The Girl in the Garden (18 page)

“I told my brother that, I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. Marry off the two girls, and educate the boy, I told him. But he wouldn’t hear of it. As I said, he didn’t care about the other two children. ‘They don’t have Sadhana’s brains or her sense of family pride,’ he said. ‘No, Sadhana is the one who needs the education, and she will run the hospital after I die.’

“And then Sadhana defied him and married that low-caste
villain, probably because he was the first man to ever cast a glance in her direction.

“Luckily he left her. Yes, it was a blessing, if you ask me. That man was worthless, just sitting around, smoking those cigarettes and reading nonsense, never lifting a finger to help out in the hospital. Clearly he was only interested in her wealth, and once he realized he would never see any of it, that it was all going to somebody else”—at this, Savitri Ammoomma paused and gave me a pointed stare so penetrating I had to look away—“he was gone. He left no trace. No matter, though, he was nothing but a burden, and Sadhana and the girls are surely better off without him.

“Little did she know she would spend the rest of her life trying to atone for that moment of weakness. Her marriage was her one act of rebellion and it broke her father’s heart. She knew she had made a mistake right from the beginning when she returned to Ashoka with her new husband, her head lowered in shame, and fell to her father’s feet, weeping. And he just looked down at her, then shook her away and went back inside. He didn’t speak to her again. Not until he was on his deathbed did he forgive her. And his forgiveness did not come without a price.” She gave a dramatic sigh.

“Alas, Sadhana has become what I call a hard woman—so proud, even prouder than her father, if that is possible. What I say is, if she would simply relinquish her pride, then maybe some of this family’s troubles would end. But no, that will never happen, she will protect the Varma name until the day she dies, and by then, who knows what will have become of—”

Savitri Ammoomma stopped again, as if catching herself, then grasped my wrist with surprising strength and
leaned forward. Her eyes grew clear as she stared right at me with a look that was at the same time knowing and searching. “We’re all old and set in our ways, my child,” she said. “It’s too late for any of us. But you youngsters, you still have hope. Go and explore. Don’t be afraid to search for the truth. There is nothing to fear.”

I squirmed but she would not loosen her grip. “You know what I am saying, do you not? Just open your eyes and see what is before you.” Her eyes grew cloudy again and she fell back upon the sofa cushion, releasing my wrist.

Shanti appeared at Savitri Ammoomma’s side and placed her hand on her forehead. “Aunty? Aunty? Are you ill?” Then she looked at me, “She must be tired, she is not used to visitors. Perhaps we should let her rest now.”

I was more than happy to let her rest, and so were my cousins.

“Come back and visit us again soon,” Sharada Ammoomma said, as we stood in the doorway. Savitri Ammoomma had her eyes closed and seemed to be asleep; Sarojini Ammoomma was crying soundlessly.

“She hates saying good-bye,” Shanti whispered to us in a confidential tone. “You’d better go quickly. It will be easier.”

We went outside onto the lawn. The sun had disappeared behind a horde of clouds. “We’d better hurry,” Meenu said.

Krishna eyed me with curiosity. “What was Savitri Ammoomma saying to you?”

“Oh, nothing. I could barely understand her,” I said.

None of us uttered another word as we strode away from the house, but my mind was screaming.

Krishna had told me her father was dead, but really he
had abandoned them. Did Krishna know and just change the story out of shame, or had her mother actually told her that her father was dead?

Thunder lashed the sky and we quickened our pace to a run. The rain began to fall hard and heavy upon our heads, running down our shoulders.

What had Savitri Ammoomma meant when she told me to open my eyes?

“Hurry!” Meenu yelled.

As we ran, every now and then the darkness of the storm was broken by a streak of lightning that lit up the dripping trees and the red road that stretched out before us like a tongue. The thunder was deafening—I had only ever watched and listened to storms from behind the safety of a glass window. But I was part of the storm now, rain-whipped and shaking.

Savitri Ammoomma definitely seemed a bit crazy, and yet I could not forget the way she had looked at me, the way her eyes had seemed to see inside me, as if she was riffling through my thoughts, my secrets, like papers in a drawer.

“Come on,” cried Meenu, and we ran even faster.

As I sprinted through that rain something peculiar happened. Even though the sky was still flashing and pounding with lightning and thunder, my mind went silent. I was filled with calm and a sense of purpose. The old woman was right. I couldn’t keep hiding from what was right in front of me.

Aba’s words drifted back:
There’s nothing more thrilling than digging for the truth and finding it.
All this time I had been giving in to fear. What would Aba say if he knew what a coward I had been? Yes, there was no question, I had to go back.

When we arrived at Ashoka, nobody was around to see us sneaking inside, drenched to the bone. We dispersed to our respective rooms and I stripped off my clothes, laying them across the chair in the corner. I went into the bathroom and filled the bucket with cold water. Once the bucket was full, I used the plastic cup to pour it over my body and rubbed my skin with soap until it felt raw and clean.

My decision to go back to the garden made me feel both exhilarated and lonely. An invisible wall had been erected between me and my cousins. This was not an adventure that I could bring them along for, not even Krishna. I had to do it alone.

T
he next morning I awoke just as dawn began to fill the room with a pink glow. I slipped my dress over my head, combed my hair, and polished my glasses. Just in case Amma woke up early and popped her head into my room, I stuffed a pile of clothes under the sheets on my bed and shaped them into a long, thin lump.

The morning was silent and I felt lucky—even the birds still slept. Rummaging through my suitcase, I pocketed the mango wrapped in a handkerchief, which I had stowed in one of the zippered pockets the previous night. I had stolen it from the kitchen when no one was looking. It might be unwise, I thought, to show up empty-handed.

Then I went over to the bed and slipped my hand beneath the pillow, pulling out the other thing I had stolen from the kitchen—a knife. I held it up and watched the sun flash across the polished silver blade. Carefully I placed it in my pocket beside the mango. My nerves pulsed as if fireflies were flickering on and off just underneath the surface of my skin. When I tiptoed outside, I breathed in the cool, light air. Pearls of fresh rainwater clung to the trees, and the wet sand was black and smooth beneath my worn soles. At that early hour everything
seemed changed, bewitched. Feeling energized, my legs carried me quickly, effortlessly, over the stone barrier, into the forest, and down the narrow pathway.

It felt easier this time. My body instinctively knew when to turn, when to dodge an errant branch or a rogue thorn. In the early morning light, the green of the jungle was so hectic and brilliant, I felt as if I were in a dream. By the time I reached the stone wall, I could hardly feel my legs. A large banyan tree grew a few yards from the wall; I knelt atop a mound of roots, which gathered like a tangle of ancient fingers just before the door and once again peered in through the keyhole. The garden appeared untouched. Everything was exactly as I had left it except the flower petals were dappled with raindrops. An overwhelmingly sweet fragrance seeped from the crack below the door. I pulled the knife from my pocket and squeezed the wooden handle in my fist. Putting my mouth against the keyhole, I called:

“Hello? Who’s there?”

The white peacock was sipping water from the pond. It raised its head at the sound of my voice and regarded me with a curious expression.

I waited, but when nothing happened I called out once more: “Please, let me in,” and then, because I didn’t know what else to say, “I come in peace.”

Immediately I regretted the words. This wasn’t a movie. I could actually be in danger.

Then—

“Who are you?” came a voice from the other side, and I lurched back as if the door had erupted into flame. The knife slipped from my hands, tumbling as it fell and grazing my shin before it disappeared into the mass of banyan roots. I pressed my finger against the bud of blood blossoming
against my skin, cringing. But this was not the moment to back down in fear. I steadied myself.

“My name is Rakhee Singh. Who are you?”

“Why are you here? Who sent you?”

The voice was soft and feminine, yet tinged with hostility. And strangest of all, it spoke English. I had not expected this.

“Nobody sent me—I just decided to come here on my own.” I prayed that I had not roused any sleeping Rakshasis, drunk and drooling, waiting on the other side with their clubs.

“But why have you come? How do you know about this place?” said the voice.

“I found it. I’m visiting for the summer and I’m staying nearby. My mother grew up around here.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Does my teacher know that you are here?”

“Your teacher? I don’t even know who your teacher is.”

“I think she would be very upset if she discovered you here.”

“Can you at least tell me your name?”

“Why should I tell you my name?”

The more I spoke to the voice on the other side of the wall, the less afraid I felt. Whoever or whatever she was, I was fairly confident she was not dangerous. But I wasn’t getting anywhere by being direct, so I decided to try a new tactic.

“Okay then, I guess I’ll go since I seem to have bothered you,” I said, and turned. I walked only a few feet before the voice called out:

“Wait, don’t go!”

I wheeled around. “What did you say?”

“Please, stay. I’ll answer your questions, I promise. Just don’t go.” Now the voice sounded plaintive, almost desperate.

“All right, I’ll stay, but only for a little while.” I sat down on the ground and leaned my back against the door.

“My name is Tulasi,” the voice offered.

“Are you alone?”

“It is just me, my peacock, and the garden.”

“No one else lives there, then?”

“No.”

Could it be that the terrible face I had seen belonged to this pretty voice? I had, after all, been sick that day. Maybe I had imagined it. I wanted to look through the keyhole again, but I wasn’t sure how to do this without being obvious.

The voice put me at ease. I felt at home with it. The horror I had felt for so long was now all of a sudden laughable.

“May I come inside?”

“The door is locked from the outside and I do not have the key. My teacher has it,” said Tulasi.

“Your teacher?”

“Yes, she comes to visit me every day.”

I realized she must mean Sadhana Aunty. “You mean, you don’t go to a proper school?”

“No.”

“Don’t you ever leave, then?”

“Never. It is for my own protection,” said Tulasi.

“But don’t you want to leave?”

“Why ever would I want to leave?”

I couldn’t think of an answer. “Well, to see the outside world,” I finally said.

“I have everything I need here—my garden, Puck,
and my books. Besides, I’m not like other people. I’m different.”

“Oh,” Again I was at a loss for words. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen, and you?”

“Almost eleven.”

“So was it you who came here before?”

“Before? What do you mean?” I knew exactly what she meant, but I felt ashamed about my hysterical reaction.

“You ran away screaming. You gave me the fright of my life,” Tulasi continued.

“Oh, that. Sorry.”

“For a long time after that I was terrified. I could not stop wondering who you were and where you had come from. But it is funny, I am not afraid anymore. In fact, I do not think I ever was truly afraid. I remember I saw something very sweet in your eye.”

I was embarrassed, but pleased. “Thanks.”

“You have a funny way of speaking. I have never heard anyone speak like you before.”

“I’m not from around here. I’m American.”

“Do you have a mother and a father?”

I thought this an odd question. “Yes, but my father is back home in Minnesota. My mother and I are just visiting for the summer.”

“My mother is a plant,” said Tulasi in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m named after her. She lives in a temple.”

I started to worry. Tulasi sounded like she might be out of her mind.

“I like talking to you,” she said. “I’m sorry that I was impolite. It is just that I have never had an unexpected visitor before. I did not know what to do. But I am so glad that you came. I feel very safe with you for some reason.
I want to show you my garden and introduce you to my peacock.”