So I asked Patti. She hugged me and said, ‘My intelligent seeker. Don’t forget, God resides in every thought.’
There, the clue. God was invisible. He was touchless, odourless, tasteless. He was pure air. So thoughts were made of air. I imagined my thoughts blowing inside my head, round and round, and now and then coming out of my ears, my nostrils, and when I yawned God came straight out of my mouth.
Amma also taught me maths. She taught me to minus and plus, and told me everything could be minussed and plussed. ‘What is A+B?’ I asked her.
‘That is called algebra,’ she said laughing. ‘Algebra is alphabets plus maths together,’ she explained. ‘It has ABCD and XYZ. You can plus or minus them, divide or multiply and the letters can be given any value like 1,2,3,4...’
‘Tara is so clever,’ Amma told Appa that evening. ‘She was asking me what A+B was.’
Appa fondly pinched my cheek. ‘Our child is going to be a scientist one day.’
Of that, I wasn’t certain, but I had learnt early that living was all about plus-ing and minus-ing and like in Al-Zeb-Ra everything had a value, more or less.
***
Vishnu-thatha told me about the colours besides bluegreenyellowred – which made me nostalgic – the colours that on a rainysunny day spread on the sky’s face and made it smile. I made my days wear colours. Instead of Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday I had Violetday, Indigoday, Blueday, Greenday, Yellowday, Orangeday and Redday. Seven days for seven colours. It was easy to remember them. I liked Violetday the most because Amma dressed me in a Sunday frock and took me to Vishnu-thatha’s house and left me there all day. He taught me to draw: standing lines, sleeping lines and lines that went round and round. I drew the sun, mountains, a river, birds and trees. I also drew Georgie’s ghost: one standing line, a wisp of smoke, disappearing into nothing. And Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo: one line holding two lines spread in a V, like two arms outstretched: Yay. Tara liked Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo the best.
One Violetday Rebecca and I were out on the veranda in Vishnu-thatha’s house. I was colouring the sketch I had drawn, a sort of map. It had Gibbs Road winding to the blue-blue sea, Vishnu-thatha’s mango-coloured house, Rebecca’s house with green shutters, the temple with red stripes, and my house with red rooftiles...
Rebecca pointed to the wispy grey thing in front of my house. ‘What is this?’
‘That is the ghost.’
‘There are no ghosts, stupid.’
‘We have a ghost in my house. He is from L-o-n-d-o-n. His name is Georgie.’
Rebecca broke into a rhyme:
Georgie Porgie Puddinand Pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the boys came out toplay
Georgie Porgie ranaway.
‘He didn’t run away. He’s here.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He died here so he left behind his ghost.’
She pointed to the sketch. ‘And who’s that, next to the ghost?’
‘Amma. And this one is Appa, and here is Patti. This is Mani and this one is Munniamma. This is Cha-chi under the chakka tree. And this one is the tamarind tree at the back…’
‘And who’s under the tree?’
‘This is me, and this is you.’
Rebecca leant toward me and kissed me on my cheek.
We went with Vishnu-thatha to the lake in the woods that day. When I clapped, the birds in the tall trees were startled and ruffled the leaves as they took flight. We went to Pinto’s ice-cream parlour with four flavours: vanilla, orange, chocolate and pistachio. I sat with Rebecca on the railing outside and we licked our ice-cream cones in rhythm: 1-2-3-4 Lick. 5-6-7-8 Lick.
‘Let’s see who can lick faster,’ Rebecca said.
12345678… I licked away all the ice-cream. ‘I won,’ I said. ‘You lost.’
Rebecca dashed her cone to the ground. She looked at it grumpily. ‘Look what you made me do.’
Next to Pinto’s was the old barbershop with frosted glass windows. We peeped through it, watched men with soap on their cheeks, ready for a shave. We pressed our ice-cream mouths to the glass and then watched the spit bubbles pop-pop-pop. And beside the barber’s was the greengrocer with yesterday’s vegetables in small cane baskets in the front, going at a discount. While Vishnu-thatha talked to the grocer, Rebecca dropped the old vegetables into the fresh vegetable bin. I heard a giggle in my head that wouldn’t stop until I tapped my head hard.
‘Why are you slapping your head?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Because it’s giggling.’
‘Heads don’t giggle, stupid, only mouths do.’
‘I have a mouth in my head.’
‘Don’t be smart. Okay. And why do you always wear a frock? And why do you wear earrings? You are a boy.’
‘I am an exception.’ I said.
‘Why exception?’
‘Because I am special.’
‘And why does your mother call you Tara?’
‘Because it is my other name.’
‘How can you have two names?’
‘You have two names. Rebecca, and Rose-aunty calls you Becky.’
‘Becky is my pet name.’
‘So Tara is my pet name.’
‘Pet names are only used for people with long names,’ she said. ‘Becky is short for Rebecca. Your name is already short.’
‘Patti said other names are used for those who are loved. And Tara means star. I am Amma’s star.’
‘But Tara is a girl’s name. How can you have a girl’s name?’
‘Because I am an exception.’
And then there was the fruit vendor I liked so much whose shop smelled like a jellyorchard in the sun.
***
The next Sunday Vishnu-thatha took Rebecca and me to Victoria Dyes factory. He had bought it from the government after the country had got its i-n-d-e-p-e-d-e-n-c-e, he told me. George Gibbs built it, he said, the same Englishman who had built my house and the road that curled all the way to the sea. I liked Victoria Dyes factory; it was old and big like my house and had many rooms and a tall clock tower, though one of the clock’s hands was broken. It was a cripple clock. It had no time.
Vishnu-thatha took us into the main hall, where workers were dyeing cloth in large troughs. The stone floor was splattered with dye; the room had a musty tart smell. It was oven-hot inside. The paint on the walls had blistered in the heat. One of the workers came up to Vishnu-thatha and showed him a piece of dyed cloth. ‘Red, make it more red,’ Vishnu-thatha said. ‘Add more Surupattal.’ Then he took us to another room stacked with bales of cloth where we played the Before-After game.
Vishnu-thatha said, ‘Let’s get to the Before of Honey. Where does it come from?’
Rebecca flapped her arms and made a buzz-buzz-buzz sound.
Vishnu-thatha held up his leather slipper next and waved it about. Rebecca walked on all fours. Moomoomoo.
Vishnu-thatha shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and held up piece of paper. ‘Your turn, Siva.’
I looked at the sheet of paper. It was a square leaf. I tapped my head with my finger so that my thoughts would think. Maybe there was a paper tree that grew paper leaves. Siss-siss-siss, Tara whispered. I stood on my toes and raised my hand up in the air and swung it about. Siss-siss-siss.
‘That very good, Siva. Paper comes from trees.’ Vishnu-thatha unclasped his wristwatch and held it up. ‘Now tell me what is the before of this.’
Rebecca didn’t know. Neither did I.
‘Time,’ Vishnu-thatha said.
‘But that’s not a thing,’ Rebecca said, ‘like the cow or the bee.’
‘Correct,’ Vishnu-thatha smiled. ‘Time is not a thing. It is an idea. Great thinkers made it up. They got three big cardboard boxes, packed Time into them, cal
led them Before, Now and After. If Time had not been made up,’ Vishnu-thatha explained, ‘if it had not been separated in three boxes, everything would happen all at once. What happened long before, or was to happen after, would be happening right now. It would be like having only one big cardboard box called NOW.’
I shut my eyes and imagined time: ticktock, ticktock, moving from the After box to the Now box with each tick, and then with a tock to the Before box, and remaining there ticktockticktocking like a million heartbeats, getting fuller and fuller, heavier and heavier.
Vishnu-thatha said, ‘And one more thing, the Before box is the heaviest. It contains memories. And the After box contains imagination, dreams. It is the lightest. So light, it can fly.’
And then we played an imagination game:
‘Close your eyes tight,’ Vishnu-thatha said. He tapped his finger on my brow. ‘This is your mind’s eye. Concentrate hard and you will be able to see what you can’t see, and get whatever it is you want, just by imagining it.’
‘Anything?’ I asked.
‘Yes. When you are particularly sad, imagine something that makes you happy and you will forget your sadness, even if for a short time. Remember, you can always find a solution if you use a little imagination.’
Fixed to one wall of the hall was an old frayed map. Vishnu-thatha imagined that his finger was an aeroplane. He flew it to distant places, told us about them: their hills and rivers, climate and wind, the big sea that held them. Then he made me imagine that my finger was an aeroplane; it carried me far far away, landed me in unknown places. I let my finger soar over the magenta coloured mountains and the blue ocean, I let it circle over the red USSR, the orange China, canary yellow America, candy pink Australia, purple Africa and back to brown India. I landed my finger with a thud on a torn and threadbare spot on the map. Ma-chi-li-pat-nam.
***
A heap of chiffon lay piled in one corner of the room. Rebecca buried her face in the sheer silk. I wriggled into its folds, warm and secure. ‘I knew my caterpillar was here,’ Vishnu-thatha said, pulling me out of the cloth. He plucked out a silk thread stuck to my hair. ‘Did you know, it is the silkworm’s spit with which it makes its cocoon,’ he said. ‘And when the worm is sleeping inside it, it dreams of the day it will become a beautiful butterfly and fly far away to Paradise.’
He told us a story:
Once upon a time there was a young caterpillar. He lived alone on a bush. One day he met a beautiful butterfly. Her wings were orange, purple and a deep blue. They became friends. The butterfly told the caterpillar that it was time for him to build his cocoon, and then he would become a butterfly like her and fly away to Paradise. The caterpillar looked down at his soft green body and shook his head. He was used to the bush, the caterpillar told the butterfly, this was his world and he was happy with it.
The butterfly told him then that he had to be what he was meant to be. He had to do what he was meant to do. If he didn’t build his cocoon soon then he would be alone and he would surely die. She couldn’t wait for him any longer; she was going away to Paradise. She pointed her wing beyond the lake, beyond the mountains. It was a heavenly place, she told him, full of beautiful flowers, with nectar as sweet as syrup. She flew away.
Soon the caterpillar felt weak and listless. He thought of what the butterfly had told him. So he started to build a cocoon with his spit. It took him a long time. He crept into it and went to sleep. It was dark inside and he was afraid and alone. He could feel his wings grow on either side of his body. He couldn’t wait anymore; he missed his friend. So he pushed through the cocoon door and flew into the air. But he had come out too soon; his wings had not soaked in the colours of the dark; they were white.
Butterflies flew around him flapping their colourful wings. They laughed at him. The white butterfly flew far far away to Paradise where he met his friend. She was happy to see him. He was so beautiful, she told him. His wings were like the skin of the moon.
Rebecca spread her arms out and fluttered them. ‘I am the beautiful butterfly.’
‘And I am the caterpillar,’ I said, ‘in my silk cocoon.’
Vishnu-thatha said, ‘When the caterpillars are fast asleep silkfarmers pluck the cocoons and put them in hot water. They boil them for a long time with lots of salt. Then they make silk out of the cocoons.’
‘What happens to the caterpillars? They die?’ I asked.
‘They don’t really die,’ Vishnu-thatha said. ‘The sky’s million mouths pop open, and they suck them into Paradise where they become tiny fairies with lights in their eyes. But sometimes in the night when they are sad and homesick they drop down from the skymouths to look for their cocoons. But they are all gone; they have been made into silk. So if we tie silk threads on branches of trees, they will know we care for them.’
Vishnu-thatha opened a cupboard and took from it a reel of white silk thread, and then he led us to the back garden. He broke the thread into bits and gave them to Rebecca and me. We reached up to a low branch of the Parijat tree and tied bits of thread on it. The day went suddenly slack and the first rain of the season broke loose from the clouds. But it didn’t last very long. Soon the slanting lines ///// became dots …….. We stood together, Rebecca and I: a butterfly and a caterpillar, moistened by the brief rain.
***
That evening Vishnu-thatha and I walked through the fields at the back of his house. I ran past the palm trees, across parcelled crops, and parted the wet paddy leaves thisway-thatway before I swishawayed to the beach beyond.
We sat on the sand and watched the sea. I could hear Tara hum in my ears. ‘Why does Amma call me Tara? Am I Tara?
‘Tara is dead, kanna. You are Siva. Whenever you have doubts about yourself, shut your eyes tight and look inside your head, in every nook and corner of it, inside your inner thoughts and try and find who you are. Deep inside your mind, where your feelings are stored, you will see yourself. Not Tara. But you.
‘Thatha, where do people go after they die?’
‘People who are unhappy become ghosts. They wander about in the place they have lived. But the happy people become spirits and they go all the way to Paradise. They come back now and then to watch over us.’
‘Where did Tara go?’
‘She didn’t live long enough to become unhappy. She is a spirit. She is in Paradise. If you close your eyes and think of her you will hear her in your ears.’
‘Where is Para-dies?’
‘It’s a lovely island in the sky, far far away.’
I looked up at the dusky sky. The setting sun had streaked it in crimson and pink. I raised my arms to the island in the sky. ‘When I die, I will go to Para-dies and meet all the butterflies and fairies with lights in their eyes. And Tara.’
6
Although I couldn’t count beyond 50 I knew Patti was 10+10+10+10+10+4 years old and I was nearly 6. Patti was oldest and I was the youngest. Everybody had to obey the oldest. I had to obey everyone – Patti, Appa, Amma, Vishnu-thatha, Munniamma Mani, Tara, and Rebecca too, although she was not family. Though come to think of it, Georgie was the oldest, and if inanimate things were to be counted, Victoria Villa was older than my grandmother. Like old people, it groaned and moaned with the changes in its seasons. It possessed a voice of its own – a creaking, whining one. Often I pictured the house as a living thing and I swear I could see the cracks on its skull, blisters on its hands and feet, an old smell issuing from its aged flesh, almost like bad breath, and its skin completely dried out.
I should have feared the worst, therefore, when Appa started messing around with the storeroom on the first floor. It had been untouched all these years. Piles of old things lay on the corridor outside and Mani and Amma were sorting them out, putting them away in cardboard boxes: Before, Before and more dusty Before. Old dust smoked the air. Tara sneezed; I wiped my nose.
Amma found an old threadnet bonnet. S
he perched it on her head, and posed with her hand upon her waist. ‘See, I look like Elizabeth Gibbs.’
‘You look ludicrous.’ Appa laughed.
To which Amma promptly replied, ‘Say no more I pray. Am fine.’
I found an old leather belt with a brass buckle. I wrapped it around my waist. ‘Appa, I can keep this?’
Just then Patti called out to Mani. I could hear her come up the stairs, muttering. ‘Here you are, Mani,’ she said from the top of the stairs. ‘I have been calling out to you. Have you got ears or buttons? Who’s going to cook lunch eh? Go down to the kitchen right now. And Mallika you go help him. And feed that dog. He has been barking and whining all morning.’ Patti smacked her hands hard and Amma and Mani scuttled down the stairs. Now Patti’s eyes swept across the corridor and rested on the mess on the floor. She strode up to the Appa, her hands on her hips. ‘What are you doing Raman? One day you are at home and you make this awful mess.’
‘Look, this room must have been a bathroom. The floor and walls have stone tiles, and look,’ Appa pointed inside the room, ‘there is an old chamber pot, a washstand and a tin tub.’ He looked up at Patti’s stern face and said firmly, ‘I am building a bathroom here. Siva is starting school soon. It will be more convenient.’
A silence fell between Patti and Appa signalling a quarrel. Patti would soon be terribly angry. I knew the language of her eyebrows: menacingly arched, the hair on them taut and upright. And Appa would have his way in the end. He had that look in his eyes. I didn’t want to be in the midst of their impending squabble. The belt clutched in my hand, I sprinted down the stairs and out of the front door to the garden. I sat down on the stone bench and looked closely at the belt. The buckle had a symbol on it: three Ts joined at the bottom, and between them the letters E I C. Then I heard Patti’s raised voice, and Victoria Villa sighed in the wind, its breath sour.
However, despite the groaning and moaning, creaking and whining, and Patti’s precariously arched eyebrows, by the end of the month the bathroom was ready. Appa had it fitted with a blue washbasin and a mirror above it. The commode was blue too. When Appa pulled the flush the water in the commode was sucked away. Then the tank gurglegurgled and filled up the commode with water once more.
IF YOU LOOK FOR ME, I AM NOT HERE Page 7