THE WILD WIND
SHEENA KALAYIL was born in Zambia in 1970 where her parents were teachers seconded from Kerala, India. She arrived in the UK aged eighteen and, after graduating, worked all over the world. She has a doctorate in Linguistics and teaches at the University of Manchester. Her debut novel, The Bureau of Second Chances, won the Writers’ Guild Best First Novel Award, and was shortlisted for an Edward Stanford Travel Writing Award – Fiction with a Sense of Place. Her next novel, The Inheritance, explored the aftermath of an ill-fated love affair between a lecturer and his student. She lives near Manchester with her husband and two daughters.
The Wild Wind
Sheena Kalayil
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by
Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.
Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.polygonbooks.co.uk
Copyright © Sheena Kalayil 2019
The right of Sheena Kalayil to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978 1 84697 491 5
eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 221 0
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.
Typeset by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh
I heard their young hearts crying
Loveward above the glancing oar
And heard the prairie grasses sighing:
No more, return no more!
O hearts, O sighing grasses,
Vainly your loveblown bannerets mourn!
No more will the wild wind that passes
Return, no more return.
– ‘Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba’,
James Joyce
For B.K. and S.K., for the growing-up years
Prologue
MY grandfather worked as a groundsman in the Thattekkad Bird Sanctuary in the Western Ghats, a job with security but which had little monetary return. One blessing, there were five sons and only one daughter, my mother, who would need marrying off. Another, the family were given a house set in the sanctuary, within the forest, among the birds. When we stayed there, on our returns to India, I would tape-record the calls of the hoopoes, sketch the pelicans that breakfasted with us, collect bits of bark and leaves for my scrapbooks, compile inventories of nests. These activities enchanted me, whereas they had been the norm for my mother, all through her childhood. She had grown up swimming with her brothers in the river that cut through the hills, with full rein of the sprawling forest, so immersed as to be unaware of the luscious, lush natural beauty of the environs.
I remember one hot afternoon when my mother and I were in the water, in one of the secluded lakes that the river fed. My father was sitting on the banks – he could not swim – and my mother was calling out, mocking him. She was wearing an old nylon slip; it was not the custom, at least then, for women in Kerala to wear a Western-style swimming costume, and the wet cloth must have hindered her efforts in the water, but seemed not to. I swam with her, competently enough, but not like her: ducking under and up, her hair sleek and black against her head, as lissom and lithe as a water creature. When, on her instruction, she and I crept towards my father, grabbed his feet, and then pulled him into the lake, I remember – as he floundered, helpless, on his back in the shallow water – how she swam away, as if to show him both her prowess and how she could leave him high and dry if she wished. And then later, as my mother hid behind a tree, in her underwear, wringing out her slip, my father approached her stealthily to take his revenge. He slipped up suddenly from behind her, and tipped her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. I watched, wide-eyed, as, my mother bumping against him, he ran back to the water to throw her unceremoniously back into the lake. The sight of my father manhandling my mother, of my mother soaring through the air – her bare legs exposed and splayed – upset me; I was only about six years old. I burst into tears, and my parents, mortified, hurried to kneel in front of me, to console me, even as they were both still helpless with laughter. I remember the sight and feel of my mother, half-naked and wet, her hair plastered against her body, holding me tight against her golden skin; and behind her, my father, his arms encircling us both. All of us shaking like jelly, as my parents tried to regain their composure while I cried hot tears of confusion. But then, not long after, it seemed that my fears that my father’s careless antics would harm her were confirmed: my mother fell ill, was not herself, was given a sabbatical from her teaching duties, in order to convalesce. She spent most days in her nightdress, greeting me when I returned from school as if all was normal, but I could see she had not stirred from the bedroom during the day. For many months, perhaps even a year, she was not the mother I knew. But by the time I was eight, nine, she had returned. She regained her energy, moved around the house and beyond with her usual supple grace. She had always had that harmony with her body. When she was in her teens, she learned to dance, as most girls her age were expected to. But she excelled, performed so frequently that eventually my grandfather demanded that she stop; prospective husbands would not look kindly on the fact that she had shown so much of herself in public. My father, thankfully, was not intimidated by my mother’s loveliness, her tomboyish childhood running free with her brothers. He had grown up in Ernakulam, the youngest of a family of four children, then stayed with an uncle in Mattancherry when his parents died. He had left Kerala to study in the north of India, as foreign a territory as if he had moved to another planet. And then he did just that. Plucked his young wife away from the familiar surroundings, left Kerala and took her to Africa.
Then began a life of shuttling between two countries, two continents: from heat and dust, to warmth and quiet. In Zambia, we lived far from the sea, and my parents talked wistfully of it. Back in India, they thought of the open land with nostalgia. We would travel first into the Ghats, to Kothamangalam, so my mother could visit with her parents, both paysans, people of the land, who looked on our arrival with bewilderment rather than welcome. And then on to my father’s uncle’s home in Mattancherry, for a flurry of shopping, of attending weddings delayed for our return, for First Communions and baptisms. It was from there, braving the annoyance our absence would cause, that my father would kidnap me for a day.
He had made it our tradition to travel further south, to the backwaters in Alleppey, to watch the snake boat races. In the intense humidity of the monsoon season, our clothes would be sticking to our backs within minutes of arriving on the banks of the great lake. My father would place me on his shoulders, my legs dangling down on either side of his neck, and I would clutch at his chin, terrified at being so high, but rigid with excitement. From my vantage point, I had an uninterrupted view of the grey water and the long dark canoes, with their raised prows like snakes’ heads, the oars moving in a precise rhythm, the rowers as dark as the wood they sat in. Just as I would draw the birds in the sanctuary, my task was always to draw the boats, later, on the train back to Ernakulam. And after all this time, I still have the prized sketchbook from my young years, with page after page of hieroglyphic-like gashes – the soaring heads, the long dark tails – one of the strongest, tangible reminders I have of my father, and of what we enjoyed together.
On returning to Zambia, a change. The landscape was less exuberant, more su
bdued. The soil was a dusty, humble brown. Here, solitary trees dotted the horizon. The sun was different. Not heavy and blurred, but crisp, dry. Long roads, surrounded on either side by open grassland, space, sky, air. It was as if the land was meant to be looked at and loved, not obscured by a mass of people and a thousand coconut trees. Here, it was the openness that was the beauty, under the eyes of the stars and the sun. And under the sun, we lived in a small pink bungalow, up on a hill, set back from the narrow strip of road, backing onto open bushland and scatterings of trees. A bungalow flanked by mulberry bushes and flame trees, with a front yard of acacia trees and a patchwork of aloes, set in the grounds of Roma Girls’ Secondary School, located on the fringes of Lusaka. Ours was one of eight staff bungalows which stood in a row. Two held South Africans who kept to themselves, one an Irishwoman, another remained empty, and four held families from Kerala: transplanted, as were we, from that slender state into that modest campus. The bricks of our bungalow – rose-pink, a shade which deepened in the dusk – were the palest of the whole row, an aberration that made our home stand out from the others; the front door was blue. Opposite our front yard were the steps leading down to the netball courts. And beyond, low school buildings dotted around a pleasantly green space. Down the hill and through gates, a long thoroughfare began, which fed into the dusty central artery of the city, Cairo Road. Once there, I remember a bustle, shops, and the handsome presidential palace.
I know now that we were living in the middle of something much larger. But a child’s view of the past is faulty, ephemeral. Thinking about the city, the overwhelming memory I have is of the smell of the inside of my father’s car, a book that would keep me company while I waited, the sound of the door being unlocked, and my father returning with a parcel from the post office, a bag of shopping. A glimpse of road signs, the taste of ice-cream, the musty smell of a cinema. Back at Roma: the walk from my house to Aravind’s, Bobby’s back door, the space between the houses and the incline of the hill on the east where a clump of trees offered a hiding place from the adults. The school library with its dark parquet floors; the smell of polish and incense in the small chapel. It was a universe for a child. For my parents, it was a scanty, claustrophobic flyspeck.
I returned home to the bungalow from my school in the city at lunchtimes, but the girls at Roma continued their classes into the afternoon. Until the bell rang to signal the end of their school day, I was obliged to stay indoors. I was to finish any homework I had and take charge of my baby brother, at that time seventeen months old. This entailed coaxing him into his afternoon nap by rocking his cot, usually done with my big toe from my position sprawled on my parents’ bed, a book in my hands. While he slept, I could enjoy my freedom, although the bungalow did not offer much space in which to roam. The living room was separated from the dining area by a low stone wall, and on which sat the television. Two doors, one from the living area, one from the dining area, led to our bedrooms. The kitchen stood in one corner at the end, and the bathroom in the other. From the living-room door we walked onto our terracotta-tiled veranda, then into our yard; but all that was out of reach for me until my parents returned. When my baby brother woke up, we would keep each other company. I would lift him out of the cot to change him, manipulate the large safety pin that invariably pricked my finger, and then place him on a rug in the living room with his box of toys. There, my brother would patiently build a tower with his bricks. Then, when the fancy took him, he would knock them down, watch them tumble with fascination, and start again. My role was to ensure that his tower did not fall too early in the process; a testy toddler would then be on my hands. When I grew bored, I would leave him and take up my position by the window, from which there was a view of the garden, the road and the school below. Occasionally, I would glance over and see that he was watching me, his gaze steady, his tiny limbs tensed in expectation. If our eyes met, he often screwed his face up; it was an opportunity to cry. But if I turned away in time, he would whimper, forgoing a protest.
I was looking out of the window – on my knees and leaning against the back of the sofa, my palms laid flat on the windowsill – the afternoon when Ezekiel fell to the floor, clutching his chest. I had been staring at a trail of ants on the other side of the glass, two of which carried a crumb each, held aloft, I imagined, as an offering for their queen. In the next room, my brother was beginning to make the snuffling sounds that heralded the end of his afternoon nap. As I spun around, I saw behind me Ezekiel. He groaned as he lay there, his face creased in agony; his lean arms were wrapped around his body. He gasped, rolled to his side. ‘Get your mother,’ he whispered. When I didn’t move, he shouted, ‘Your mother!’
I fled. I ran out the door, across our front yard, across the strip of tar that we called a road, down the steps, across the netball courts, and down the next set of steps to the science laboratories. I ran up and down the covered walkway until I could hear her voice. Outside her door, I paused, tried to steady my breathing. I had been instructed never to disturb my parents when they were giving classes; this was the first time I had done so. I peeped through the window and saw rows of girls, sitting at lab benches. Some with their hair cut into halos around their heads, others wearing fine cornrows. The dark green of their uniforms reflected on their skin, so that they appeared almost navy in colour. Rows of navy girls, in green dresses. One looked across and caught sight of me; she giggled and nudged her friend, who waggled her fingers at me. Before long, a dozen faces were turned towards me.
The door opened and my mother stood before me, resplendent in her pristine white lab coat, the folds of her sari peeking from the bottom, her feet in the smart heels she wore for work. As always, her face was dominated by her eyes. Large, with edges that curved slightly upwards, framed by her long eyelashes, and punctuated by her eyebrows arching above like wings.
‘You left Danny alone?’
My baby brother. My blood chilled, and I felt the skin on my scalp tighten.
‘It’s Ezekiel,’ I whispered. ‘I think he’s having a heart attack.’
Now my mother’s eyes flared wide open, and she took a sharp intake of breath, a hand flying to her throat. Her reaction both startled and scared me, and I yelped in response, so that for a few seconds we were mirror images, open-mouthed, staring aghast at each other. Then she opened the door to the lab. ‘I have to go, girls, sorry,’ she said. ‘Please copy the notes on the board and . . .’ But she turned away without finishing her sentence and walked briskly down the walkway, then broke into a jog, holding up her sari so that it swished against her calves. Up we trotted, up the steps, past the netball courts, up the second set of steps, across the road, up the short path to our door, by now our breath ragged, my mother not looking to see if I was keeping up. I cantered beside her, my two plaits bouncing off my shoulders. By now, the urgency I had felt had dissipated, to be replaced by a twinge of unease, for my mother’s agitation frightened me more than Ezekiel’s fall. I remembered how his voice had been strong. How he had been a little aloof through the afternoon, not his usual companionable self. As if he had been plotting. Now, I fretted for myself, for I had broken the code of conduct my parents had demanded: I had abandoned my baby brother.
When we stepped into the living room I saw with relief that Ezekiel was still on the floor; I had not imagined his collapse. At that moment I hoped he was, in fact, dead, but on hearing our steps I saw his body move. He shifted to lie on his side, turned to watch us approach.
‘Madam . . .’ he began. His voice was soft, but even I could discern a slyness, a satisfaction.
My mother stared at him, her cheeks flushed from her exertions, her chest beneath her lab coat rising and falling, her hand again at her throat. And I realised then that all through our rush home she had been full of fear: not for Danny, but for Ezekiel. He seemed to realise the same, because as if to assure her of his wellbeing, with a quick, fluid movement, he sat up. My jaw dropped. I saw his eyes slide towards me guiltily as he slowly stood up
. His ploy was revealed; he had wished to speak to my mother alone, without the presence of my father.
Now my mother moved; she stepped around him and walked across the living room to her bedroom. I saw her leaning over the cot and I trailed behind, peered around her. Danny was awake, playing contentedly with one of his teething rings. When he glimpsed my mother, he made a slurping sound of surprise. My mother reached into the cot, adjusted his bib, threw me a quick glance, and then turned to Ezekiel. Behind us, Danny began to wail.
‘Madam . . .’ Ezekiel began again. ‘I need money, madam. I need an advance.’
His voice was now barely audible above Danny’s cries. He cleared his throat. I stared from him to her, my head turning from one to the other. My mother’s lips were pressed tightly shut. Ezekiel was looking down at his feet, his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes slithered from left to right, and he raised his hand as if to scratch his head, before letting it drop.
‘Ezekiel? Is it for your medication?’
He became suddenly animated, as if the suggestion offended him, and he shook his head vigorously. ‘No, not for medicine,’ he said. ‘Just my girlfriend is troubling me.’
At that moment, Danny stopped crying abruptly and Ezekiel’s words echoed in our small house. I looked at my mother; she looked dumbfounded. I could not but sympathise; much as I was fond of him, I had never regarded Ezekiel as girlfriend material. Eventually, he raised his head and gave my mother a slow, sheepish smile. That did it for him.
‘Please leave, Ezekiel,’ she said.
He did not persist, did not protest, but moved immediately towards the door. When he had pressed down the door handle, he turned back, gave me another small, apologetic smile. His shirt sloped off his shoulders, he stood with one shoulder higher than the other, his whole demeanour oozing untrustworthiness and indolence.
The Wild Wind Page 1