The Girl in the Garden (35 page)

A numbness began to spread through me. I had expected that if the moment of our family’s separation ever came I would shout, stamp my feet, sob, and make a fuss, but my body seemed to understand that it had outgrown such tantrums. I looked into Amma’s eyes and said: “No.”

“What?” Amma took my hand but I pulled it away.

“No, I’m not coming with you. I’m going back to Plainfield with Aba.”

“Rakhee, I know you’re upset, but that’s not possible. Aba can’t take care of you by himself, and I need you. I need you with me.”

“Aba, I can come back with you, can’t I?”

Aba turned around; a light had entered his eyes. “Of course you can, Rakhee, if that’s what you want. I just assumed you’d choose to stay with your mother. I mean,
I don’t have much to offer you. Are you sure you’ll be happy with just me?”

“Yes, I will, I know I will. I want to stay with you.”

“You don’t mean that, molay.” Amma’s lips trembled.

Before I could tell her that yes, I did indeed mean that, Sadhana Aunty came into the room.

“Good, you’re awake,” she said crisply, as if all of what had passed between us had been a bad dream. Her face was paler than usual. “Rakhee, where is Gitanjali?”

I wanted to turn away from her, to ignore her, but I found that I could not do it. She looked too sad, too broken. I was not the only one, after all, who had lost Tulasi.

“I don’t know. Isn’t she here?”

“No, if she was here, I would not be asking you this. She disappeared last night. Did she not run away with you and Krishna? I expected all three of you to be found together.”

“No, she wasn’t with us,” I said.

Sadhana Aunty’s face went a shade paler. “Now that we don’t have to hide Tulasi anymore, there is no need for the wedding to go on. Vijay and I have seen to it that any evidence of her existence has been destroyed. And Dev is gone. He took all the money and ran off to God knows where. But I cannot tell her that because she is nowhere to be found.”

Gitanjali had disappeared.

As I processed this fact, the previous night replayed itself across my mind with the clarity of a film.

The temple.

The tree.

The white figure running through the field.

Her long black hair.

Her piercing cry.

In the light of day it was so clear. How could I not have known? There was no yekshi. There never had been.

At that moment, with everyone looking at me, I wanted nothing more than to shrink under the sheet and stay there forever.

But I could not.

“Rakhee, what is it? Are you feeling sick?” said Amma. I swallowed the nausea and cleared my throat.

“Is there something you are not telling us, Rakhee?”

Sadhana Aunty stepped forward and I took a deep breath.

“Yes,” I said.

They fished Gitanjali’s body from the old well that same day, and almost immediately the stories began to spread. The villagers said that her spirit had come back to haunt them, that she had returned in the form of a white peacock and had been seen in the forest, roaming and wailing. “They say it was a
suicide
,” they whispered.

The funeral was simple and private. Mourners left parcels of food at the front gate, but no one dared venture beyond. After the funeral, Sadhana Aunty went into her room and did not come out for two days. Vijay Uncle shut down the hospital and spent hour after hour in the toddy shop. Nalini Aunty and Meenu watched television as if their lives depended on it, and Krishna was still too sick to get out of bed. A few times I tiptoed into her room hoping we could speak, but she was always tossing and turning in her bed, and even though it was a fitful sleep, I did not want to wake her.

Because things were so strained with Amma, Aba was
staying in the spare bedroom at Veena Aunty’s sister’s house. He tried to convince me to stay there, too, but I refused. Despite everything that had happened, I could not bear to leave Ashoka.

I floated through those last days alone, bereft and empty. Aba came and visited me every day but we did not talk. He would bring his work along and sit on the verandah for a few hours each day. During that time, Amma would make herself scarce. I sometimes sat with him, but other times I retreated to my room where I would lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. All summer long I had yearned for his presence, and now that he was here I did not know how to talk to him or be with him. Even though he was trying, I sensed that he felt the same way about me. Without Amma there between us, everything was different.

This was not how I thought it would end. I had vowed to spend the summer bringing our family together and we had never been more separate.

I found my sister, then lost her. Gitanjali was dead. Amma and Aba were getting a divorce. And I was too tired to fight anymore.

On the afternoon before we were scheduled to leave—Aba and I back to Plainfield, Amma to Trivandrum—I found Amma in her room, packing.

“We’ll take the first train tomorrow,” she told me with tears in her eyes, refusing to believe that I was not coming with her.

I slept badly that night, and in the morning I rose early, bathed, and dressed. I packed the rest of my clothes, zipped up my suitcase, and dragged it out onto the verandah, where Aba was already waiting.

“We have to get going soon. The driver is here,” he said. “Let’s go see your mother.”

Amma, too, had finished packing, and she was sitting at the dressing table in a yellow sari, her hair in a braid, staring at her face in the mirror. She looked like a young girl. I saw two train tickets lying out on the table.

“Chitra,” said Aba.

Before any of us could speak, Sadhana Aunty entered the room.

She was completely different from the queenlike woman I had first encountered a few short months ago. Her face, stripped of its pride, was haggard and had never looked so old.

“You all are leaving now?” she said, her voice hoarse.

Amma blinked up at her sister. “Yes, I’m afraid we must.”

“And you are going to him?”

Amma paused. “Yes.”

Sadhana Aunty looked at Amma. “You cannot.”

“I have to. He’s waiting for me. Vikram and I have talked about it, and we agreed it’s the best thing for us both.”

“Chitra, you cannot go to him,” Sadhana Aunty repeated.

Amma stood and her cheeks reddened. “I have to. It’s all been decided. He’s waiting for me.”

“No,” said Sadhana Aunty, “he is not waiting for you. I have already telephoned him.”

I felt Aba’s hand tense up on my shoulder.

“What are you talking about?” There was an hysterical edge to Amma’s voice.

Sadhana Aunty passed through the doorway and sat down on the edge of Amma’s bed. She began to smooth the coverlet with her fingers.

“Our father told me something before he died. He
told me in the strictest confidence. Only I and one other living person have known about this, all these years. Prem is not who you think he is.”

“What are you talking about?” Amma repeated.

“His parents adopted him as an infant. He really belongs to Hema. Many years ago, when she was a servant in this house, she became pregnant but refused to name the man responsible. Prem’s parents, who were themselves childless after many years of trying, took pity on her. She was young, low-caste, and penniless, with no husband. They agreed to take her in and raise the child as their own. They have kept her on as a servant out of pity, but they never told Prem he was not of their blood and they never let her take on any sort of role beyond that of a servant. And even they never knew who the father was. Hema may have lost her mind, but she never lost her loyalty, I will say that much for the woman.”

“Where is this going? Why are you telling me this?”

Sadhana Aunty paused and turned to me, as if she had forgotten I was in the room until now. “Rakhee, why don’t you go and wait outside? We will be out in a moment,” she said.

I started to protest, but Aba patted my back. “Do as she says, Rakhee.”

He steered me out of the room and closed the door.

I stood outside for a long time, scuffing puffs of dust around with my foot, unable to hear anything but muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. Finally Sadhana Aunty came out and peered down at me. I had seen many emotions whirling in those sharp black eyes—hatred, disgust, contempt—but now I saw something new and confusing: triumph. Sadhana Aunty’s lips curved up into a smile.

“What happened?” I wanted to sound nonchalant, but my voice betrayed me.

“Your mother won’t be going to Trivandrum after all,” said Sadhana Aunty before she turned and walked away, leaving me alone.

A swell of unbridled hope consumed me. I did not know what had caused this sudden change. But all I could care about in that moment was the thought that if Amma did not go to Trivandrum, then she could come back to Plainfield with us. And maybe Prem would let Tulasi come and live with us, too.

After everything I had been through with Amma that summer, in spite of all the anger I had felt toward her, I still loved her. I knew this the moment I realized I would lose her. She had meant well. She only wanted to make up for the mistakes she had made in the past. If she came with us, Aba and I could help her find her way back to happiness. We would return to gardening and reading stories together, but this time Tulasi would be with us. My face was wet with tears. I loved Amma so much it hurt my insides. Without her, I would be lost.

The door opened and Aba came out. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the look of devastation on his face.

“Rakhee, Amma would like to see you.”

“Aba, can we still go to the sea?”

“I had completely forgotten about that,” said Aba, his voice gruff. “You actually want to go?”

My dream could still come true—Aba, Amma, and me, all together, walking by the sea, a real family. We could even pick up Tulasi on our way.

“Yes, Aba, please can we?” I said. “I think it will be good for us.”

Aba pressed his lips together in what I took to be a smile. That must have meant yes.

“I’m going to bring our suitcases out to the car,” he said. “You go see your mother now.”

I went inside Amma’s room. She was sitting at the dressing table again and her face was flushed but dry. She seemed calm, which I thought was a good sign, and she gave me a radiant smile as I came forward.

“Rakhee.” She reached out and took both of my hands.

“Amma, it’s going to be okay. I’m sorry about the way things have turned out, but Aba and I will take care of you. I promise we’ll make you happy.”

“Of course you will.” Amma rubbed the back of her hand against my cheek and I leaned into its softness. “You have always made me happy.”

“And Aba says we can still go to the sea. That will cheer you up, won’t it?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“We’d better hurry, then. The driver is waiting.”

“Before we go, Rakhee, since I have you here alone, I want to tell you I’m sorry. And I want you to know how much I love you. I may do terrible things, I sometimes act out of my mind, but just know that I will always love you, that you are the most precious thing in the world to me, and that will never change.” Amma pulled me forward and pressed her hot lips to my cheek. “Now go to Aba.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

Amma’s smile wavered, and for a moment my heart stopped. But then she patted my arm and said: “I’ll be out soon.”

I drew away from her.

“Okay, see you in a minute,” I said, and walked out of the room. Vijay Uncle, Nalini Aunty, Balu, and Meenu
were all gathered on the verandah. I had not expected this final courteous formality, but there they were, lined up stiff and polite as if they were posing for a photograph, as if they were sending me off at the close of a pleasant, uneventful summer.

I scanned the line. “Where’s Krishna?”

Sadhana Aunty, I noticed, was also not in the line, but I did not ask about her.

“Krishna is still unwell. We will tell her you said goodbye,” said Vijay Uncle.

“Rakhee, hurry up, we have to go now!” Aba called from the top of the steps.