A Walk Across the Sun (2 page)

While the sisters took their seats at the table, Jaya darted around the room, placing bowls brimming with rice, coconut chutney,
masala dosa—
potato-stuffed crêpes—and flatbread, called
chapatti
, on the table. The food was eaten without utensils, and by the end of the meal everyone's fingers were lathered with the remnants of rice and chutney.

For dessert, Jaya served freshly picked
chickoo
—a kiwi-like fruit—and
mysore pak
, a fudge-like delicacy. Cutting into a chickoo, Ahalya recalled the early morning temblor.

“Baba, did you feel the earthquake?” she asked.

“What earthquake?” her grandmother inquired.

Naresh chuckled. “You are fortunate to sleep so soundly, Naani.” He turned to his daughter with a reassuring smile. “The quake was strong, but it did no damage.”

“Earthquakes are a bad omen,” the old woman said, clutching her napkin.

“They are a scientific phenomenon,” Naresh gently corrected. “And this one was harmless. We have no need to worry.” Turning back to Ahalya, he changed the subject: “Tell us about Sister Naomi. She wasn't well when I saw her last.”

The family finished their treats while Ahalya told her father about the headmistress at St. Mary's. A breeze blew through the open windows, cooling the air. In time, Sita grew fidgety and asked to be excused. After obtaining Naresh's permission, she pocketed a square of mysore pak and dashed out of the house in the direction of the beach. Ahalya could not help but smile at her sister's vivacity.

“May I go, too?” she asked her father.

He nodded. “I think our little Christmas surprise was a good idea.”

“I agree,” she replied. Rising from the table, she donned her sandals and followed her sister into the sunlight.

By twenty minutes past eight o'clock, everyone but Jaya and the girls' grandmother had left for the beach. The family's modest bungalow sat on a piece of waterfront property fifteen miles south of Chennai and a mile down the beach from one of coastal Tamil Nadu's many fishing communities. The location was rural by Indian standards, and Ambini, who grew up in the overcrowded neighborhoods of Mylapore, found it remote. But she had considered the sacrifice of distance from the city a small price to pay for the chance to raise her children so close to her ancestral home.

Ahalya walked along the beach while Sita raced along the waterline collecting conch shells. Naresh and Ambini strolled behind them in contented silence. The Ghais made their way north in the direction of the fishing village. They passed an older couple sitting quietly on the sand and two boys tossing rocks at the birds. Otherwise, the beach was deserted.

Shortly before nine o'clock, Ahalya noticed something strange about the sea. The wind-driven waves washing ashore didn't reach as far across the sand as they had only minutes before. She studied the waterline, and the sea seemed to retreat before her eyes. Soon fifty feet of sodden sand lay exposed. The two boys, shouting with delight, chased one another across the spongy surface toward the departing ocean. Ahalya watched the spectacle with foreboding, but Sita was more inquisitive than concerned.

“Idhar kya ho raha hai?”
Sita asked, reverting to her native Hindi. “What is happening?”

“I'm not sure,” Ahalya replied in English.

Ahalya saw the wave first. She pointed to a thin line of white stretched across the edge of the horizon. In less than ten seconds, the line expanded and became a roiling surge of water. The wave approached so rapidly that the Ghais had almost no time to react. Naresh began to shout and wave, but his words were drowned out by the hungry thunder of the wave.

Ahalya reached for Sita's hand and yanked her toward a stand of palm trees, straining against the resistance of the soft sand. Brackish water swirled around her legs, and then the wave was upon her, buoying her up and tumbling her over. Saltwater filled her nostrils, clogged her ears, stung her eyes. She began to choke, to retch, even as she reached for the light. Breaking the surface, she gasped for air.

She saw a blur of movement, a flutter of color—Sita's turquoise churidaar. She clutched her sister's hand but lost it again in the violent suction of the wave. Her fingers brushed the smooth bark of a palm. She lunged toward it, desperately kicking against the current, but again her grip failed. As the sea swept her inland, she shouted blindly, imbuing her words with all her fading strength:
“Swim! Sita, grab a palm tree!”

Swiveling around, she saw the trunk of the palm a split-second before impact. As the pain exploded in her forehead, she wrapped her arms and legs around the tree and willed herself not to let go. Then she lost consciousness.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw blue sky peeking through wind-tossed fronds of palm. The silence around her was eerie. Her heart hammered in her chest and her head felt as if it had been cleaved in two. Seconds passed and then the sea began to retreat, yielding once again to the land. She saw Sita's face in the distance and heard a shout.

“Ahalya, help me!”

She tried to speak, but she had saltwater in her mouth. The word came out as a croak: “Wait.” She spat once and tried again: “Wait! Sita! Wait until the water goes down.”

And it did. At last.

Ahalya inched down the trunk of the banana palm until her feet met sodden ground. Her churidaar was in tatters, her face covered with blood. She waded across the distance to Sita and pried her arms free from the trunk that had saved her. Clutching her younger sister protectively, Ahalya looked through the palm forest toward the beach. The gruesome sight did not register at first. The thorn bushes that lined the sand were stripped of leaves. Around them, dark shapes floated on the surface of the muddy waters.

Ahalya stared at the shapes. Her chest heaved. At once she knew.

“Idhar aawo!”
she commanded Sita in Hindi. “Come!”

Taking her sister's hand, Ahalya led her through the knee-deep water. The first body they discovered was Ambini's. She was covered in mud, and every inch of exposed skin was lacerated by thorns. Her eyes were open and her face was a mask of fright.

The grotesque transfiguration of their beloved mother turned Sita to stone. She clasped her sister's hand so powerfully that Ahalya cried out and yanked it away. Ahalya fell on her knees weeping, but Sita just stared. After a long moment, her mouth fell slack and she began to sob. Burying her face in her hands, she trembled so violently that she appeared to be in seizure.

Ahalya took her sister in her arms and held her close. Then she took her hand and led her away from Ambini. Before long, they saw another body. It was one of the local boys. Sita went rigid. Ahalya all but carried her along the swampy ruins of the beach in the direction of the family's bungalow. She knew their only hope was to find their father.

Had Sita not stumbled, they would have passed by Naresh's remains. Stooping to help her sister up, Ahalya glanced inland and saw yet another dark mass floating upon the becalmed remains of a saltwater lagoon. The wave had swept Naresh through the palm forest and trapped him among some boulders at the edge of the lagoon.

Ahalya dragged her sister across the short distance to Naresh's body. For a long moment, she stared at her father uncomprehending. Then understanding dawned and she began to weep as the crushing weight of sorrow settled upon her shoulders. She was Naresh's favorite, as Sita was Ambini's. He could not be dead. He had promised to find her a respectable husband and to give her an enviable wedding. He had promised so many things.

“Look,” Sita whispered, pointing to the south.

Wiping away her tears, Ahalya followed her sister's gaze across an alien world stripped bare by the wave. In the distance stood their bungalow. The familiar silhouette took Ahalya by surprise, as did her sister's sudden stillness. Sita had ceased her crying and was hugging herself in self-protection. The sight of her eyes so fraught with pain infused Ahalya with courage. Perhaps Jaya or her grandmother had survived. She couldn't bear the thought that she and Sita were entirely alone.

Ahalya took a deep breath and clutched her sister's hand. Wading across the submerged landscape, the girls made their way to the remains of the home they had known for nearly a decade. Before the arrival of the wave, the grounds around the bungalow had been a nature preserve of flowering gardens and fruit trees. Soon after moving the family from Delhi, Naresh had planted an
ashoka
tree near the house in honor of Sita. As a child, she had played beneath the evergreen sapling and imagined her namesake, the heroine of the Ramayana, rescued by Hanuman, the noble monkey god, from captivity on the island of Lanka. Now the ashoka and all of its verdant companions were matchsticks denuded of leaf, branch, and flower.

Sita paused beside the skeleton of her beloved tree, but Ahalya tugged at her hand and insisted she keep moving. The windows on the lower floor of the bungalow were washed out, and furnishings that once had graced the living area now floated in the yard. Still, the house seemed sound. As the girls approached the wide-open front doors, Ahalya listened for a human voice but heard none. The house was quiet as a crypt.

She stepped into the foyer and wrinkled her nose in the dank air. Looking into the living room, she saw her aged grandmother floating facedown in the murk beside a mud-encrusted couch. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, but she was too exhausted to weep. The discovery of the old woman's remains did not shock her. After finding her father, she had half-expected that her grandmother, too, had perished.

Summoning the last of her resolve, Ahalya waded through the living room to the kitchen, praying desperately that Jaya had survived. The housekeeper had been a fixture in the Ghai family for longer than Ahalya had been alive. She was like a member of the family, unique and indispensable.

When Ahalya entered the kitchen trailing a limp and pliant Sita, she found a wasteland of debris. Overturned baskets, containers of detergent, glass jars stuffed with sweets, and stray mangoes, papayas, and coconuts floated on the stagnant waters. Beneath the surface, pots, pans, bowls, and silverware littered the floor like sunken wrecks. But there was no sign of Jaya.

Ahalya was about to leave the kitchen and search the dining room when she noticed that the wooden door to the pantry was ajar. She saw the hand before her sister did and wrenched open the door. Wedged into the cramped confines of the pantry was Jaya. Of all their departed family members, Jaya was the most peaceful in death. Her eyes were closed and she looked as if she were asleep. But her skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

The vertigo came without warning and Ahalya nearly fainted. Standing there in calf-deep water, the truth of their predicament hit her. She and Sita were orphans. Their only surviving relatives were aunts and cousins in distant Delhi, none of whom she had seen in many years.

Just as the thought crossed her mind that all hope was lost, Sita reached out and took her hand. The sudden sensation of touch stirred Ahalya to action. Shouldering again the responsibility of the firstborn, she led Sita up the stairs to their bedroom.

The wave had scaled the steps and mired the floor, but the secondstory windows and furniture remained intact. A single thought occupied Ahalya's attention—finding her purse and mobile phone. If she could contact Sister Naomi and find a way to escort Sita to St. Mary's in Tiruvallur, they would be safe.

She recovered her purse from the bedside table and dialed Sister Naomi's number on her mobile. As the phone began to ring, she heard the sound of distant rumbling coming from the east. She moved to the window and looked out at the silt-stained surface of the Bay of Bengal. She couldn't believe her eyes. Another wall of water was hurtling toward the beach. In seconds, the noise of it escalated into a throaty roar and drowned out the voice on the other end of the line. “Hello? Hello? Ahalya? Sita?” Ahalya forgot about Sister Naomi. Her world narrowed to her sister and the second killer wave.

The churning mass of water reached the bungalow and flooded the lower floor. The house shuddered and groaned as the wave hurled itself against the foundations. Ahalya slammed the bedroom door and urged Sita onto the bed. Wrapping her trembling sister in her arms, she wondered whether Lord Shiva had chosen water over fire to bring about the end of the world.

The terror of the second wave seemed to last forever. Briny water poured in through the cracks around the bottom of the bedroom door and fanned out across the floor. The sisters huddled in a pile of blankets as the water level rose. At once the house shifted beneath them and the floor tilted at an angle. The bedroom door burst open and brown water rushed in. Ahalya shrieked and Sita buried her head in the damp fabric of Ahalya's soiled churidaar. Ahalya closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer to Lakshmi to absolve the sisters of their sins and assure them safe passage into the next life.

In that place of dissociation, she barely noticed when the noise diminished and then ceased. The house stood firm as the current reversed and the second wave retreated to the sea. The sisters sat unmoving on the bed. The ravaged world left behind by the waves seemed eerily bereft of sound.