‘What are they saying?’ Raj asks, curious.
‘There’s no drinking water in the village. Again! The wells are dry. The borewells that have been installed are far from enough. This year the drought has been terrible and a man was poisoned by the germ-laden excuse for water that the borewells dispense trickle by agonising trickle. Kushi organised a demonstration, before her accident, but we are yet to see any concrete action on the part of the local government . . .’
And once again, Raj is swamped by admiration for his new-found sister, with her passion, her boundless enthusiasm, wishing he had but one ounce of her energy, her fire, her conviction.
What a waste it will be, if Mum’s kidney is not a match, he thinks, and instantly pushes the thought, and the accompanying nausea away.
Bony dogs amble up to him, sniffing his feet, hoping for a treat. He breathes in gritty lungfuls of the humid air.
‘Ah here we are,’ Somu says. ‘Would you like a taste of our local wine?’
‘Huh?’ Raj asks.
They have stopped outside a hay topped shack. When Raj peers into the dark interior, his eyes adjusting, after a bit, to the hazy gloom inside, barely alleviated by flickering lamps, he is surprised by the activity within. Men stooping huddled in the musty, confined surroundings, are taking huge gulps of a creamy liquid spilling from tumblers that shine in the dull murkiness.
Raj inhales the sweet, tart tang of brew as Somu walks in through the opening that stands for the doorway (there is no door) that is so small even Somu, a whole head shorter than Raj, has to crouch to pass through.
The pleasantly drunk men beckon to Somu, and then, when he points Raj out, they stumble outside to speak to him, and Somu translates their rapid-fire Kannada in his careful English. All of them ask after Kushi and send their best wishes; all of them tell Raj how much Kushi has helped them, what she has done for them.
The man at the stool that serves as a counter presses two cloudy bottles into Somu’s hands, refusing to take payment, calling after him to convey his greetings to his mother and father and sisters, as he hunkers back out through the opening and blinks in the sunshine.
Everyone knows everyone else here, Raj is beginning to realise.
Somu grins as he holds up the hazy bottles of white foamy liquid frothing at the rim, ‘Our version of alcohol. Palm toddy, distilled by cutting into the flower of a palm tree and collecting the sap overnight and letting it ferment. We’ll have it with our food. You must eat with us. It’ll be a real honour. My parents will be overjoyed.’
Raj takes a bite of something called a veg puff, puff pastry stuffed with spicy vegetables, which he picks at random from a shack crammed full to bursting with pastries, sweets and biscuits, all thrown together haphazardly inside a scratched and dirty glass case, fly-infested and wilting in the sunlight.
‘Not bad at all,’ he says, as his taste buds process the explosion of spices as the crumbly pastry travels down his oesophagus, adding substance and soothing his stomach which had been on the point of rebellion.
‘Wait till you taste my ma’s food,’ Somu says. ‘Not as delicious as Sharda amma’s of course. Your aunt is the best cook in the village. I will take you to her factory later, after you’ve been to the cottage, although she’s looking to sell it, now.’
‘Why?’
‘Medical costs,’ Somu says and Raj tastes the scarlet burn of wrath at the people who did this to Kushi in his throat again.
Afterwards, after Raj has been to the cottage his aunt and Kushi share, which is like a fairy-tale house in a magic wood, its mouldy scent of trapped air and old phantoms momentarily chased away by his presence, and collected the clothes and sundries Sharda needs, and after he has been to the factory, a hive of frenzied, bustling, spice-perfumed, laughter-sprinkled, gossip-seasoned activity, Somu takes Raj to his house.
It is a one-roomed hut, with a hearth in the corner. A framed photo takes up most of one crumbling wall. It is of Somu’s family clustered around a puffed-up man who Somu’s father proudly informs Raj in Kannada—with Somu doing the translating—is the Chief Minister. It seems to have been taken at the unlucky moment when Somu’s father was settling his crotch into place.
‘That picture was clicked when Somu got his engineering seat,’ Somu’s Da says. ‘Kushi’s doing.’
Somu’s sisters, who have just arrived from school, giggle when they see Raj. Then, hiding their faces in their churidar shawls, they run to help their mother who is chopping vegetables at the hearth.
‘I am studying very hard to reward Kushi’s faith in me,’ Somu says.
‘But he still takes the time to help me in the fields in the evenings when he’s back from college,’ Somu’s father grins affectionately at Somu, and pride streaks his voice the bright yellow of happiness. ‘Lucky he had the day off today for exam revision, so he could take you around. He’s one of the few in the village who can speak English fluently.’ Again the barely suppressed joy at his son’s accomplishment, a smile swamped with love as Somu, blushing, translates what he’s said for Raj’s benefit.
Love is giving, Raj thinks, not the other way round.
Kushi’s father dies and instead of wallowing in grief, she does something about it. She changes the lives of the entire village for the better. Whereas I . . . I have been expecting my mum to not only work and keep me in comfort but also to entertain me. All my life I have blamed everyone for my own unhappiness.
Somu’s sisters peel potatoes and chop vegetables, wiping their eyes of streaming, onion-induced tears.
This is real love, Raj thinks. Children returning from school and helping their parents, in the fields and at home. Children tending to their parents. Children giving.
Unconditional love. This is unconditional love.
When he gets back to the hospital, his mum and Sharda look as if they are the ones who have been run over by the car and not Kushi. They try (not very successfully) to hide the distress that threatens to bubble out of them, the worry that has taken their faces captive so they look, despite their differences, very much alike.
‘They couldn’t do it. It’s not a match.’ His mum tells him, after she pulls him out of the ward and into the corridor, and out of Kushi’s hearing, her face crumpling like a balled-up sheet of paper.
‘My blood group is not compatible with Kushi’s.’ His mum chokes on her words, her voice furious even as it stumbles, brackish with tears. ‘How is that possible? I am her mother. I should be able to protect her. Why is God punishing us like this? Why can’t I save my child?’
And once again, Raj holds his mother while she sobs, her thin body plagued by frustrated grief.
‘Hey bro,’ Kushi says, trying for a smile, when he leads his mum back into the ward.
She looks stricken.
He thinks of everything he has heard about this fabulous girl who he feels privileged to call his sister.
‘She wants to be a lawyer and champion the underdog,’ Somu told him. ‘She then wants to be a cabinet minister and transform the villages and later, if and when she gets the time, she wants to save the world from corruption and greed.’
‘Wow,’ Raj had laughed. ‘Nice and easy ambitions then.’
‘You will, Kushi,’ he says now.
‘Huh?’
‘Get to save the world.’
She roots around in her repertoire of smiles again and produces a weak grin. ‘From here? This hospital bed?’
‘I would like my kidney to be tested for a match,’ he says.
Sharda opens her mouth, a relieved moan escaping as she mouths her thanks around salty sobs, finally giving in openly to the tears that have been crowding her eyes.
‘Thank you, Raj,’ she gulps. ‘Thank you.’
Sweat, desperation, entreaty, and gratitude, emanate from his aunt in fusty waves. This woman, who shunned his mum, and then looked after her child like her own.
‘You hate hospitals,’ his mother says looking up at him.
‘I want to do t
his.’
‘You shy away from inoculations.’
‘Mum.’
‘Your dad was the one who held you in his lap, cuddling you tight and covering your eyes when they were poking you with the needle. I didn’t,’ her voice wistful.
‘Well, you can hold my hand now, while I am being tested, okay?’
She beams at him, eyes shining, and it is just like the look Somu’s da gave Somu, and Raj feels joy flooding through him, despite the ordeal that is looming before him.
I can do this. I can.
‘I am so proud of you,’ his mother says. She cups his face in the palm of her hand. ‘I love you, son.’ For the first time in his life. Looking into his eyes, hers brimming and overflowing.
‘I love you too mum,’ he turns away so she doesn’t notice the tears prickling his eyes but not before he sees her whole being glow, like someone has switched on a lamp inside of her.
KUSHI
SPICES AND LOVE
Raj’s kidney is a match. I am going to be healed!
* * *
When I am better, this is what I will do, in no particular order:
Make sure those men who did this to me, the goondas and the people who hired the goondas, are punished.
* * *
Try and set about raising funds to rescue Ma’s factory, save it from being sold to fund my medical bills—make the men who did this to me pay? Need to get legal advice on how to go about this.
* * *
Organise that rally for better facilities in government schools.
* * *
Give Raj, my new-found brother and kidney donor, a great big hug.
* * *
Get to know my birth mother.
* * *
Cook with Ma, strengthen our bond—which has been somewhat strained by recent events—over spices: a teaspoon of chilli powder, a pinch of cumin, some coriander and turmeric. We’ll laugh together as I am attacked by flying mustard seeds, and breathe in the aroma of roasting curry leaves, sautéed ginger, sizzling garlic, bubbling ghee, frying vegetables, warmth and affection and happiness.
* * *
Realise this dream I have of our new-found family all together in our cottage smelling of spices and love: Ma cooking pickles on the hearth, her sister stirring, one hand on the ladle, the other pushing her hair away from her eyes, their eyes glowing when they alight on Raj and me, dogs howling outside, birds flying home to roost, thick darkness swilling like a drape in the fields and the smell of night drifting in, secretive and fragrant with veiled mysteries, nobody about except Binnu the drunk who will be staggering down the alley singing at the top of his voice until he falls asleep in a ditch and his weary wife hunts him down and drags him home.
* * *
Become the best lawyer in Karnataka.
* * *
Become one of the few politicians in India who make a real difference.
* * *
Save the world from combusting from the corruption and selfish greed of a few grasping people.
EPILOGUE
CHORAL CICADA PEACE
A shimmering screen of fireflies illuminates the fragrant, heady darkness smelling of mouldy fruit and mud, of anticipation and exploration. In the distance, a lone beam, (from a torch, Raj thinks), jumps up and down, up and down.
‘That’s our neighbours going frog and snail hunting so they can have tandoori fried frog legs and snail masala with plenty of coconut and coriander for dinner,’ Kushi says, her voice dry, and Raj cannot quite make out if she is joking or serious.
‘Really?’ he asks.
‘I could make some for you?’ she offers and now he can definitely detect the smile in her voice. ‘Snail masala is very tasty you know. The trick is to not cook the snails for too long, they become rubbery then and you might as well be eating curried bus tyres. I will cook them just right, the sauce creamy, with just a hint of spice.’
She laughs, the sound like wind chimes dancing in the breeze, and he wonders if night vision is among her many talents, if she can see the look of pure disgust on his face, smell his revulsion.
He rests his head against the betel tree, closing his eyes. The soft, scented breeze that strokes his face carries a hint of warmth from the baking hot day that has finally been chased away by night and a sudden shower. It is heady with the perfume of dusty rain and sun-smothered fruit.
He fancies he hears his mother’s voice, faint, carrying over the silvery gush of water from the stream tinkling beyond, and the pitter-patter dripping from the rain-burdened leaves, floating above the call of the night owl and the chatter of crickets.
He opens his eyes and squints into the blackness undulating with blinking lights, mirroring the starry canopy above. How clear the sky here, he thinks, how perfect, how different from the foggy, overcast grey gloom he has been used to seeing above him.
Darkness, like a friend, calls to him benevolently; the smell of adventure, the taste of freedom, the languid bloom of contentment. The gleam and glisten of wet ground, a lustrous sparkle against muddy black. The swish of the sugarcane rippling in the gentle wind.
One day I will bring Ellie here, he thinks. He breathes in the cloying, honeyed aroma of sugarcane and congealing leaves, and smiles in the spirited darkness as he imagines Ellie’s reaction.
‘My dad is coming here tomorrow with his family,’ he says. ‘He has twin girls of ten and a boy who’s just turned seven.’
‘That’ll be fun,’ Kushi says, softly. ‘You’ll have to be a model big brother and show them round the village. Hope you’ve been listening while I’ve been giving you the tour.’
He laughs. ‘You know, that makes four siblings in total. Wow!’
‘Huh?’
‘You included.’
The wind ripples among the wheat fields beyond—waving arms, black sheaves which will glow honey green later, in the early morning sunshine.
Kushi punches him lightly on his arm. ‘I am more than a sibling. We are practically twins, now that we share kidneys.’
He smiles and he can feel her smiling beside him even though he can’t see her. His big sister.
Then her tone solemn as a prayer, ‘Thank you, Raj. By giving me your kidney, you gave me back my future.’
‘By giving you my kidney,’ Raj says, ‘I found myself.’
It sounds so pompous, said out loud, but he has never spoken a truer word, he thinks.
His sister launches herself at him, and kisses his cheek, the caress of a snowflake.
This is what happiness feels like, he thinks.
They walk into the village, Sharda and her sister, looking for their children who disappeared some time ago for a jaunt and haven’t come back.
They’ve just got back from the hospital, Kushi having been given the all clear and while Puja and Sharda have been catching up, Kushi and Raj have gone exploring, Kushi being eager to show Raj around.
‘I know you’ve been here, but I’d like to show you my favourite spots,’ Kushi had said, grinning up at Raj and he had smiled back.
And Puja had beamed at her son and said to Sharda, ‘I’ve never seen him smile this much before.’
Night has descended quiet as a whisper in a raucous room. The village is still in the darkness, smelling of the rain that has bathed the earth in much longed for moisture. Master’s bakery and Domu’s ration shop are boarded up for the night with soggy moth-eaten wooden planks.
They walk past drunks dotted like litter, clutching bottles and mumbling to themselves, having found their version of heaven in the vinegary fug encircling the shack dispensing palm wine.
They hobble down the narrow path toward the fields in companionable silence and after a bit, Puja says, ‘Nothing much has changed here, has it? These fields could be the ones near us in Nandihalli! I keep thinking Ma and Da will call us for dinner any second.’
Puja’s melodic, chocolatey voice brings back long forgotten memories on the rain-fragranced, nostalgia-seasoned air.
‘Except th
at we are old and our bones creak when we walk,’ Sharda quips.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Puja says, laughing—sparklers tumbling in an explosion of riotous colour.
‘Ma made me promise on her deathbed to find you and bring you back home.’
‘Really?’ Puja’s voice breaks.
‘You are home now.’
‘I am.’ Her sister’s voice brimming with emotion—bougainvillea bursting down walls, a summer serenade.
They walk alongside Rimmu’s hut where she can hear his brood chanting their times tables, their sweet voices laced with the innocence of childhood rising and falling in a tuneful refrain. Thanks to Kushi, Rimmu harbours high hopes for his children.
‘Remember when we made that promise to love and protect each other forever?’ Puja’s voice tentative as hope.
‘I do.’
‘What happened to us, eh, Sharda?’
‘We lost our way for a bit, that’s all.’
Past the borewell and hopping over the boulders which pass for a path down the knoll, they cross the stream and push through the constricted, overflowing path between the fields, submerged in water due to the unexpected deluge. The shadowy masses of paddy shoots on either side murmur reassurances as they swish in the breeze.
They find them among the sugarcane: two children, shadowy silhouettes leaning against the betel trees at the edge of the orchard. Her daughter is looking up at the brother who has given her a new lease of life; her mouth is open, laughter gushing out of it in silvery waves.
Sharda hears Puja come to a stop behind her, feels her warm, memory-scented breath on her cheeks. Puja slips her hand through Sharda’s and squeezes and it is like coming home after a long, tiring day and settling into a comfy chair with a book and a cup of tea and a plate of steaming bhajis.
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