by Tania James
LINNO CIRCLES, trying to spot the rose of her mother’s sari. There is no one in the distance. She climbs over rocks and scrapes her knee on her way to the water. A spot of blood stains the white piping of her skirt. Her mother will be furious, not only about this but about Linno’s ruthless, stupid dedication to hide-and-seek. The wind squeals in her ears.
When Linno reaches the shoreline, she removes her chappals. The sand is wet and supple beneath her feet, squelching between her toes, but she keeps her chappals looped in her fingers. Ruining her dress as well as losing her chappals would double the beating she is sure to receive. But a beating would be better than this. There is nothing unexpected about a beating; the fear of the branch is a familiar one.
Over and over she cries out Amma, then Ma, then nothing.
FAR IN THE DISTANCE: a pink petal on the water. Linno squints, barely breathing. A splotch of pink and black. Faintly, Linno can hear her mother shrieking her name.
Linno screams for her mother.
The pink petal turns. It has a face. The face is Linno’s own. Terrified, wet and windswept, her braid a drenched rope around her throat. Her mother has walked right into the water, submerged up to her chest, her arms spread to keep herself balanced among the rowdy tides.
Relief and joy spread through Linno’s body. She goes splashing into the water, but her mother waves her arms in the air, as if telling Linno to stop. Linno stops. The water laps at her ankles as she watches her mother stumble, thrown off balance by her waving.
It happens in an instant. Her mother slides under the waves.
LINNO STANDS WATCHING for a very long time. She waits for her mother to bob up again, gasping, waving. But the water, having no memory, moves on.
It is almost as if her mother is playing a trick, about to strike out of the water like a dolphin, glistening and laughing. Was that even her mother at all? Or one of those buoys warning swimmers to keep to their limits?
The air turns colder, and Linno’s body seems to go numb. Her mind as well. Was it her mother? Was it a vision? Was it just a pink petal? If any of these things, it could not be her mother, it could not be that they would dredge her up from the waters tomorrow morning, with blue lips and blue fingernails. It could not be that they would find Linno in a few hours and ask her questions to which she would respond by staring into thin air, mute. For now she hurries back to the rocks and scoots into her old hiding place. She presses her cheek to the sand. She has only to wait.
THE WOMAN SEEMS FINISHED with her story. She stares off into the distance as if her mind has replaced the open road with the ocean of her telling.
The Kapyar realizes that it is his time to speak. What would Anthony Achen say? Is there a prayer to absolve such things? Surely the Kapyar is not the one to administer it.
“I am sorry,” he says.
The woman seems not to hear or care.
“But I cannot forgive you. I am only the Kapyar.”
“I know,” she says finally. “I thought it would feel better to tell it.”
“Does it?”
She shakes her head.
The Kapyar nods, convinced. He has never seen someone leave the confessional with a smile.
They sink into silence. He can imagine explaining this to his wife, how a young woman stumbled to church and spilled her story into his lap. Strange, his wife would say, though it would be strange only in retrospect. For now, it is all rather quiet and ordinary, two people on a step, a thermos of tea between them.
“So what happened then?” the Kapyar asks.
The woman looks at him. “I told you. They found my mother. Dead.”
“And then what?”
“The funeral.”
“And then?”
“What do you mean? That’s the end.”
Now it is the Kapyar’s turn to gaze at the road. At moments like these, he feels his age. He says to her, “Nothing is the end.”
WHEN THE WOMAN finishes the tea, the Kapyar helps her to rise. She is shaky on her feet but seems better than before. “Thank you,” she says.
The Kapyar makes a noise to mean, It’s okay.
Probably they will not cross paths again, or if they do, maybe the woman will not remember him. Or pretend not to remember. This is life, tides moving the sand into unpredictable whorls and chance configurations, the gentle collisions of strangers. For a long time, he watches her go down the road, to make sure she is safe, because he is the Kapyar and this is his job.
13.
HE VAN PASSES a bridge that runs over a slender section of the river, where a woman has waded knee-deep into the water to lash her laundry against a rock. Another woman, perhaps her daughter, wads up a soapy garment and kneads it like a ball of dough. Usually Anju loves this sound, the crush and crunch of milky bubbles against stone, but she feels the sudden urge to vomit.
“We’re close, aren’t we?” Mrs. Solanki asks her.
“I feel nausea,” Anju says.
“I know, dear.” Mrs. Solanki smiles, remembering Anju’s previous use of the word.
The driver pedals the brake as he navigates a curvy, rutted road. The passengers jostle about, holding on to their seats and their equipment. Every bump in the road is a belated lurch in Anju’s stomach; she can feel her lunch beginning to stir. It would be ironic and frankly humiliating if, out of all the foreigners in this vehicle, it would be she whose constitution could not handle the masala dosa they ate two hours ago, from a roadside tea shop.
Anju turns her face to the window. The curving wall is painted with advertisements. Here, a glassy-eyed woman in bridal jewelry, her hand against her face, beside the words ALAPPAT JEWELLERY. She recognizes that sign, her mental halfway mark between home and church. Beneath the Alappat sign, there used to be a Bata chappal advertisement, and beneath that, an old Mohanlal movie poster. She takes pride in the fact that she knows the sedimentary history of this wall. Soon after the Alappat ad, they pass a woman in a brown salwar kameez walking in the opposite direction.
Later, Anju will remember this moment above all others, how unremarkable it is, how delicate and small, this wrinkle in her day.
Immediately her body is filled with a frantic electricity as she whips around in her seat, almost cracking her neck. It is too late. The woman slips out of view as they are coming out of the turn. Anju’s hand fumbles for the door lock. Mrs. Solanki is asking her a question. Anju can feel a seething in her chest, her voice clawing its way from the depths. They have not gone far from the curve before she cries out to stop the car, stop the car.
“What is it dear?” Mrs. Solanki asks. “Are you going to be sick?”
Anju manages to nod as she stumbles out of the van.
“Rohit, go with her,” Mrs. Solanki says.
“Um, clearly she’d prefer another female to hold back her hair,” says Rohit.
Through the open windows, Anju can hear them arguing over who should go until Roy suggests that they both give her some privacy. She hurries up the road from which they came, her chappals flapping loudly. Anju can feel the anxieties shedding from her body like a snake writhing out of its old, translucent skins. Is this what it is like to travel in time—part of you pulled forward as if by a little girl’s hand, part of you floating above, watching from where the world is timeless?
As she rounds the bend, the woman in brown is there, farther away now but still trudging with her head down. Even from this distance, Anju can distinguish the clumsy braid.
Anju looks back over her shoulder. No cameras have followed. There is no one on this stretch of road but Linno and herself.
Finding her voice, Anju calls her sister’s name.
14.
ND NOW LINNO IS STOPPED by the sound of a voice in her ear, as far and as close as a memory. She listens to the sizzle of insects in the leaves but, afraid to linger, she continues on. Already she spent every last ounce of strength to pull herself from the steps of the church, where the Kapyar must have thought her crazy. Hearing voices, maybe she
is. The possibility makes her move faster, as though she might outrun her own mind. There was a time when she thought she heard her mother’s voice calling to her as if for dinner or a bath, and every time Linno strained to hear, she felt her heart straining as well, like a balloon stretched too thin, until she forced herself to stop remembering, forced herself to forget until.
Until.
Her name again. And breathing, heavy and not her own. She stops, sure that if she turns she will find that she is as alone as she ever was.
She turns around.
“Linno,” Anju says.
The distance between them is only as wide as a well. And in Linno, a familiar dizziness returns, from trying to net a butterflying hope. In a blink, this all could disappear.
“Anju?” Linno whispers. It is not possible. She blinks, and Anju is still standing before her. Anju’s eyes are bright and wet in a face much leaner than when she left. She takes a step forward.
“Oh.” Linno’s sound is no more than a sigh. “Oh,” she says, and they reach for each other.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Nicole Aragi, whose energy and kindness inspire me always, and Jordan Pavlin, my wise and endlessly generous editor. Thank you to Leslie Levine and everyone at Knopf, and to Jim Hanks and Lily Oei for smoothing the process.
My gratitude to my teachers: those at the Columbia Graduate Writing Division, especially Nathan Englander, Jamie Manrique, and Alan Ziegler. Thank you, Anne Glosky. And to Frank X Walker and Kelly Ellis, who gave the first nudge.
Thank you to those who patiently walked me through their various worlds of expertise: Chandradasan, director of Lokadharmi Theatre Company; Prabuddha Kothari from Regal Cards; and Arlene Lyons, wizard of immigration law. I also drew from several articles in The New York Times, particularly “Dollars and Dreams: Immigrants as Prey” by Gary Rivlin and “Neighborhood Report: Jackson Heights; Landmarks Proposal Intensifies Debate Over Store Facades” by Jane H. Lii.
I owe much to those who have read this book in earlier forms: Jenny Assef, Karen Thompson, Sheela Maru, and Vivek Maru, from whom nothing escapes. And to Ragdale, for the space and time to begin.
To my extended families on both sides of the world, especially my ammachis, Rachel Kurian and Mariakutty Lukose, who have been generous with hymns and love. To Neena, for earlybird calls and sisterly guidance; Raj, caring brother and grill maestro; and the ever loyal Christine, who has read every single word.
And finally, to my mother and father, for wondrous stories and wisdom and figs. All my love and thanks for making each day a blessing.
A Note About the Author
Tania James was raised in Louisville, Kentucky, and is a graduate of Harvard and Columbia. She has published her work in One Story and The New York Times. She lives in New York City.
This Is a Borzoi Book Published by Alfred A. Knopf
Copyright © 2009 by Tania James
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com [http://www.aaknopf.com]
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
James, Tania.
Atlas of unknowns / Tania James.—1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-27150-1
1. Sisters—India—Fiction. 2. East Indian students—New York (State)—New York—
Fiction. 3. East Indians—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 4. Host families of
foreign students—Fiction. 5. Kerala (India)—Fiction. I. Title.
Ps3610.A458A92 2009
813′.6—dc22 2008051860
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, geographic locations, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author’s use of names of actual persons, places, and characters are incidental to the plot and are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.
v3.0
Table of Contents
Dedication
Contents
Part 1 - ORIGIN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 2 - ORIENTATION
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 3 - WEST WINDS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 4 - TRUE NORTH
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
Copyright
