Rebecca and I went out into the garden at the back. Rose-aunty brought two wedges of watermelon on a plate and two glasses of Coca Cola. She left them on the table on the veranda and went back into the house. Rebecca reached for a wooden box under the table. She opened it and removed a thick glass object with a steel handle. ‘This is a magic glass. Daddy gotitforme.’
Rose-aunty called out, ‘Don’t jumble your words Becky. Speak properly.’
And Rebecca said: ‘Look. Through. It. It. Makes. Things. Bigger. Nearer.’
I looked at the glass of Coca Cola through the magic glass. I could see droplets of water jumping above the foam of the Cola Sea. I drank up the Cola Sea in one long swallow. I looked at the watermelon wedge through the glass. I could see its pink skin and thread-like flesh that held the red juice. The seeds looked like big beetles with a white moustache. I ate up the juicy flesh, spitting out the beetles. Then I lay under the peepal tree and looked at its bark. It looked like crocodile skin. The tree trunk looked bigger and closer and I could see the greenbones of the big leaves. I looked up at the sky.
‘Siva! Don’t do that!’ Rose-aunty came rushing out and snatched the magnifying glass from my hand. She took a piece of paper from the table and placed the glass over it until the sun’s splinter went through and made a glowing dot on the paper. The dot turned yellow, and then brown and then whoosh, it caught fire. ‘Don’t play with the magnifying glass in the sun,’ Rose-aunty said, ‘it will burn you.’ Rose-aunty set the glass on the table. ‘Come and help me in the kitchen,’ she added and went back into the house.
When Rebecca turned to go Tara put the magnifying glass into my pocket.
In the kitchen Rose-aunty was dicing chicken into cubes. ‘Here Rebecca, you do this,’ she said, ‘and Siva you chop the onions and tomatoes.’ I had never chopped onions before. I had only chopped one half of the onion and tears were streaming down from my eyes. Rose-aunty laughed. ‘Let me do that,’ she said. ‘You chop the tomatoes.’
When the chicken, onions and tomatoes were cut and the ginger and garlic had been ground into paste Rose-aunty brought down a bottle of curry powder. She heated oil in a pan and fried the onions with ginger, garlic, curry powder and the tomatoes. Then she added the chicken, a pinch of salt and water, and let it cook. Rose-aunty and Rebecca ate the chicken curry with rice dyed yellow by turmeric. I had the gravy with rice. I didn’t eat the chicken: Patti had told me it was sin to eat meat.
Up in her room Rebecca emptied a plastic bag on the bed. There was an assortment of things: hair clips, a fancy brooch, a box of felt pens, a sketchbook, a doll with shiny blonde hair, a sky blue frock, a big atlas. Then I noticed a big fat pen. I picked it up; it had no nib or a lead point.
‘It’s a pointer,’ Rebecca said. ‘Daddy uses it to point at the board when he is giving a lecture.’
‘Why doesn’t he use his finger?’
‘Daddy’s finger doesn’t glow, stupid.’ Rebecca took the pointer from me, twisted the top and pointed at the corner of the ceiling. I watched the red light dot wriggle updown on the ceiling. Then she put the pointer in her mouth and grinned like a redmouthed demon. ‘Look, I am my mother,’ she said.
I grabbed the pointer and shoved it in my mouth. Tara yelped with glee. ‘Where did your father get this?’ I asked.
‘LA.’
‘Where’s that?’
Rebecca opened the atlas and flicked the pages. She pointed to a map. ‘Here. In. U.S.A.’
I took the atlas from her and pretending the pointer to be a plane I flew dot-dot-dot through it from Machilipatnam all the pages away to LA. ‘Can I keep the atlas and the pointer for some days?’ I asked.
‘You can’t. Daddy will be angry,’ Rebecca said. She snatched the pointer back. ‘The light will die.’
‘What does your father do?’
‘He’s a specialist. He works for a thinktank.’
I imagined a large fishtank with multicoloured thoughts in it. ‘Where is his thinking tank?’
‘U.S.A. And granny works for a NGO.’
‘En-Gi-O?’ I spelled the word.
‘No, stupid. N.G.O. It’s an office that does all that the government pretends to do.’
Rebecca picked up the doll, held it to her chest. ‘Let’s play Pretend,’ she said. ‘You’re the boy and I’m the girl. We get married and this is our baby. You go to office and I’ll cook and clean the house. And when you come home tired in the evening I’ll feed you nice food, okay? And then one day I’ll die and you will be left alone. So you will go to office and come home in the evening and cook and clean the house and look after our baby.’ She pointed to two corners of her room. ‘This is our home and that will be our office. Come, let’s play. It will be fun. I’ll get some food from the kitchen.’
No sooner had Rebecca left the room than Tara pulled the blue frock over my head and slipped my arms through its sleeves. She buttoned the frock and tied the sash tight around my waist. She pirouetted round and round, her arms stretched above my head like a dancer.
Rebecca rushed in through the door with a plate of leftovers. ‘Why are you dressed in my frock? Takeitoff. Takeitoff.’ She set the plate on the bed. ‘Takeitoff right now.’ She clutched the frock and tried to yank it over my head. It ripped. ‘Now look what you made me do.’
I took the frock off. ‘I don’t want to play,’ I said.
‘If you don’t want to play, then go to your home.’
‘Okay, we play. What do I have to do?’
‘I’m the mother and…’
‘Do you miss your mother?’
‘No. I didn’t like her.’
‘How can you not like her?’
‘Cos she left me.’
‘But you told me it was an accident.’
‘Mama could have stopped it.’
‘You can’t stop accidents. Patti told me. They are waiting to happen.’
‘Mama’s accident was not waiting. She made it happen.’
‘Come down both of you,’ Rose-aunty shouted from the bottom of the stairs, ‘I have to go to Sunshine Home. I’ll buy you ice-cream.’
Soon we left for the market. The ice-cream parlour was not far from Ranga’s flower shop. The old tables and benches outside were painted in bright green-and-red watermelon stripes. The sign on the shop read:
Pinto’s
Juice / Ice-Cream Centre
And below, underlined:
No Water Pure Juice Only and
No Ice Pure Ice-cream Only.
Rose-aunty got us chocolate ice-cream cups. ‘Now wait here,’ she said and walked down the street towards Sunshine Home.
‘Look, there is half-and-half,’ Rebecca said. ‘The girlboy.’
‘Girl-boy?’ I looked down the street and saw Sweetie-Cutie.
‘Yes. She is both girl and boy.’
‘How?’ I remembered asking Munniamma but she hadn’t told me.
‘Cos she was a boy first but became a girl.’ Rebecca held my hand and pulled me across the road to Yusuf’s Pet Shop. It sounded like a forest come alive: birds chirped, a lone eagle let out a cry, a parrot tapped its beak against the cage, tak-tak-tak, kittens and puppies whined, mice scrambled, and the fish, soundless, made squishy movements in the water. Yusuf-uncle was nowhere to be seen.
Rebecca opened a cage, and one by one the birds flew into the sky. ‘Birds should be up in the sky, flying, not in cages,’ she said. ‘Look, they’re so happy.’ She looked at the fish in the large tank. A goldfish made fishmouths at her. ‘They seem happy. Let the fish be. Let’s go.’ Rebecca held my hand and ran down the street.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the palmreader. There he is.’
‘What’s a palm reader?’
‘He can tell what’s going to happen to us.’
‘I thought only God can do th
at.’
‘He’s the Playing-God man then. Come on.’
The Playing-God man was matchstick thin and his face was worn-out. Coloured charts were fixed on the wall behind and on the ground in front of him were charms of many kinds. He looked up at us and exhaled with a hiss. He seemed to me as though he was dying.
Do Gods die? It was an important question and it needed to be addressed. For the sake of the flowers, trees, insects, animals, Amma, Appa, Patti, Vishnu-thatha, Rebecca and Tara. Tara was dead on this earth but alive in Para-dies. If God died what would happen to her? Miss Lobo, my schoolteacher had told us what B.C. and A.D. meant: Before Christ and Anno Domini, which is Latin for the year of their Christ. She also told us that Christ was born in the year 4 B.C. How could He be born four years before He was born? Christians weren’t good in maths. More importantly, was there an ADC? After the year of Christ? However, this was for the Christians to worry about. I should be concerned with the fate of my Hindu Gods. But theirs was a complicated life: they kept being born in different avatars. What would happen when all the avatars were over? Patti said: what is gained depends on the path followed, which meant if you lived your life properly you would forever stay in heaven and not be reborn. Did the Hindu Gods not live their lives properly? Miss Lobo always said, Practice before you preach. But the Hindu Gods seemed only to preach, preach, and preach. As to the Muslim God, Allah, I didn’t know much about Him since I hadn’t seen any pictures or idols of Him. He must be shy. He didn’t Himself preach, perhaps for the same reason. He had a messenger, Mr Muhammad, who did all his talking for Him. Gods should belong to the world of Grey Areas, since nothing definite is known about them. But for them everything was either right or wrong; things were one or the other. They sat in judgement and made drastic decisions and for Them there was no question of a probability.
‘Tell me who I’ll marry.’ Rebecca’s words interrupted my thoughts. The Playing-God man sneezed; he pinched his nose between his fingers, blew hard and wiped his fingers on the sleeve of his shirt. Rebecca held my hand and pulled me down beside her. ‘Him? Will I marry him?’
The Playing-God man looked at me and smiled, showing all his crooked teeth. ‘I am sure you will marry him.’
‘See, I told you,’ Rebecca said, ‘I’ll marry you and we’ll have a baby. And...’
Behind us Tommy-uncle laughed out loud. ‘Well, well, well, little Miss Coelho. You do have plans for your life!’ Then he turned to me. ‘Young man, don’t ever forget what Yul Brynner once said: Girls have an unfair advantage over men. If they can’t get what they want by being smart, they can get it by playing dumb.’ Tommy ruffled my hair, ‘Confucius,’ he said and walked away.
I saw Swami crawling toward us with great speed. Rebecca stood up urgently, and holding my arm, ran out into the street. Swami screamed after us: Bastard. Bitch.
Rose-aunty was waiting outside Pinto’s. ‘Where were you? I told you to wait here. What were you both doing?’ she asked.
‘The palmreader said I’ll marry Siva,’ Rebecca said.
Rose-aunty laughed. ‘There’s a lot of time for that. Come on, let’s go home.’
I could not get the question off my mind. ‘When will the Gods die?’
‘Gods don’t die, child.’ Rose-aunty patted my head. ‘They live in our minds forever.’
‘What happens when we die? Do the Gods die then?’
‘Of course not. They wait for other children to be born and then reside in them.’
‘Like a ghost?’
Rose-aunty laughed. ‘Maybe.’
I inscribed a cross upon my chest. Now I understood why Miss Lobo said ‘In the name of the Father, the name of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ I must remember to address my letters to Tara as Georgie (Holy Ghost), I decided.
Mani was waiting for me at the gates. Rebecca turned to me. ‘Willyou cometo myhouse tomorrow?’
Rose-aunty said, ‘Don’t jumble your words, Becky.’
‘Will. You. Come. To. My. House. Tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And. We. Will. Play. A. New. Game. Of. Pretend.’
‘Who. Will. We. Be?’
‘God.’
Rebecca screwed up her nose. ‘But. I. Don’t. Know. How. To. Be. God.’
‘It’s easy,’ I said, ‘first we will make people and then decide which people should live and for how long.’
12
The Gods had other plans for me. They had a great sense of timing: Perfect. Machilipatnam seethed with dark, uncontrollable forces. A dry wind raged across the land. Red dust, dried leaves and bits of paper flew up in the air. Birds flew in loops and for one split moment a frozen silence hovered over Victoria Villa. Then the wind seethed once more, and the windows flew open like bookpages in the wild wind.
I stepped out onto the veranda. Two squirrels scurried across the porch. A crow crashed into a windowpane. Its beak fell open and for a moment I could see the deep hollow of its throat, freshpink. Then it fell to the floor, dead. My ears buzzed, my head spun and I fainted. When I came to I was curled in bed, my knees pressed against my chin. I trembled and sweated profusely. Dr Kuruvilla was feeling my pulse. He was very tall and, despite the heat, as always he was dressed in a loose suit and a narrow tie. Patti and Appa were standing behind him.
‘He’s been sick all week,’ Patti said. ‘So much vomiting, poor boy, he can’t keep any food inside him. Not even water.’
‘Did he eat anything outside?’
‘Only ice-cream from the market,’ Patti replied, ‘and that a week ago.’
‘Wholly possible.’ The doctor shook his head to and fro. ‘He’s hot and he’s shivering. He’s vomiting. Perfect symptoms.’
Appa intervened. ‘Do you think what I think it is?’
The doctor nodded. ‘It’s wholly possible.’
‘So it is malaria.’
‘Yes.’ The doctor took some medicines out of his bag and gave them to Appa.
‘Go, work with your mosquitoes and fill the house with the parasite,’ Patti screamed at Appa after the doctor left. ‘It’s because of you that Siva is sick.’
Mosquitoes whined in chorus around my room. Moonlight stroked Patti’s darned mosquito net under which I lay trembling. Appa rubbed my forehead with eau de cologne, pressed a cold towel on my forehead and made sure I had my medicine. Appa was home early every evening. Vishnu-thatha came to see me, and so did Rebecca and Rose-aunty. Rebecca gave me her atlas and the pointer. I put them under my pillow. Tara was with me, now and then. I pointed at her with the pointer. Red in my eyes.
Are you goin to die?
Maybe.
Then come here.
Are there fairies with lights in their eyes?
No.
And the Gods?
What gods?
Patti said you are with the Gods.
Didn’t see ‘em.
Not even Jesus?
Who?
He is the God who speaks English.
***
Tara, are you there?
I moved the pointer across the room. Red dots, but nothing else. I got the magnifying glass from my desk drawer and tried to look for Tara with it. She was gone, like she had gone away the first time at the lake. She swallowed water, more water, sank to the bottom and closed her eyes. She had left me once more. I was half of myself again. I left the pointer on until all its light was gone.
***
The fever had gone down but I was still weak. Munniamma gave me all the news in town; Vishnu-thatha and Appa did too. Kuttan had gone to Dr Kuruvilla with high fever, almost 104 degrees. The chakka-man was covered in sweat, his eyes were swollen and he was barely conscious. Some days later Kuttan was found dead under the chakka tree. Flies swarmed all over his face. The jackfruit that he had cut in the morning lay exposed on the cart. Its sweet smell clung to the hot air mixed
with the foul smell of death. Within a week of Kuttan’s death, Dr Kuruvilla’s clinic was full of patients complaining of high fever, nausea, vomiting, sweating and fatigue.
Already, in the other parts of the town there were reports of 140 deaths due to malaria; an epidemic had broken out in some of the villages in the district. The newspapers reported the numbers of the dead, but not their names. Each day the numbers increased on the front pages under the simple heading: Malaria Victims. The deadly plasmodium falciparum malaria parasite was the cause. In the 80-bed Civil Hospital in Machilipatnam, there were more than 400 malaria patients from all over the district. They lay on mattresses, reed-mats and sheets on corridor floors, verandas, under stairways, and on landings. Surveillance workers went house-to-house and field-to-field, spraying DDT. The district administration called for special medical teams from Madras equipped with microscopes and rapid diagnostic kits. They too went house to house, to collect blood samples. Health officials gave out free malaria drugs.
Vishnu-thatha made insecticide-treated nets at the Victoria Dyes factory, dying them with natural pigments, and distributed them for free. Appa toured the district with his team. In every village he visited, chimneys belched carbon-coloured smoke into the air and open sewage drains gushed into the ponds nearby. Buffaloes waddled through the slush with crows perched on their backs. Mosquitoes fed on swampy waters and bred. Invisible to the naked eye, the new parasites simmered. Appa brought samples back with him.
Each day Patti boiled turmeric roots in a large iron pot with sea salt, and at dusk she sprinkled the yellow brine inside and outside the house. One evening, when the fever had gone, I sat on a stool on the veranda watching Patti carry out this routine. It was still early but surprisingly Appa drove through the gates. He stepped out of the car and asked Patti what she was doing.
‘Turmeric keeps mosquitoes away,’ Patti said.
IF YOU LOOK FOR ME, I AM NOT HERE Page 12