The Girl in the Garden

by Kamala Nair

  Maybe it would be different if the three of us went together to the Taj Mahal or to a tiger-infested forest or even to the ocean, which I had never seen. But staying on a farm in a rural Indian village with Amma, far away from Aba, did not hold the same allure in my imagination as any of the places I yearned after in the travel books.

  I had never been away from home for such a long time. I was used to whiling away the dry summer days exploring Pill Hill on my roller skates, letting Merlin pull me along on his leash. Or I would run through the woods to the ravine, where I always found interesting objects: decades-old soda cans, stubbed-out cigarettes, the occasional woodland creature. I could perch there and watch the sun sink low beneath the cornfields, and then I would go home and sit on my bed surrounded by pillows, reading or drawing to my heart’s content without having to worry about homework or being teased or ignored by my classmates the next day.

  Some afternoons I helped Amma in her garden, the garden which pleased her more than anything else Aba ever gave her. She spent many hours shoveling soil, planting seeds, and watering flowers. One summer her garden was featured in the Home section of the Plainfield Chronicle; Aba framed the article and hung it in his study (now it sits under a pile of sweaters in my dresser drawer). I loved gardening with Amma because that was when she seemed happiest, kneeling among the roses and the anemones, a wide-brimmed hat shading her face, humming a soft tune. I would kneel beside her, obediently pulling out weeds and watching worms wiggle through the soil. There was a lulling rhythm to our work that comforted me. It drew us closer together, gardening side by side, Amma and me. At the end of the day we would gather vegetables that were ripe and ready to be plucked, and carry them inside in a basket, where Amma would pour them out onto the kitchen counter and gaze at our mini harvest with triumphant eyes. The vision of us returning home after the long summer to a stubble of dead stalks and stems flitted through my mind.

  We would return from India just in time for the leaves to crumble from the branches, leaving them bare and ready to be weighed down by icicles. Plainfield winters were brutal, and we rarely went outside. The cold stabbed through my skin to the bone. Even the snow was altered so that I couldn’t shape it into a round snowball; it just hardened in my mittened fist, a cluster of sharp, blue-tinged diamonds.

  In the winters, when the garden was frozen over, Amma went into hibernation. She wandered around the house, restless and fidgety, and more often than not with a lost expression on her face. But she always came to life at night when we read fairy tales together, my bedtime ritual. I treasured that sacred hour when witches, princesses, sprites, and all manner of magical beings whirled around my room, and Amma’s eyes glowed. Even when I got too old for those stories, I still begged her to read them, and she always obliged.

  But when the letters started coming, she stopped reading to me.

  “I’m too tired,” she would say at first when I asked, and by spring, “You’re too old for bedtime stories.”

  So I began to pore over books by myself at night, but not the stories I had read with Amma; I couldn’t bring myself to touch those. Instead I went to the library and checked out new ones—Frankenstein, Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Letter, Heart of Darkness—books that made the librarian give me a perplexed smile, books that I didn’t fully understand, books that frightened me and flooded my nights with dark visions, but that also gave me a secret, uncontainable thrill.

  Over the next few days, Amma and Aba did not speak to each other at all. I was their emissary, still furious at Amma, but somehow unable to leave her side.

  “Rakhee, go bring your father his dinner in the study,” Amma would say.

  “Why can’t you take it yourself?”

  “Do as I say,” she would snap.

  The thought of leaving Aba behind for an entire summer and the prospect of a divorce were unbearable. Even under the same roof our family was fractured—how could it survive being separated by an ocean?

  Aba spent most of his time at the lab, and when he came home, he would retreat to his study, where he would work all night. He stopped shaving, and his eyes sank deeper into their sockets. “Thanks,” he would say, his voice cracking, when I carried his dinner in on a tray. He would hold my chin for a moment and force a smile before waving me away, even though all I wanted was to stay in there with him forever.

  School was over and I had nothing to do—my heart wasn’t in my usual activities. So I followed Amma around as she packed and cooked. She prepared curry after curry, then sealed them in Tupperware containers, labeled them with a heavy black marker, and slid them into the freezer. “For Aba,” she informed me briskly. I did not understand why Amma cared enough to cook for Aba but not to talk to him.

  One day as I was walking down the upstairs hall, I heard a noise in the bathroom. The door was ajar, so I peeked in and saw Amma standing over the toilet holding a clear orange bottle—her pills. She was turning it around and around in her hands, stroking the label with her fingers, a thoughtful expression on her face. She had taken off her clothes, which lay in a heap on the floor, and was wearing only a pale slip that revealed the pink crescentshaped scar that ran across the length of her upper arm.

  That scar was a reminder of how Veena Aunty had once saved her life, Amma had told me the first time I ran my fingers up and down across its strange silkiness. I was very young then, but somehow I can still hear her voice telling the story:

  “We always used to go running recklessly around the jungle in the village together, Veena Aunty and I. One day, we were sitting in the forest, when a snake came and bit me. We were far away from home and I immediately felt my strength draining from my body. Veena Aunty carried me on her back all the way to the hospital so my father could give me medicine. If it weren’t for her quick thinking, I would have died and you would never have been born.”

  The story was fantastic and frightening, and I believed every word. A few days after she told it to me she went away to the hospital.

  Amma, unaware of my presence, shook the bottle like a rattle, and in one rapid motion, opened the lid and dumped the pills into the toilet. They fell in a white cascade. Amma laughed and hugged herself.

  On Saturday morning, the day before we left, Aba woke me up early and told me we were going to spend the day together, just the two of us.

  I dressed hastily. When I got downstairs Aba was pacing around the kitchen table, the way he did when he got excited. Amma was standing at the counter, ignoring him.

  “Rakhee, I’m going to take you to my lab today. How would you like that?”

  I grinned, pleased that Aba deemed me important enough to take to his lab.

  Amma glanced up at us. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Vikram? She’s too young.”

  Aba looked back at Amma. “It’s never too early to experience the thrill of digging for the truth and finding it.”

  When we arrived at the lab, Aba outfitted me in a loose white coat and a pair of oversized goggles. He had to tighten the strap so they wouldn’t fall off my face. A blackbarred cage was on the counter, and inside it sat a white mouse. Although I was not sure what exactly was about to happen at the time, I felt chilled by the sight.

  “Rakhee, we’re going to dissect this mouse,” Aba announced in a matter-of-fact tone. “You can see the inner workings of the body. I still remember the first time I saw real-life organs—the heart, the stomach, the lungs—right before my very eyes. It was truly remarkable.”

  Aba went to fetch the necessary instruments and I tried to avoid looking at the mouse, who was wriggling his pink nose through the bars at me. For one mad moment I considered opening the cage and setting it free, but I repressed the urge. I didn’t want to disappoint Aba and make him think I was a coward or, even worse, a bore who could not see the thrill of science.

  When Aba had returned he opened the cage and in one deft motion caught the mouse, encircling its head between his gloved thumb and forefinger, and holding its squirming hind limbs with his o
ther hand.

  He released the mouse inside a large bowl that had a clear plastic cover fitted with a nozzle. The mouse began to run around in circles inside the bowl. Aba attached a small glass vial to the nozzle.

  “Now we wait,” he said. Its movements grew lethargic. Finally, it settled down in one corner, a sluggish white lump. Next, Aba took the mouse out of the container and filled a syringe with another clear liquid, which he injected into its limp bottom. The mouse stiffened, but I could still see its chest continuing to rise and fall in slow, methodical breaths.

  “We’re ready to begin.” Aba stretched the rigid creature out onto a metal tray and used strings to tie its limbs down; it looked so helpless lying there like that with its soft white belly exposed. A blade of nausea rose at the back of my throat. Aba picked up an instrument that I thought was a small butter knife until he ran it along the length of the mouse’s body, and I saw the thin thread of blood that welled up. He drew back the white flaps of outer flesh and revealed the inside of the mouse.

  “Can he feel anything?”

  “No, no, don’t worry, it can’t feel a thing,” said Aba. “This way you can see how the organs actually work in life.”

  I stood up on my stool and peered down, deep inside the mouse’s body—at its pulsing, purplish innards, at the droplets of blood that had dribbled down onto the tray and coated Aba’s cream-colored latex gloves, at its live, beating heart. I couldn’t hold it in anymore—I stumbled off my perch and landed on my knees, where I proceeded to vomit all over the floor.

  Aba rubbed my back, took me into the bathroom to wash my face, and let me sit in his office while he cleaned up the mess in the lab. As I waited for him in his leather chair, shame consumed me. Aba had been kind about it, but I felt that in some fundamental way I had let him down.

  Before we went home, he took me to Dairy Queen, but I couldn’t eat a thing. “It’s my fault,” he said sadly. “Your mother was right. Maybe you are too young.”

  The morning of our flight to India, I rose early to make sure that I had packed my most important belongings. When I had confirmed that my sketchpad and colored pencils were safely tucked away in my backpack, I crept downstairs in my nightgown. Amma was talking on the phone in the kitchen. I knew that it must be Veena Aunty on the other end of the line because of the casual way she cradled the receiver under her ear, the thickening of her accent, and the Malayalam words and phrases that peppered the conversation.

  “I just don’t know what else to do,” I heard Amma say, as I lingered unnoticed in the doorway. “This is killing me, but I can’t tell Vikram, I can’t, I won’t ask him for help.”

  That is all I heard or understood because Amma then saw the edge of my pink nightgown peeking out from behind the door frame.

  “Ah, you’re up. Go upstairs and get ready. We have to leave soon.”

  She told Veena Aunty that she had to go then, so I did as I was told and went upstairs, my limbs heavy.

  What was Amma talking about?

  I resolved then to bring my parents back together. I would use the summer in India to find whatever was tearing them apart and fix it. If I did not want to end up like the mouse, alone and doomed in his cage, I had to figure out a way to save our family. At that moment, I believed it could be that simple.

  Chapter 4

  I stumbled as I stepped off the plane in Bombay, and Amma caught my moist hand in hers. The sun was white and blinding, and the wall of heat that greeted us was unlike anything I had ever felt before. The lenses of my glasses fogged, and a scarf of sweat spread across the bridge of my nose. Amma was hurrying across the steaming black runway toward a row of glass doors, and pulling me along behind her.

  I stayed close to her side as we wove through the sweaty throng to identify our baggage so it could be transported to our connecting flight. Children darted by swift as multicolored arrows. Unsuppressed body odor invaded my nostrils. All around us, barefoot women dressed in identical saris swept the dusty floors, stooping over their long bristled brooms like agile, purple-winged insects.

  Mirrors flashed through puffs of smog and bold silks swished. Gold ornaments dangled from necks, ears, and arms. The people seemed much smaller than they did back in Minnesota, and livelier, too. There was a grace combined with unrelenting energy that propelled each muscle and tendon into motion.

  Two young boys who looked to be around my age came running up to us chanting “Madam, madam, please madam” in reedy voices, and tried to take our suitcases and place them on top of their heads. Amma shooed them away with one hand like flies.

  I tugged at the dampening cotton of the sundress I had changed into in the airplane bathroom. Moisture prickled my skin and I felt unsteady on my feet.

  A cluster of men in khaki uniforms passed by and I noticed their eyes scanning Amma’s jeans-and-T-shirt-clad figure, up and down, up and down, a dirty look that made me clutch the crook of her arm and press closer against her side.

  A full day had passed since Aba had dropped us off at the Minneapolis airport and unloaded our suitcases onto the sidewalk. He had bent down low and taken me in his arms, holding me close. He seemed exhausted and resigned. I longed to tell him how much I loved him, that he should trust me and I would make everything right again. But I knew if I said that I would start to cry, and I wanted Aba to think I was brave.

  “Promise you’ll take care of Merlin,” I said instead.

  “I will,” swore Aba with a smile. I had elicited a similar promise from Merlin as I embraced him earlier that morning, curling my fingers in his black fur, and he had given my palm a dignified lick in response.

  “I’ve heard that the phone lines where you’re going are not very reliable, so we won’t be able to speak much, but we can write letters,” said Aba. “Take this anyway, in case of an emergency.” He handed me a folded-up piece of paper. Inside, he had written down the code that I would need to punch in before our phone number in order to call home from India. I placed the paper in my pocket and resolved to memorize it as soon as I got on the plane. “And Rakhee,” said Aba, standing up, “Look after your mother for me, all right?” He was gone before I could respond, just like that. Amma didn’t even say goodbye to him.

  “Come, Rakhee, don’t dawdle.” Amma tugged at my hand.

  We had to board a second plane, smaller and bumpier than the last, which carried us south, along the western coast of the country. My heartbeat quickened as I peered out the window, down through the clouds at the blue waves tossing and turning below us. My first glimpse of the ocean.

  “Your grandmother will be so pleased to see you, Rakhee. Do you remember her—your Muthashi?” Amma asked over the whir of the engine.

  I did remember Muthashi, my grandmother. She had come to stay with us in Minnesota when I was around three or four. I could not recall the exact details of her face, but I had a vague mental picture of a slight woman draped in white who used to sit me on her knee and sing a song in Malayalam about ants.

  I used to run out onto the driveway humming the ant song, and guide a string of the black insects into my palm. Weaving my fingers together and making a delicate cup with my hands, I would transport them into the house, giggling as the ants tickled inside their little cage. Muthashi would always act so pleased when I proudly deposited the squirming ants into her outstretched hand, although I’m sure she would let them out the back door as soon as I wasn’t looking.

  “Rakhee,” continued Amma. “I haven’t told you much about our family, have I?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, the Varmas are the most prominent, respected family in the village. My father was a doctor, and he started a hospital across the street from our home. He died a long time ago, so now my younger brother, Vijay, is in charge. You’ll also meet my big sister, Sadhana, and her three daughters. One of them is about your age. And Vijay’s wife, Nalini, who I have never met, recently had a baby boy. Everybody lives together at Ashoka—that’s the name of the house where I grew up. You se
e, in India families stick together under one roof. It’s not the same as it is in America.”

  “Welcome to God’s Own Country.” The voice of the smooth-skinned stewardess over the intercom interrupted Amma, as the plane glided to a halt at Cochin Airport. “Enjoy your stay.”

  This airport was not as crowded or chaotic as the one in Bombay, and the people seemed neater and more subdued. In the bathroom Amma changed into a buttercupyellow sari and painted a red raindrop on her forehead with a bottle that she produced from her purse. “I can’t show up at home dressed like an American,” she explained.

  I loved seeing that transformation, from my regular mother who took the trash out every morning with a bulky coat flung over her nightgown to this wondrous creature. From the moment she put on the sari and released her hair from its bun so that it streamed down her back in a lustrous river, she appeared younger and somehow more natural.

  “How do I look?” she asked, as she ran a comb through her hair.

  “You look beautiful, Amma,” I told her honestly.

  A compact man with a bushy mustache and a symmetrical crescent of sweat under each arm met us outside the airport, holding a sign with “Mrs. Chitra Varma Singh and daughter” printed across it in block letters. He led us through the thick heat toward a white car and loaded all our suitcases into the trunk. Amma and I both slid into the backseat. My legs stuck to the synthetic leather.

  “Are you hungry, molay?” Amma asked me. “We’ll be home soon.” But she sounded absent, as if my hunger was hardly her main concern.

  I stared out the window as we drove. Unlike the gray, arrow-straight highways I was accustomed to, here the roads were red and twisty. In the distance I could see groves of coconut trees, their green fronds waving against the sky like pinwheels. We passed forests of rubber trees and stretches of lime-green grassland that Amma told me were rice paddy fields. Wiry, mustachioed men with protruding rib cages spiraling down their torsos and white cloths knotted around their waists (“Those cloths are called mundus,” explained Amma) were scattered here and there in the treetops, tapping the trunks and collecting sap in metal buckets.