The photograph dragged Maneck’s eyes back to it, to the event that was at once unsettling, pitiful, and maddening in its crystalline stillness. The three sisters looked disappointed, he thought, as though they had expected something more out of hanging, something more than death, and then discovered that death was all there was. He found himself admiring their courage. What strength it must have taken, he thought, to unwind those saris from their bodies, to tie the knots around their necks. Or perhaps it had been easy, once the act acquired the beauty of logic and the weight of sensibleness.
He tore his eyes away from the photograph to read the rest of the article. The reporter had met the parents; he wrote that they had suffered more than their fair portion of grief — they had, during the Emergency, lost their eldest under circumstances that were never satisfactorily explained. The police claimed it was a railway accident, but the parents spoke of wounds they had seen on their son’s body at the morgue. According to the reporter, the injuries were consistent with other confirmed incidents of torture: “Moreover, in view of the political climate during the Emergency, and the fact that their son, Avinash, was active in the Student Union, it would appear to be one more case of wrongful death in police custody.”
The article proceeded to comment on the parliamentary committee’s inquiry into the Emergency excesses, but Maneck had stopped reading.
Avinash.
The rain was pounding on the roof and coming in through the windows. He tried to fold the discoloured newspaper neatly along its crease, but his hands were shaking, and it flapped and crumpled untidily in his lap. The room was airless. He struggled to push himself out of the chair. The paper, with its cellar smell of mould and decay, rustled to the floor. He went to the porch, stealing deep gulps of the rich rain-laden air. The wind rushed through the open door. The fallen pages were blown around the room while the curtains whipped against the window. He closed the door, paced the damp porch a few times, then walked out into the rain, tears streaming down his face.
His clothes were soaked within seconds; wet hair plastered his forehead. He circled the house: down the slope, into the back yard, around the lower level, and up from the other side. Through the wall of falling rain he saw the steel cables tethering the foundation to the cliff. The trusty cables, that had held strong for four generations. But he could swear the house had shifted in the years he had been away. A house with suicidal tendencies, Avinash had called it. A little bit, and then a little more — and eventually it would rip out the anchors, tumble headlong down the hill. It seemed fitting. Everything was losing its moorings, slipping away, becoming irrecoverable.
He took the road out of the town square, almost running now. He did not notice the people who stared. He saw only that photograph. Three saris gripping those fragile necks… Avinash’s three sisters… he used to enjoy feeding them when they were little, they used to bite his fingers in fun. And the poor parents … What sense did the world make? Where was God, the Bloody Fool? Did He have no notion of fair and unfair? Couldn’t He read a simple balance sheet? He would have been sacked long ago if He was managing a corporation, the things He allowed to happen … to the maidservant, and the thousands of Sikhs killed in the capital, and my poor taxi driver with a kara that wouldn’t come off.
Maneck looked up at the sky. Daddy’s ashes, scattered that morning. Getting wet, getting washed away. The thought was unbearable, because then there would be nothing… and Mummy, left all alone…
He raced along the path, which was fast becoming soft and slippery. Running, sliding, stumbling, hoping to find a place that was still green and pleasant, a place of happiness, serenity, where his father would be walking, sturdy and confident, his arm over his son’s shoulder.
Squelching through the mud, he skidded; his arms shot out sideways to keep him from falling. Now he felt the despair his father had felt as the familiar world slipped from around him, the valleys gashed and ugly, the woods disappearing. Daddy was right, he thought, the hills were dying, and I was so stupid to believe the hills were eternal, that a father could stay forever young. If only I had talked to him. If only he had let me get close to him.
But the ashes — they lay in the cold, driving rain. He ran to where he had emptied the wooden box in the morning. Panting, he stopped at each familiar spot where his mother had lingered, but could find no trace of the grey ash. His breath coming in great sobs, he brushed aside leaves, kicked over a rock, shifted a broken bough.
Nothing. He was too late. He stumbled and fell on his knees, his fingers in the ooze. The rain descended pitilessly. He felt unable to rise. He covered his face with his muddy hands and wept, and wept, and wept.
A dog pattered lightly in the muck towards Maneck. He couldn’t hear it through the noise of rain. It came closer, sniffing. He started and uncovered his face when he felt its muzzle upon his hand. The dog licked his cheek. He patted it; was this one of the pack that Daddy used to feed on the porch? He noticed a suppurating ulcer on its haunch, and wondered if the homemade ointment with which his father treated the strays was still on the shelf below the counter.
The downpour was less heavy now. He stood up, wiping his face on his wet sleeve, and looked out across the hillside. Breaks were beginning to appear in the clouds, and fragments of the valley were emerging from the fog.
He stayed where he was till the rain had almost stopped. Now it was a very fine drizzle, so fine it felt lighter than human breath upon the skin. He returned to the place where the tree grew out of the overhang. The dog followed him for a while. The abscess was making it limp, the infection had probably penetrated the bone. Only a few weeks of life left for the poor creature, thought Maneck, no one to nurse it and heal it. Without Daddy around, who will care?
Tears returned to his eyes, and he began walking homewards. The rain had created numerous little rivulets that were coursing down the hill. They would go to swell the mountain streams and strengthen the impromptu waterfalls. Tomorrow everything would burst with green and freshness. He pictured the ashes, carried by all this shining water, travelling everywhere over the mountainside. His father had got his wish — he was being strewn abundantly, with more thoroughness than any human could have exercised: nature’s mighty and scrupulous hand had taken charge, and he was everywhere, inseparable from the place he had loved so deeply.
Wrapped in a Kashmiri shawl, Mrs. Kohlah waited anxiously on the porch, gazing down the road. She waved frantically when Maneck came into view. He picked up his pace.
“Maneck! Where were you? I woke from my nap and you were gone! And it was raining so heavily, I got worried.” She grasped his arm. “Look at you, you’re soaking! And there is mud on your face and clothes! What happened?”
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I’m fine, I felt like taking a walk. I slipped,” he added to explain the mud.
“You’re just like Daddy, doing crazy things. He also loved rain walks. But go, change your clothes, I’ll make tea and toast for you.” The rain had made the years fall away. He was her little boy again, drenched and helpless.
“How’s your knee?”
“Much better. The ice pack helped.”
He went up to his room, washed, and changed into dry clothes. The tea was ready when he returned downstairs. His mother added two spoons of sugar for him and one for herself. His had been poured in his father’s cup. She stirred it before moving it towards him. “You remember how Daddy always used to drink the first cup, strolling about the kitchen?”