The Hero's Walk (38 page)

“Did you hear the announcement?” asked Shyamsundar.

“No, what did it say?”

“They are throwing stones outside, I believe. The police might put curfew on the area. So the theatre manager said that everybody who has tickets, never mind which show, can see the movie now itself. What do you think?”

Sripathi's throat tightened with panic. Stones were being thrown! A few days ago Arun had come home bruised after an encounter with Munnuswamy's Boys. Today it was the police. Why did he get mixed up in such things?

“Come on, man. Might as well see the film. God knows how long we will be stuck here.”

For a moment Sripathi stood undecided. The tickets were for the Saturday show, so he could simply sit in the lobby and wait out the curfew. A refund was useless since he had bought the tickets on the black market and would get back only a third of the cost.

As if to solve his dilemma, a fat seth with hair sprouting profusely out of his nose raised his voice and shouted. “Anybody has an extra ticket? I will pay thirty rupees.”

Shyamsundar nudged Sripathi and said, “Why don't you get rid of your other ticket? At least some money you will get back.”

Sripathi nodded and waved to the seth. “Here, I have one.”

The crowd streamed into the dimly lit theatre, and Sripathi settled down with a sense of resignation next to the seth, whose smallest movement set the whole row of seats shuddering wildly. No point worrying about his son, his scooter outside or the panic in the house when there was no sign of him that night. Perhaps by the time this movie was over, the curfew would be lifted. Perhaps the curfew itself was only a rumour—in Toturpuram, rumour ruled supreme.

The lights dimmed, a sigh ran like a low wave through the hall, the final rattle of a bag of chips, and then the sound track bounced its bright melody off the walls. The heroine appeared in a pale pink sari and turned her liquid eyes on Sripathi. He slipped deeper into his seat and waited for the hero to stride in, waited to join him in his battle against villainy and injustice, avarice and evil. While confusion filled the streets outside, Sripathi nestled in the comforting arms of fantasy and followed Mr. Hero as he chased the goondas who had killed his poor mother, raped his sister and were now after his girlfriend. He would vanquish them all with a song and a dance
and a thundering monologue. He would always know the best thing to do in any circumstance, always take the right turning at the crossroad, and, if he got into trouble, would come out of it with a song trembling on his lips. In the end, the hero would win every battle that destiny flung at him.

The seth shifted in his chair and sent a mighty vibration through the row, but Sripathi barely noticed. He was the hero. The future of his job hung on Kashyap's decision, his son—instead of working for a living—wandered around the streets of Toturpuram waving flags, he had an unhappy grandchild dropped out of the blue and a dead daughter. His home was crumbling about his ears, his sister was going crazy and his mother wouldn't shut up. Did it matter? No, not at all. What else were heroes for but to swat troubles away like so many flies?

“Pop-caran?” whispered the seth, holding out a small paper packet.

Sripathi smiled at him in the dark and dipped into the greasy bag. One more vigorous heaving of the chairs as the seth resettled his bulk and then silence. A twinge of guilt as Sripathi looked at the glowing dial of his watch, until his attention was captured by the blazing funeral pyre of the hero's mother. The dull numbness that had sprouted inside him months ago and had grown like a water-weed, choking off all sensation since, began to tear apart. He had accepted it with gratitude because it had allowed him to look at his grandchild without immediately seeing her mother's dead face. Allowed him to look at Ammayya without resenting the fact that she was alive and healthy. Now, as the orange flames on the screen crackled and leaped, Sripathi felt the hero's rage boil in his own veins. Temporarily, at least, it cleansed him.

Towards the end of the film, he began to feel horribly cold. He knew that it was the latest of his body's shenanigans. He shuddered, wrapped his arms around himself and wished that he was wearing something warmer than the thin, half-sleeved nylon shirt. Now it
wasn't only the fat seth who was setting the chairs aquiver, but Sripathi too. Unable to control the tremors, he rose jerkily and made his way out of the dark theatre, tired of not knowing what would happen next. He wanted someone to tell him that the world was the same, that his daughter was coming home. He wanted to push time backwards, to be a young man cradling his first child and then his second, full of hope for those two infants he had helped create. He wanted, more than anything else, to have the power to reshape the past.

The theatre door was open and he stepped out into the evening, his teeth chattering. The road was deserted and there was glass all over from shattered shop windows. A solitary policeman strolled up and down, his shoes strangely loud on the pavement. Seeing Sripathi near the scooter stand, he tapped his baton against his thigh and shouted, “What are you up to? Seeing if there are scooters to steal? Don't try any funny business, or I will bash your head in. Understand?”

“I'm not doing anything. That scooter there is mine. I just want to go home.”

“How do I know it is yours, eh?” The policeman was shorter than Sripathi but looked far more fit. He whacked the baton against his palm and stared challengingly.

“I have the keys here, in my pocket,” said Sripathi. “And my licence.”

“I still say you have no proof. You give me some proof and you can go, otherwise I will have to deal with you.” The policeman poked him in the chest with the baton. “Understand? You give me some proof, and everything will be fine.” He rubbed his index finger and thumb together and grinned, his teeth gleaming dimly in the darkness of the street. It took Sripathi a few moments to realize what the man was trying to tell him. He drew out his wallet and removed a ten-rupee note. The policeman continued to prod him with the baton. “These days everything is so expensive, no?” he asked, still smiling. “The other day my son came home and said that
his teacher was failing him because he did not give her good-quality sweets for Deepavali. The whole world is going down the drain.”

Sripathi pulled out the thirty rupees that he had got from the seth for his ticket and handed it silently to the man. “That's all I have,” he mumbled.

With a quick movement of his hand, the policeman plucked the money and slid it into his hip pocket. His smile became cordial now, and he accompanied Sripathi through the tangle of vehicles leaning against each other and helped him extricate his scooter. He even removed a green handkerchief from another pocket in his tight khaki trousers and carefully wiped the seat and handles clean of dust. He watched as Sripathi scrabbled to find the small tarpaulin sheet that he used to cover the vehicle when it was new. It was stuffed in behind the spare tire and smelled of old diesel oil and mould. Nevertheless, he draped it over his shoulders like a cape, tying the ends under his neck.

“What for you are doing that?”

“I am feeling cold,” replied Sripathi, fumbling now for his keys.

“You should buy sweater. Why this dirty cloth you are using?”

Sripathi shrugged and the policeman patted him sympathetically on the back. “Sweater is so expensive. Did you like the movie?”

“It was not bad,” said Sripathi, starting his scooter.

The policeman waved goodbye. “Tomorrow maybe I will bring my one-at-home. She is always grumbling that I work too much. You be careful on the roads now. Too many goondas around doing protest marching and breaking laws.”

With the blue tarpaulin flapping from his shoulders like wings, Sripathi rode home. The sky was dark with towering cumulus clouds that had grouped like sombre giants. Thin sheets of lightning flared and died intermittently, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I am getting a new silk pavadai for Deepavali,” boasted Radha. “And my father bought two big boxes full of firecrackers—one for me and one for my sister. He said that I could burn one packet of sparklers today. Maybe one fountain also. You like fountains or ground chakras better?”

Nandana shrugged and peered into her lunch box to see what Mamma Lady had packed for her. She had realized that in India they didn't have Halloween. Instead there was something called Deepavali, when people got presents and burst fireworks. She wondered why Mamma Lady hadn't bought
her
any new clothes. Yesterday, when Nandana went to the market with her to buy some bread, she had stood for a long time in front of a shop window and stared at an orange skirt with golden spangles all over that she loved. It looked just like the dress that one of those dancing women wore in the television programs Aunty Putti watched all the time.

“Why don't you talk?” Radha wanted to know. “Are you dumb? Did someone cut off your tongue? I saw a movie once where they did mean things to orphans. You are an orphan, no? Did anyone do mean things to you?”

Nandana shook her head and sucked nervously on a strand of her hair. The other children seated in a circle on the grass waited for her to say something. When she remained silent, they lost interest and resumed chattering amongst themselves about their new clothes and the firecrackers they would be playing with later in the week. Nandana sulked quietly and added up all the things that were gnawing at her: Mamma Lady had thrown her tooth away without even looking to see which one it was; there was no money under her pillow either—she had checked twice before leaving for school; she was the only child at school who wasn't getting new clothes or firecrackers for this exciting festival; this morning she got a scolding from the rickshaw man for making him wait when it wasn't her fault—she'd had to sit on the toilet for ever because the paper had run out. Mamma Lady had been irritated afterwards. “Pah! This is
not clean. Why you can't learn to wash with water?” And to Nandana's embarrassment, she had leaned over so that Nandana's face was stuck in her soft, sari-covered breasts, and rinsed her bottom with cold water as if she was a baby.

She sulked all the way home in the rickshaw, kicking one of the fat brothers in the ankle for no reason and wiggling so hard that the other almost fell out. To her surprise, Mamma Lady was not at the gate when she got home. Instead she was bustling around inside the house, ordering Koti to pull the stinky sofa forward and cover it with a coloured bedspread, and frying round golden things in the kitchen.

“Hurry up, wash your hands and face and come down, chinnamma,” she said as she rushed in and out of the kitchen. “I'll give you some milk and biscuits, and then you go and play next door till I come and get you. Somebody important is coming to see Putti today.”

Nandana wanted to stay at home. She didn't want to stand and watch Nithya and Ayesha and Meena play and whisper secrets. She trailed behind her grandmother to the kitchen for a glass of milk. The Witch was sitting at her bedroom door reading something. She looked up as Nandana went past her and grabbed her arm. “You watch out for the Chocobar Ajja. He is very bad. He catches small girls,” she said. “If your poor mother was alive she would make sure that you didn't go to such dangerous places to play.”

My mother is in Vancouver, Nandana wanted to shout. I am only here for a short while.

T
HE
DANCE
STUDENTS
started arriving soon after Nandana had left with Koti. Nirmala spread out her reed mat and placed her book of songs beside it before lowering herself to the floor. The Kala Kendra organizers had asked her if she could participate in their year-end cultural festival—choreograph a dance-drama perhaps, a small episode from one of the epics. Over the last two weeks, she had selected the girls who would take part in the festival and had now begun rehearsals. She watched the five young girls who waited before her, legs bent to form a diamond shape, fists against their hips, straight-backed and tense in the traditional stance of Bharat Natyam dancers. So, too, had Maya stood before her years ago, her young body poised to spring to the music, her feet slapping hard on the bare floor, her eyes darting like birds after her graceful, flying arms. Nirmala blinked rapidly to stop the tears that threatened to spill over and started rapping out a rhythm on the floor, humming as she went along. What use is crying? she thought. Would it bring her child back? Just before Maya was born the nurse at the hospital had told her that labour pains were terrible, that she would feel as if she had reached the brink of existence and returned when the baby finally emerged from her womb. But it had been a quick delivery, following only an hour of pain. Perhaps it was
in exchange for the agony that would follow thirty-four years later that the gods had given her Maya so easily.