The Girl in the Garden (6 page)

The Varma house was massive compared to the other houses in the village; it stretched across a sandy lawn, long and narrow, like a tunnel aboveground, and was bordered on three sides by a jungle of overgrown greenery. Columns of tall, slender trees with red flowers blooming upon their leafy branches fringed the broad stone, petalstrewn steps that led up to the house. “Those are called Ashoka trees,” Amma said as we climbed. The light of the setting sun bathed the sloping roof of the house, and it seemed to glow with the radiance of a lantern. Etched into the wrought-iron entrance gate at the top of the steps was a sign that read: “Ashoka.”

“My father named the house Ashoka—in Sanskrit, this means ‘without grief,’ ” Amma explained. “It’s an uncommon name for a house in Kerala, but my father loved the meaning. He hoped the house would keep sorrow out of our lives.”

As Amma unlatched the gate and pushed it open, a flash of black writhing against the sand caught my eye and made me jump back. A shirtless workman darted forth with the quickness of a cat and slammed a stick down three times hard upon the sand. He lifted the stick, and I saw the crumpled black form of a snake dangling from the wood. I later learned that the man, whose name was Hari, had thought it was a cobra, and only after he had crushed its skull and examined the carcass did he realize that it was a harmless rat snake. He flung the stick into the bushes, shrugged, and grinned at us, his teeth startlingly large and white in his dark, bony face.

I held back, too horrified to go any further, but Amma tightened her grip on my hand and guided me forward with a determined breath. She steered me across the front lawn toward my grandmother, who was waiting on the verandah, seated in an old rocking chair. She was wearing a white cotton sari, the same one from my memory, and a beige shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders in spite of the heat. Amma had explained to me that older widows in Kerala traditionally did not wear colors. My grandfather had been dead for thirteen years.

Amma knelt to touch her feet, and then Muthashi turned her face toward me. I shrank away. There was a vacant expression in her eyes that was new. I did not remember that.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and flexed my toes inside my sandals. Muthashi was smiling,
her face crinkled with childlike tenderness. Her quivering arms reached out, ready to gather me in.

“Say hello to your grandmother,” said Amma, gripping my shoulder and propelling me forward into her embrace. Pressing her nose against my cheek Muthashi inhaled, taking in my scent. Her skin was crisp and dry as a moth’s wing.

“She has grown taller,” Muthashi said, in Malayalam, as if she had expected me to still be the size of a three-year-old.

Because at home Amma sometimes spoke to me in Malayalam when Aba wasn’t around, I had a decent grasp of the language.

In the corner of the verandah two young girls giggled. I turned to look and they immediately grew solemn, but the moment I turned away they once again exploded into laughter.

My face burned.

“Those are your cousins,” said Amma, placing a reassuring hand on my arm.

A thin woman dressed in a forest-green sari appeared on the verandah. She was barefoot and a threadbare towel was draped across one shoulder. Her thick gold bangles jingled as she moved her fingers through her hair, smoothing the feathery black strands, which were streaked with white, away from her temples.

For an uncomfortable length of time the woman and Amma stood staring at one another. Amma seemed hesitant. I looked at the woman’s hard, austere expression and for a moment pictured a hawk wheeling through the sky with a baby bird in its beak.

The woman finally spoke. “Chitra,” she said simply, and moving forward, she wrapped her arms around Amma.

They hugged for a long time with their eyes closed, and the smile on Amma’s face appeared to be one of relief. Muthashi watched them, her features glazed into a peaceful expression.

The girls laughed and whispered back and forth. I tugged at the corner of Amma’s sari.

“Oh, Rakhee,” she said, finally breaking away from the woman, “This is my older sister, Sadhana. Your aunty.”

“Hello, Rakhee,” Sadhana Aunty said, and in one crisp motion she yanked the towel from its perch on her shoulder and crumpled it up in her fist.

I examined Amma’s sister with fascination. In spite of her shabby garb, she appeared to me as majestic as a queen. Her face resembled Amma’s, only it was older and less attractive. The features, which on Amma were sharp and arresting, were harsher and more dignified on Sadhana Aunty’s lined face; and where Amma’s figure was soft and curvy, Sadhana Aunty’s was straight and angular, like the Ashoka tree. But what struck me most was the air of weariness that hung about her, as if she had lived an altogether more difficult life than Amma.

“Come, eat.” Sadhana Aunty led us into the dining room. The knotty wood table was long and surrounded by men in crisp cotton shirts and mundus that hung down around their ankles like white skirts.

“Chitra Chechi!” A rotund man with full, creamy cheeks and a thick mustache came around the table and patted Amma heartily on the back. Like Sadhana Aunty, though to a lesser extent, the man seemed tired. In spite of his overall jovial appearance, there were pouches under his eyes.

“Vijay!” said Amma, laughing.

“Chitra Chechi, you never told me I had such a pretty
niece!” said the man, turning to me and widening his eyes in mock admiration. He was chewing something, which Amma later told me was tobacco wrapped in a betel leaf, and when he grinned, I saw that his teeth were crooked and stained a vivid orange.

“Rakhee, this is my little brother—your Vijay Uncle.”

“Put out your hand, I have a surprise for you,” said my uncle.

He rummaged through his shirt pocket and pulled out a hard yellow candy. Amma nudged me so I stuck my hand out and he placed it in the center of my palm. “A little something sweet for someone sweet,” he said.

I stared at the unwrapped candy coated in a thin film of dust.

“What do you say, Rakhee?” urged Amma.

“Thank you,” I said, and slipped it into my dress pocket.

I sat down on the wooden bench next to Amma, and Sadhana Aunty placed a banana leaf in front of me. On the wall over the dining table hung a giant black-andwhite portrait of a regal, unsmiling man. He had a broad, high forehead, deep-set eyes, and a prominent, commanding nose. Pinned in a cluster beneath the polished black frame was a garland of fresh white jasmine flowers; their sickly sweet scent sifted down and lingered in a fog over the table.

I nudged Amma’s arm. “Who’s that?”

“That is my father, Dr. Krishnan Varma. Your Muthashan, which is how we say ‘grandfather’ in Malayalam. He was an impressive man. The entire village looked up to him.” Amma’s tone struck me as insincere, but everyone at the table fell into a respectful silence.

“Our father was the most revered man in the village,”
continued Sadhana Aunty, “and not only because of our family’s noble lineage, but because he was a truly principled man. He was a great healer who saved many lives in this village and beyond.”

Servant women in colorful saris began to emerge from the kitchen, each carrying a bowl containing a different curry. They moved around the table in an efficient circle, ladling generous spoonfuls onto each banana leaf. By the time the assembly line had finished, my leaf was heaped with piles of multicolored foods.

I stared at the leaf, uncertain of what to do next. We ate Indian food at home, but always, at Aba’s insistence, with a knife and fork.

“You have to eat with your hands,” Amma whispered into my ear. She took a crisp round wafer shimmering with oil from her own leaf and cracked it between her hands. It made an appealing crunch.

I brushed my fingertips across the food. Feeling brave, I stuck my hand into a golden dal, swirled it around with a ball of rice and a dab of spicy pickle, and scooped it into my mouth. As I ate, thick curries dripped down my chin and along the front of my dress. My tongue burned and my nose began to run. I could feel the various textures—smooth, lumpy, liquid—squelching between my fingers, and the sting of spices pinching my skin. I found the sensation both intimidating and satisfying, like finger painting or skimming one hand quickly through a flame.

Even though Amma cooked many of the same dishes at home, it tasted different, somehow blander, when served on a white porcelain plate and scooped up with a fork.

After dinner we moved into the sitting room, where I was formally introduced to Sadhana Aunty’s daughters, my cousins. The room, which appeared to have once been
grand, was furnished with intricately carved wooden tables and chairs. But the material that covered the sofas was frayed and patched at the edges, which were tucked beneath the cushions, and the tabletops were scuffed and dusty. The floor was cool, smooth, and hard as slate.

Gitanjali was the oldest daughter—a diminutive girl of seventeen with wavy black hair, fair skin, and moody, long-lashed eyes. Next was Meenu, a snub-nosed, sharptongued thirteen-year-old who terrified me—she had been one of the giggling girls. The other, her little sister Krishna, was the same age as me, but I was taller. She was barefoot and her scrawny brown legs stuck out from under a faded party dress, which to my surprise I recognized. The dress had once been mine, and Amma had taken it from my closet along with a number of other items I had outgrown and had told me she was donating them to Goodwill. Krishna was precariously balancing a squirming toddler on her outstretched hip. She had a sweet, open face that I couldn’t help but like.

“This is Balu,” she told me in practiced, deliberate English.

Balu’s boneless features crumpled into a gummy smile. His mother, Nalini, Vijay Uncle’s plump young wife, came over and took the child in her arms. “Time for sleep,” she said, and whisked him away.

A gush of rain slammed into the shingled roof and it began to thunder. The fluorescent tube lights that illuminated the house crackled and went out, leaving the room in darkness.

“Do not worry, this happens all the time,” Krishna said to me. I heard the swish of Sadhana Aunty’s sari and the jingle of keys on a ring. Within seconds the room was lit by the warm orange glow of candles.

Amma yawned and looked at me. “Maybe that’s a sign it’s time we went to bed, what do you think? You look tired. It’s been a long journey.”

“Yes, it is best we all get some rest,” said Sadhana Aunty. “I will have your bags brought to your rooms.”

Amma got my toothbrush and lit a candle for me in the bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

The floor was damp, the walls were dingy, and the air had a musty scent. My face in the cloudy mirror was the only familiar thing in that place. I swallowed and turned on the tap, which emitted a weak stream of lukewarm water. A trail of fire-red ants filed in a methodical line through the open window. The low hum of the ant song played in my head and I was suddenly compelled to reach out and touch one with my finger. I felt a terrible sting.

“Ready for bed?” Amma had reappeared in the doorway barefoot, with her hair in a braid and the silhouette of her body apparent through the flimsy white material of her tunic. She looked lovely and unfamiliar in the weird light of the candle.

Sucking on my sore finger I followed Amma, who was cupping the candle in both hands, from the bathroom across the darkened verandah and through the hallway. For the first time I noticed the vastness of the house, the twisting alley of corners and rooms haphazardly tacked on like afterthoughts.

“This house used to be full of people,” said Amma, “back when my father was alive—he liked the house to be lively. There were always cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends around. Muthashi used to love cooking huge feasts for everyone when she was still—well, you know, young.” Amma smiled, but it was a sad smile.

We reached the end of the hallway, which curved into
a little alcove with two doors. Amma led me into a corner room with a low-beamed ceiling. Another portrait of my grandfather, Muthashan, hung on the wall of this room. I could feel his eyes boring into me.

“Can’t I sleep with you?” I asked, as Amma set the candle down on a side table and drew back the sheet so I could climb into the narrow bed.

“I thought you would want to sleep in here. This was my old room. Rakhee, you have to be brave,” said Amma, kissing my forehead and blowing out the candle, “If you need me, I’m just in the next room.”

Long after she left I lay frozen. The night was moonless and the room pitch-black. Silence had replaced the sound of beating rain, save for the bushes rustling outside the window.

I shifted in the bed, which felt like a table covered in a sheet. The pillow was heavy and hard as a rock.

I sat up and looked out the barred open window. In the sky, the moon was a gray sliver so thin its light faded before it even hit the treetops. They lay veiled in darkness. I thought of Aba wandering alone in our lonely house, and of Merlin bewildered by my empty bed, howling up at the sky.

Through the thick dark trees, far away, I thought I saw the brief twinkle of a light, but then I blinked and it disappeared. Exhaustion swept over my limbs and rushed me to sleep.

I
awoke to the sound of whispers. A shaft of morning light coaxed my eyes open and the blur of a small, brown face hovered above me. Startled, I fumbled for my glasses on the bedside table, knocking over the halfmelted candle stub in the process.