The Narrow Road to Palem

by Sharath Komarraju

  Then he bought three Jersey cows and four Jaffarbadi buffaloes, and began to sell milk to the people of Palem.

  On a routine trip to a doctor in Dhavaleshwaram, he discovered that he was short-sighted. He began to wear glasses.

  At around the same time, he travelled to the neighbouring village, spoke to the headman, and got married to his daughter. Her name was Padmavati, and she had passed the twelfth standard that year. Subbayya had not studied beyond the fourth. If he could marry an educated woman, he thought, she would see to it that the kids went to school and studied well. Not everyone could count on being as lucky as he.

  After he moved into the house with his new bride, people in Palem began to call him Subbarao gaaru. His servants called him ‘ayya gaaru’, and joined their hands and bowed whenever they saw him. Even when he went to the shivalayam once a week to offer his prayers, the priest allowed him into the inner sanctum, and to touch the lingam with his own two hands. It was a privilege, he was told, accorded only to the most fortunate.

  That year, Padmavati gave birth to their first son. She died in labour.

  Standing by Padmavati’s funeral pyre on the bank of the Godavari, Subbarao reached into his pocket and pulled out the ace of clubs. In all these years, it had lost none of the sheen of that first day. Even in the flickering orange light it glowed like a white crystal fire, and the black of the clover was the colour of Padmavati’s ash.

  An old travelling fortune teller had once told him that there was only a certain amount of good luck in the world, and that if one person took more than his share, it must come at the cost of spreading misfortune to the people around him. Then Subbarao had dismissed it as nonsense.

  But now, staring into the yellow flames licking Padmavati’s body, as the smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose, he asked himself again. Was it nonsense?

  * * *

  With the arrival of a son, whom he named Vishnu, Subbarao’s charity activities in Palem grew. He made a generous donation on Vishnu’s first birthday to the school, and ordered that a library ought to be built in the place of the ramshackle barn that stood near the compound’s south end. He also offered to get the Gandhi statue in the front repaired – or if it came to it – rebuilt with new granite imported from Hyderabad.

  For Vishnu’s second birthday, Subbarao gave to the temple a new diamond-studded gold necklace. The priest, Rama Shastri, protested gently that Lord Shiva was a beggar and had no use for such fine jewellery, but took it anyway and kept it in his house for ‘safekeeping’.

  The following year Subbarao contested the elections and became the headman, taking over from Shubhalakshmamma. One of the first things he did was to build under the banyan tree a small temple for Mandiramma, and transport the stone into the sanctum. ‘Mandiramma has looked after us for years,’ he said. ‘The least we can give her is a roof over her head.’

  On Vishnu’s fourth birthday, Subbarao took him in his new Ambassador car to the banks of Ellamma cheruvu. It had been cloudy all day, and just as father and son finished their baths, it began to rain, and they heard the first sounds of thunder. Subbarao got away from the water and said to Vishnu, who was sitting on the bank and paddling his feet, ‘Get off the water, Vishnu. There is a thunderstorm coming.’

  ‘Yes, Nanna.’

  Subbarao then turned away for a moment, drying himself with towel, when behind him he heard his boy yell in surprise. ‘Look, Nanna!’ he said, ‘Up in the sky!’

  Subbarao turned to look. That very moment, a deep white line of lightning slapped the water of the lake, sending an electric buzz into the air, making his hair stand on end. And then it came again, this time splashing the water and pushing a wave toward the bank.

  Subbarao ran to Vishnu. He picked him up in his hands and rushed back to the shade of the guava tree. He rubbed his hands. He rubbed his feet. He blew into his mouth. He used his fingers to wrench open the boy’s closed eyelids. Nothing helped.

  His breath already frantic, he placed his ear at the boy’s chest. Nothing.

  He searched Vishnu’s wrists for a pulse. Nothing.

  ‘No,’ he said weakly. ‘No.’

  * * *

  That was a year ago, to the day.

  A gust of wind blew the windows against their frames, and Subbarao became aware of the flickering tube light once again. If Vishnu had been alive he would be on his lap now, playing with his toy car, or perhaps he would be pestering him for a story. The silver streak in the black clover was gone. Now it just stared at him like an abyss, and the more he looked at it, the more it reminded him of Vishnu’s hair.

  All nonsense, he thought. It was just a card. A playing card that had lost its way. It did not have the power to give and take luck, like that old fortune teller had said. If he had wished it, he could have torn this up long ago; why, he could tear it up right now into pieces, and leave them flying into the rain.

  Then do it.

  He should have done it on the day he had found it. Perhaps if mother had not seen him going to the gutter, perhaps if she had not asked him to keep it, maybe they would have all been alive today.

  You’re crazy, he thought.

  And maybe he would not have made all this money. He would have been a pakoda seller still.

  With purpose he got to his feet and went to the kitchen. He turned on the stove to high, and held the card above it. The blue heat warmed his hand. I must do this, he thought. I should have done it years ago. Well, no matter. Better late than never, right?

  But what if it had all been true? What if he burned the card and he would lose everything he had? People would call him Subbai again. The car would go. The cattle would catch some disease and die. The house would collapse. All the wealth and gold he had earned these last ten years would leave him, in some way or the other.

  Amma, Nanna, Padmavati and Vishnu were gone. Nothing would bring them back. Now why should he take a chance at losing what he had?

  He licked his lips. He swallowed. He turned off the stove.

  He put the card back in his pocket.

  Malli

  They had burned Malli’s body on a pile of firewood two days ago, on Godavari’s bank. Yenki had stood a few meters away and stared at the orange flames. She had smelled the camphor that burned along with Malli, had touched the ashes after Ranga had gathered them. She had gone with Ranga to the riverbed, and had held his arm while he let the garlanded earthen pot float away with the current. They had stood together, him sobbing, her relieved, as it became smaller and smaller, bobbing this way and that in response to the water, until it disappeared out of sight with the bend in the river.

  When they got back to the pyre, Ranga fell to his knees next to the charred wood and sobbed some more.

  Yenki had seen all of that. Malli was dead.

  So the woman sitting right now next to the stove could not be her. ‘You should not be here,’ she told her. ‘You died three days back.’

  Malli wrapped herself tighter in her red sari, in spite of the summer heat. The sun had gone down, and the grey darkness of the night had begun to gather. But Malli looked as if she had swallowed the moon. Her skin glowed with a ripe yellow light, and she clasped her left hand forcefully in her right, like she used to when she was alive.

  When she opened her mouth to smile, Yenki saw the chip on her left incisor.

  ‘Crazy,’ she muttered to herself. ‘This crazy lady is not leaving me even in her death.’ Her hand fumbled with the matchbox. ‘Can you not leave us at least now in peace?’ she asked.

  Malli did not reply. She did not appear to have heard.

  Yenki lit the lamp, covered it with the screen, and turned up the knob until the flame spat out thick black wisps of smoke into the air. Yenki coughed, but felt better now; she went to the other end of the room and sat on the floor, with her back to the warm mud wall of the hut. She kept her eyes on her visitor.

  ‘You saw how Ranga cried at the river,’ she said. ‘Satti has not eaten a morsel of food all these three
days. They both love you.’ Her leg tapped the ground, and she rubbed her hands on her sides. They felt wet, for some reason.

  Malli raised her head and looked away into the distance, in the direction of the big well.

  ‘They love you,’ said Yenki. ‘More than they will ever love me. Is that not enough? Do you still have to come between me and them? Do I still have to fight with you for the love of my son?’

  When Malli did not reply, Yenki said, ‘Answer me!’

  The front door of the house opened and closed. Yenki heard Ranga leave his slippers by the door. She got up, picked up the lantern, and left the kitchen. On her way out, she saw Malli follow her with her kind eyes.

  Ranga gave Yenki his umbrella and lunch box. ‘Where is Satti?’ he asked, taking off his turban and hanging it on the nail.

  ‘He’s out by the well. I told him to come back by dinnertime.’

  Ranga nodded and sank into the easy chair. In the light of the lantern Yenki saw those deep, moist eyes rest on Malli’s sewing machine in the corner. She would have to get rid of it. Otherwise Malli’s ghost would never leave them.

  He looked up and said, ‘Whom were you talking to?’

  * * *

  Satti spat out the milk. ‘This is horrible.’

  ‘You will have it whether it is horrible or not,’ said Yenki, hurrying to give Ranga his cup of coffee. Out on the street, Sanga and Lachi laughed about something on their way to the lake. Everyone in the village had been talking about these two; Yenki felt a pang of envy. Sanga had that granite-like, chiselled body and starry eyes that quickened the breath of every woman in Palem. If only she had been a few years younger...

  ‘I need some more sugar in this,’ said Ranga, and off Yenki went into the kitchen to get the sugar tin. On her way back she saw that Satti had pushed away the glass of milk and was busy tying his shoelaces.

  ‘Satti,’ she said, ‘drink the milk.’

  ‘Peddamma used to call me Satish.’

  Satish. Yes. A nice city name. When he had been born, Ranga had said that they would choose a big name for their body, a name that would suit a doctor or an engineer. Many of the village kids went to town and changed their names. They were ashamed of what their parents called them. He had not wanted that for his son.

  ‘Satish,’ said Yenki, with effort. ‘Drink the milk or I will come to school and tell your teacher.’

  The boy made a face. ‘Tell me a story.’

  ‘A story? Now?’ He wanted stories for everything. Before going to sleep, after waking up, while eating, while playing, while wearing his shoes... Malli had spoiled him rotten. ‘I don’t know any stories. And we don’t have time for stories. Just finish your milk, wear your shoes and leave. The bell will go off any minute. Do you want to be punished again for being late?’

  Ranga set his glass on the table with a clang and got up. ‘Drink your milk, Satish,’ he said gently, rumpling the boy’s hair. ‘I will get you a five star on my way back.’

  ‘I want Peddamma,’ said Satish, folding his arms. ‘I don’t like the milk, it tastes like poison.’

  Anger welled up inside Yenki. ‘Poison?’ she said. ‘One day I will have poison myself and leave you all alone. Then you will know, both of you.’

  ‘Go!’ said Satish. ‘I don’t need you.’

  ‘You ungrateful –’

  ‘Shh,’ said Ranga. He stilled her with a hand, and bent down to pick up the glass to Satish’s mouth. ‘If you finish this off by the time I count up to five, I will get you a five star right now, on the way to school.’

  ‘Will you drop me off, Nanna?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ Another smile at the boy, though Yenki saw fury in his eyes when he looked up at her. He counted to five slowly enough to allow the boy to finish his milk, and then he picked up Satti’s bag and said, ‘Come, we’re getting late.’

  At the door Yenki asked if he would like her to make fish curry for the night.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. Mounting Satti on the bicycle bar, he pedalled off, not once looking back to wave at her.

  Yenki stood at the door until the bicycle disappeared around the corner. Then she went in, to find Malli regally seated in the armchair that Ranga had sat in a few minutes back.

  * * *

  Yenki walked to the corner and stood there, watching. Malli sat leaning back, with her hands wrapped around the armrests, one leg crossed over the other. She was wearing the same red sari as last night, but this time it seemed that her eyes had been lined with kohl.

  ‘Satish likes his milk warm,’ said Malli, in her gentle voice. She watched the wall opposite her. ‘Ranga likes two spoons of sugar in his tea.’

  ‘I know that now.’

  ‘I would have told you if you had ever asked me.’

  In the corner, the foot pedal on the sewing machine bent on its own. The wheel began to turn.

  ‘Go away,’ Yenki said. ‘Why are you still here?’

  ‘I want you to take care of my husband and son.’

  ‘He is my husband too. And he is not your son. He is mine.’

  Malli turned to look at Yenki, and smiled. ‘You gave birth to him, yes, but you never even gave him milk, Yenki.’

  Yenki felt herself perspire under the armpits. The morning was getting hotter. ‘You never let me. You always had him tied to your little finger.’

  ‘You had Ranga tied to yours, so maybe it was all fair.’

  The foot pedal kept moving, and the wheel turned faster. ‘Stop that,’ said Yenki.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘That.’ Yenki pointed at the machine, but now the wheel was quiet and the pedal unmoving. ‘What is happening to me?’

  ‘I saw the way you looked at Sanga this morning,’ said Malli. ‘A nice, handsome man, isn’t he? Too bad Lachi is going to have all of him.’

  ‘I do not know what you’re saying.’

  Malli clasped her hands together, and the gold bangles on her wrist clinked. ‘You are quite good at bending men to your wiles. Ranga is now like a dog in your hands, isn’t he, doing whatever you say?’

  Death has made her bitter, thought Yenki vaguely. Malli had never spoken to anyone with anything approaching harshness in all her life. Where did that angelic smile go? What had happened to the meek, submissive old woman?

  ‘Come tomorrow,’ said Yenki. Somebody had told her long back that if you said that to ghosts, they would leave. She hoped that she struck the required balance of docility and firmness. ‘Come tomorrow and I will give you all that you ask for.’

  Malli carried on, as if Yenki had not spoken. ‘I saw Lachi and Sanga meet at Ellamma cheruvu last night. They went for a swim together in the moonlight. Muddy water, but when you’re young and in love, why would you care. Right?’

  ‘Go away,’ said Yenki. ‘I am not talking to you.’ She went into the kitchen, bolting the door behind her. She hurried to the back door and closed it as well. But on turning around, she saw Malli seated next to the stove.

  ‘You took my Ranga away from me, didn’t you, Yenki?’

  Yenki said, ‘It was you who asked him to marry me. It was you who wanted a child.’

  ‘And you gave me a child. But you took my husband away from me. Did he have eyes for anyone but you after that first night? What spell have you cast on him, Yenki, hmm? What is it that you did to him that I could not do in all those years?’

  Yenki saw a well. Green, fungus-filled water. Malli’s hand rising above the surface, even as the rest of her body was immersed. Once every two seconds or so she would emerge from within, fix her with her bloodshot eyes, and mouth something like ‘help’ before the water would claim her again. And once again her hand would be sticking out, fingers outstretched.

  As life left her, little by little, the fingers began to claw at the air, and her limbs flapped harder. Her arms and legs flailed and writhed, and each time she came up for breath, she only succeeded in drawing more water into her lungs. Yenki had stood on the edge of the well, watching, until Malli’s h
and disappeared.

  ‘You could have thrown me the rope,’ said Malli. This was the old Malli. Her eyes burned with kindness.

  ‘I – I was in shock,’ said Yenki. ‘I could not think.’

  Malli laughed with her head thrown back, and two chrysanthemums from her hair fell to the ground. It was a loud, open laugh, much like how Yenki herself laughed. Malli used to cover her mouth with her hand when she had to laugh at something. Her ghost clearly did not bother with such niceties.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Yenki.

  Malli did not respond, nor did she stop. Her laughter screeched against the mud walls, filled the air, and crawled under Yenki’s skin. She slapped her hands against her ears to shut out the sound, but found that it only became louder.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she called out amid the din. ‘Go away! Leave us alone in peace.’

  Malli kept laughing. Yenki backed away into the corner, and crumpled to the floor. The smell of rats hit her nose, and she found it comforting, though in her mind’s eye she kept seeing – again and again – Malli’s outstretched fingers clawing at the air, and her bloodshot eyes pleading for help. She curled up into a ball and said, ‘Come tomorrow, come tomorrow, come tomorrow...’

  * * *

  ‘This fish curry is horrible.’

  ‘You must not say things like that, Satish.’

  Yenki stirred the soup with a ladle, saying ‘come tomorrow’ to herself.

  ‘This tastes nothing like what Peddamma used to make.’

  ‘Peddamma is not coming back, Satish.’

  Yenki stirred, and looked up at the sewing machine.

  ‘I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t eat your dinner quietly, I won’t give you your five star.’

  Yenki looked at the empty armchair. Come tomorrow.

  ‘I want Peddamma, that’s it.’