‘What is rain made of, Amma?’
‘Water.’
‘And the lake?’
‘Rain water.’
‘And the river?’
‘Running water.’
‘What is the sea?’
‘Tides in water. And the ocean is the biggest water with the sea in it,’ Amma said. She leaned back against the tree trunk and shut her eyes.
Not far from me a lone caterpillar sat curled like an O. Its body was the colour of fresh moss made translucent by the sun. Then teased by the wind it began to unwind its body and heaving updown it moved away on endless legs. I heard a whisper in my ear. ‘Tara, is that you?’ I felt her fingers lock into mine. I felt her heartbeat, a bit fainter than mine. All of a sudden I felt numbness spread through my body. I felt her leave me bit-by-bit: one arm, the other, one leg, then the other; eyes, ears, nose, heart and lungs, and then she tumbled out of me. She walked to the water’s edge, then a splash and she disappeared. I ran to the water; I saw Tara’s face in it. I saw her struggling in the slimy water, bobbing up and down, gulping water. More water. More water. Then she sank to the bottom of the lake, and I could see her no more. The last thing I saw was the water exhaling in bubbles. It was definitely possible, I knew then, to pick a moment, then be ready to slip away: feet first, then legs, waist, arms, heart, and lastly the head. It would be over.
But it was not ‘over’ time yet. I let out a cry. Amma rushed to me and held me in her arms. She looked at the edge of the water and she froze. The slimy water swelled and something leached into it similar to an inkdrop. The inkwater spread like a shadow and then disappeared below. Amma stared at the hollow in the water the dark shadow had occupied. The wind howled: ooooowr-oooowar-oowat-oowata-oowata-r. Amma gasped and looked away. ‘Don’t go near the water,’ she said. ‘It will swallow you.’
I buried my head in her bosom, in its deep warmth. Tara returned to me bit-by-bit-by-bit. I was whole once more. ‘Don’t ever go near the water again,’ I whispered. ‘It will swallow you.’
That night in my dream I flew with Tara hand in hand to the place we had come from. Here the hills were light and soft like the breeze, the land was yielding like the sky, the sky was hard like glass reflecting the light of a single bright star; the trees grew tall and dropped fruits and flowers on a silky twine, and the river was made of clouds and on a tentative sunnyrainy day it spilled over and stretched in an arc across the earth’s sky.
3
Those early years were full of happy times. Amma was with me, Tara in me. We were a threesome core family tied together by an invisible wombcord. Patti, Appa, Vishnu-thatha and Munniamma were present too, but they were outside our inside world. And there was Rose-aunty and Rebecca, somewhat outside our outside world. As my inside world grew, the outside world expanded with it. It was the time for games, stories and lessons, and the lessons learnt from them. Catch-n-cook, hide-n-seek, Simon says, L-O-N-D-O-N Lo-n-don… Amma played these games with me. And sometimes when Rose aunty came with Rebecca to meet Patti, Rebecca and I played Statue. Every time Rebecca pointed a finger at me and said statue, I had to be very still. But deep inside me Tara giggled and I lost the game. Lesson: play to win the game. Con-cen-trate.
Patti told me stories about the Gods and demons. Lesson: good always wins over evil. Amma taught me ABCD and 1234, bluegreenyellowred and nose-eyes-ears-head-fingers-toes. I was clever, she said, hugging me. Lesson: it pays to be clever.
Amma taught me a rhyme:
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails;
That’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all that’s nice.
That’s what little girls are made of.
Lesson: girls are nicer than boys.
The best lessons I learnt from Appa. He would often be with me in his study going through a picture book of insects. I liked being with Appa. It was EenieMeenieMineyMo, Tara whispered. She liked learning to learn. Yay.
‘Tell me, Siva what is this?’ Appa asked pointing to a page in the insect book.
‘Ant.’
‘Good.’ Appa turned some pages. ‘And this one?’
‘Butta-fly.’
‘Very good. Now tell me what this is?’
‘Catta-pilla.’
‘You can’t see its legs but it has six in the front and many in the middle. Its head has six eyes on one side. And what is this?’
‘Silk-orm.’
‘That’s correct. What is this?’
I shook my head.
Appa said, ‘This is a praying mantis. It is the only insect fast enough to catch flies and mosquitoes.’
‘Pider, pider,’ I said pointing to the adjoining page.
‘Spider, not pider. Spiders are our friends because they eat those horrible mosquitoes that carry disease.’
Appa turned some more pages. ‘What is this?’
‘Muk-si-to.’
‘Mosquito.’
‘Muk-si-to.’
‘Say Mos-ki-toe.’
‘Muk-si-toe.
‘Mos-mos.
‘Mus-mus.’
‘Ki-ki.’
‘Ki-ki.’
‘Toe-toe.’
‘Toe-toe.’
‘Right. Mos-mos-ki-ki-toe’
‘Mus-mus-ki-ki-toe.’
‘Mos-qui-toe.’
‘Muk-si-toe.’
‘Tell me which one?’
I stuttered. Appa laughed and pinched my ear fondly. ‘Silly, you don’t even know what this is? Look at its wings. It has black and white scales on them. It is an A-no-phee-lees. Repeat after me – A-no-phee-lees.
I jumped up and down. Aa. No. Phil. Liss. Aa. No. Phil. Liss. And Tara joined in: Aa. No. Phil. Liss. Aa. No. Phil. Liss. Aa. No. Phil. Liss.
‘That’s right,’ Appa said. ‘The anopheles is a female mosquito. She is very bad.’
‘You are telling Tara stories about mosquitoes again.’ Amma walked through the door with tumblers of coffee and ovaltine. ‘Mosquitoes are not all that bad,’ she said setting the tumblers on the table. ‘They never bite me.’
‘Because mosquitoes prefer some people over others,’ Appa attempted a calculated smile. ‘Some people’s sweat simply smells better.’
Amma pursed her lips and jerked her head back. ‘As if.’
‘It’s true. Our body odour is made up of carbon dioxide, octenol and other compounds in different proportions. Did you know a mosquito has 72 types of odour receptor on its antennae, and at least 27 are tuned to detect the nonanal chemicals in our sweat.’
‘Non Anal?’
‘Nonanal is an alkyl aldehyde. It has an orange-rose smell and is used in flavours and perfume.’
‘Are you saying I don’t smell nice?’ Amma narrowed her eyes.
Appa’s eyebrows arched; a conspiratorial smile quivered on his lips. ‘That’s why mosquitoes don’t bite you, Mallika. There are no fruity-flowery chemicals in your sweat that attract them.’
‘But surely the mosquitoes can see me.’ Amma tilted her head back, adjusted a curl of hair behind her ear. Her long dark hair was still wet after her evening bath. She smelled of the astringent and lemony bacteriological soap that Appa had got a large supply of from his institute. The soap was a part of his experiment with mosquito repellence. The soaps were no good; they didn’t froth. A good reason the mosquitoes didn’t like them much.
‘Mosquitoes don’t see very well,’ Appa said with a mysterious smile. ‘They have two compound eyes with multiple lenses and blind spots separate the lenses. Therefore, they can’t see you until they are near and even then they can’t make out the difference between a person and a drum.’
Amma looked accusingly at Appa. ‘Are you now saying I look like a drum?’
Appa bunched his shoulders and grinned. He held a truce hand out to Amma. But Amma was not ready for a compromise. With a wave of her angry hand she walked away.
‘Aa. No. Phil. Liss. Aa. No. Phil. Liss.’ I cried. Aa. No. Phil. Liss. Aa. No. Phil. Liss, Tara echoed.
Appa gathered us in his arms.
***
The most important lesson I learnt was on the day we went to see Jungle Book. I was by the pond in front of the house that afternoon. There were many fish in it: Goldfish, Carps, Guppy, Molly, Swordtails and a lone Angelfish – all of them with yawning mouths and bags under their eyes, due to lack of sleep. The Angelfish, turned on its side, floated by: dull and colourless. ‘Angelfish too sick,’ I said.
Amma said from the stone bench nearby: ‘I think it’s dead.’ Then she went back to Georgette Heyer’s False Colours.
I heard the sound of a car. Appa had come home. With my arms in the air I called out to him. ‘Appa, why Angelfish die?’ I asked when he stood beside me.
‘Because of stress.’
‘Stess is what?’
‘Stress, not stess. It is a disease. Like malaria. But stress is not caused by bacteria or germs. It’s caused by too much worry.’
‘Why Angelfish too much worry?’
‘Maybe it didn’t have a friend and it was alone.’
‘So I can get stess also?’
Appa laughed. ‘You are too young, kanna.’
Angelfish was too young too. So I could surely get stess. But I decided not to have too much worry about it. In any case I was not alone. I had Tara.
Appa walked over to Amma and sat down on the bench next to her.
‘How come so early?’ Amma picked up a leaf from the ground and placed it on the open page of the book.
‘I thought I’d spend some time with you.’
‘As if. Don’t lie.’
The light was fast fading. The buzz and whines of mosquitoes filled the air. Appa pointed to a swarm of mosquitoes around Amma’s feet. ‘You shouldn’t sit outside. It’s the time for the mosquitoes to come out. They will bite you.’
Amma looked at him triumphantly. ‘You said the mosquitoes wouldn’t bite me. Anyway, I am not scared of mosquito bites.’
‘Mosquito bites are not bad. It’s their saliva that is harmful.’ Appa turned around to face Amma. ‘Now listen to me carefully,’ he said with the sudden excitement of someone revealing a secret. ‘A special protein in the mosquito’s saliva makes it an anticoagulant and...’
‘Anti-co-what?’
‘Anti-co-agu-lant. It’s a chemical that thins their blood so that the mosquito’s proboscis does not become clogged with blood clots. Its saliva also carries the malaria germs. So when an infected mosquito bites us the germs from its saliva gets into our blood and kills our blood cells. If malaria is not treated on time, especially P. Falciparum, then it can lead to many problems: high fever, vomiting, sweating and shakes. In some cases even death.’
Amma bent over and wiped her feet with the end of her saree.
Appa looked at his wristwatch. ‘It’s only five thirty. Let’s go see a film. Let’s see Jungle Book. Patti will love it and so will our child.’ Appa never called me Siva when Amma was around. It was Patti’s BEWARE with two round eyes and one finger up. ‘It’s playing at Eros Cinema,’ Appa said. ‘We can have dinner out.’
‘But I’ve made puliodhare and cucumber pachadi,’ Amma said. ‘It’s your favourite.’
‘I’ll take it with me for lunch tomorrow,’ Appa said. ‘Promise.’
Patti, although reluctant, walked with us to the cinema house. I sat between Appa and Patti in the hall. Amma sat on the other side of Appa. The hall was big and there were not many people in it. ‘Must be a bad film,’ Patti grunted.
‘It’s a children’s film, ma,’ Appa said, ‘and it’s the evening show after all. The afternoon show, I am sure, must have been houseful.’
‘In our time, Patti said, ‘there were mainly religious films. So many people went to see these films, morning or evening. Night even. People would simply love to see their hero singing to Lord Krishna, Lord Vishnu, and to hear the Gods singing back. What heavenly music. A-ha-ha.’
Then the lights went out and I clasped Appa’s hand. Some minutes later when I saw Ba-geera the Black Panther on the big screen, I felt stess in the back of my neck and loud beating in Tara’s heart. ‘Appa we go home,’ I said. ‘I get stess.’
‘Don’t be scared,’ Appa whispered, ‘it’s only a movie.’
I heard Tara wail in my ear. ‘Don’t be scared,’ I whispered, ‘it’s only a movie.’
‘What? Did you say something?’ Appa asked.
I covered my face with my hands and watched the screen though the gaps between my fingers. In my comic books the animals didn’t move and they spoke through bubbles that rose over their heads. But in the movie Ba-geera actually spoke. I saw the little boy Mowgli and slowly dropped my hands, but when Kaa the python appeared I shut my eyes tight. But I could hear him sing Trust in me in a mesmerising voice.
Tara laughed out loud when the elephants marched – a shrill, undulating laugh that I inherited, and which in later times would become my own. I liked the big bear Baloo and his song, Bare necessities. And the vultures. I liked the way they spoke.
When the movie was over and the lights came on Appa asked me, ‘So did you like the film?’
I slapped my thighs with both my hands and then clapped them over my head, sprang up and spun around like Baloo the bear. ‘Yes-Yes-Yes,’ I said.
Amma had tears in her eyes.
When we were out on the road I asked Appa: ‘Whatweagonnado?
‘What?’ Appa asked.
‘Whatchawannado?’
‘Speak clearly, kanna,’ Appa said.
Amma laughed. She said, ‘Letsdosomething.’
‘Okwatchawannado?’
Okwatchawannado?Okwatchawannado?Ok…I slapped my head to keep Tara quiet.
We walked down the lane to Good Morning Café, which also served Good Evening dinner. Nayak-uncle, the owner, showed us to a table by the window. Rose-aunty, Rebecca and her father were seated at the table in the corner. Rebecca waved to me. She got up from her chair and then her father said something to her and she sat down again. Tommy Gonzalves stepped between the two tables. He turned to Appa and with a nod he uttered, ‘Confucius,’ and walked toward the other end. Just then the waiter came to us for our order. Patti ordered a Mysore masala dosa. Appa ordered two plates of idlis for Amma and him, and thayir vadai for me. I liked thayir vadai. It did not take long for the waiter to come with our order. There were two vadais on my plate. One for Tara, the other for me. Tara liked thayir vadai too. I heard her slurp in my head.
After Patti had eaten all of the dosa, she said, ‘Mallika makes better dosas. And the chutney was too watery. They are stingy with the coconut. We should have stayed at home and had that nice puliodhare Mallika made.’
Appa laughed. ‘But you’ve finished everything on your plate, ma.’
‘Then what! Gandhiji said: To a man with an empty stomach food is God. We must not waste food.’
Amma held Appa’s hand and said, ‘Thank you.’
Outside the restaurant, across the road, a mob of men in saffron clothes was gathered around Yusuf’s Pet Shop. Arms raised to the sky, they screamed: Only Hindus. No Muslims. Only Hindus. Muslims go to Pakistan. Appa gathered us close and walked quickly down the road.
‘Who are they?’ Patti asked when we were further away from the mob.
‘They belong to the Hindu National Party,’ Appa said.
‘Why are they shouting?’
‘To keep the Muslims in their place.’
‘Why?’
Appa told her: A riot had broken out one time. It had started with a quarrel between Yusuf Ali, the Muslim owner of Yusuf P
et Shop, and Ranga, the Hindu owner of Ranga Roses. Ranga considered the holy cow that sat outside his shop to be lucky for him. People on the way to the temple stopped at Ranga’s shop for flowers for the Gods and also bought grass to feed the holy cow. But Yusuf, next door, considered the cow to be his worst nightmare. It produced piles of dung that were covered with flies. The flies drifted into his shop and parked themselves on his birds and animals. They lingered on his glass of tea and the fried pakoras he liked to eat with it.
On that fateful day just as Yusuf stepped out of his shop to go to the Mosque for his prayers, Ranga’s holy cow let fall a stream of piss. It spattered all over Yusuf’s freshly washed salwar. Yusuf cursed and beat the cow fiercely with his fist. The next morning a pig was found tethered to a pillar in front of the Mosque. Suddenly what started as a squabble between Ranga and Yusuf swelled into a bigger and a more dangerous tumult between Muslims and the Hindus in the market.
At the break of dawn on the third day of the quarrel, in front of the Shiva temple, muscular Muslim men turned their spit above a fire and cooked the slaughtered holy cow, sparks flying into the holy Hindu air around. Four cow hooves lay on the ground, a visible testament to their deed. That night a group of Hindu men set fire to many Muslim shops and houses in the market. Timber, paper, plastic, cloth and treasured memories of togetherness went up in flames.
The Hindu National Party was founded about this time. Its Hindu members constantly quarrelled with their Muslim neighbours. Theirs was not just a quarrel over Gods, or home or land; or between a man and another man, or about animals, but also a war over fundamental rights – about who had the right, and who had the right to decide this.
‘Bloody fellows,’ Appa said when we were halfway home. ‘Instead of getting rid of Muslims they should help in eradicating the bloody mosquitoes from this place.’ We passed the old wooden sign that had painted on it: GIBBS ROAD. The wood had rotted, the paint had flaked and the post tilted to one side. Appa turned to Amma. ‘Do you know the mosquito Anopheles Gibbinsi is named after Gerald Gibbins, a researcher on mosquitoes and black flies. He was investigating a yellow fever outbreak in Africa. He was speared to death, because the locals believed that the blood samples he was taking were intended for witchcraft. He was only forty-two, and he had so much more to do.’
IF YOU LOOK FOR ME, I AM NOT HERE Page 5