, he found the front door ajar and his sister sitting on the steps, chin cupped in the palm of her right hand, three packets of milk on the floor beside her. Putti's hair was loose on her shoulders, and she had on an old cotton sari. In the dim light of pre-dawn she looked much younger than forty-two.

“What are you doing up so early?” asked Sripathi.

“I came to get the milk,” replied Putti, looking embarrassed. “I do it every morning.”

“Oh, I thought Nirmala did,” said Sripathi.

“No, I told her to sleep for a little longer. I am up early anyway, and since I sleep downstairs, it is easier for me. I don't mind.”

“Does that Gopala still bring the milk?”

Putti looked acutely uncomfortable now. “Yes, sometimes,” she mumbled.

If Sripathi had been less preoccupied with his own misery, he might have noticed, and wondered at his sister's embarrassment. But he saw nothing, and after a few moments Putti patted the verandah steps beside her. “Sit down. It is so peaceful at this time, no? You can even hear the koyal bird singing.”

“Yes, at least till that moron Gopinath starts his morning raaga,” agreed Sripathi.

“Shh! Don't talk. Listen to the bird sing,” whispered Putti, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

Sripathi stared out at the deserted street and allowed the sweet, high notes of the bird to fill his troubled mind. So must the Emperor of China have felt when he heard the nightingale's melody, he thought, remembering a story from his youth. He glanced at his sister's rapt profile and with a sudden shock realized that he had never spent time like this with her. Never. The sixteen year gap between them had prevented any closeness. When she was a child, he was frantically finishing his degree, battling with guilt for having abandoned medical school, for having knocked his mother's hopes to the ground. And then, after he had found a job, he was too tired to notice her. By the time she was ten, he was already a father preoccupied with his own children. They all lived in the same house, but Sripathi hardly knew his sister.

“Maya and I used to sit here every morning and wait for the koyal to start singing,” said Putti suddenly. “We would creep out when everybody was asleep, and she would tell me about her school. I loved listening. It was like having a little sister. She made me laugh, especially when she imitated her teachers. I wish Ammayya had let me go to school as well.” She paused for a bit. “Maya told me before she left for America, that she would send me a ticket to visit. But I knew it would never happen.”

“She would have sent you a ticket, I know,” said Sripathi, moved by his sister's wistful voice.

“Maybe. But my fate lies within the walls of this house,” said Putti. “See, today I am forty-two years old and still I am stuck here. Even if Maya had sent me a ticket, Ammayya wouldn't have allowed me to go.”

Sripathi clapped his hands to his head. “Ayyo!” he exclaimed. “Today is your birthday, I completely forgot.”

“Too many things are happening, so of course you forgot. It doesn't matter. I don't want to remember that I am growing older and older every day, and still I have done nothing to remember the years that have passed,” said Putti.

“Tchah-tchah, what sad things you say.” How stupid he felt for forgetting. Every year he did something special for her—got her a new sari or took her and the others out to eat at the Mayura Palace on Bridge Road. It was a pure vegetarian restaurant, the owner had fervently assured Ammayya the first time they went there. “Everybody who is working here is Brahmin, Amma. Even our doorman is my own nephew's son—totally Brahmin. No garlic or onions we are putting in the food. Our ice cream, too, is purest vegetarian, no egg and all to increase bulk.”

“So shall we eat out today to celebrate your birthday, Putti?” asked Sripathi.

“Don't be idiotic,” she replied. “I am too old for such nonsense. Spend the money on that poor Nandana. Or when I get married we can celebrate!” She gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes bereft of their usual ring of kohl. “What do you say?”

“Are you planning to get married?” asked Sripathi cautiously. “To whom?”

Putti shrugged. “Maybe, if Ammayya allows me to.” She twisted the end of her sari into a tight cord of blue and white cotton.

“Why worry about Ammayya? We are here to take care of her.”

“That's what you say every time, but it is all big talk, nothing else,” said Putti. “So many times grooms have come to see me. Why you never said anything when Ammayya refused them all? Henh? Tell me? Because you are also afraid that she will start wheezing and coughing and threatening to die!”

She gathered up the milk bags and got to her feet, leaving Sripathi to stare after her retreating back. In trying to keep his mother happy, he thought, he was neglecting his duty to his sister. He sat for a while longer on the verandah, brooding over the dilemma he
was in. Absently he noticed that the pile of debris blocking his gate had grown higher; the noise of thunder that morning had been a truck dumping more broken concrete. He tried to summon up the anger that had fuelled his quarrel with one of those truckers months ago, but found that he could not do so. There was no feeling left for anything. It was as if he was standing outside of his body, dispassionately watching himself bumble through his daily routines.

As the sun came up, Koti entered the gates, green plastic basket in hand, her hair neatly oiled and gathered in a bunch at the back of her head. A cluster of white flowers sat on top of the bunch like a fragrant crown. She gave Sripathi a gap-toothed smile, her skin stretched in a million wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. From a corner of the verandah, she took up the ancient, threadbare broom with which she swept out the yard. The dust rose in plumes all around her and settled back slowly. When she was satisfied with the reorganization of the dust, she picked up a decrepit aluminum bucket half-full of water, dipped a hand in it and moistened the ground with a sharp sprinkling motion. Her fingers jerked out a little dance, throwing silver arcs that shimmered briefly in the sunlight. Putting the dust to sleep, she called it. Then she bent over abruptly, straight from the waist, her substantial buttocks in a shiny green nylon sari sticking up into the air, and rapidly peppered the calmed earth with rice-flour paste from an old Bournvita tin until there was a vast expanse of dots like stars on a dusty sky. She sat back on her haunches and allowed her imagination to swim in. The random dots became a pattern and Koti leaned forward again, her face intent as she drew fine lines. Swirling, curling, frothing, furling. The lines swept from dot to dot, a fluid creation. Thought transformed to art, reflected Sripathi, oddly moved by this ritual that Koti had performed for so many years. The lines on the ground came alive—became swans, mangoes, wispy jasmine creepers, peacocks dancing, elephants thundering, signs and symbols for happiness and prosperity.

A memory came to him of Maya skipping down the steps to the yard. Asking Koti if she could please-please try a pattern. Of Koti guiding Maya's impatient little hands through the intricacies of the pattern. “What is this for, Koti?” the child had asked, after she had managed to dribble out a shaky line between two dots. “To keep the evil eye away,” Koti had replied, standing up and stretching her aching muscles. “When I put rangoli in front of a house, no evil spirits dare enter.”

And yet nothing could keep bad luck away from Koti's own life. She married a drunk when she was eighteen, and every morning she arrived with her face swollen and discoloured, burns on her arms sometimes as large as the lid of a Bournvita tin, missing teeth and blackened eyes. Sripathi remembered seeing a child as well, a boy who often accompanied Koti on her daily rounds, a silent child who sat on a corner of the verandah scribbling endlessly on a slate. When his mother was inside the house, he followed her around, searching for the gap-toothed smiles she sent him as she worked, peering timidly inside rooms if she disappeared even for a moment, and then, satisfied that she had not, running back to the verandah, to his slate and chalk. Once she had come in with her lip split open, crying openly, furiously.

“The son of a whore took my money,” she wailed, beating her head against the wall while Ammayya and Nirmala and Putti crowded around, patted her shoulder and soothed her. They ignored Sripathi, glared at him when he asked what had happened as if he was responsible for Koti's sorrow. “
My
money the son of a diseased cunt drank up. I had saved it up to buy a white shirt for my Kannan, for his school. Next week he goes to school for the first time, Amma, and the bastard of a father of his stole my money.”