The Wild Wind

by Sheena Kalayil

  ‘Bye bye, Sissy,’ he said.

  Then he was gone.

  My mother turned to me, ‘Don’t open the door. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Mama . . .’

  But she did not wait. The door closed behind her, and there was silence. I ran to the window from which I could just make out Ezekiel sauntering down the road to the left, with his uneven, lethargic gait, as if taking a leisurely stroll, as if nothing of import had taken place, and just ahead of me, my mother disappearing down the steps to the netball courts.

  My brother was now sucking his teething ring furiously, making little grunting noises. We were alone again. I walked over to his cot. He looked compact, busily rolling from side to side, his bottom oversized in proportion to his tiny body, his tiny fists. It would not be long until my parents returned. My mother with her books and lab coat folded into the basket she used; my father carrying a set of essays against his chest. Often, they would meet at the steps by the netball courts and walk the last few hundred yards together; a chance for them to start their catch-up on the day. As soon as they arrived, my duties were over; I could pass the reins for my brother’s safe-keeping over to them. I would dart out the door, into the light of the afternoon, to meet my friends. That day, however, I knew I would not be allowed to escape so quickly. My mother would have relayed the news to my father; there would be a discussion, not only of Ezekiel’s deception, but of my incompetence and gullibility. Indeed, when they opened the door that afternoon, they were in mid-flow, so intent on their conversation that they continued even as they walked into the house. I willed myself not to hope, but there was a flutter in my chest; surely my father would not be angry with me.

  ‘I never wanted to have him . . .’

  ‘But we need someone . . .’

  ‘He shouldn’t be left alone with the children!’

  ‘We need him,’ my father repeated. ‘Perhaps we can let him make one silly mistake.’

  My mother’s eyes flashed, and she deposited her basket to one side, then turned her back to him, kicking off her shoes and throwing her plait over her shoulder with a furious swipe. There was a silence and then: hello, mol. This was directed at me, as if my father had just noticed me. He patted my head, and I felt my stomach unclench. He did not look angry, only amused.

  ‘Hello, Papa.’

  ‘You had an adventure?’

  I glanced at my mother, and before I could reply, he said, ‘Doesn’t Mama look beautiful in her lab coat?’ and pinched her cheek.

  My mother slapped his hand away, but her mouth had softened. She came towards me, tugged at my plaits, then headed for the bedroom, reaching behind herself to catch the end of the palloo of her sari and tuck it in at her waist. She bent down, her long plait falling to one side, as in one graceful movement she straightened up, Danny now on her hip. My brother shoved his fist inside her blouse and she pulled his hand to her mouth. Then she tilted her head at me, raised her eyebrows at my father and moved to the kitchen. I turned my gaze from my mother to my father. I saw that he was looking down at me, a frown line appearing on his forehead.

  ‘Any appointments to keep?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No important meetings to attend?’

  He opened his arms out, his palms facing me. His expression was serious, but I knew he was teasing. I was usually out of the door in seconds after my parents came home. I did not like to arrive too late for my rendezvous with the boys at the other end of the road. There was a risk that my playmates would move on without me, but it was clear that my father expected me to stay. He held out his hand and I took it, and we sat down on the sofa. I snuggled next to him, my legs folded under me, then reached up to finger the thin gold chain tucked in his shirt, the cross dangling at its end. This he wore, he insisted on telling me, out of my mother’s earshot, because it was a memento from his late father, not for any superstitious beliefs. I leant against him, as if settling in for a story, but knowing that I was only delaying a more serious discussion. His sideburns tickled my forehead, and his hands were gently curved around my elbows.

  ‘Did Ezekiel scare you?’ he asked.

  The question troubled me. Now my father’s voice sounded solemn, his words more portentous than Ezekiel’s ludicrous performance deserved. I thought back. Yes, when I had run out of the house I had been mobilised into action by fear. But my nerves had calmed by the time I had reached the laboratories, I had already begun to have doubts. And not once did any concern for Danny feature in these. I had simply obeyed Ezekiel, just as I would obey a command from my parents, without paying any heed to the implications. I had left my baby brother alone, something I had been ordered never to do. Perhaps I had a chance to mitigate my actions. I felt my head slowly dip down, then up again. My father smiled slightly, but a ripple of sadness moved through his eyes. Whether he was thinking of Ezekiel and his now more tenuous future, or whether he could sense that I was being less than truthful, I could not tell. He patted me on my forearm, kissed me on the forehead. For a moment, I had a close-up view of the open neck of his shirt, the black hair on his chest, the gold cross. Then he cleared his throat and reminded me of my obligations: my baby brother was precious, vulnerable. Yes, I was young to be given this responsibility but, at a few months short of twelve, not that young. And what choice did we have? My mother had been required to return to her teaching duties: the crèche run by the novices in the convent closed after lunch when they had their religious instruction, and when I, fortuitously, returned from my school in town. We each, in our small family, had our contribution to make. Then he smiled, opened his arms wide as if signalling the end of his lecture and freeing me from his embrace, and I slid off the sofa, scampered to the door and out into the sun, grateful that the rebuke had been brief.

  But for some reason that day, no doubt because of the strange events of the afternoon, I had not run full tilt to the end of the road. I stopped just after leaving our house, and turned around. I saw that my father was standing at the window, watching me, as if he knew that he had only delayed – not erased – the effect that Ezekiel’s departure would have on my family. The reflection of the trees on the glass meant that my father’s form was not clear; rather, I saw a shadowy shape wearing a familiar white shirt. He was tall by the window, his head near the top, and as I waited, holding my breath, I saw a movement, a flash as he waved me on. And for years and years later, despite my knowledge that this day in my memory occurred weeks, perhaps even months before the actual event, it was that day which I regarded as our farewell.

  Part One

  1

  WHEN, in the year I was to turn eighteen, I took the train from Philadelphia to a small town an hour away, neither that school campus in Africa nor my parents were in my thoughts. Worries about my own future consumed me. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I loved books, and that I would like to work with them. Beyond that, my ambitions were vague at best, murky at worst. I was in the middle of college applications, and was attending an interview at a small liberal arts institution, one into which I felt I was unlikely to be admitted, and even if I did have such luck, one for which I would need to win a scholarship. But I hankered after an intimate, intellectual ambience, and I had sat the national tests and received excellent scores; in effect, the world was my oyster. I feared, however, that, despite my academic credentials, the interviewer would find me an awkward bumpkin. All through the train ride I rehearsed the answers to the questions I expected to be asked. I had not made this journey before and enjoyed the view as the train chugged rather than sped through the landscape. Next stop but one, miss, said the conductor as he punched my ticket. I got off at a quiet, sleepy station and made my way on foot to the college.

  I had arrived with an hour to spare, intending to while away the time absorbing the atmosphere. I wandered among the criss-cross of paths under the stately trees; the green of the lawns was just becoming visible through the melting snow. The college buildings, covered in ivy buddi
ng into leaf, exuded elegance and learning. Every student I passed looked not only erudite and enlightened, but self-assured, as if they belonged. As the minutes counted down to the time of my interview, I was having grave misgivings; that the buildings and walkways, the lectures and seminars, the professors and their acolytes would chew me up and spit me out. It was with some trepidation, then, that I knocked on the door I had been directed to, but the professor with whom I had the appointment was gracious and welcoming. I had been required to submit a photograph with my application and therefore no more than a quiver of an eyelid betrayed his reaction to my appearance. He showed me around the department before settling me in his office so that we could talk.

  I had imagined a scenario not dissimilar to a job interview, with the professor sitting across a desk, a list of questions in front of him, but we settled in the armchairs positioned in front of the floor-to-ceiling late Georgian window that overlooked the lawn and trees in front of the college building. He had arranged a tray with coffee pot, jar of sugar and milk jug, and he poured out two cups of coffee while we conversed. The essence of the interview, it appeared, was to determine whether I could comport myself in a fireside chat, and I felt both disappointed and faintly ridiculous. I would guess he was not much more than forty; he had done well to secure a position in such rarefied surroundings. His accent was anchored in the East Coast, but harked back to the subcontinent, and it was clear from his name – Professor Sanjay Tharoor – that he was Indian. And so it was not a real surprise when he said after an hour or so – it was clear the question had been weighing on him – that I looked Indian but my name didn’t. I said: my stepfather has adopted me. I was Olikara before that.

  Olikara? He looked puzzled, then beamed. Well, then you must be Malayalee! When I hesitated, he added: like me. I’m Malayalee! He looked me over with renewed interest; he appeared delighted with the discovery, adding, you don’t look like a Keralite.

  Then he cleared his throat self-consciously; perhaps he was worried that I would interpret his comment as a verdict on the scars on my face and neck, scarring which, he would not know, extended to below my shoulder. I smiled to reassure him, and he responded with a grateful duck of the head. He asked: Malayalam parayamo?

  I shook my head, dredging up some words, surprising myself. My mother and I had long stopped speaking to each other in Malayalam.

  Manassilayam. Pakshe . . . I don’t speak much.

  No matter, no matter, he replied, switching back to English. Olikara, he repeated in wonder.

  He appeared to make an effort to resume his bookish tone of earlier. We talked a little more about the projects I had done at school and the courses on offer, about the books I had read when I had prepped for the interview. And then he glanced at his watch. Any questions?

  I shook my head and stood up, and it was only when we were at the door that he said: it’s been nice to meet a fellow Malayalee. If you don’t mind, could I ask where your family is from?

  I told him that my mother came from Kothamangalam but hadn’t visited for many years, not since we had left Zambia nearly six years ago. And that my father was from Ernakulam but had lived latterly in Mattancherry, on the peninsula across from the city.

  Yes, yes, he said, smiling, I know Mattancherry well. When I was a student, my friends and I often took the ferry across.

  And he asked where the house was exactly. He might even know the street. Was it near the hospital?

  I told him that I couldn’t remember. And then, for some reason, I continued, told him that I had not seen my father in those same six years and that I had no idea where he was, that my mother did not talk of him.

  He stilled, his hand remaining on the doorknob, but then he dropped it, and stood looking at me.

  I’m sorry to hear that, he said.

  I shrugged, but something must have shown on my face because he did not move, just stood motionless, looking at his shoes.

  That must be difficult for you, he said eventually, and I did not reply, only noticed as if I had avoided looking at it before, the photo in a heavy frame on his desk, taken in a studio; of the professor with his arm around a woman in a heavy silk sari, one small boy standing next to her, the other on her lap.

  Sissy. Let me do one thing, he spoke suddenly into the silence. Let me make some enquiries. Can I do that?

  Sure, I mumbled, and I continued in the same nonchalant vein as he went back to his desk to take notes. My father would have left Zambia when? Sometime in early September 1978 I would say, I replied. And he studied where? Not sure where in Kerala, a college in Ernakulam I think, but I know he also studied in Aligarh. But he had a degree in history? That’s what he taught but I’m not sure that’s what he studied. And your parents married when? January 1966, I said. And they divorced when? I shook my head.

  No matter, no matter, he said briskly, smiling, but his eyes were troubled; my story was certainly strange and unsettling. It helps that your father used his tharavad, you know, his family name, he said. It’s not common in the Syrian Christian community, is it? I shrugged again, and his smile grew wider as if to mask his discomfort. I’ll make some enquiries, he said, leading me back to the door, and I’ll be in touch – as if we were not talking of my father, but a prime real-estate opportunity.

  I returned to Philadelphia and my mother did not mention the interview. She was not disinterested, more anxious that I would suffer a slight or disappointment if I aimed too high. Furthermore, I wore evidence of what had happened on my person, as if a physical rebuke: a continual, living, breathing reminder. She talked at length while I helped her prepare dinner, unusual for her. She asked about the train journey, commented on the sunshine that we were enjoying, and passed on some news she had heard about a high-school friend whose mother she had bumped into in the supermarket. She must have been waiting for me to interrupt, to supply her with a debrief of my day at the college. But I offered nothing, not wishing to be drawn into any discussion which would reveal the coincidence that the professor I had met was from Kerala, had ascertained that I was as well, and had then offered to seek out my father. And indeed, as the days passed I questioned the wisdom of telling a stranger about those most intimate aspects of our lives.

  I received two letters from the college in the month that followed. I was offered admission and some financial assistance, but by then I was no longer sure I wanted to study there. I had moved on from the idea of post-colonial literature and was now tempted by Italian Studies, something as far removed from anything I had considered before, or which had been considered for me. And why not? The opportunity of spending a year in Rome was enticing. For this, the state college, charging lower fees and, at three hours away allowing me more independence, would be perfectly acceptable. The other letter I received was from Professor Tharoor.

  Haverford, April 10 1984

  Dear Sissy

  It was a pleasure meeting you a few weeks ago, not only because you are a fellow Keralite, but because I enjoyed hearing your views on the works of Rushdie and Naipaul. You certainly showed me a new perspective! It is not often that I make notes of a discussion I have had with a prospective student, but your comments have led me to a new direction for something I am working on. I would be happy to elaborate when we next meet, and I certainly hope to meet you again.

  Regarding the other matter, I can tell you that a George Olikara was registered as a guarantor in a court case against one Raju Kumaresan, in 1978, at the High Courts in Ernakulam. The case extended to three weeks but Kumaresan lost and was imprisoned. After that, I have no information on George Olikara, but I can give you some context to the whole affair. Kumaresan was a former Communist Party activist, who later became a journalist. In fact, I am familiar with some of the articles he wrote and some friends I contacted remember his reports as well. He was stationed for a time in Madras, and later in Bangalore, before he was posted back to Ernakulam. It was on his return to Kerala that he became involved in exposing the corruption in the Communist Pa
rty of India (Marxist). Most significantly, in July 1978, he wrote a report alleging intimidation and racketeering among the inner circle of the Party. This was a very risky decision on his part and it comes as no surprise that a few months after the publication of his report, Kumaresan was put on trial for money-laundering.

  As far as I can gather, Kumaresan comes from a very ordinary background. He has an elderly mother in Trivandrum and two sisters: all illiterate. It is very possible that your father was one of the few people he could rely on. I’m happy also to let you know that Kumaresan secured an early release and left the prison three years later. However, there is no mention of any involvement by George Olikara from that period.

  I hope that this information fills some gaps in your knowledge. Please keep in touch, and if you should accept the offer the college has made, I would like you to come and have dinner with my family.

  Warm regards

  Sanjay

  On reading this letter I did not feel much. I read it with interest, certainly, but also with some annoyance at this reminder of the huge hole inside me, one which I was avoiding contemplating, determined as I was to forge ahead and build my own life. The revelations from Professor Tharoor did not ignite a burning desire in me to track my father down, locate this hero, this loyal friend that it transpired he was. But the other name, Raju Kumaresan, stayed with me and embedded itself in me, so that over the months that followed I whispered it, doodled it, dreamed it. It was as if I would rather invest myself in this man than trouble myself over the other man, my father. I did not speak of it to my mother; she accepted my revised study plans without comment. I did not show her the letter, but neither did I discard it. For, much as I tried to dispel any feelings of curiosity or of intrigue, one question persisted, repeated itself in my head. If his friend had been sent to jail, then his work was done, even if he had been unsuccessful, ultimately. Why then, had he not returned?