by Neil Grant
The possum is on the front step when they wake. Wallace blames Tangent, who looks up at him like he is a fool.
Didima appears in the doorway, her hair tangled with sleep. She sees the corpse and wrinkles her nose. ‘Can you get rid of it please, Wallace.’
‘I’ll get rid of it, Didima,’ says Rudra and, picking it up by the tail, walks quickly up the hill behind the house. Tangent dances along behind, snicking at the possum’s bloody snout.
Up above the house, the rocks form a ragged escarpment that runs back along the creek and into the hinterland. Rudra realises that wherever he leaves the possum, Tangent will just try to drag it back with him. He is small, but he’s a plucky little thing.
‘Go home!’ Rudra shouts at him.
Tangent cocks his head in answer and turns an excited little circle.
‘Go home, Tangent. I need to get rid of this possum and I don’t need your help.’ Why is he explaining this to the dog? The dog doesn’t care. He sees meat.
‘Go home!’ Rudra kicks out at him, but he nimbly jumps to one side. He tries to outrun him but after a minute of exhausting scrambling up the hill, he stops to find Tangent standing there with his tongue out.
Then he strikes upon an idea. Gathering rocks from about him, he forms a rough cairn with a hollow centre. Into this he places the possum and slips a flat rock on top. Tangent sniffs round the cairn but can’t get inside.
Rudra sits. From here he can see the curve of the creek into the lagoon that sits behind town. He can see his own house roof from here and Paper Tiger at mooring in the bay. His father has not been to sea for days. He seems to have lost hope now that someone else might soon own his boat and his house.
What has become of this summer? thinks Rudra. He remembers when summers were a stretch of sand and bright water. When all he needed to do was run home and fill his belly before returning to play. When his bike and his mates and coming back on dark were all that mattered. Is this what adulthood is going to feel like?
15
RUDRA FINDS HIMSELF, SURPRISINGLY, at the library in Umina. He can count on his elbows the number of times he has been here. But he needs the internet. During the school term he has access, but in the holidays he is stuck. It will come to their home over Cord’s dead body.
From the outside, the library is a turd-brown building built in an H ( … for Humdrum, for Ho-hum, for Happenstance) with narrow windows and an angular tiled roof. Inside, books stand to attention on the shelves, idle and ignored, their dusty breath full of half-forgotten words.
He signs into a computer and googles Baghchara. There is a flood of angry articles about the sunken island. Rising sea levels are blamed. Melting ice-caps. Deforestation. Humans are parasites. This is what happens when you leave the lights on, they say. An island dies.
How he will get there when it is time? What map he will use to find a place that exists now only below the water? He wonders how Didima must feel, belonging to a place to which she can never return – her sense of unbelonging. Is there even such a word?
Then he stumbles on a new article from The Times of India – ‘Baghchara Island Rises’. A senior scientist from Jadavpur University tells the journalist it is a revelation, claiming satellite pictures show its gradual re-emergence – like a mudskipper – from the waters of the river. The journalist visits the site and there it is – only the spire of a mandir, a temple, probing the air above. It will all come back, the scientist predicts, little by little.
This feels like the fluttering of birds inside Rudra. He can barely contain his excitement as he pulls the article from the printer and catches the last bus back to Patonga.
There in Wallace’s little room it begins to end.
‘I brought you something, Didima,’ Rudra says.
But now the article seems so insignificant in his hand. He knows she will carry away all her stories like bones in a blanket. It is a selfish thought and Rudra tries to push it from him, but when he bends to kiss her on the cheek, the smell of her fruity breath causes it to bubble over.
‘So tired, Rudra.’
‘I’ll ring for a doctor, Didima.’
‘No, Rudra. What is the use? I am just old, that is all.’
‘I’ll call Mum then.’
‘Yes, call Nayna.’ Didima smiles weakly. ‘I would like to see my girl.’
Tangent gets up and turns three circles before settling back on the bed. Seagulls keen outside the window.
Rudra makes the call. ‘Quickly,’ he says, before putting down the phone and returning to Didima’s bedside.
‘The island,’ he says. ‘Baghchara. It’s coming back.’
Didima blinks away the mist. ‘Baghchara is coming back?’
‘It’s true, Didima. I’ll read it to you.’
He reads the article slowly, pausing when Didima closes her eyes, when her breath stalls for a moment, or quickens to a pant. Is this what dying looks like? When he finishes, he folds the paper and slips it into Didima’s soft hand. She looks up at him. ‘Baghchara is rising,’ she says. ‘From sadness,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
She props herself on her elbows and takes a sip from the water glass beside her bed. She closes her eyes and speaks. ‘Dokkhin Rai is swimming behind the boat. So silent. The men will never hear him. His whiskers are sharp and his tongue will take your skin. Be careful.’ She grabs him by the hand. ‘Don’t go into the forest, Baba.’
‘It’s Rudra, Didima. Your grandson.’
She blinks her eyes. ‘I can go back now.’
‘Wait for Nayna. She’s on her way.’ Rudra feels angry with her – this betrayal of leaving.
‘The forest, Baba. The full moon. Bonbibi cannot help you tonight. Dokkhin Rai is too strong.’
‘Didima, you’re here. You’re in Australia.’ But Rudra is not even sure of that anymore.
‘So far,’ says Didima. ‘So far away.’
There is a small altar to Bonbibi on the windowsill. She is riding the tiger – Dokkhin Rai – his stripes violent black bars over his yellow flanks.
‘Tell me this story. The one about this altar,’ says Rudra, hoping by doing this she will wait at least until his mother arrives.
Didima inhales deeply as if coming up for air after a deep dive.
Her voice is barely a whisper. ‘Listen while I tell you the story of the Lady of the Forest.’ She closes her eyes as if remembering something she learnt by heart – a long time ago, when she was a little girl, sitting in a village that was soon to disappear.
‘Bonbibi is important to Muslims and Hindus. In the rest of India this would not happen, but in the Sundarbans, Hindu and Muslims share this goddess.
‘It is said that she was born to the second wife of a holy man from Mecca. When his first wife demanded he get rid of his children, he abandoned them both, Bonbibi and Shah Jongli, in the forest. They lived in the forest for seven long years, raised by a deer.’ Her voice is cracking with the strain of the story. Rudra props her head forward and helps her sip from her water glass.
‘After seven years the holy man, Berahim, rescues his children and they visit Mecca. When Bonbibi and Shah Jongli try on some magical hats, they are carried at once to the Country of the Eighteen Tides – the Sundarbans.
‘They find the land under the control of an evil prince – Dokkhin Rai – who is demanding of them sacrifice. Bonbibi and Shah Jongli will not stand for this. And so begins the battle of good over evil, humans against the power of the deep forest. Eventually, Dokkhin Rai is subdued and the people of the Sundarbans no longer have to live under the yoke of the wicked prince.
‘But Dokkhin Rai still lives in the jungle; even now, Rudra. He is like the danger, the dark, that lives inside us all. When he decides the time is right for sacrifice, he will take the form of a tiger. Then you had better beware.’
She points her crooked finger at the altar. ‘See the small man in Bonbibi’s lap. That is Dukhe, the honey collector, whose name means “sadness”. He was betrayed by h
is greedy uncle, Dhona – whose name means “wealth”. Dhona promised him up to the Tiger God for the price of a boatful of honey and wax. Dukhe, abandoned on an island as a sacrifice, heard the roar of Dokkhin Rai, eager for his blood. He prayed to Bonbibi and she heard him and sent her brother Shah Jongli. Shah Jongli fought Dokkhin Rai bravely, and the evil god, fearing for his life, escaped.
‘A local holy man brokered a truce between the people and the tiger. It was agreed that only those poor and pure of heart could enter the forest and they must come with empty hand, without weapons. They must take only what they need or Dokkhin Rai will have his revenge.’ She smiles at Rudra, placing her small papery hand over his. ‘Light some incense for Maa Bonbibi, Rudra. She will protect us all.’
Rudra picks up some incense, lights it and waves the purifying smoke over Bonbibi and Shah Jongli, then over the small, frail form of Didima. ‘Protect us,’ he whispers.
When Nayna arrives she insists on calling a doctor.
‘Such a woman of science,’ Didima says. ‘It is wasted time.’ But she is happy when Nayna places coconut ladoos on her table. Happier still when she sits by her bed and rests her head on her lap. She strokes Nayna’s hair until the sun falls behind the hill and the shadows creep from the room. Still the doctor does not arrive.
It is fully dark when Rudra hears his grandmother’s last breath escape her. It is not a gasp. Didima does not seemed shocked at leaving. Nayna calls her name softly but, of course, she doesn’t answer. They both sit there with her. Even when the doctor arrives in a borrowed boat, Nayna will not let go of her hand. The doctor leaves eventually and still they maintain their vigil. Wallace comes home from his evening at the pub, and presses cups of sugary tea into their hands, insisting they drink.
Rudra does not sleep. Instead he sits motionless, propped against the wall until first light, feeling his own breath come and go. Sometimes the pain catches him by surprise and a sob jags its way out, followed by the sting of tears. And when they find their way to his mouth, these tears are salty. Of course they are, because he is from the sea and has always been and will always be. It is in his blood – on two continents. And he wishes he could splice these two halves of him together. And he wishes Didima had managed one more day of stories.
Rudra opens the bag of coconut ladoos. He pops one in his mouth and places one before Bonbibi. Protect us.
On the way back from the crematorium, he carries the ashes on his knee. They are in the ute and he is wedged between his mother and father. At this moment, he feels like a child again. There is something comforting about his parents’ bodies on either side, protecting him from the world. But through the windscreen the world keeps coming.
‘We should have been there,’ he says.
His mum sobs. His dad glares at him. ‘Four grand they wanted to charge us.’
‘It’s Didima.’
‘She doesn’t care. If she did, she would have left the cash.’
‘She did, Cord,’ says Nayna, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘The money she got from selling her house. The only money she had.’
Cord takes his eyes off the road. ‘We’ll need that money to keep the bank off our back.’
‘No,’ says Nayna. ‘That is not happening. We need to take her back to the Tidelands. That is what she wanted.’
‘She is dead, Nayna. She. Doesn’t. Care.’
‘I care,’ says Rudra.
His mum takes his hand. ‘I care too,’ she says.
‘Then both of you can walk,’ Cord says and he stops the car. They are still two kilometres from home and it is getting dark.
‘Cord, please.’
‘Get out!’
‘Dad—’
‘Out, I said.’
They shuffle out of the ute and stand on the roadside.
‘Walk’ll do you good,’ says Cord, and takes off in a spray of gravel.
They are left staring after his ute as it disappears out of sight.
This time it is Rudra who takes his mum’s hand. ‘We’ll be okay.’
‘Maybe,’ she says.
It scares Rudra that even his mother is unsure. ‘Let’s get walking,’ he says, just to stir the air with his voice.
As they crunch along the soft shoulder of the road, the sky turns to tempered steel. The air cools and Venus rises.
‘The Evening Star,’ says his mum. ‘We call it Shukra. It’s believed that he brings good fortune.’
‘We could use some of that.’
‘We surely could.’
They continue on in silence for a while. Didima’s ashes seem to weigh nothing to Rudra. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this all of Didima?’
She looks at the urn. ‘I expect so.’
‘It doesn’t seem enough.’
Nayna lets out a sharp, surprising sob. ‘I should have done more for her, Rudra.’
‘She told me about what happened.’
‘About what?’
‘You running away. The dowry. Everything.’
‘Such a complicated thing between mothers and daughters.’
‘And fathers and sons?’
‘That too.’ Nayna wipes scoops a tear from the corner of her eye with her fingernail. ‘It wasn’t even her fault. It was Baba who came up with the crazy marriage scheme. Oh, he was the solution-wala, alright.’ She shakes her head. ‘Still, he was just doing the best he could with what he had.
‘I blamed her though. She was my mother. She had climbed out of the muck of poverty and superstition and married outside her caste. She had been educated. In those days, this was something remarkable. Even now it would be considered very brave or very stupid. I hated her for her hypocrisy, Rudra. You know what that means, right?’
‘Yup.’
‘Of course you do. You’re sixteen. You know pretty much everything.’
‘True.’
‘I’m glad your didima got to know you.’
‘Me too.’
‘I wish you could have met your dadu too. He was a good man. Even with what he did, he was a good man at heart.’
Rudra is sure he can hear the stars charging through the sky, grinding at its edges. Things had become so complicated. He had started the holidays with one clear story – it belonged to him and he understood it perfectly. Now summer’s flat blanket was bristling with a hundred thorns of unclaimed narratives, some that he would surely have to make his own.
‘We have to take her back,’ says Rudra. ‘To her island.’
‘We do.’
‘Dad’s not going to like it.’
‘He isn’t.’
They keep walking until all that remains is their footsteps and Shukra, the clear, bright planet, crossing over their heads. It is very dark when they come to the hill that overlooks their little town.
‘They look like stars,’ says his mum. ‘All those winking house lights. Our town is a constellation.’
‘Mr DeNicola told us when you look at space, it’s like time travel.’ Rudra’s words echo off the escarpment. ‘The stars we see might already be dead. It takes so long for the light to reach us that we are looking back in time hundreds or thousands of years.’
‘Maybe it will take our town that long for its death to reach the outside world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maybe its light has already gone out. Maybe we just can’t see it from up here.’
‘That’s a bit sad, Mum.’
‘Yes.’ She kisses him on the cheek. ‘And we have probably had enough sadness for one day. Are there any more of those ladoos left at Wallace’s?’
‘I think I left a couple.’
‘Excellent – let’s celebrate your didima’s life.’
Wallace breaks out a bottle of old muscat he’s been saving for a special occasion. They sit out the front peering into the dark.
‘So when you going?’ asks Wallace.
‘I’ll book the tickets tomorrow. We might get a flight out by next week,�
�� says Nayna.
Rudra wonders about India, about the place Didima insisted is his home. A place he has never seen and of which he knows only what little Didima managed to leave behind.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, Rudra.’
‘Do you know anything about this?’ He hands her the hunting photo he has removed from its frame.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I took it from Dad’s office.’
‘You’re lucky he didn’t catch you.’
‘Do you know who these people are?’
‘The man with the beard and the turban is a Sikh. I am guessing it was taken in India. And this man … ’ She holds the picture to the kero lantern. ‘He looks like your great-grandfather – Arch Solace. Your dad’s grandfather.’
‘And that,’ says Wallace, ‘is a tiger. Don’t hold it too near the lamp, Nayna. That old paper will burn pretty easy. You know what this means, don’t you, Rudra?’
‘Not really.’
‘That thing we pulled out of the bay – it’s a tiger skull.’
‘It is.’ He knows it for sure now; deep inside him.
‘And your great-grandfather killed a tiger in India.’
‘Looks like it could be.’
‘He brought the skull back here.’
Rudra looks at the picture again. ‘How did it end up in the bay?’
‘Paper Tiger is not the first Solace boat, Rudra,’ says Wallace. ‘Your family had a boat go under. I don’t know exactly when, but I know where.’
‘Where?’
‘Flint and Steel.’
‘Where we pulled up the skull.’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s just too much coincidence,’ says Nayna.
‘Dokkhin Rai will have his revenge,’ says Rudra, remembering his didima’s words.
‘Rudra, what is this rubbish?’ Nayna’s eyes are wide with anger and surprise. ‘I didn’t escape the Sundarbans to have it follow me here. It’s just superstition and nonsense, stories to scare little children and fool the gullible. We are educated people.’
