Where Earth Meets Water. Pia Padukone

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СКАЧАТЬ the whole lot to the girls upstairs. They needed some color in their lives.” Gita twisted her mouth, saddened by the gaping holes between the lonely, dismal saris that remained. But you need some color in your life, she thought.

      Ammama’s apartment building is set back in the compound, and the motorized auto-rickshaws buzz about like flies only in the main road. Karom goes to fetch one while Ammama walks carefully behind, holding her cane in one hand and Gita’s forearm in the other. Gita can see Karom in the distance with his arm up in the road as the little black rickshaws scurry past him.

      “I like him, Gita. I really like him.” Gita holds Ammama’s hand as they take dainty steps together. “Do you think you’ll marry?”

      “I hope so, Ammama,” Gita says, looking down into Ammama’s eyes. “I really hope he gets things together. I really hope he can move beyond his past. Because I love him, I really do. And I think we could be happy together.”

      “Give it time, child,” Ammama says. “Not everything happens overnight.”

      “It’s been years, though,” Gita sighs. “And he’s taking such baby steps that I worry he’ll never—” She stops and looks up toward him. He is standing too far into the road, extending his arm out as if he were hailing a cab on Broadway. He is getting impatient, pushing the hair out of his eyes and wiping his brow on his shoulder. He takes one more step into the road as an angry rickshaw driver shouts at him, gesticulating wildly. Panic rises and jets out of Gita’s nostrils.

      “Ammama, wait here.” Gita props Ammama against a low-lying parapet. Gita takes off at a gallop. It seems so filmic, her hair bouncing and her shawl flying behind her, as if she is running in slow motion to catch up to the man she loves. But as she approaches him, she catches hold of his wrist and swings him back into the ditch that follows the sidewalk along Ammama’s lane. Angry shouts erupt around them, rickshaws nestling close together like black beetles attacking a crumb to allow them through.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gita asks, panting.

      “Getting a rickshaw. What does it look like? Gita, let go. That hurts.”

      “You’re standing in the middle of the road and you know it. This isn’t Manhattan, where the cabs will actually stop. This is Delhi, Karom. People die.”

      “Stop being so melodramatic, Gita. No one’s filming right now.”

      “No, you stop it, Karom.” Tears prick the edges of Gita’s eyes as their voices rise to be heard with the thrumming and honking of the vehicles that speed by. “This is neither the time nor the place. Please don’t do this. Not now.” A honking interrupts them. Ammama pokes her head out of a rickshaw that pulls up alongside them.

      “Found one,” Ammama says. “Come on, get in.” Gita climbs up on the other side of her grandmother and Karom piles in the opening closest to him, his long, spidery legs nestling against the back of the driver’s seat. As the rickshaw speeds by on the newly paved highway, though they are landlocked and miles from the ocean, somehow the air fills their nostrils with the tangy, briny scent of the sea.

      * * *

      In December 2004 his family had gathered on Poompuhar Beach: a reunion. Karom had final exams in Boston and his parents were adamant that he see the semester through. His friends had all finished their finals and started packing up for Christmas break, but Karom was enrolled in a few master’s classes that ended later than the undergraduate program.

      “I can take makeup exams,” he’d complained. “Besides, I’m graduating next semester. All the important stuff is over. This is the first time I am going to see all my cousins together. And Naani and Nana and Ajja and Ajji will be so upset I can’t come.”

      “They’ll be upset that you are shirking your studies,” his father had said. “You can join us after the exams are over.”

      There were games, snacks, many opportunities to get to know one another over the course of two days. Some members of the family were traveling thousands of miles to meet one another, some for the first time, some after a long time. Karom imagined them as he sat with his head against the frozen window, snow melting softly in the courtyard of the library. Now they were probably having strong hot South Indian coffee. Now they were probably telling stories of his parents as youngsters, of their sweet but short courtship when he had wooed and won her. Now they were probably singing folk songs that would only—could only—be passed down by his generation, and if he wasn’t there to learn them, who would bring them to America? Now they were probably sitting on the beach, under colorful tents they’d have rented to stave off the relentless sun. Karom followed them in his mind, fabricating their activities, picturing their smiles. When he packed up his laptop case and closed the door to his dorm room, ready to jump into the cab that would take him to Logan Airport, he thought his heart might burst.

      Unlike most of his friends, who would joke about the tribulations of forced holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Karom enjoyed spending time with his family. This included his wise father, who had been the director on a television commercial starring his ageless, timeless, classically beautiful mother. And of course his mother, who doled out advice the way other mothers pass out homemade cookies. His cousins, whom he’d met piecemeal over the years, and their parents—his aunts and uncles whose stories his own parents had regaled him with for years and years and whose reputations spread far and wide from silly to sober—equally amused him. Both sets of grandparents, whom he saw dutifully every two years, servants his parents had grown up with, vendors who knew more about him than he would ever know about them. All of these people made up a life that was separate from the snowy, blanketed college he was leaving now, forlorn and empty, devoid of true familial love even when the campus was full.

      The cabdriver was talkative, which surprised Karom. He thought he’d have to combat surliness and tip heavily for a fare on Christmas Day.

      “Where you headed? Your family doesn’t mind you’re missing Christmas?”

      “India. We’re not Christian,” Karom said, hugging his backpack to his chest.

      “India? Is that safe? You hear about that storm?”

      “You must mean the monsoons. They happen in the summer all the time. They’re used to them over there.”

      “No, not a storm,” the cabdriver said, shaking his head. He leaned over and turned on the radio. “It’s this freak wave. It’s biblical.”

      During the ride to Logan, the cab was filled with snatches of dialogue, screaming, shouting, sobbing, as various news reports filled in the current events of a rogue wave that had been triggered by underwater earthquakes, badly affecting parts of Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Thailand and India.

      “That’s enough,” Karom said at the sight of the exit ramp to the airport. “Please turn it off.” He paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk as trolleys and rolling suitcases maneuvered around him, punching buttons on his cell phone and hearing the Tamil operator prattle back hopelessly to him. There was nothing to do but stick to the plan to fly to Kanyakumari, where he would meet his parents and grandparents to witness one of the most breathtaking sunrises in the world at the very tip of the country, where the Indian Ocean met the Gulf of Mannar and the Arabian Sea. Except that all flights to India were stalled without further information of conditions there. The coastal states were in emergency: no one was going in and it was unclear who was still alive. Karom spent Christmas Day shuttling from the internet café in the airport to the gummy carpeted floor of Gate 17, where he sat slumped, tapping away at his cell phone.

      Hours СКАЧАТЬ