She approached the Gurkha at the gate. He saluted her smartly. “Have you seen my grandchild?” asked Nirmala. “She was wearing a red shirt and blue pants.”
“No, memsahib. I saw her playing just five or ten minutes ago, but I don’t know where she went. Right there she was.” He pointed to a spot in front of the building with his stick.
“Are you sure she didn’t go away while you were not here?”
“Memsahib, the baby didn’t leave this place,” the Gurkha insisted. “I have been here all evening, no child left the compound. I didn’t even go for a drink of water. I keep all that I need right here.” He tapped a basket on the ground beside his chair. “When I have to answer Mother Nature’s call, I lock this gate. Nobody can come or go without my permission, memsahib. I am telling you.”
Nirmala nodded, relieved by the man’s assurances, and diffidently approached a group of teenaged boys loitering near the entrance of Block A. They intimidated her, these boisterous young men. Although, she reflected ruefully, strangers probably felt the same way about Arun with his shaggy beard, the shapeless cotton kurta he wore, the worn sandals, the long hair.
“Did you need help, Aunty?” one of the boys asked her.
“I am looking for my granddaughter, Nandana. Small girl wearing a red shirt …”
“The foreign girl,” said another boy. “I saw her with Nithya and Ayesha a little while ago. They were running around the building.”
The boys directed her to the apartments in which the girls lived. Nirmala climbed the narrow stairs slowly, wishing there was a lift to take her to the fourth floor apartment in which Dr. Quadir’s daughter, Ayesha, lived. Very few of the buildings in the town had elevators. What was the point? Electricity came and went as erratically as the wind. The stairs were surprisingly clean and smelled pleasantly of agarbatti burning in various flats, onions frying and rice cooking. Muffled sounds filtered through the doors and mingled to become a soft murmur that rose and fell like the call of the sea. Nirmala wondered about the busy lives that went on behind the closed doors. In each of those little compartments was joy and sorrow, anger and pain, memory and forgetfulness—the salt and sugar of daily existence. Did these people share their feelings and experiences with their neighbours on the same floor? As long as she could remember, Nirmala had lived in large, independent houses full of her own people. First with her parents, her grandparents and her siblings. Then, after marriage, with Ammayya and Putti, Sripathi and her own children. The only time she felt truly alone was when she was surrounded by strangers on the bus, or on the brief walk down to the temple. Once she was inside the temple, it was almost like being in her own home, the number of people she knew there. Why, even the priest was the same one who had performed all the family ceremonies. She wondered how she would feel if Sripathi did indeed sell the house and they moved into apartments. Ah, the freedom of not living in the same house as Ammayya! The thought of Ammayya made Nirmala wonder whether she had remembered to lock her cupboard before leaving the house. She knew that the old woman snooped and for years had not even dreamed of stopping the invasion. The habit of obedience, of respect for one’s elders, of subservience, ran strong in her blood. Maya’s death had knocked most of those habits out of her. In losing her child, first because of Sripathi’s ego, and then to Lord Yama himself, Nirmala had taken more than she could bear. For all the years of being a good wife, daughter-in-law and mother, this was how she was rewarded? They had repaid her honest devotion with a kick in the face. Now she no longer cared about obeying Sripathi without question or hurting Ammayya. Now she dared to lock her steel cupboard that stored her saris, the few pieces of jewellery that she had collected for Maya, photographs, school reports, curls of hair, baby booties and tiny dresses—all memories of her children, of those more innocent times when happiness lay in the sound of their young voices and in the smile of appreciation that Sripathi sent her way when her cooking was exceptionally good. Even a day without a complaint from Ammayya had pleased Nirmala then, because it meant that she had not done anything to offend or irritate her. How could she have been so like a faithful animal? She climbed another floor and her thoughts turned to how she, too, had failed Maya. She remembered how many times during their phone conversations, her daughter had asked, “Mamma, is it okay if I come home?” And she, too afraid of going against Sripathi so completely, had said, “No, not now. Wait, I will speak to your father.” But Nirmala had never spoken to him, intimidated by his solid, impenetrable anger, unwilling to force a confrontation of any kind. She was too much of a coward to face unpleasantness head-on. Always, always, she had taken the easy, conciliatory route.
The next time Maya had begged to come home, she had pushed her away again. Of course, there was nothing she could have done to prevent her death, but at least she could have made a stronger effort to be a part of Maya’s life all these years. She could so easily have said, “Come home, child. Bring your family with you. I want to see my grandchild.”
Footsteps clattered down towards her and Nirmala leaned breathlessly against the wall. The Chocobar Ajja descended, accompanied by his servant. He glowered at Nirmala, making her shrink farther into the wall. Dirty old fellow, showing his privates to children! What madness existed in the world these days. She didn’t remember being afraid of anything as a child. Was it just a symptom of a world that had lost all morality, or was it a greater awareness of the wickedness that had always lurked beneath the surface of human life? Maybe in the past nobody spoke of these things, families kept their sins hidden behind curtains of respectability. Nirmala contented herself with giving the old man a dark look as he went by.
By the time she reached the fourth floor, she was panting. She sought to subdue the trembling anxiety that Chocobar Ajja had aroused by reassuring herself that Nandana was most likely lost in play in a friend’s home, that she had forgotten the time. She grew furious with the little girl. She would have to scold her. The child seemed to take her for granted, just like everybody else in the house.
Mrs. Quadir, Ayesha’s mother, opened the door. A look of surprise crossed her thin, attractive face.
“Mrs. Rao? Come in, come in. You decided to visit us finally?” she asked.
Nirmala had met her often at the vegetable store or the lending library, but although they often exchanged promises to visit, they had never really done so.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Nirmala, wiping the perspiration that beaded her forehead and formed a necklace above her lip.
“No-no, what you are saying? No disturbance. Full pleasure only to see you in our house, Mrs. Rao. Come, sit down. What you will have—tea, coffee, juice?”
“Actually, I just came to see if my grandchild was here. She hasn’t come home yet, and I was a little worried.”
“No, she didn’t come up. Ayesha came home early to finish her homework. These teachers dump everything on them to do at home. I don’t know why we have to pay such high school fees and do everything ourselves only. But I will ask her. Don’t worry, this is a safe area. Nothing will happen.”
She went into one of the rooms hidden from view by bright cotton curtains and reappeared with Ayesha in tow. “Say good evening to Aunty,” she commanded, pushing the child forward. “She wants to know whether you saw Nandana today.”
“Yes,” muttered the girl nervously, staring at her feet.
“Why you are so shy all of a sudden?” demanded her mother. Then to Nirmala, “This girl is usually going bak-bak like a frog in the monsoon and now look at her! Children are so funny, no?” Again she touched her daughter’s shoulder and said, “Do you know where she went? Aunty is worried.”
To their surprise, Ayesha burst into tears. “What is it?” asked her mother sharply. “Are you hiding something? Look at me and tell me honestly what is wrong.”
Slowly the story emerged. She and the other girls were playing Through the Tunnel. When it was Nandana’s turn to go into the tunnel, they had promised to wait for her at the other end,
but had run away to Nithya’s house instead. And when they came down ten minutes later, there was no sign of her.
“The ghosts took her away,” sobbed Ayesha, cringing at her mother’s angry face. “I told Meena not to force her, but she said it was a test of friendship. Last time she went in and came out, and nothing happened.”
Mrs. Quadir glared at her daughter. “Is that how you treat children who are new here? I am ashamed of you. How would you like it if someone did the same to you?”
“Don’t scold her too much,” said Nirmala, trying not to show her fear. “She is only a child.”
“I am so sorry that my daughter did such a bad thing, Mrs. Rao. Wait a moment and I will phone Nithya and Meena and ask them if they know where she went.”
Several phone calls to families in both blocks turned up no information, and Nirmala got up to leave. Mrs. Quadir accompanied her down the stairs, apologizing again for her daughter’s role in the whole drama. The group of teenagers was still there, leaning against the wall of the building or standing with their hands in their pockets, laughing and chatting.
“Did you find her, Aunty?” asked the boy who had approached Nirmala earlier.
“No, I don’t know where she could be,” said Nirmala.
“If you want, we can go from flat to flat and check for you,” one of the boys suggested. “She couldn’t have gone far with our lion of a Gurkha guarding the gates.”
Nirmala nodded and smiled. “No, you are right. She must be sitting and playing somewhere, naughty creature.” She left the compound with a heavy heart. Should they call the police for help? Suppose the child wasn’t anywhere in the block, where would they start to search for her? This was a crowded town, and not many people knew Nandana the way they did the children who were born here. Why, even then children could disappear. For a brief moment, Nirmala’s thoughts turned to Mrs. Poorna’s daughter, and she shivered.
Somewhere between Chamber’s Road and Brahmin Street, Sripathi’s scooter coughed a couple of times and expired. He waited for a break in the churning, relentless traffic and then, dragging his scooter, plunged after a cow that had languidly drifted through, forcing the entire road to slow down. As long as he stuck close to the cow, thought Sripathi, nobody would dare hit him. He pressed against it, allowing it to lead him, hoping that it would not decide to void its bowels on his feet. When he reached the pavement, he felt as if he had achieved something miraculous in surviving the wild rush of traffic. He patted the cow’s flank affectionately and made his way to Karim Mechanic’s shack, dim under the single street light that was still working on the road. A couple of Petromax lanterns flared on either side of the shack and lit up the piles of tires, spare parts, a dismembered car chassis. The first drops of rain thudded down, bursting against the dry road like transparent glass beads just as Sripathi reached the shack. The earth, like an eager lover, sent up a wet scent that at any other time would have exhilarated him.
The mechanic shouted at his assistants, two small boys not much older than Nandana, to cover the assorted debris of other vehicles with tarpaulin.
“What, sahib?” he greeted Sripathi, struggling to tie down one end of a canvas sheet that had torn loose and flapped in the wind. “This old lady is sick again?”
“Broke down in the middle of the road,” said Sripathi.
“I will have to check it thoroughly. If the rain stops I can do it tomorrow, otherwise I will send one of my boys as soon as it is ready. You might need to buy a new scooter, sahib. This one is old and tired, like me and you, eh?”
With the tarpaulin still draped around his shoulders, Sripathi walked carefully down the road. He didn’t want to disturb his crazy body any more than necessary. It scared him now, terrified him. A fresh wave of shivers washed over him, leaving even the tough bristles on his chin standing in raised cushions of skin.
Nirmala was waiting for him on the verandah. Behind her the house was dark and gloomy, which took Sripathi aback. Nirmala never forgot the ritual of turning on the lights at dusk. She had always believed that a dark house was an invitation to evil spirits. Sripathi also noticed that the smell of incense and burning wicks dipped in mustard oil was missing, which meant that Nirmala had not even performed her evening prayers.
“Where were you?” she demanded as soon as she saw him. “I have been going crazy. Nandana hasn’t come home. I told her that I would pick her up at six-thirty. I told her to wait for me. I sent her next door to play and now I can’t find her.”
Sripathi sat down wearily in the cane chair on the verandah. As usual he perched at the edge, avoiding the frayed strands of bamboo in the centre of the chair that clung together out of sheer will power. He had acquired the chair more than twenty-five years ago and refused to get rid of it despite Nirmala’s periodic threats to give it away to the raddhi-wallah when he next came to buy Ammayya’s stolen newspapers.
“Stop screaming. Maybe she has run away again. You know she keeps trying to go somewhere on her own. Someone will bring her back, don’t worry,” he said, easing his aching feet out of the shoes. He shrugged the tarp off his back and shuddered as the cold air touched his exposed arms.
“It is one hour more than that now,” wailed Nirmala, holding her sari to her mouth to stifle the sobs. “And dark too. She hasn’t taken her backpack, I checked in her room. When she runs away, she always takes that bag with her. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t be silly. How can she disappear from next door? Did you check with the other children?”
“Of course I did. And some nice boys checked in each and every apartment. And no, the Gurkha fellow didn’t see our Nandana leave the compound. He says that he was sitting there all the time and would not have let her go alone. But he could be making that up just to impress.”
“Why do you send her here and there alone?” asked Sripathi putting on his shoes again. “Can’t you let her play here in our house?”
“You are very good at giving advice. How can I lock up a child at home, with only old people for company? Always you find somebody else to blame. Why you don’t take the poor thing to the beach to play, if you know so much about children? And your son is another nuisance. He also hasn’t come home yet either. Two-two men in this house, but not one is around when there is trouble!”
“I saw him from the movie theatre. He was marching in a procession,” said Sripathi. He lowered his voice, “There were police involved, too.”
“Movie theatre? You went for a movie while I was sitting here worrying?”
“Which movie?” Ammayya wanted to know.
“I didn’t want to see it. I just wanted to purchase the tickets for Saturday, but your wonderful, planet-saving son started his protesting. There was a temporary curfew. Didn’t you hear it on the news? We were locked inside the theatre.”
He went inside the house to fetch a sweater with Nirmala following.
“Where is your scooter?” she asked as they climbed the steps.
“Broke down. Had to walk all the way home. It is sitting with the mechanic,” said Sripathi. “Where have you kept my sweater?”
Nirmala was completely puzzled. “Why you suddenly require a sweater? This morning only you were grumbling hot hot hot, and now you behave as if you are going on a yatra to Gangotri, to Mount Everest! The sweaters are inside a box on top of that shelf in the kitchen. Too heavy to remove now. Wear something else.”
“What?”
Nirmala thought for a moment and went into Arun’s room. From the cupboard she drew out Nandana’s father’s jacket and handed it to Sripathi.
He looked at it without touching it, shocked by Nirmala’s seeming lack of sentimentality. “You want me to wear this?” he asked. The shivering overtook him again and his voice shook. “Are you mad?”
“What is so mad about a coat that nobody uses? You are feeling cold, so wear it,” replied Nirmala giving him a frosty look. He had never seen her like this before and it frightened him. Nirmala was the one person in the house tha
t he could always take for granted, always depend on for her simple wisdom and goodness, but now she seemed to be changing before his very eyes. He had always been grateful for her stolid practicality, her ability to carry on with the business of daily living without breaking down. What a horrible parody of that practical nature this was.
“But this is his coat,” said Sripathi.
“So what? You never bothered about him when he was alive, so why do you care now?”
He turned away from her hard-eyed, tearless gaze and went back to his room. He took out a thick flannel shirt from the cupboard where it had languished unworn for years. “What do you want me to do?” he asked without turning around.
“Ask Munnuswamy to help. He has influence. His Boys know everybody in this town. Surely they will be able to find her.”
“I am not going to that crook for anything,” said Sripathi. “I will walk down the road and check her school. Maybe somebody saw her. If she isn’t back in half an hour, contact the police station.”
“But you aren’t going to Munnuswamy,” Nirmala said. She was still holding the jacket, her fingers tight against the thick grey material.
“No. He is a rogue.”
“Then I will go. I am fed up with always listening to your nonsense. This is not right, that is not okay, what will people say? You have ruined my life because of all this nonsense. You go to Nandu’s school, and I will ask our neighbour for help.” Nirmala went swiftly down the stairs.
“Where are you going? Shall I come with you?” asked Putti, trailing after her.
“Next door,” said Nirmala briefly before leaving the house, her bare feet flashing defiance from under the flapping edges of her sari.
“You are going to that milkman’s house?” screeched Ammayya. “Low-caste people!”
“Shut up, Ammayya!” said Putti, surprising even herself. There was a moment of silence while her mother digested this unexpected response, and then the floodgates opened. Ammayya wailed and beat her chest, she hiccupped and wheezed, turned blue in the face and declared that she was about to faint. Finally, she smacked her cane petulantly on the floor and whined, “Sripathi, did you hear the way your sister spoke to me? And you just stood there and listened like a wet mop? While I was insulted left and right?”
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