‘Wow,’ I said, holding my breath, ‘your son’s room? So neat. I’ve rarely seen any kid’s room maintained like this.’
‘Bijoy,’ Bishnu said, beaming, ‘is very particular. If I move that ruler, even by an inch, he’ll know.’
‘You’re lucky,’ I said. I turned to the side table by the cot that was filled with clocks and watches of all kinds, at least six different types, all carefully set to the same time. ‘He likes clocks?’
‘Last year his obsession was time.’
‘And this year?’
Bishnu pointed to the open attic above his wardrobe, where more than a dozen dolls were stacked in neat rows, all with eyes plucked out and limbs tidily chopped off. ‘Death,’ she said. ‘His uncle died in an accident. He’s a sensitive child.’ My eyes whirled rapidly around the room and settled on the attic. Was this Thimakka’s finding?
‘What kind of games does he play?’
‘Death games. One doll was dunked in a bucket, another thrown from a height... I took them away because they were badly damaged. I was worried about his games, but his psychologist said that it was his way of expressing his feelings. So I don’t stop him.’
‘Where did he learn those games?’
‘I don’t know, with Bijoy, we’ll never know everything. But his language is improving, he’s talking more, only a few words, but more syllables, so I’m really happy.’
‘Is he? I’m so glad to hear that.’ I was thinking on my feet, thinking of ways to extend my relationship with the child. ‘You know, I really miss my son, and my house feels so empty, and Rhea would love another playmate, so anytime you need a babysitter…’
‘Oh, thank you so much. That is so kind. Not everyone is willing to take care of Bijoy. I will definitely remember that. Maybe the weekend after next, if you’re free.’
‘Absolutely, I’m free. Just let me know, a day in advance, I’d love to have him over. He can even spend the night.’
She smiled as we made our way downstairs. When we moved to her back porch, I saw it. I couldn’t have missed it even if I weren’t looking for anything. The kids had already moved out of view, to the front yard or somewhere indoors. The backyard was suffused with violent colours—purple rhododendrons, orange hydrangeas, pink jacarandas—but the standout feature was an ancient mango tree. One of Kusro’s promises to Fantasia residents was that villas, wherever possible, would be built around trees. This tree, bereft of fruit, dotted here and there with leftover leaves, was distinctly ugly, its trunk and branches blackened by mossy crud. Its unseemly form stooped over the cheery flowers like a misanthrope among bright-eyed children. But it wasn’t the sight of that tree that caught at my throat. It was something else that made me cry out and buckle at the knees, with the hydrangeas and rhododendrons and darkening sky spinning around me in dizzying circles. As my cry sputtered into a cough, I lifted my eyes again towards the unbelievable sight. From a saggy branch, billowing towards the clouds as if it held a body inside, hung Rhea’s denim jumper, its straps nailed to the bough. It was Rhea’s jumper for sure, its back pocket lined with sequins, its shoulder strap sporting a replaced pink button instead of a white one. Perhaps, Thimakka had not said ‘the house in the tree’. Perhaps she had said, ‘the tree in the house.’
‘Would you like some water?’ asked Bishnu. ‘Are you okay?’
Okay? I was anything but okay. That dreaded dream, that doll swinging from a tree branch, that child’s screams. Had those images always been more premonitory than I thought? Did we need to flee this place to save our surviving child?
Bishnu returned with a glass of water held on a tray. ‘Are you okay? Your face is white?’
‘Who put that there?’ I asked. ‘The jumper—’
‘Bijoy,’ said Bishnu, without the slightest hesitation.
‘Where did he find it?’
‘I think one of the other kids gave it to him. I don’t know who, you know how all these kids play these crazy games.’ Rhea’s jumper had stayed missing since Thimakka’s departure. Eventually, I had assumed that the dhobi had forgotten to return it to us, but calls to him were met with a surly indifference.
‘Why did he put it up there?’
‘It’s a game, Vedika. We won’t understand.’ Bishnu laughed, perhaps expecting me to lighten up too. I wanted to grab the jumper, but I quelled the impulse to claim it right away. I didn’t even say it was Rhea’s. I didn’t want Bishnu to clamp up about her kid’s activities. I would never learn anything unless my friends confided in me.
Later, at home, I couldn’t stop thinking of Bijoy’s bizarre games. The child was special, and perhaps unaware of what he was doing. Yet, had he been involved in my son’s demise? I was also struck by Bishnu’s naïveté about the whole situation. Why was she revealing aspects of her son that made him seem more culpable than ever? She clearly had no idea about my pursuit. Was it ethical to remain so clandestine about my goals? Would I ever reach a point when I could wholly and unabashedly be myself in my neighbours’ presence? But then again, could anyone, at Fantasia?
That night, I had been pacing about our master bedroom, awaiting Manas’ return. Fatigued by all the thinking and worrying, I must have dropped off before he arrived. At midnight, aroused by my recurring nightmare, I wrestled with our sheets as if I were fending off an unknown assailant. Eventually awake, I ignored the prickle in my spine and sidled up to Manas under the covers. He had already slipped into a rhythmic snore, a regular beat that rode with his dreams. Fallen perhaps, into a world where his company IPO-ed with a startling valuation? I pressed my body against the knuckly contours of his back. ‘Manas,’ I said, jerking him out of his dream state. ‘We need to move out of Fantasia. It’s not safe here anymore, for Rhea.’
‘Huh?’ he said, his voice slurred with sleep. Half-awake, he kissed the top of my head. I repeated myself till he jerked himself into a sullen wakefulness. ‘Don’t be crazy, Veds. Rhea’s fine. We just spoke about this, what’s wrong with you?’
‘But Manas, Rhea’s jumper was hung up on a tree, I’m scared they’re going to do something to her.’
‘Who’s they, Veds. Kids?You’re really going crazy with this. I don’t want to get into another argument, I just don’t have the energy. Let’s go to sleep.’
I had shrugged off our sheets, turned on the lights. ‘Manas, you don’t understand, I’m seeing too many signs, Rhea’s in trouble.’
‘What signs?’
‘I told you about the balloon in the treehouse. Those twigs in Sajan’s drawer, that ID card, the clown doll… and my dreams. Everything seems linked.’
‘Vedika, so far you haven’t found anything concrete. And for heaven’s sake, don’t bring up your dreams.’
‘But our son died, can anything be more concrete than that?’
‘In an accident.’
‘I’m not seeing things, Manas, I know something’s going on, but I can’t fathom what.’
‘Till you do, we’re not going to talk about it. There’s no point moving out unless you have real evidence. Right now, I think it’s all in your mind. You’re reading too much into normal things. Kids do weird things, but they’re kids. So relax and go to sleep.’
When Manas put it like that, there was some truth to it. Everything I’d found so far seemed fantastical, even verging on the absurd. Like the kids’ behavioural issues. Could they be contagious? Had my son’s death clouded my vision? The rest of the night, I tossed and turned, while my ears resounded with that faraway child’s cries. Why was that sound tumbling across time and returning to me again and again?
A few hours later, I woke up. The room was sweltering without the air conditioner’s cooling hum, and I perspired in my gossamer night gown. Manas had fallen asleep, but someone else was breathing inside the bedroom. With a start, I turned the nightlight on. But it didn’t work. The electricity was off and the generator hadn’t turned on yet. A shaft of moonlight fell on the bed and a shadow sloped across the wall. I screamed. My disgruntled husband s
hifted on the bed. ‘What’s up, Veds? Your dreams again?’
Then I saw the figure, the tiny figure, a child, standing by my bedside.
It was Rhea, softly whimpering in her spotted pajamas. ‘What happened Rhea? What’s up, sweetie?’
‘He hurt me,’ she said, tears streaming down her face.
‘Who --?’
‘He didn’t mean to, Mama.’
‘What are you talking about? Who is he?’
‘Thambi.’
‘Thambi hurt you? What did he do?’ The power had returned, the air conditioner was humming again.
‘Don’t be angry with him, he jumped on my bed and he was behaving oddly. Biting his own tail. I tried to stop him and he scratched me.’
‘Where?’ I turned on the bedroom lights, and Manas growled. Rhea’s arm bore distinct marks, faint pink lines with a few needlepoints of red here and there. ‘Oh god, it’s bleeding baby.’
‘It’s okay, can I sleep here?’
‘Where’s Thambi?’
‘I don’t know, he ran away when I started shouting –’
‘Fine, just curl up with Papa. I’ll be back.’
With my heart palpitating loudly, I crept across the corridor to Rhea’s room. The door was open, and the room was dark. But the moon shone brightly through the window and I didn’t need to turn on the light to sense that Thambi wasn’t there anymore. While I headed back the master bedroom, I heard a purring from inside Sajan’s room.
Slowly, I twisted the knob open. The room was dark, but I could see him on the bed, almost balled up with a strange mixture of fear and fury in his eyes. Like Rhea said, he was still biting his own tail. I tried to stop him but he sprang at me, extending his claws. I shrank back. What happened to him? He wasn’t himself. I disliked leaving him alone, but I locked him in Sajan’s room and returned to the master bedroom.
The next day, we took him to the vet. He continued to display his weird behaviour at the doctor’s clinic. After examining him physically, the doctor prescribed an antidepressant. He said Thambi had developed anxiety issues for some inexplicable reason.
He seemed to settle down with the pill, though I couldn’t stop thinking about what might have spurred this sudden change. After all, we hadn’t changed his diet or anything else. Could the cat be catching something from the kids?
TWENTY-FIVE
TWO WEEKENDS LATER, I received a buzz on the intercom. ‘Vedika, you had earlier offered…’ I could hear Bishnu’s voice trailing off.
‘Yes,’ I said, tempering my tone to mask my excitement. ‘Would you like me to babysit Bijoy?’
‘I have a wedding in Pune, and I was wondering if he could stay over for one night?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’
‘But, you do know, he’s a special kid…’
‘Yes, I’m fine with that. Just let me know the dos and donts.’
‘It’s difficult to understand his speech, but he understands what’s going on. He can’t write, he can hardly read but his therapist said he’s making some progress on that front. He nods his head for yes, he shakes his head for no…I think that’s all you’ll need for one day.’ How could I tell Bishnu that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ were hardly going to suffice? That I needed Bijoy to spell out, with pictures or blocks or with anything else, the sequence of that evening’s events?
When I brought it up over dinner, Manas wasn’t enthralled by the babysitting plan. ‘Are you sure you want to do this now? I’ll be going to work on Saturday, there’s too much going on…’
‘It’s fine, I can handle him. And Mariamma’s around. She’ll take Rhea to the park.’
At any other time, Manas might have nosed out my real intentions. But he was distracted by his fund-raising efforts. ‘VCs are really interested this time, I think we’re going to crack it.’ I wanted to believe him, wanted to ignore the put-on cheer. His business was always poised on the cliff edge of success, while newer ones, founded, as Manas put it, by ‘immature kids’, had already climbed the steep inclines of investor valuations. Given the spiking costs of travel, given how quickly his company was ‘burning cash’ (a concern he let slip during sleepless nights), I hoped he was right. How long would we survive such financial fragility?
On Saturday, little Bijoy arrived with a travel bag in tow. His black curls endowed his face with a boyish innocence that was enhanced by his shiny bronze skin. This time, he didn’t avert his eyes. I was riveted by his steadfast gaze, by the large whorls that mirrored his mother’s eyes.
‘He has his iPad, he’ll keep himself occupied,’ Bishnu said, waving at the cab halted by our hedge. ‘I’m rushing for the flight, any problem, just call me on the mobile.’
‘Any food allergies?’ I asked.
‘No, he’s fine with anything. Veg, Non-veg, no problem.’
Prior to Bijoy’s arrival, I had already browsed the internet for ideas on communicating with speech-impeded children. On one of the forums, a mother had suggested picture boards. She snipped and pasted magazine pictures on cardboard sheets, sorted by theme. One on ‘Food’ had pictures of milk, juice, eggs, bread and pasta. Another on ‘Activities’ featured a TV screen, storybooks, a ball, walking outdoors.
Rhea, armed with a picnic basket, was dispatched with Mariamma, in whose company my daughter chattered with a verve that buoyed my spirits. For the first few hours, Bijoy stayed riveted by his iPad. He was seated in our media room, with the iPad on his lap, head bent down, and fingers roving across the screen with startling agility. He seemed too shy to make sounds, and merely nodded when I suggested lunch. I didn’t need picture boards. I could use my origami sheets and pliable fingers. I created a swirl of twisty, green spaghetti topped with neon-yellow mushrooms. Bijoy watched me, mesmerised by my creases. I spun out a burger and a thin-crust pizza, followed by a loopy question mark.
Coyly, he pointed to the pasta, then wolfed his meal down in silence. As the day inched towards a surprisingly clear evening, I asked him if he wanted to play ball or head to the parks. He shook his head, softly muttered a barely audible ‘no’. I couldn’t wait any longer. Manas would return at any point.
I had pasted the faces of all the Fantasia kids who had been with Sajan that evening on tiny origami figures. All seven kids whose rooms I had already snooped into, whose faces I had culled from Yahoo group posts of community events and kids’ parties. Bijoy halted his iPad game, and stared at my paper kids, more enticed by my sorcery than by his insipid screen. ‘Bijoy, can you tell me what happened that evening?’ He tilted his head and looked at me, while the light shifted in his eye. Had some image, frozen inside his brain, slid into view?
‘Bijoy, were these children in the room with you that evening?’ My paper kids jostled with each other on a flat piece of board.
He stared at me again, and some strange emotion seemed to be rising inside him, flushing his face with a purplish hue. He nodded. Yes?
‘Bijoy, did any of these kids push Sajan into the room?’
His large, tea-colored eyes widened. He nodded. Yes?And then vigorously shook his head. No?
‘Bijoy, did someone push my kid in?’ He nodded, he mouthed a soft yes. Then he said, ‘Juh, juh, juh.’
‘Who is juh, Bijoy? Can you point him out to me, on this board?’ He raised a shaky index finger, and I expected it to land on Joel’s face but he pointed away from the figures, at the blank wall. Then he seemed to alight on some idea, and his finger pointed unerringly at me. At me? What was he trying to say?
‘Who is juh, Bijoy? Is it Joel?’
He shook his head. It was an irrefutable no. I felt a heaviness invade my body. A stony weight tugged at my limbs. This was going to be more difficult than I thought.
‘Is juh on this board, Bijoy?’
He shook his head again. No.
I hadn’t wanted to ask this question, but the thought had already been seeded by the other kids. ‘Did you push him in, Bijoy?’
He looked at me, surprised. The colours morphed on his face. He loo
ked away from me, then stared at the Korean mask we had hung on the wall opposite the red divan. He pointed at the mask, and then looked at me again with a plea in his eye. The Korean dragon mask? What did that have to do with anything? I waited for the no, waited for him to shake his head and dispel my suspicion.
‘Did you push him, Bijoy?’ I asked again. Manas would be home anytime, I needed to wrap up my sleuthing soon. He shook his head. No. I breathed out and unclenched my fists. I knew it wasn’t him, but he had seen something. If only he could tell me who ‘juh’ was.
‘There’s a jumper in your backyard, a denim jumper hanging from the tree. Did you put it there?’
He shook his head emphatically. No? Why did Bishnu insist that he put it there?
‘Who put it there, Bijoy?’
‘Juh, juh, juh…’ he said, pointing again at the mask. The same ‘juh’ that locked my son in? Who was ‘juh’ if it wasn’t Bijoy himself?
Manas, when he arrived, had the same magnetic effect on Bijoy that he had on other kids. Maybe it was the way his eyes gleamed with childlike fervour, or the manner in which he emoted in his presence, but Bijoy’s features transformed from their sullen bashfulness into a fluid rapture, his eyes and lips moving with a vitality he hadn’t displayed earlier. He hadn’t seemed as energised even in his mother’s presence. I wondered briefly if my husband was in the wrong profession, if he should have opted to be a schoolteacher or a child psychologist. ‘Glad you are not this way with other women,’ I said, when both Rhea and Bijoy were being hoisted on his shoulders for an elephant ride around the house. ‘How do you know?’ said Manas, with a naughty wink. The workplace stress had fallen off his face in the kids’ company.
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