Fern Road
Page 18
A few minutes after he reaches home, Brishti rings. She asks him why he wasn’t in school today, and he says he’ll tell her when they meet tomorrow.
For dinner, Orko and his father go to the dingy restaurant for the third time this week. They’re sharing a bowl of chow mein and a portion of chilli chicken. Orko tells his father that he’s doing well in school now, and that his teachers are pleased with him. This, at least, is true. Then he starts talking about typing school, although he hasn’t been there for weeks now. He says that his typing has hardly any mistakes these days, and that his speed is up to thirty words a minute. He talks about the new friends he has made there, and says that he is going to go play football with them on Saturday. His father merely nods through all of this. When they’re nearing the end of their dinner, Orko falls silent. He’s afraid that the more he speaks, the more lies he’s going to tell his father.
‘Do you intend to wear those to school?’ Nandan asks, and Orko knows that he’s referring to the earrings.
‘Yes,’ he replies.
‘Are you sure you’re allowed to?’
‘Well, all my classmates wear earrings,’ Orko says. ‘Why can’t I?’
His father doesn’t say anything more about the earrings, and Orko wonders if it is because he sees Orko’s point, or if it’s because he doesn’t really care.
‘I hate this restaurant,’ Orko says as they’re leaving. ‘Can we not come here again?’
‘Why don’t you learn how to cook, then?’ his father says. ‘I’m tired of spending my evenings in the kitchen.’
‘Okay,’ Orko says. ‘I will.’
His father is a little taken aback, but he doesn’t say anything.
When they get home, Orko bids his father goodnight and retires to his room. He bolts the door behind him. He doesn’t brush his teeth or change into his pyjamas. He lies in the dark, eyes wide open. He brings his hands to his ears, tracing the earrings with his index fingers. The earrings are delicate; if he isn’t careful, he might bend them out of shape. In the few hours that he has worn them, things have begun to seem just a little different. He feels more confident than ever. He isn’t scared of Bishu, and he isn’t scared of Kaushik. They seem laughably insignificant, and he can’t believe that he allowed them so much power over his life. Nothing seems impossible now. He feels as if he can do exactly what he wants to, without worrying that he’s being too audacious.
He falls asleep, and when he wakes it is still dark. He tries to piece together a dream he had while he slept. He was swimming in the lake; his mother was watching him from a bench on the far shore. She was wearing the saree from the photograph on the refrigerator. He swam towards her, but even as he dreamed, he knew she was unreachable.
It’s a little after four in the morning. Orko silently closes the front door behind him. He descends the stairs swiftly, quietly. When he turns the key in the lock of his bicycle, the spring-loaded shaft recedes into its sleeve with a resounding clang.
He wheels the bicycle down the cobbled path, past the pale green Ambassador in the parking lot, towards the gate. He’s afraid that the caretaker is going to stop him and ask where he is going at this hour, but there’s no one at the gatehouse. He mounts the bicycle and pedals away swiftly. He rides out of their winding lane and onto the deserted thoroughfare. There’s a mild chill in the air. The wind is in his hair, and it whistles in his ears. Before he knows it, he is cycling past the bus terminus and through the deserted market. The footpaths are strewn with yesterday’s detritus – the sheets of newspaper on which the vegetable sellers squatted, with their wares spread around them on old jute sacks; bruised tomatoes that no one wanted; cabbage leaves; the tip of a carrot; the pimpled skin of jackfruit. The grocery shops are shuttered. There’s a milk van, its engine idling, near the back entrance of a sweet shop. A man is asleep by his rickshaw, covered from head to toe in a dark shawl. Orko rides past, his weariness falling away as he gathers speed. The street lights recede in the rear-view mirror; the lanes zoom out, like a scene from a movie.
As he approaches the foot of the bridge, he lifts himself off his seat and squeezes every ounce of energy he has through the pedals until he is going faster than ever. He can hear himself pant, and beads of perspiration trickle down his forehead. He takes a hand off the handlebars to wipe his brow. The momentum bleeds off as he ascends the bridge, but he remains on the bicycle for as long as he can. When it comes to a standstill, he dismounts. He walks up the slope, pushing the bicycle along by his side. At the crest, he lifts it onto the narrow footpath and props it up against the guardrail.
He knows this bridge intimately. He has crossed it on almost every day of his life. It always seemed so grand, so high, teeming with cars and buses and scooters. Now, it is deserted. In the dark, the bridge doesn’t seem as high as it usually does. The lights from the suburban railway station seem closer than he remembers. For a moment, everything seems absurd – this bridge, the railway tracks below, the orange glow of the halogen lamps in the distance. He can’t imagine this scene as being a part of his life. The lone headlight of an approaching train lights up the railway tracks. They shimmer, like luminous snakes beneath the surface of a dark ocean. The train passes, and the tracks are dark again.
Orko drags his bicycle off the footpath and onto the road. The stand clatters against the mudguard as the rear wheel meets the pavement. He mounts his bicycle, glancing at the receding train as it gathers speed. He pedals for all he’s worth, until he himself is going as fast as a train, scything through the crisp dawn.
Past the foot of the bridge there’s a sweeping turn to the left. Orko coasts, catching his breath. The moon is just a few hairs short of full. Drenched in sweat, Orko resumes pedalling, weaving through the alleys of Southend Park, rising from his seat, his calves taut with anticipation. He passes through the gate that leads to the paths around the lake. Soon he is at the ghat where the two boys had been; it seems incredible that it was only yesterday when he saw them here. He props the bicycle up against a tree by the ghat. He strips down to his skin, leaving his clothes in a heap on the steps.
He walks gingerly to the water’s edge. He is completely naked, like the girl in his mother’s notebook. He curls his toes around the edge of the embankment, hesitating, for just a moment, before leaping into the dark water.
Acknowledgements
Fern Road is a story I have thought about for more than twenty years. Although it is short for a novel, it has taken me close to five years to write it. It would not exist if not for the good people who have helped me along the way, and I thank each one of you.
Nazes Afroz and Venkat Srinivasan – you were among my first readers; your words of encouragement and the corrections you made to the prose have remained with me through this journey.
Jia, Malini Bhattacharya and Avijit Kundu – you have patiently read several iterations of mangled prose, and your observations helped me arrive at an important decision about the direction of the story.
Meheli Sen – you were among the first to read the finished draft, and your comments about the end helped improve it.
Julian Welch – your edits on the final draft were invaluable.
Sampurna Chattarji – you are an inspiration. The support I have received from you and your family have kept me going when I struggled to find the energy.
Ruchira, Antara and Tara – I was able to write this story only because I live with people like you. Sorry for being such a grouchy old man (sometimes).
The good people at UWA Publishing – it was a magical moment to see the cover and the typeset pages, and I know that a lot more has gone into the production of this book.
My friends and well wishers who have enquired enthusiastically about the progress I was making – you have been patient and you have been kind. Your support has meant a lot to me.
Terri-ann White – if I believed in miracles, I would say that it was a miracle for me to have met you. Your astute observations and your unflinching criticism taught me
more than I could have hoped to learn. You have been patient and generous, and you have helped me through the most difficult phase of writing this novel. Without you, Fern Road would be a much poorer story.