by Anubha Mehta
I waded toward the edge of the dark garden. Menacing shadows lingered behind me, threatening to catch up. But I kept walking. The wind whimpered, moaned, and then screamed for attention, for allegiance. But I kept walking.
I had reached the mouth of the lake. The lakeside boulders lay awkwardly exposed with webs of green weed. The dark waves submissively obeyed the wind’s commands to retreat back into their murky depths.
A heavy blanket of stillness descended from above, and with it came a stench of rotting carcass. I knew Gayatri had arrived. I retched. The wind screeched a battle cry as it charged toward me from across the lake, wrinkling its surface irreversibly. The wind pushed me down with a jolt, tore through my hair, scratched my chest, and then stabbed at my belly. But I ignored the pain and stood up. I called out again.
“Gayatri, show yourself….”
A sharp gust picked me up, and suspended me in the air momentarily. “Maaayaaa….”
Was that the sound of the wind? Yes, it was the wind … it was talking to me. The wind was Gayatri!
I couldn’t feel my heart anymore. Her frosty hands were around my chest. I turned to go back to the warmth of my room. As the moonlight passed through me, I saw that my shadow was missing. Gayatri was following me.
“Maaayaaa….” her words were a fading sigh.
I turned around to face her once again. I had resolved not to break down. “I understood your pain,” I cried out. “And I reunited you with Sachin. But what did you do? You took away everything from me!” I was proud that I had the courage to finally speak up.
A surprisingly pleasant musky smell surrounded me. It was a childhood smell of the first rain that kissed a hot parched earth under the mango groves of Ma’s house.
A moonbeam escaped from behind a passing black cloud and reflected off the silver thread of her dress, creating small snowy butterflies that fluttered around us. She smiled. The smell of blue hyacinth and lavender sweet pea flooded my senses.
I suddenly understood that forgiveness was the key, not revenge. I had had to learn to forgive Gayatri for all the havoc that she had caused in my life, just as she would have to forgive people who caused her harm. The wind was whispering now, and as it caressed my skin, my body started to feel warm again … I wanted to reach out to her; she had loved music as I did. As Sachin did. As now my daughter and even Albert did.
Suddenly, Anernerk’s words came to me: “The wild love from an ancient land flows in the blood of youth. Let the darkness guide you to revival in a new life.”
Perhaps she could be at peace now that she was reunited with Sachin. But how could I be at peace? What good was my life without love, without Veer?
Gayatri read my mind. She entered my head. I started spinning. I knew she intended to empty my mind of all painful questions, all doubt. And I couldn’t stop her. I felt light. I was floating. I could see the chipped shingles of my roof. I could see the empty bird nest on the tallest oak. I could see the lake swell on its edges under the summoning of dark clouds. I could remember nothing anymore. I could only feel. I felt her pain and then her joy. And I felt my anger and then my love for Diya. I felt Diya’s anxiety and Veer’s helplessness and then their love for me. The grass under my toes was no longer cold. I lay my face on the earth and waited for the giddiness to subside.
Gayatri was circling above me and there was a glow behind her head. She was smiling, the same riveting smile she had in her photograph, the first time I had seen her.
The wind had stopped blowing. I detected the smell of mint and melting chocolate. I tasted something sour and my lips tingled with its fizz. Champagne. And then something crisply sweet. Strawberries. Wild and fresh as they grew at the edge of our garden in summer. Two snowy butterflies landed on my shoulders and followed me as I finally reached the safety of my room.
I slipped under Veer’s side of the bed, under the warmth of his eiderdown. Through the open window, I looked back one last time. There was a soft white glow behind the rising cold mist where Gayatri had stood.
***
If it wasn’t for the open windows that blew in the night storm, I would have convinced myself that I had imagined it all. Yet, when I woke in the morning, I was in the same position on the sole upholstered chair facing the garden that I had slid into the previous night. I had not moved an inch. Or had I?
I went outside and sat under the stone angel statue with a bag of birdseed, debating with myself about the events of that night. The sun was flirting with the passing clouds and occasionally smiled on our patch below. Winter had passed; spring was almost here.
I looked up at the towering stone angel above my head. His wings were ready for flight, to take me where I wished. His eyes were kind and his face was serene. His long bulky robe tumbled passionately on to the remains of a wildflower bed spouting over green fungi water. Thick green moss had comfortably colonized each crevice, fracturing the angel’s joints. I wondered whether after all these years that we had sat under his embrace and reflected on our trials and tribulations, on our passions and our endurance, our little pleasures and big setbacks, whether, through it all, the angel really cared about what happened to us. Or would he just stand there lifeless and for every family and every life that passed under its wings?
I looked behind the angel’s robe. And, underneath the dripping water from the angel’s robe sat our doves. Dipping their beaks to plump each other’s feathers, these love birds were in perfect harmony today.
I dug my fingers into my pockets with the hope of pulling out the leftover stash of seed. I slowly walked over to them with my palm extended. They did not flutter. The first one flew to the edge of my palm and balanced himself on it. Then he bent his head and picked up a red millet speck. I looked over my shoulder for the other dove. Where had she gone? She was here just a moment ago. That was odd. So I walked slowly to the bench and sat down again.
The wind started. It became stronger and gustier. Loose mud, dry snow, some plastic bags, bits of garbage from the lake’s edge, and a few dead leaves started blowing furiously my way. Was this another storm? Surprisingly, the dove did not fly off to look for his mate. I looked up at the sprinting clouds. A newspaper flew my way and crashed onto my face. It was crumpled and smelled of wet earth. I squashed it in my palm to roll it into a ball, but something in bold black ink caught my eye: Southern man with miracle green thumbs.
Something stirred inside me. A hint of familiarity, a nostalgic thread. I carefully opened its seams and ironed out the damp, torn page on my lap. But the wind was too strong. It escaped from between my fingers and flew high in a whirl above my head. I jumped to catch it, but it was too high. Another gust of wind blew and hurled the paper under the angel’s wing. It was stuck. I ran and grabbed it. I looked up at the angel. He was smiling, and on his other hand was perched the missing dove. She called out to her mate, and he joined her. I ran inside to read it.
Southern Man with Miracle Green Thumbs.
In the barren arctic, a Southerner has been able to grow season vegetables to feed himself and the small community of.... Miracles do happen.
I scraped at the smudged ink where the paper had torn. Then I carefully laid it under a table lamp and then under a magnifying glass. Nothing helped. I could not tell what was next.
I looked out into the garden again. The storm had passed. The angel was looking like stone again, and the doves had flown off. But I knew their secret now. No, our angel was not made of stone; he had a heart, and, along with the doves, he had shown me the path.
I got out a pen and a pad and started writing a farewell note to Diya.
46.
THE TRAIN TO TUKTOYAKTUK was cold and fast like the arctic storm. The harsh beauty of the rugged boulders and peaks gave me courage, and the gentle tempo of the glacial rivers gave me much needed solace. Majestic grazing caribou and hulky moose reminded me of how one can be connected even in isolation.
> I knew I did the right thing by not calling Diya before leaving. She would never have let me go. So I had left my note on Veer’s desk, which would be the first place she would look.
I reflected on its words.
Dear Diya,
Please don’t be upset with me. I have to go back to find out the reason for this incompleteness in my heart. I have to look for him and know for sure. Nourish the studio—it is yours to keep as long as you desire. Let William know that in another world, maybe — but not in this one. He will understand. Take it easy with Albert. He is special, but you are more special. I will see you soon. I know you will forgive me and, more importantly, you will understand.
The train was slowing down, and I picked up the same small luggage that I had brought with me the first time.
No amount of preparation could have ever acclimatized me to the sharp knife of frigid coldness that stabbed my face, even though I had been here before, and knew to expect it. With shaking hands, I grabbed the railing of the compartment and stepped onto the slippery platform.
A distant jingle was all that it took for me to know what to expect next. But it was not Aippaq. It was a younger man who led me to the sleigh. He came towards me and shook my hands in a way that brought back some circulation.
Within minutes we were flying on the snow. Just as we passed the Inuksuk and the huts came into view on the horizon, the young man spoke. “Are you from the South too?”
“Yes, south of Algonquin, from Ontario,” I said. His eyes widened.
“Just like him. He said the same thing…. How strange…”
“Who?”
There was no reason to raise my hopes just yet. Maybe there were others who had visited after the avalanche. I had read about the increasing amount of research that was happening in this area because of global warming. But he stumped me. “He who has magic green thumbs.”
“Who?” I asked again, still forcing myself to be calm, but this time with a racing heart.
“They say that he was carried by the wolves and then left for dead … but no one really knows. When our elders found him, he was gone. They brought him back to see his spirit circle over his head for several days. My uncle Aippaq looked after him. He was broken from the hip, but my uncle calls him the brave one. He learnt so much from the herbs that healed him, that now he lives from the earth and…”
“…And feeds the village.” I completed his sentence. He looked up at me surprised.
“Stop!” I shouted. He stopped the sleigh. I grabbed this young boy by his arm. “Take me to him—now!”
“What? Now? It is already getting late.” He looked up into my eyes, and saw my urgency.
We were back on the sleigh with the cutting wind on my face. But I did not feel anything. We crossed a frozen, treeless zone and then patches of evergreen trees. Scattered muskoxen and a few arctic foxes cautiously watched us from the edges.
The young musher was showing me the silky white plumes of arctic cotton and vibrant purple flowers of the arctic saxifrage shrub. But I was not looking.
We had reached the foot of a frozen lake. A bonfire at the entrance of a gated village rose high to spread its warmth. I started running. My foot slipped, but I stood up and started again. I could not stop. A group of men huddled around the fire looked up at me curiously. I recognized one of them. Aippaq!
“Maaayaaa!” His voice was an echo.
“Why did you not tell me?” I cried. He came towards me and steadied my body by holding my arm. “Why?” I screamed, this time livid.
“Because he told me not to….”
“Why?”
“Because he said he was repenting for past sins.”
“Past sins,” I repeated. So Veer was paying for past sins, sins that were not his.
“… And because I knew that true love would follow….” Aippaq said this under his breath, but I heard him clearly.
He walked with me a few steps and then let go of my arm. I raised my head to focus in front. There was a greenhouse of sorts and inside a fiesta of colours, shrubs, edible-looking greens And in front was a silhouette, not so tall and brawny anymore, with shoulders that were much less broad. His back was bent like the stencilled tree that had braved the storm, and the same forehead tapering into a widow’s peak peeped through a mass of silver hair falling over smiling hazel eyes.
I came closer. His eyes sparked and then filled with tears.
The sky opened up, its emerald green sheen pulling us with a divine magnetism. All I could hear was quiet sobbing from Aippaq, or maybe it was me. I could not tell.
Veer took a step forward with a crutch under his arm and fumbled. Then he threw away his crutch and opened his arms wide.
My feet carried my soul into his embrace. I did not feel incomplete anymore. The wind had started blowing again. But there was no whisper. We were free.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is dedicated to my childhood friend, my soul mate, with whom I have laughed, cried, lived, and died every day, without whom life would only be a road trip, not a celebration.
And to a most beautiful mother who gave me vision, courage, and a lens with magical colours to see the world.
And to all those strong-willed wonders of my world: Mama, our matriarch, who introduced me to a world that lay at my feet, one with endless possibilities. She will always live on with me. Daddy, who did everything logistically possible with the undying hope of improving me, who laughed with me even when I laughed at him. The unconventional, eccentric Siddharth, who graduated from following me to showing me what to follow in his own bohemian vernacular.
Arahant, who grounded me relentlessly and eternally to motherhood, who taught me how to love even through extremities of stress, tiredness, tolerance and anger.
Pritha, my gift, who showed me that not everything that floats needs to be pinned down. She has healed me in ways that cannot be fathomed.
Jolly Masi, my alter ego, my escape into alternate reality, a place of serendipity, dichotomy, unpredictability, and wondrous
confusion. A place where I run free and wild, in the moment and in my spirit. Khoken Dada, who is the reason I made it to the second draft, we will miss you always.
To my lifelong Canadian friends who enveloped me with warmth on the coldest of snowy nights and granted me space to be myself.
To my loyal childhood friends, my fellow conspirators and bearers of all secrets, who did not give up on me even after I left home.
To Inanna Publications and its Editor-in-Chief, Luciana Ricciutelli.
And to all the countless unique individuals who have touched this journey, fired my imagination and preserved my faith in humanity when it was the weakest. With you I have walked these pages to make them real. To you I owe each page.
Anubha Mehta is a Canadian writer and artist who was born in India. With a doctorate in Political Science, and two decades of Canadian public service experience, Anubha has won awards for her leadership work with diverse communities. Her book, The Politics of Nation Building and Art Patronage (2012), was a culmination of years of her research in late 1990s. Her short stories and poems have been published in several Canadian magazines and journals and reflect her travels and life lived on both sides of the globe. She currently lives in Toronto, Ontario. Peacock in the Snow is her debut novel. Read more about Anubha’s work on: www.AnubhaMehta.com.