The Folded Earth

by Anuradha Roy

  I murmured and waited. After a brief pause, unable to hold herself back any longer, she demanded, “Why is the girl with you all the time? People are talking.”

  “She is learning to read,” I said. “I have told her she must.”

  “She missed school all those years when I was paying for her, what is this new hobby for?”

  “It’s never too late,” I said.

  “Why?” Ama said, narrowing her eyes. “I never learnt to read a word, and has it been a problem for me?”

  Before I could argue, she appeared to reconsider and said, “No, it’s a good thing. She won’t be as helpless as her poor dead mother. She won’t let a man get away with treating her badly. But don’t teach her too much. Girls who study too much are no good for anything – she won’t get a husband and she’ll have all sorts of silly ideas about herself.” She continued in a heavy voice, “I’m growing old. She is such a worry. I have to find her a groom, but my son is such a drunk – everyone knows it and stays away. These last few months his face has gone black – did you see him when he came yesterday? Just comes to me to demand money, as if I grow rupee notes in the field. As thin as a stick and lies about all day in a daze. That woman he’s taken up with is a born witch.” She shook her head. “How long will I live?” she said. “Every day I feel closer to death. My heart feels as if it has slid to my stomach sometimes. And who will look after Charu if I am dead? Sometimes I think it’s a curse that she’s pretty. How is an old woman to keep her out of trouble?”

  Her wrinkles deepened and darkened. Her fingers were calloused, dry, and chunky like small yams from overwork. The strap on one of her slippers was held together by a safety pin. I felt a deep pang of guilt and worry at what I was doing behind Ama’s back. I said, “You mustn’t worry about her. I’ll look after her.”

  Ama shook her head and smiled in the ironical, all-knowing manner she adopted with me at times. Usually it annoyed me, but this time I thought her attitude was justified; even to myself, my words sounded like a tall claim. How was I planning to look after Charu?

  In a rush, as if I had planned it all along – although the thought had not crossed my mind till that minute – I said, “She’s my responsibility too, I’ve known her since she was twelve. And … everything I own will be hers.” It was suddenly self-evident: who better to inherit my savings bank account, the bits of jewellery my mother had given me over the years, and the furniture I had collected? I had been told that my chest of drawers, bought second-hand from people moving house four years ago, was an antique.

  “You!” Ama exclaimed. Her thin body shook with mirth. Her long teeth, stained from chewing tobacco, were black and yellow. She noticed my offended look and stopped her laughter. “How are you to look after her?” she said. “You can barely look after yourself, far away from family, all alone.”

  I started shuffling the pile of books beside me. I could not tell why my thoughts turned to Miss Wilson’s watch, the round gold one that had belonged to her grandfather, the Collector of Kozhikode. For the first time in sixty-five years, it had stopped working, and she had, with the greatest reluctance, left it for repairs at a watch shop in Haldwani. But last week she had heard the shop had burned to the ground, taking her watch with it. Agnes Wilson had been distraught. Her face had crumpled and her glasses had misted with tears. She could do nothing else but speak of her grandfather: how he had adored her and thought her capable of great things while for the rest of her family she was an unwanted fourth daughter, dark-skinned and ordinary. Her grandfather had dreamed he would see her installed as Collector, or even District Commissioner, and that was what he had whispered on his deathbed, when he handed her that watch. “Not one of his dreams for me came true,” Miss Wilson had said in a broken voice. “And on top of everything, I couldn’t look after his dying gift.” The other teachers had found her grief over an old watch comical. One of them had even done a flawless imitation of her overdone distress. But to my surprise I had felt a pang of sympathy so strong that I had almost reached out to give her hand a squeeze. I had sat with her in silence that afternoon, as if I were on a condolence call, listening to her rambling memories as long as the lunch break allowed. I found my own behaviour mystifying. I had said nothing about it to anyone, not even to Diwan Sahib, knowing he would unleash the full force of his amused sarcasm if I had told him how Miss Wilson’s solitary grief haunted me.

  Distracted by my own thoughts, I had not heard a word of what Ama was saying. I scrambled back to our conversation. By now, her tone had turned conciliatory. “You are doing enough for her, Teacher-ni,” she was saying. “But Charu can’t work in that jam factory forever. She has to have a normal life: marriage, children, her own home. I have to marry her off before I die.”

  3

  Ama had left without looking at me again, as if conscious she had been tactless. The next day she sent across a bowl of kheer made from the milk of her cows. But I found myself dodging her and turning away from the sceptical look that said it knew everything there was to know. Her presence began to feel intrusive, even overbearing. And then, as if by malicious intent, the post brought me two letters from college friends, both with reports of new babies, thriving families, holidays. “Busy, busy, busy,” said one of them, “I don’t know where the days go. And how are you?”

  Charu sensed something was wrong, and wordlessly brought me gifts the whole week: first a white rose made out of crepe paper; followed by a lumpy papier mâché Ganesha that a friend of hers had made; then a vase she had fashioned out of reeds. She cleaned my courtyard with rediscovered concentration. She brought water on her head from a far-off stream when my taps ran dry.

  By now five letters had come. I realised I had begun to wait for the postman as expectantly as Charu and it seemed silly for me to keep up the pretence that I did not know who the letters were really from. After the third one came, I said to her in a casual tone, “There’s a letter from Kundan Singh for you.” A look passed between us, I turned to go and fetch the letter, and she knew she was safe. She never mentioned her friend “Sunita” again. She began to interrupt our lessons with unexpected nuggets about Kundan Singh: how he had been with her every night of her vigil when her cow was dying, how they used to meet every afternoon at the Dhobi Ghat, how they had once stolen away and gone to a fair at the Army grounds together and he had bought her a bead necklace. She told me about his parents, his job. It was as if, by talking to me, she was reassuring herself that he was real.

  I found myself thinking about them in the middle of my working day, creating sagas out of her stories. In my mind’s eye, I saw her and Kundan haloed in the sunlight of the forest clearing the time I had observed them unseen. From there it took only a minute for me to slide into that afternoon in Hyderabad’s forest reserve when Michael had kissed me and held me against a tamarind tree.

  It was not all day-dreaming; I was anxious too about Ama’s reaction. She was venomous without restraint about other transgressors, such as Janaki’s teenaged daughter. “Shameless hussy!” she had spat. “Doesn’t care that everyone knows she’s carrying on with that boy at Liaquat’s medicine shop. He’s not just a different caste, no – he’s a Muslim!” What would she do when she came to know of the secret life her own granddaughter was leading?

  I thought back to that fortnight when my father had virtually imprisoned me at home after he spotted me with my arms wrapped around Michael, as we drove past him on the motorbike. I was in the middle of laughing at something, my chin on Michael’s shoulder, my hair streaming behind me in the breeze, when I had noticed my father, limping from the opposite direction, stopping to stare when he noticed us, his head turning to track us as if following a ball at a tennis game where not a stroke could be missed. His eyes had locked into mine as I passed, and for that long moment we were tied together by a thread stretched more taut with each turn of the wheels, which snapped in half when he receded too far into the distance for me to see him any longer. I would never forget the horror on h
is face that day. Michael’s parents were second-generation Christians, and my father was contemptuous of all Christians – even though he was happy enough to send me to St George’s Grammar School for Girls on the first rung of his grand plan to turn me into an industrial magnate. I had stopped early in life trying to make sense of my father’s paradoxes, as had my mother. He was the natural born lord of all he surveyed, he needed to explain nothing. He ruled over factories and fields and two younger brothers. He spoke little and to the point. He was a short square man, with a bald head that shone in the sun. His bad leg ensured that his silver-headed stick never left his side. It may have been this stick, or his lazy right eye that wandered so that you never knew precisely what he was looking at. They combined to create a subtle suggestion of violence, which nobody wanted to test. By the time I grew up, I was as afraid of him as his brothers were.

  The summer nights grew warmer. I could not fall asleep however long I lay in bed, however tight I shut my eyes. I sat for long hours looking at the forest fires outside my window. They happened every summer and they could go on for weeks. When beaten down, they would go underground and travel unseen below the thick matting of pine needles, to spring out in another part of the forest. I could hear a faint crackling. At some distance down the slope, there was a glowing orange line as if someone had flung a long necklace of flames into the forest. Beyond it was another such ring and further away, another still. In the blackness beyond the arc of light from my table lamp, I could see the shadows of soldiers as they raked paths to stop the flames spreading. To the left I could see one of the fire-lines creeping up towards the clerk’s cottage.

  As the summer wore on, the air turned heavy with smoke. It gave everyone colds and coughs and Diwan Sahib’s breathing made a sound like rustling leaves. A chir tree near my house had been burning for three days. Flames leaped out from a hollow halfway up its long straight trunk. Its resin oozed down the trunk and made the fire burn more fiercely. There was no water with which to douse it.

  I stayed up those nights correcting school homework. I circled words in the grubby exercise book before me: “Ashu was quite”, Guddu had written. “It was quiet cold”; “The mouse in the house sat very quite”. He got it wrong each time. In the next exercise book, Anil had flipped every single S, B, and P to face the wrong way, as he always did. I pushed the books aside. My head sank between my hands onto the table.

  In the dark hours my thoughts took a form I would not have recognised in the daytime. If I slept at all, I woke from contorted dreams in which, night after night, Veer held me till I slept, or insistently kissed me awake, or crushed me to bloodied pulp with his jeep, or drove away saying not a word. Sometimes Charu appeared, and sometimes even Kundan Singh. But never Michael. If I shut my eyes and tried to visualise Michael, the elements of his face refused to coalesce into anything recognisable. I discovered I could no longer hear his voice in my ears, or the sound of his laugh, or the way he cleared his throat every few sentences when speaking.

  I sifted through my mind for whatever I could retrieve of him, reconstructing our years together: the way I pretended sleep so that he would bring tea to our bed each morning, tugging a tuft of my hair to wake me. How we would eat omelettes day after day because we had failed somehow to shop or cook.

  I longed for the simple joy of being married to him, and to have him there to confirm my memories – was our cupboard black or brown? Did the neighbours really have a dog called Simona? Where was that bouldered and scrubby place we went to, the day his motorbike was delivered after weeks of waiting? He had driven very fast and we were wildly gleeful, like children who had escaped school.

  I had been told that if you put your ear to a railway track, you could feel the vibration of a train many miles distant. Could Michael, wherever he was, hear me if I called out to him? I dreamed myself back to Hyderabad’s long-ago summer afternoons, birds and mosquitoes falling exhausted in the scorched air, the heat-dead stillness churned by the creak of our ceiling fan. We lay on the bare, cool floor sometimes, and sometimes in the narrowness of our single bed, pillows, sheets and floor slipping away as we tore at each other as if after days of starvation. I had to touch Michael all the time, to make sure he was next to me when I slept and was still there when I awoke. When the monsoon came that first year it had rained as it never had before. We could hear nothing but the shout of rain on the roof, on and on all night, as we slept and woke and murmured to each other and slept and woke again, as if the night itself were something fluid we were swimming through, pausing for breath, then swimming again. I would memorise Michael’s face with my fingers as he slept so that I could travel its ridges and valleys through the hours of his absences: lines had been made on it by thoughts I would never know. I was jealous beyond reason of his past. If I had my way, I would not have shared his shadow with anyone else. “Was it the same for you?” I wanted to ask him now.

  I was nineteen when we married, still at college. I returned to classes a week after our wedding. I would stare at the neem tree by my classroom window, and in the middle of a lecture on the Delhi Sultanate I would lose myself in daydreams until at length the professor’s voice once again became audible, hammering at me from somewhere far off: “Can you repeat the assessment I just made of Qutb-ud-din-Aibak and the Slave Dynasty? I’m speaking to you. To you, Maya.”

  Michael used to grumble about the size of our two rooms. “It’s a shed,” he said, “they must have built it as a garage.” The place did look smaller with him in it. The ceiling was low, the bathroom was a little box where your elbow knocked painfully against a tap if you turned. He was tall and somewhat clumsy, so he tended to bang into things. I would lie back in bed and watch him, filled with adoration as he puzzled his way through making coffee in our new kitchen, on our new gas stove. Mostly he gave up, and walked back towards our tousled bed, his eyes on me with a look of yearning so distilled, so intense, that I had to turn away for fear of its strength.

  In those days in Hyderabad, if Michael tossed and turned, I got up to sprinkle water on our sheets to cool the room. If the electricity went, I would sit up, fanning us both with a newspaper. He slept through it all, exhausted by his long day at work rushing through the burning summer air on his motorbike, wherever his newspaper sent him to take pictures. I would look at his helpless, sleeping face and though he could not hear me, I whispered endearments so tender that they would have curled away and died if exposed to the light of day.

  “I couldn’t say them to you then, but I wish you knew,” I said now, and tried to hear his voice replying. But all I heard was foxes calling to each other and pine needles sprinkling down on the tin roof, making a sound like rain.

  4

  In colonial times, the summer months in Ranikhet meant horse races and moonlit picnics, and even now we have a “season” when the town is crowded with people who come up from the plains to escape the heat. They are everywhere for a few weeks: tourists, summer residents, day trippers. Scholars would turn up to see Diwan Sahib. Trekkers heading for the high Himalaya paused in Ranikhet en route; all kinds of people wandered in and out of the Light House as if it were a public monument. If they found Diwan Sahib in the garden they stopped to pump him for information about the hills or to photograph him as a relic of the Raj, a bona fide old Indian nobleman. Sometimes supplies would arrive for one of Veer’s trekking groups, or middlemen tasked with requisitioning porters in the Ranikhet bazaar would come and stay for hours, poring over details. There was a young assistant Veer had employed, who was stationed at the house from time to time. He hovered all day, appearing to do nothing more substantial at all.

  Ever since Veer had taken up residence at the Light House, Diwan Sahib’s writing had barely progressed. If I asked him for new chapters to type, he waved his hand at whoever happened to be visiting and said, “I can’t write when there are so many people. I’ll wait till the season ends and then we’ll finish chapter seven. I’ll get the book done this year, that’s a promise. I don’t
have much more time. That Welsh poet, what was his name? We learned his poem in school – ‘Job Davies, eighty-five/Winters old and still alive/After the slow poison/And treachery of the seasons.’ – did you have to learn it too?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You should. Good poem. I’m like Mr Davies – worse – I’m eighty-seven! Every morning I wake up and tell myself, ‘What, still alive?’ I truly don’t have long.”

  “You don’t want to write any more,” I said. “There’s too much else to do.” I pointed to the bottle on the table next to him. Now that Veer kept him supplied with superior alcohol, Diwan Sahib’s durbar began soon after breakfast and went on long into the afternoon. He would keep postponing lunch, pouring himself yet another drink, waving Himmat Singh away each time he said, “Shall I serve lunch, Sa’ab?” Mr Qureshi too was under the spruce tree nursing his steel glass on most days. He seemed to have abandoned his workshop to his son.

  “Maybe if you wrote for an hour or so in the morning before starting on the gin?”

  “What nonsense,” Diwan Sahib said, and poured himself another large measure. “Don’t be such a schoolteacher. My taste buds feel as if they’ve come back to life after twenty years dormant.” He turned to Mr Qureshi and said, “You were going to tell me something. This girl interrupted you.”

  “Yes, yes, Diwan Sahib, as I was saying, mysterious are the ways of man.” Mr Qureshi smiled, round-faced, and red-nosed, already a little tipsy. “Do you know, Maya, a car came in for servicing yesterday – a Honda City, belongs to that new doctor at the nursing home, what’s his name? Sharma or Verma. Anyway, the boys started work on the car. They’re strapping young fellows, foul-mouthed and stoned half the time. When they opened the boot to get the spare tyre, right there, one of them almost fell over with fright. There was a head in the boot. Long hair and all.”