The Hero's Walk

by Anita Rau Badami

  Past the house with the petunias that looked like a storybook picture, past the row of cherry trees without cherries and the small store that said Vancouver Buns, to the crossing where she would have to decide whether to turn right or left. Nandana was going home. She was nervous about being alone on the road, but she knew it was only a hop, a skip and a jump away. She also kept a watchful eye out for strangers and killer bees. The first, both her mother and father had warned her about. Never talk to strangers, they had said. If a stranger approaches, start screaming or run away. Never accept anything from someone you do not know. “Even if they offer you a Mars bar, you have to say no,” her mother had cautioned, looking very solemn. She knew it was her favourite treat.

  Not that they would ever let her go out alone. No way.

  As for killer bees, Nandana was more worried about those. She had seen a nature program about Africa on television last week. Killer bees were dangerous. They could kill with a single sting and travel long distances without getting tired. Nandana wasn’t sure where Africa was in relation to Vancouver, but on the world map in her room it didn’t look far at all. She and Molly McNaughton had discussed it and agreed that it was ab-SO-lute-ly possible for those bees to fly to Canada.

  Why had her parents left her for almost three whole days in Anjali’s house? It occurred to Nandana that maybe she had done something to annoy her parents. She tried to think what it could be. She had taken her favourite green pyjamas with the yellow frogs for this sleepover. They were too small, and her father had wanted her to take her red ones instead. Guiltily she remembered that she hadn’t put her toys away before Aunty Kiran had come to pick her up. Perhaps that had made her father mad.

  She was standing at the crossing, trying to decide which was her left hand and which her right, when she saw Aunty Kiran running down the street after her.

  “Oh Nandu, you silly girl, I was so worried,” she started to cry. Then she insisted on carrying Nandana back part of the way, even though she was a big girl and far too heavy. She let herself be carried, so as not to upset Aunty Kiran further, but she stuck her legs out as stiff as two sticks because she felt stupid. Finally, she was allowed to slide down to the ground, and that was better, she thought. But she still had to hold Aunty’s hand until they reached the white house behind Safeway.

  “Oh God, oh God, this is terrible,” Aunty Kiran wailed as soon as she shut the door. “What is this poor child going to do?”

  Why, thought Nandana, is she getting so agitated about me going home?

  Uncle Sunny took the backpack from her and looked grim. “We should tell her,” he said to his wife. “It isn’t good to keep it from her. Sooner or later she will have to be told. Better soon.”

  “I want my mom,” said Nandana firmly. She was getting a funny feeling in her stomach, as if there were beetles crawling around inside. “I told my daddy I would help him recycle the newspapers. I want to go home. Please.”

  Aunty Kiran blew her nose on a tissue that she pulled from the pocket of her jeans. She took Nandana into the living room with the big sofas.

  “Those sofas look like fat tourists in Hawaiian shirts,” her father had commented once.

  Her mother had poked him in the side and giggled. “Don’t say things like that in front of Miss Big Ears. She will go and blurt it out for sure.”

  As if. She knew all about not hurting people’s feelings. It was called being diplomatic.

  “Honey, I have something to tell you,” Aunty Kiran began, holding Nandana very close.

  3

  THE STORM

  SRIPATHI PICKED UP the receiver and said hello breathlessly.

  There came a series of beeps followed by a clear voice. “Is that Mr. Sripathi Rao’s residence?”

  Sripathi didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded like that of the American social worker who had arrived to work on some project with Arun and had gone back shuddering with malaria after a week.

  “Yes, yes, this is Sripathi Rao,” he said.

  “My name is Dr. Sunderraj. I am calling from Vancouver. May I ask if you are the father of Maya Baker?”

  Baker? With a small shock Sripathi realized that, for a moment, he hadn’t even remembered Maya’s husband’s last name.

  “Mr. Rao, are you still there? Can you hear me?”

  Sripathi cleared his throat and said, “I can, yes. Maya is my daughter. Um, we haven’t been in touch for a while now.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed to be admitting this to a stranger and wishing that he had not.

  “Uh-huh, yes. I see, I see.” There was a small pause and then the man continued in a rush. “Sir, I am a friend of Maya and Alan’s. A family friend. Your daughter asked us to contact you.”

  The voice floated in and out of Sripathi’s head. Accident, it said. Very tragic. Thought she would pull through. Really sorry. What was this man talking about? Sripathi sank to the floor near the telephone, his legs unable to hold him up any longer.

  “Pardon me,” he said. He could hear his voice shake suddenly, as if from cold. “Could you please repeat that? I didn’t catch … Are you talking about Maya Rao? Who works at Bioenergics?” He remembered the name of that company. Nirmala had made a point of telling him about it, despite his pretending not to hear.

  And the man’s voice, soothing, calm. “I understand. No problem, I’ll go over it again. I know this is an enormous shock for you. I am terribly sorry. We thought that Maya, at least, would come through. And sorry for the delay in calling. We tried several times, but couldn’t reach you. I thought, let me try one more time to talk to you personally before sending a telegram and all …”

  A roaring wave of shock crashed over Sripathi. He hardly registered the rest of the man’s words. Maya and her husband had died the day before. But why didn’t anyone tell us earlier? Why, what could you have done? he argued with the voice that grew louder and louder in his head. You didn’t talk to her for nine years, cut her off as if she were a diseased limb and now suddenly comes this concern? Sripathi could hear his heart pounding urgently inside his chest. His breath was indecently loud in his ears.

  In between he heard bits and pieces of the family friend’s voice: Maya’s car had crashed off the highway. Alan had died immediately. The doctors had hoped that Maya would survive, but there was severe internal damage. Fortunately, Nandana wasn’t with them. She was safe in Dr. Sunderraj’s home, with his wife, Kiran, and their daughter.

  “Alan has no immediate family, Mr. Rao,” said the steady voice: It occurred to Sripathi that the call was probably costing the man a lot of money. He would have to offer to reimburse him somehow.

  The man continued to speak. “As you are probably aware, Maya appointed you legal guardian and trustee some time ago.”

  Yes, Sripathi thought numbly, I remember. I signed the papers, but that is all I did. He wondered briefly how the family friend knew so much about his daughter’s affair—much more than he did.

  “There might be some problem with Social Services. They may not release the child immediately to a stranger,” continued the voice. “I believe you have never met your grandchild. Is it possible for you to arrange to stay here for a few weeks? Let the child get used to you, as it were? And there are other legal and financial matters …”

  The polite, reasonable voice went on and on. Wills. Financial papers. Death certificate. Cremation. The possibility of Alan’s relatives surfacing and contesting the will—a distant chance as Alan likely did not have anyone who was close enough to him to want the responsibility of a child. Police check. Adoption. Sripathi put down the receiver gently, aware that the man was still speaking. Enough, he thought. He could not bear to hear another word.

  A long distance away Sripathi could hear water running, cascading down the sides of the cement tank in Ammayya’s bathroom. It occurred to him that Koti must have started filling it and that if he didn’t move away from the phone and help her, there would be no drinking water for the day.

  He heard his mother’s q
uerulous voice calling him. “Sripathi, H2O started coming long ago, so I turned on the pipe. Now the tank is overflowing and I can’t turn the pipe off. What are you doing? Come quickly, big mess it is becoming.” At any other time, Sripathi would have been mildly amused by Ammayya’s habit of using chemical formulae, the occasional Latin term, or some other bit of information gathered during those days when her husband was alive, when he had forced them both to memorize the Encyclopaedia Britannica. But today it barely registered. Instead he imagined water flooding the floor, snaking out from under the door, spreading silver into the bedroom. Waste don’t waste don’t waste don’t waste. An alarm went off in his brain, the result of years of careful budgeting, of trying to make sure that there was always enough money for decent schools and clothes and good food.

  Ammayya called again, more urgently. “Ayyo! Look at this mess. I am all wet also. Sripathi!”

  Sripathi sat motionless, unable to move. He stared at his hands, knotted with the weight of the years they had carried; the paper cut on his left hand, just below the thumb, which began to burn the moment he noticed it; and the three black moles on his palm, which he had believed for years would bring him untold wealth. These were the hands that had cradled a small body, stroked unruly curls off a sweaty forehead, swung a little girl—his first born—in the air above his head. The same hands that had written such hard, unforgiving words nine years ago. He glanced down at them, empty now, their palms seared by lines of time and fate.

  In a daze he heard Nirmala climb the stairs.

  “What is wrong? Why haven’t you started filling water in the kitchen? Who was that on the phone? What happened?” she asked. Sripathi could feel her anxious gaze, even though he couldn’t look her in the face.

  “Ree-ree, why are you sitting like this without saying anything? Are you ill, or what? Tell me.”

  Sripathi felt her hand on his shoulder. Felt her shake him and, when he did not respond, yell for their son. “Arun, come quickly! Something is wrong with your father! I don’t know what. Must be that oily food he keeps eating at the office. How many times I have said, after a certain age you must be careful of your diet, otherwise all sorts of heart problems you will get.”

  She shook him again, and this time Sripathi looked at her, afraid of what he would see in her eyes after she heard what he had to say.

  “Our Maya,” he said. His voice came out in a croak, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Bad news. That was a call from Vancouver.” He frowned. Had that call really come?

  “What? What happened? Is she sick? Tell me no, why you are keeping things from me?” begged Nirmala.

  “Maya is dead,” said Sripathi. He heard his own voice again, and now it seemed to be coming from somewhere else. “So is her husband. Car crash.” Again that clutch of panic in his chest—a sticky, dark tightness that caught his breath and refused to release it in the waves of grief that he craved.

  Nirmala stared at him. “What are you saying? Who was on the phone? Some idiot playing the fool probably. You know how the phone idiots climb on the poles—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Maya and her husband died yesterday in a car crash. Why are you babbling about phones and all? Is something wrong with your ears?” Sripathi asked savagely, willing himself to feel something other than numbness, to feel a rightful sorrow. He glared at Nirmala, hating her for making him repeat the awful news. Repeating it would make it real. Didn’t the silly woman realize that?

  Without any warning, Nirmala launched herself at him. She hit him on his chest and wailed in his face, “Your fault, your fault, your fault! You killed my daughter. You drove her away from me! You! You! You!”

  Again and again she hammered her fists against his body, slapping and punching in a frenzy. Sripathi sat still, his head in his hands, like a penitent being flogged for his sins. For once he had no argument, no quick sarcastic remark to shut her up. He wanted to apologize, to say something, but perversely he found himself becoming angry with her. How dare she raise her hands to him, her husband?

  “Stop it!” He tried to grab her flailing arms. “Stop making such a scene. Behave yourself!”

  Nirmala’s heavy, normally pleasant face was ugly. Her hair had worked free of its pins and fell across her face and down her back. “I am tired of behaving myself,” she panted. Sripathi noticed with faint disgust that mucus had dripped from her nose and was smeared across her left cheek. One of her hands landed hard on his face, knocked his glasses away, caught his eye and made it water. Without thinking he slapped her back, and she stopped crying abruptly.

  “You hit me?” she said, stunned. “You killed my child, and now you are hitting me also? Evil man.” Again she launched herself at him. Now her blows caught Sripathi deliberately on his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. He was enraged by her lack of restraint. He got to his feet so that he loomed over her, and she was obliged to swing upwards at him. He grabbed her arms and she struggled to release herself. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

  “What are you doing? Mamma. Appu. Stop it!” Arun’s voice brought Sripathi back to his senses. His son was running down the stairs, and at the foot of the stairs, staring up in horror, stood the rice-seller, Koti, the maidservant, and his sister Putti. In all these years, Sripathi had never touched his wife in violence, only with desire and affection. Now he had hit her in front of his whole family and the maidservant and the man who sold them rice.

  “What happened?” Arun asked again. “Mamma, stop this nonsense and tell me.” He pulled Nirmala away from Sripathi, held her firmly against him and glared at his father. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  Sripathi noticed that his son was wearing a faded green kurta that he himself had thrown away only days ago. The wretched boy had fished it out of the garbage bin! He looked so much like Maya, thought the father painfully, and then threw the thought away. Only the shape of his face. Only that. Nobody looked like Maya. Certainly not this shabby creature standing before him.

  Nirmala raised her voice again. “I told him, begged him so many times. Let us forget the past, I told him and told him. But no, when has he ever listened to me? I am a fool, no? Can’t use big-big words and say clever things.”

  “Calm down and tell me what is going on. Who was that on the phone?”

  Sripathi sat down again and held his trembling hands folded tightly on his lap. He was afraid of what they would do to him if he let them loose. He didn’t think he could control them. Now his legs were beginning to shiver, so he crossed them as well, tucking the loose folds of his lungi in between—once at the knee and again at the ankles, until they looked like bright, twined snakes. There was a large purple bruise stretched across his ankle. He had missed the starter pedal on his scooter and hurt himself badly. Funny he had never noticed how purple it was. Like an aubergine. A roasted one. Did Maya have purple scars on her poor body? And her husband? His skin would surely bruise in different shades. He was so much fairer.

  “Appu?” he heard his son ask.

  “Her head used to fit into my palm,” Sripathi said, to no one in particular. “Do you remember?” Maya’s baby breath had seemed like the touch of a feather on his neck as she slept on his shoulder, he thought—and he, too frightened to take a deep breath or move his head in case she woke up. Her face a bright portulaca flower, waiting for him, her Appu, to return from work. She always had her feet wrong in the tiny green Hawaiian slippers he had bought her from the Bata shop on the casino corner.

  “This is your left foot,” he would tell her. “It goes into this slipper. And your right foot goes into that one.”

  But of course she never listened, dancing around impatiently for him to take her for their ritual ride around the tulasi planter in the front yard, checking his pockets to see if he had hidden a treat for her. And as they rode round and round in slow, tight circles, she would bring him up to date on her day: “Appu, I saw an enormous spider. It wanted to eat me. It was green and yellow”; “Appu, I hurt my left
toe on my right foot”; “Appu, I did susu in my pants by mistake because Ammayya would not come out of the toilet”; “I ate a big mango, and Mamma said I must drink milk to cool the mango in my stomach. But Appu, I waited for you to come home and give me the milk.”

  She had never indulged in baby talk; the unformed words that sounded unbearably cute in other children had never appeared in his daughter’s vocabulary. Always such a precise little creature. She had carried that fierce precision right through to her adult years, along with an ambition that Sripathi had never entirely understood to be the best at whatever she took on.

  He turned a frozen face to Arun and said, “Your sister is dead. There was an accident. She and her husband are no more.”

  In a detached sort of way, he watched the shock wash over Arun’s face. Your sister, he said again mentally. The child who came six years before you. He looked away before he blurted out something unforgivable. Such as, “Why your sister and not you?” Arun flirted with danger every other day in his efforts to change the world, but here he stood healthy and breathing and shabby in faded green.

  “Nandana too?” asked Arun.

  The child.

  “No, she wasn’t there.”

  “The child is okay? Where is she? Poor thing—what will happen to her?” Nirmala cried.

  “How did it happen?” Arun asked.

  Sripathi felt forced to reply. “An accident.”

  “Who was driving?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Sripathi to find out, and now that Arun had brought it up, he was filled with an urgent desire to know. Was Alan Baker to blame? Was he drunk? Was he careless? Yes, most certainly it was that man’s fault. The same fellow who had taken Maya away from her family, her duties, her home—that same bastard must have taken her life, too. He scrabbled for the tattered phone directory on which he had jotted Dr. Sunderraj’s number. It was important to know right away who was behind the wheel. Who was to blame.