Where Earth Meets Water. Pia Padukone

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ his past sins are to be washed away.

      The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sighs,

      And the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.

      In this world this edifice has been made,

      To display thereby the creator’s glory!”

      “It’s what Shah Jahan said about the Taj,” Karom said, folding the paper back into his pocket. Gita closed her eyes and leaned against him. He wanted to comfort her, but he too felt let down. Nothing had happened. There had been no revelations.

      Karom had been sure that he would leave the Taj Mahal with a deeper understanding of the world, of colors, of light, of love. He was sure that something magical would transform them, would transform him, the way he saw the world. He had placed too high an expectation on the Taj Mahal. After all, it was just a building. But it was a building that was homage to love, homage to the departed. He’d wondered if he would catch a glimpse of the past here, if he might tap into the spirit of the palace, the serenity of the courtyards. He’d wondered if, like a sinner, he too might be absolved, washed pure and clean, and set into the streets refreshed. He’d wondered if he might put lingering ghosts to bed and feel, for the first time, at ease with himself and finally, finally have the strength to put the game to rest.

      Finally, Karom took her hand, pulling her back outside the gates into a world of hawkers offering prayer beads, postcards and miniature hand-carved wooden replicas of the great shrine.

      On the rickshaw ride back to the train station, they quietly held one another’s hands. When their eyes met at a traffic light, Gita looked at Karom for a beat too long, causing him to snap, “I’m fine. I told you I’m fine,” and pull his hand away from hers. Gita felt suddenly vulnerable sitting in the rickshaw as it inched along the crowded streets. On either side, beggars and street vendors thrust their hands into the open sides of the vehicle, offering open empty palms or rickety plastic toys for sale. At that moment she couldn’t find solace even in the man who sat next to her; it was how she’d felt the first time she’d experienced one of his close shaves firsthand.

      The previous summer, the two had been on a road trip to Maine, where they’d stopped in Portland, lingering over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and yogurt, crawling through the Marina district in their rented convertible so Gita could hop out and use her Pantone matcher to capture the vibrant colors of the homes along the water. Her travels heavily influenced her work in her interior design studio: swaths of curtains that curled around window edges like the Caribbean Sea and mosaic patios reminiscent of the shelled precipices in Santorini. She’d once re-created a tiled wall in an open-plan bathroom based on the textures and tones of a spice display she’d seen in Essaouira.

      Karom sped while Gita sat with her face directly in front of the air-conditioning vent. “I like the smell of it,” she said when he looked at her quizzically. “It’s the smell of cold.”

      They were on the way to Archer’s Rock, the famous boulder that jutted out over the sea where families picnicked and sunbathed. “‘This rocky edifice may be the last bastion of the unsullied natural vantage point,’” Gita read from the National Geographic app on her iPhone. “‘Everything else has been filed down, shaved away, taking with it the history and fossilized evolutionary proof of our lives.’ Oh, Kar, we have to go there.”

      By the time their car pulled up to visitors’ parking, ambulances and police tape had cordoned off the graveled lot. Scuba tanks were stacked together in a pile near one of the medical vans, and medics scurried about, stricken, possessed, mumbling into walkie-talkies.

      “Park’s closed, sir,” a ranger said, directing their car. “Please turn around and go back the way you came.” Karom couldn’t believe that the ranger wore a hat just like on Yogi Bear. He spoke to the absurdly flat brim.

      “What happened?”

      “Wave.”

      Karom hesitantly put his hand up and looked around before he realized that the ranger wasn’t instructing him to gesture to anyone. He put the car in reverse. While Karom fiddled with the AM radio to find a local channel, Gita plugged in the address of their hotel into the GPS that would lead them out of the park and back toward the highway.

      “Tragedy struck at Acadia National Park today as a giant wave crashed over Archer’s Rock, claiming the lives of dozens of hikers and picnickers. Body count is still unknown as medics and scuba divers continue to comb the rocky coast to recover up to 50 park visitors who are expected to have been on the rock. Accounts confirm that a rogue wave such as this one hasn’t struck the area in nearly 40 years, the last similar tragedy occurring in 1971.”

      The trees rushed by them, faster and faster, a blur of green in ascending brightness past their windows. They flew by the distinct odor of skunk and a tiny manicured graveyard, past which Gita held her breath. The two-way road was narrow and Gita was glad that Karom was driving. She felt nervous driving in situations where the car might graze against the side of another. She panicked easily in tunnels.

      Karom pressed the button to clean the windshield, the blades scraping dully against the already clean glass. Gita pressed the window down and a small spray of window cleaner struck her cheekbone. Karom pulled the car to the side of the road, though there was no shoulder there. He leaned down to the steering wheel and rested his forehead in the center of the wheel, little bleeps emitting sporadically from the horn like a suffering goat.

      “Karom,” Gita said, rubbing his ear. “It’s not the same thing. Look at me, baby.” He didn’t move.

      “Baby, look at me. It’s a completely different situation, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m here.” She grabbed his head, the hair in the back where it had grown long and scraggly, and pushed it into her shoulder. She could feel him slowly disintegrate against her body, his long sobs penetrating through her thin windbreaker, his breath forcing muffled gasps and soggy exhalations. They sat there like that, allowing cars to whiz by their window, first a few at a time and then the ambulance they had seen in the parking lot, an underwater detection van and then another slew of cars. It became dark in the trees before Gita finally tapped his leg and Karom moved away, averting his face in the embarrassing dance of drying his tearstained face.

      They traded places; Gita slid into the driver’s seat, put the car into drive and navigated the rest of the way to their budget hotel while Karom leaned back in his seat, one arm swung over his eyes to shield them from the glow of the dashboard.

      * * *

      In the rickshaw, Gita forced herself to remember that while their trip to Agra had been uneventful, without epiphany or excitement, that was what had made it a success. She forced her hand back into his and snuggled against him, turning her back to the beggars and hawkers in the road.

      * * *

      “Hang on,” Gita says now, as they sidestep two dogs sleeping in the middle of the lane. “When Ammama prays, is it in Hindi? English?”

      “Definitely not English,” Karom says. “But she says my name. Repeatedly.”

      “May-be,” Gita singsongs, pressing her body against him, “she’s praying for you to propose to me.”

      “Ha.” Karom steps slightly away from her as they pass through the gates of Ammama’s compound.

      “Oh, get over it,” she exclaims, grabbing his hand.

      Karom СКАЧАТЬ