by Kamala Nair
“Penny for your thoughts.” Vijay Uncle had appeared, smiling, from inside the house and sat down across from me. I jumped up and smoothed my dress over my knees.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, “Actually, I was thinking about trying to call my father.”
“I think we can arrange that later,” said Vijay Uncle. “There is a phone in the office at the hospital.”
“You mean you don’t have a phone here?”
“No, Rakhee, this is Malanad, not America,” Vijay Uncle chuckled. “So, you are a very talented artist, I see. Krishna showed me the picture you drew of Hari the other day. It’s very good, very lifelike—you must have inherited your artistic talent from me. You know, I used to be something of an artist. I once aspired to study art in Paris.” He pronounced it “Paree,” in the French way. “I haven’t painted in years, though—not since my father died. I had responsibilities here. I couldn’t just leave.”
As if on cue, Balu wobbled out on two very chubby, unstable legs and fell over, landing with a soft thud on his little hands and knees. He looked from Vijay Uncle to me, his eyes wide with surprise, and began to cry—loud, tearless wails. Nalini Aunty came running out after him, huffing and puffing, mopping up the sweat from her red forehead with the edge of her sari.
“Oh, this child! I have to watch him every second!” she said, and scooped him up in her arms. “Vijay, why are you out here just sitting, doing nothing? Why don’t you go down to the hospital and do some work like other husbands?”
Vijay Uncle let out a sigh and looked at me. His whole body seemed to have deflated with that one sigh. “Rakhee, would you like to come with me and see the hospital? It is a very important part of our family.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Nalini Aunty, wiping her free hand on her sari, “I will go along with you both. Valsala has just given birth to her first child and I have been meaning to pay her a visit.” Vijay Uncle stood up and looked at me.
“Shall we go, then?”
I hated being alone with unfamiliar adults—it made me nervous—but I couldn’t think of a way to get out of it, so I found myself following my aunt and uncle down the front steps and across the road.
The hospital was a long, rectangular building, similar in design to Ashoka but coated in a peeling pale blue paint. A dirty white cat lurked in the front yard distracting Balu, who ran toward it in glee. Nalini Aunty waved us in with one hand while simultaneously chasing after him. I followed Vijay Uncle past a long line of patients and he cast a guilty glance in their direction. Dev was seated at a desk in the interior office examining a young man’s tongue.
“Ah, hello, Vijay,” he said, standing up when he saw us. “G-g-great of you to come by—and you brought a little f-f-f-friend along.” He chucked me under the chin with a curved finger. I felt his nail scrape against the tender skin.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls of the office, all crammed with small glass jars containing various liquids, creams, and powders in striking colors—magenta and turmeric orange—just how I imagined the lair of an old-fashioned apothecary might look. I knew then that this was not an ordinary hospital. It was nothing like the Plainfield Clinic.
“I wanted to give Rakhee a tour,” said Vijay Uncle.
“Of course, of course, p-p-please, go ah-h-h-head.”
I wondered why Vijay Uncle needed to ask Dev for permission, even though the hospital belonged to our family, not his, but before I could say anything Vijay Uncle steered me out of the office and into a hallway. A door, the only one in the entire hallway, caught my eye. It stood slightly ajar. Vijay Uncle had strolled ahead, so I paused and pushed it open. The room was as small as a closet, with weak light from the narrow window revealing a disheveled single bed, a scuffed wardrobe, and a floor caked with dust. It reeked of sweat.
“No, no, no,” came Vijay Uncle’s chiding voice, “That is Dev’s room. He won’t like you poking around.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Dev lives here?”
“Yes,” said Vijay Uncle, in a voice that was uncharacteristically clipped. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Now come along.”
He led me into another room with a heavy medicinal smell that momentarily left me breathless. The room resembled a shed, with wooden planks serving as makeshift walls. Pale sunlight streamed in through the cracks, mingling with the wisps of smoke that swirled around in curlicues. Shirtless men were standing over giant vats and poised above stacks of burning logs, stirring the contents of the vats with oarlike poles.
“This room is where we make all the medicine,” Vijay Uncle explained. Then, as if he had read my thoughts, he added, “This is an Ayurvedic hospital, Rakhee. Do you know what Ayurveda is?”
I shook my head and he took a deep breath, shifting into the formal tone of a schoolteacher.
“Ayurveda is an ancient medical practice that originated in India over two thousand years ago and relies on herbal treatments. Unlike modern medicine, where the immediate cure for a headache is to have a pill, Ayurveda approaches it differently. We believe in prevention more than in the cure.”
I nodded and wondered what Aba would think about Ayurveda.
Vijay Uncle showed me all over the hospital—from the assembly line where women in saris and white coats bottled the medicines, to the little thatch-roofed huts behind the main building where special massages and steam baths were administered.
“Ah, there you are,” said Nalini Aunty, poking her head in. “Rakhee, why don’t you come with me to see Valsala and her baby—they are our neighbors. Valsala is Veena Aunty’s younger sister.”
“Good. I must actually talk to Dev about some business, now that I think of it,” said Vijay Uncle.
Nalini Aunty, Balu, and I entered a long dark hallway lined on either side with closed doors.
The birthing room was dim and stuffy. and the stifling odor of blood and sweat wafted through the air. Veena Aunty’s sister was wearing a housedress with frills around the neck. She was lying on her side atop a low cot, covered in a blanket, with a little bundle nestled into the curve of her body.
“Hello,” she said in a weak voice.
“Valsala, so a girl, eh? Some of us are not so lucky in these matters, but cheer up, perhaps God will bless you with a son the next time,” said Nalini Aunty, making herself comfortable in a chair in the corner of the room. “And how are you feeling?”
Valsala, who seemed impervious to Nalini Aunty’s cutting remark, responded in Malayalam, and they spoke back and forth rapidly. Her face looked wan and her hair puffed out in a dry halo around her head. The bundle at her side remained still. I began to feel nauseous.
“I almost forgot,” said Nalini Aunty after a while, recalling my presence, “This is my husband’s niece Rakhee—Chitra’s daughter.” She said my mother’s name as if she was describing an especially unpleasant insect.
“Oh, Chitra’s daughter,” Valsala said, eyeing me with interest. “Pleased to meet you.”
Balu began to bawl.
Nalini Aunty grunted. “Let me take him outside so he does not disturb the baby. I’ll be back in a moment—wait here,” she instructed me.
I stood near the doorway, uncertain. My knees felt shaky, as if I might collapse like Balu onto the floor, but there would be nobody around to pick me up.
“Would you like to see the baby, Rakhee?” Valsala was saying. She sat up in bed, gathered up the bundle, and held it out toward me. The baby made a noise, not unlike the sound the baby goats made in the mornings while their mothers were being milked. I stumbled forward through the hot musk toward the bed. “It’s a girl—her name is Parvathi.”
I peered down into Parvathi’s face—it was wrinkled and red, like a miniature ape’s. The skin was shiny and plastic, as if the top layer had been peeled off, exposing the rawness beneath. The hair was plentiful, and rose from her lumpy head in black spikes.
I was going to be sick.
“I have to go.” I turned and ran out the door, out of the hospital, past
Vijay Uncle and Nalini Aunty, past Dev, past the line of staring patients, across the road, and back up the stairs to the safety of Ashoka where I gulped in the clean air of freedom.
I wanted to find Amma; she was no longer in her bedroom. I went toward the sitting room. The door was closed and I could hear the muffled voices of a man and a woman on the other side.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I heard Amma say.
It was Aba she was talking to. It had to be. He had come for us. A senseless joy possessed me, leaving me dizzy. They were not going to get a divorce after all, and we were all going to spend the summer in Malanad together, happily.
“Aba! Aba!” I burst into the room, almost choking on my words I was so excited. Aba was here and everything was going to be okay now.
But it was not Aba. It was a stranger—a slender man wearing loose trousers and a white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows.
Amma looked at me in shock. “Rakhee, your father is not here, you know that.”
“Hello, Rakhee. I’m Prem, an old friend of your mum’s.” The man stepped in. His voice was very soft, very gentle.
“Prem is an old friend of the family—we all used to play together when we were children.” Amma was speaking too fast.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Rakhee. I’m happy to finally meet you.” The man was smiling at me. His eyes were a light brown color, like maple syrup.
Anger welled up inside me, anger at Amma for ruining everything and looking at this man, this Prem, in a way I had never seen her look at Aba.
“Why don’t you say something, molay? Don’t just stand there, it’s not polite,” Amma was saying, but they both seemed very far away, as if I was watching them through water.
“I’m going to my room,” I heard myself say. “I want to be alone.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.” Amma’s brow was creased. “Please join us for dinner, though.”
I turned and walked out. I was not going to my room. I wanted Amma to feel pain. I wanted to run away, to escape from Ashoka, from Malanad, from everything in it, even for one day, for one afternoon.
I don’t know where everyone was, but the house was quiet, and when I walked purposefully out the front door, around the side of the house, and into the backyard, nobody was around to stop me. The cows and goats watched me go with dark, disapproving eyes.
Rough weeds rose from the earth and encircled my bare ankles as I tumbled over the wall and landed on the other side. I brushed the dirt from my knees and got to my feet. It was not so scary now, in broad daylight. The trees and bushes shone an electric green. I glanced up. The branches of the tallest trees bowed under the weight of their leaves, forming an arched ceiling above the forest floor, and I felt as if I had entered a church. Through the intricate, screenlike pattern of leaves I could see patches of bold blue sky with not a cloud in sight.
A couple of mynah birds were singing; Amma once told me that mynah birds were symbols of undying love because they paired and mated for life. The clear notes of their song floated down to me, comforted me, and compelled me forward with a rare courage. Separating the chaos of snarled vegetation was a narrow pathway, like a neat surgical incision. On either side of the path were explosions of cobwebbed greenery that seemed to be sweating in the humidity. The air had the sharp smell of grass, moist soil, and flowers. I followed the dirt path, using my hands to brush away low, sweeping branches that stretched out protectively before me.
I could hear Amma’s voice in my head. If you love me, promise you’ll obey me and stay out of it. Well, I didn’t love her just then, I hated her. I wanted her to hurt the way I hurt—I imagined her grief when she discovered that she had driven me straight into the Rakshasi’s oven. Or maybe a cobra would bite me, and I would limp home and swoon on the verandah steps, fang marks ringing my leg.
Hate, anger, determination, thrust me forward, farther and farther down the winding path, deeper into the teeming forest, in spite of my fear at what I might find. The farther I went, the more I wondered if my cousins could be right—what if something dangerous really did live in the forest?
Every so often a bulbous toad or a sleek frog would shoot out from underfoot with a croak. Needlelike mosquitoes hummed in my ears, and enormous black flies took refuge on my arms. I must have walked at least a mile—I had no idea that the property extended so far back.
The sun was preparing to descend for the night. Tinges of primrose and fuchsia began to bleed into the white gold glare of daylight.
I was just about to give up and turn back, when something stopped me. A glass-winged dragonfly hovered just in front of my nose, then glided ahead, buoyed by a soft breeze. A silver thread was wrapped around the tip of the dragonfly’s tail, and from the end of the string fluttered the tiniest, most perfectly formed red rose I had ever seen. The strange dragonfly seemed to want me to go after it, so I did. Entranced, I followed it through the forest until we arrived at a clearing and a circular stone wall at least four times my height. The stone was covered in green vines that were punctuated here and there with pink conical flowers, from which bumblebees sucked. The rose-wielding dragonfly, having accomplished its mission, zigzagged back into the forest, and as it did the silver thread unraveled and the rose floated to the ground. For a moment I reeled back. Wait for me, I wanted to call after the dragonfly. Perspiration trickled down both of my cheeks. Now that I was about to come face-to-face with the reality of whatever it was that lived in the forest, my anger-fueled courage faltered. What would I find behind that wall? A crazed criminal? A demonic woman? A bloodthirsty monster?
The twitter of birds had intensified into a full chorus, flooding the air from every direction. In the grass, a shrill orchestra of cicadas took up their bows in accompaniment. I could not turn back now.
Slowly I moved toward the wall with my arm outstretched until my fingertips touched its vine-smothered surface. I waited for something drastic to happen when my skin made contact with the stone, but when neither I nor the wall burst into flames or evaporated into thin air, I continued dragging my hand along the wall, emboldened, until my palm felt the roughness of vines give way to a smooth, hard wood.
A door.
The door had an old-fashioned brass knob, which I pushed and twisted to no avail.
“Hello?” I called. My voice sounded hollow and out of place.
Bending down, I pressed my glasses against the keyhole. An amber-throated hummingbird the size of my thumb thrummed in my line of vision, blocking my view.
“Shoo, shoo,” I whispered.
The bird’s wings were vibrating so rapidly I started to get dizzy until at last it buzzed off. The swimming sensation in my head came to a halt and my mouth fell open.
A Rakshasi did not live here.
A princess did.
I was staring into the most dazzling garden I had ever seen. Cobblestone pathways meandered between rows of salmon-hued hibiscus, regal hollyhock, delicate impatiens, wild orchids, thorny rosebushes, and manicured shrubs starred with jasmine. Bunches of bougainvillea cascaded down the sides of the wall, draped across the stone like extravagant shawls. Magnolia trees, cotton-candy pink, were interspersed with coconut trees, which let in streaks of purplish light through their fanlike leaves. A rock-rimmed pond glistened in a corner of the garden, and lotus blossoms sprouting from green discs skimmed its surface. A snow white bird that looked like a peacock wove in and out through a grove of pomegranate trees, which were set aflame by clusters of deep orange blossoms. I had seen blue peacocks before, but never a white one.
An Ashoka tree stood at one edge of the garden, as if on guard, near the door. A brief wind sent a cluster of red petals drifting down from its branches and settling on the ground at my feet. A flock of pale blue butterflies emerged from a bed of golden trumpet flowers and sailed up into the sky. In the center of this scene was a peach stucco cottage with green shutters and a thatched roof, quaint and idyllic as a dollhouse. A heavenly perfume drift
ed over the wall, intoxicating me—I wanted nothing more than to enter.
Then I was no longer looking into the garden, but into an eye—brown and inquisitive, like mine, pressing against the other side of the keyhole. I fell backward, then looked again, wondering if in my excited state I was imagining things. The eye had vanished, and the garden sat still and beautiful again.
“Hello? Anybody there?”
I must have imagined it, I told myself, when nobody answered.
But just as I was about to calm down, without any warning, the eye came back, then receded, revealing a face, a terrible face, illuminated by the bleeding sunset light. I did not register the shape of the face, or what hair, if any, framed it. All I saw was a large splotchy pink mark, like a bruise, spreading across the surface of pale skin, and a jagged mouth that had a triangular gash cutting into the upper lip. The open mouth merged with the nose, revealing a set of yellowish teeth.
I screamed, a harsh sound that wrenched my gut, and amplified the screams that sounded from the other side of the door. I leaped to my feet and sprinted back through the trees, numb to the sting of branches and thorns needling my arms and legs, scathing, as if to say I told you so, I told you so. I could hear the sound of blood beating, like wings flapping, in my ears, and my heart thundered. My stomach was heavy, full of stones, dragging me down. I ran and ran until I reached the wall at Ashoka, and flung myself over it, back into the safety of the yard.
