‘Rubbish,’ Appa retorted. ‘If it were that simple there would be no need for scientists, would there?’ Appa came up to me and ruffled my hair. ‘You should be resting, Siva,’ he said. Just then the phone in the hall started ringing. Wearily Appa walked through the doors to it. ‘Good evening David. I was expecting your call,’ he said into the phone. Appa often talked to him. His name was David Stevenson and he was the head of the malaria research team in London. ‘Artemisinin and curcumin isolated from the roots of Curcuma longa?’ Appa asked, his eyes round OO’s. ‘David, you don’t mean turmeric?’ Appa laughed as he ended the call. Then he shut himself in the study.
Appa laboured day after day, week after week. He submitted a report to the District Health Department, who set up clinics in every village and town in the region. They were a success and the lethal parasite was soon brought under control. The District Collector’s office organised a special ceremony at the George Gibbs Institute to commend Appa’s work. Patti and I were present at the function. Rose-aunty and Rebecca were there, and Dr Kuruvilla in a suit and tie. Tommy Gonzalves came in late. He looked about him and said, loud and clear, ‘Confucius.’
The main hall was full. There were rows and rows of chairs, all of them occupied. There were journalists, bureaucrats, doctors, local people and surviving malaria patients and their relatives, and their relatives. People sat on the aisles and along the walls. Patti and I sat in the front row in the chairs reserved for us. There was a hush of anticipation all around; only intermittent coughs and the shuffling of feet could be heard until Tommy-uncle sneezed like a pressure cooker once-twice-thrice: Confucius. Confucius. Confucius. It set off some people laughing, and then all was quiet once more.
The District Collector and Appa walked into the room and occupied the chairs on the dais. A photographer took pictures of them, then he turned around and took another one of Patti and me. Patti covered her face with her hands. The District Collector rose from his chair. He turned to the wall behind him and switched on the electric lamp above the picture of George Gibbs. He garlanded the frame with fresh jasmine buds and then turned around to address the crowd. He talked for a long time. He took us on a journey through the country’s history and its problems: British India, George Gibbs’ struggle with malaria, freedom struggle, partition struggle, unemployment and poverty struggle, illiteracy struggle, communal struggle; and the ongoing struggles with floods, drought and disease.
‘I am happy to say,’ he said after he had finished his speech, ‘I have seen a lot in my life, been through a lot, but I’ve not had malaria, and with able scientists like Dr Raman Iyer here I hope to never contract the dreadful disease.’ There was deafening applause. The District Collector sank down in his chair, breathless.
A young man stood up, mentioned the name of the newspaper he represented, asked, ‘Dr Iyer, are some people more prone to malaria than others?’
Appa stood up and spoke into the microphone. He adopted a different voice, confident and authoritative. ‘Pregnant women attract malaria-carrying mosquitoes twice as much as non-pregnant women. Why? Because women who are at an advanced stage of pregnancy exhale 21% greater volume than non-pregnant women. Mosquitoes are attracted to the moisture and carbon dioxide in their exhaled breath. And the abdomens of pregnant women are 0.7°C hotter and they release more volatile substances from their skin surface, allowing the mosquitoes to detect them more easily. Malaria in pregnant women is the main cause of stillbirths, low birth weight, deformities and early infant mortality,’ he said, ‘and here at the George Gibbs Institute we are looking into the use of bactericidal soap to reduce the chemical signals produced by skin bacteria, which help mosquitoes feed on human blood.’
There were more questions; more answers. An old man stood up. He was weak and frail and looked like he was ninety. ‘My wife was ten years younger than me,’ he said. ‘She was not pregnant, no,’ he shook his head, ‘and she had asthma so she could hardly breathe, in or out. Her skin had lost its warmth; it was cold. She died of malaria last month.’ His voice was shaky. ‘Why?’
‘I am so sorry,’ Appa said.
A hush fell through the crowd and stretched until Tommy Gonzalves in the back shouted: Dr Raman Iyer! Hip Hip Hooray! People clapped. Appa and the District Collector stepped down from the dais and walked toward Patti and me.
‘This is my son,’ Appa said.
The old man ruffled my hair. ‘So are you going to become a mosquito genius like your father?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just like Georgie Gibbs.’
***
Amma’s body was covered in sweat and she shivered in the heat. A glassy look came to her eyes. She did not eat much; there was a knot of pain in her stomach, she said. Her breathing was short and laboured, and her skin had gone pale and dry. Munniamma was terribly worried, Patti too. That evening Munniamma found Amma sitting in bed staring fixedly at the window. She rested her chin on her knees which were pulled up to her chest. When she turned to look at Munniamma there was a little scowl on her face, but underlying it was infinite sadness. Her eyes were dark and heavy. Munniamma had never seen such loneliness in a face.
‘What’s wrong ma? I hope you are not coming down with malaria too.’
‘A shadow is following me.’ Amma pointed to the little shadow on the sill. The tamarind tree waved its fingers in the breeze. Then the little shadow came to her, or so Amma said, lay next to her, holding hands, touching eyes, breathing the same breath.
Don’t be afraid, the shadow said, ‘walk to the water, into the water. More water. More water. Sink to the bottom, landscaped by deep shadows and silence, more water, more water until your heartbeat will rise and fall like a leaf detached from its tree. Then it’ll be over.
‘It is over,’ Amma said to Munniamma.
***
Two months after I had come down with malaria I was better, although weak. I had lost a lot of weight. Appa took me to Dr Kuruvilla. There were no patients in the waiting area so we walked straight into the consulting room. The doctor signalled us to sit down. He referred to some papers on his desk and then made notes in a pink file. Dr Jeevan Kuruvilla was the most reputed doctor in town especially because he was foreign-educated. He had long ago returned from Chicago.
I moved uncomfortably in my chair, pressed my knees together and secured a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The bookshelf in front of me was stocked with thick volumes of medical records. But one of the shelves had novels and children’s books. I read the names: Dickens, Hardy, E.M. Forster, Rudyard Kipling, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Roald Dahl. Then I turned to the sidewall on which were fixed two large coloured illustrations of the male and female anatomy. The adjacent wall was adorned with several certificates, all neatly cased in gilded frames:
M.Sc. in Dietetics and Physiology: A study of the relationship between physical activity, dietary factors and physiological disorders in a group of active young men and women.
D.Sc. in Biochemistry: a study of the nutritional content of rice and its link to physiological and psychological dysfunction.
Dr Kuruvilla looked up from his papers, and coughed into his fist. ‘I have to present a paper in Chicago next month,’ he said to Appa. ‘It’s about diet and mental illness.’ His smile widened into a grin. ‘Psychosis is often induced by imbalance in blood sugar level and this is wholly due to our diet. Too much sugar – refined carbohydrates are bad for the brain.’
‘Did you know that meat eaters are more prone to being bitten by mosquitoes?’ Appa rubbed his hands together. ‘Mosquitoes are attracted to lactic acid. Meat eaters are more acidic than vegetarians.’
A smile of discomfort came upon the doctor’s mouth. When he spoke his voice had taken on a degree of sharpness. ‘That may be so, but fish, chicken and eggs provide essential fats to build our brain’s membranes,’ he said. His eyes focussed on a spot on the table. It seemed as though he was attempting to extract something s
ignificant from his memory. Then he turned to me and his eyes grew small and intense under bushy eyebrows that he now twirled with his fingers. ‘So how is he?’
‘He is much better now,’ Appa said. ‘But he is very weak.’
‘If you ask me, it’s all because of the food he eats,’ the doctor said shrugging his shoulders. ‘Too much rice. And too many gourds and pumpkins. And no garlic? Wholly incredible. And all those idlis and dosas.’ The doctor shook his head and clucked, tch tch tch. ‘He should have no rice. He must have lots of milk, cheese, butter, eggs, and of course chicken and juicy fish steaks would be nice. All excellent sources of Vitamin B. But you are vegetarians so the last ones on the list are out. He must eat spinach, tomatoes, peas, cauliflower, and yes, sweet potatoes, excellent source of Vitamin C. Fry them, boil them or roast them, he must eat sweet potatoes. Not rice, not dosas, but sweet potatoes. And eggs, at least two a day.
On Patti’s orders, Munniamma mixed two eggs in milk and forced me to drink it every morning outside the kitchen; Patti had said, No Eggs in the House. She asked Mani to boil, roast or fry sweet potatoes and she insisted that I eat them all day long. Despite consuming sixty eggs in a month I was still thin as a reed.
But Patti tweaked my cheek and said with a smile, ‘Chubby-chiks, rozy lipss, dimple cheen and tith witteen. Aiyes not so bloo, lavaly too, Patti’s pet, is zat eyu.’
13
Not everyone believed in God. Appa did not. When you are older and can think for yourself, it is up to you to believe in God or not, he had told me. Vishnu-thatha didn’t believe in God either. Early tragedy had robbed him of his belief. Appa and Vishnu-thatha had taught themselves to be unafraid. Science was on Appa’s side, and on Vishnu-thatha’s, wisdom of many years. But unlike Appa, Vishnu-thatha was not a practical man: he believed in superstitions.
So did Sister Phyllis, my General Knowledge teacher. She had a lot of knowledge about general matters. She told us about the miracle of Five-Loaves-and-Two-Fish. Jesus had gone on a boat ride. He stopped at some place called Beth Saida. A big crowd of people followed Jesus there. It was a remote place. There were no restaurants and there was nothing to eat except five loaves of bread and two fish. People were very hungry. So Jesus did a miracle. He made the bread and fish into lots and lots of breads and fishes.
Sister Phyllis had then asked us to write an essay about miracles. Remember, she said, coincidence is when God wants to remain mysterious. Miracles are when God reveals Himself. So I did some homework.
Vishnu-thatha: a miracle is when the impossible happens. The impossible rarely happens.
Tommy Gonzalves: It’s like missing the woods for the trees. C.S. Lewis said that the story is written in big letters across the world but some people can’t see it. However, when the same people see the same story in small letters they think it is a miracle.
Appa: The inexplicable to people is a miracle. They don’t have a questioning mind. Science can’t accept miracles.
I had written the essay in four lines: Miracles happen only when you see God. It is impossible to see God. And the impossible is impossible. So miracles can’t happen. People believe in miracles because they can’t read big letters and because they don’t ask questions. Science can’t say Yes to miracles. It knows too much. It has most of the answers.
I thought it was a good essay. Sister Phyllis gave me 1/10. But when I showed it to Appa he said it was good. It was concise, precise and To-the-Point. He gave me 8/10. But I wanted the impossible to be possible. I wanted to believe in miracles. I hoped some day Amma would love me. Miraculously. No big miracle happened, but there were small miracles. At least, I believed they were. Like the old English coin I found in the attic. I showed it to Vishnu-thatha when I went to his house.
‘Keep it safe. Old coins bring good luck,’ he said. ‘They make your wishes come true.’
‘How?’
‘It is an old superstition.’ He held my face with both his hands. ‘Superstitions are necessary,’ he said. ‘They let us Time-Pass our lives. The main thing about life is to know how to pass the time.’
A lot of Time-Passed. Superstitiously:
I didn’t cut my nails at night and I turned away when a cat crossed my path. I tried not to have bad dreams in the mornings. When I sneezed I said, Shiva, Rama or Krishna. I liked to say Krishna since the sound was similar to the sound my sneeze made. I did not hold my hands behind my head, and I didn’t do anything important on a Tuesday. I didn’t bang the door, and when the lizard made a tch-tch sound I tried to think of only good things, as they were meant to come true. I tried to think I was Tara, and then miraculously Amma would love me.
But Amma had reserved her love for others. She had started going to Sunshine Home. It was Rose-aunty’s idea, actually. Rebecca and I had gone to Sunshine Home with Rose-aunty several times. There were a number of handicapped children there amongst the destitute ones. Four of them couldn’t see, and two couldn’t hear. One was crippled, another deformed. Rose-aunty had given the children new names when they arrived so they would have a new beginning. She allotted new birthdays to the children, as they didn’t know their old ones. She celebrated their birthdays with potato bondas, cakes and sweets. She collected all the children together with or without their eyes, ears, legs and fingers. She talked to them about things, places and people. She played music to them. Rebecca and I danced and sang songs for them. Rose-aunty told us that in this way we could soothe them of the fear that arose from being different, which made them feel sad and unwanted.
Priya had come to the Home only some weeks ago. She was an orphan. She had incredibly thick eyelashes, and her eyes were deep and distant, made me think of an entire universe enclosed in a small space. Her given birthday was in a week. She would be five then. On Priya’s assumed birthday Rose-aunty took Rebecca and me to the Home. Amma was at the Home that day. She sat down on the floor in front of Priya and held out a box of pink sweets. ‘Happy birthday Tara,’ she said, looking into her universe eyes. Then she pulled the girl close to her bosom and started humming softly. She held Priya’s finger and put it on the top of her forehead, then slowly ran it over the ridge of her nose, down its tip, over the lips, the chin and all the way down the neck to the hollow under it. Then she curled Priya’s finger into the hollow, sheltered and safe.
I watched them, Tara’s finger curled at my throat.
Time-Passed.
***
It was the Tamil New Year. Tendrils of morninglight, shiny and new, crept through the window of my room. A rooster announced the new morning that set the sparrows chirping. I heard Patti calling out to me, and minutes later she rushed in through the door. ‘Wake up, it’s Chitirai Vishu,’ she said. ‘Wake up, kanna, but don’t open your eyes yet. Keep them shut tight.’ Patti pulled me out of bed, as she did every Vishu, and holding my arm she led me down the steps to the prayer room. She pushed me down on the floor in front of a large mirror. She said, ‘Go on open your eyes, kanna.’
I opened my eyes to see, reflected in the mirror, a silver bowl of rice, bowls of payasam and sweetmeats, fruits heaped on a silver plate, gold necklaces on a silk cloth, a bowl full of silver one-rupee coins and a pile of books.
‘Now look at all the things here, one by one, and soak your eyes with them,’ Patti said. ‘You will be blessed with an abundance of food, wealth and wisdom.’ I remembered Amma speaking the exact same words. It seemed so long ago that she had. Patti held out a parcel of brown paper. ‘Here, take these,’ she said. ‘Appa got you new clothes. After you bathe, wear them. And don’t make a noise. Your father is sleeping. He came back very late in the night.’ She walked to the door and then looking back she said, ‘Now pray to God. Ask him whatever you want.’
‘Him? I pray to him too?’ I pointed at the photograph of Gandhiji.
‘Yes-yes, you must pray to Gandhiji. In a hundred years he will become God.’
So dead people became God? I
mpossible.
‘And this?’ I pointed to the Vacuum-Cleaner-God.
‘Why not?’ Patti said. ‘God resides in everything.’
Things are God? A miracle.
In the light of the lamp I made faces at my reflection. This is an iiii face; this is a yeeee face and this is an oooooooo face. When I was finished with facemaking, I closed my eyes and sent a pictureprayer to Jesus. He was more accessible. I am Tara and Amma’s arms are around me, and she whispers, I love you. Then with my eyes open I prayed to Jesus with my thoughtwords. Let me be Tara. And let Amma love me. Amen. I filled my pocket with coins, stuffed my mouth with the sweets, and then tore the parcel open: a pair of grey shorts and a pale blue shirt. I shut my eyes tight and tapped my brow with my finger. I concentrated hard and imagined my new clothes to be Rebecca’s blue frock.
Up in my room I stood in front of the mirror dressed in my imagined frock. Tara’s eyes stared back at me. Then, willed by her, I ran up to the spare room. Amma was standing by the window. I dashed to her and wrapped my arms around her thighs. I buried my face in the folds of her saree. Ammasmell. ‘Amma, Happy Vishu.’ Strangely my voice was shrill. Was it Tara’s?
Amma’s eyes, bright as ever, stared back at me with a peculiar, fixed intensity. Then she seemed to shudder. ‘Don’t touch me.’ She plucked my arms off her one by one and pushed me away. ‘Don’t call me Amma. I am not your mother. I don’t know who your mother is.’
I started to cry and Tara put her finger on my lips and said ssssh. Then she walked me out of the room, out of the house, out of the gates. Runrunrun – all the way to the lake. I saw someone swimming in the water. The new sky above, above the trees, was rapidly filling up with new morning light. I hid behind a bush and watched.
Sweetie-Cutie hoisted her masculine body out of the water and climbed out, a loincloth wrapped around her waist. Her long hair was loose and her face was without the usual makeup. She walked to the old chakka tree, picked up the towel under it and dried her body with it. Then she plucked her saree and petticoat from the branch where she had hung them, and tied them around her waist. She put on her blouse and adjusted balls of cloth in the cups. She shook out her hair and rubbed it dry with her hands. Then she saw me peeping from behind the bush. ‘How long have you been standing there, princess?’
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