Flame Tree Road. Shona PatelЧитать онлайн книгу.
his empty pillow. She lay in bed and thought of him. She hoped he would get some sleep that night. Shamol’s cousins were a big noisy family with several ill-behaved children who ran rumpus over the house. Would he miss her? She smiled. Of course he would. Her husband was a deeply romantic and sentimental man.
Shibani’s heart swelled with gratitude when she thought of him. He was such a caring husband and a good father. Shamol discerned unique qualities in each child and wove them into their self-confidence. She remembered a phase Nitin had gone through when he’d wanted to dress up in girl clothes and play with dolls all the time. Shamol had never once tried to dissuade him or make him feel it was wrong. “The child is only acting out his imagination,” he’d explained to Shibani. “He will grow out of it.” And sure enough, Nitin soon had.
Samir in the meantime had turned around and called Nitin a sissy. He’d done it in a mean-spirited way and Biren had been quick to lash out in defense of his young brother. “You are the sissy,” Biren had shot back. “Imagine a grown-up boy like you riding in a palanquin!”
Shamol, who had overheard their quarrel, had quickly diffused it by telling the boys about the brave Scottish Highlanders in their wool-pleated kilts and Roman emperors who wore togas. He’d gone on to talk about Japanese emperors and brave Samurai warriors who were borne aloft on palanquins because of their exalted status. At the end Shamol had had all three boys keen to wear kilts and togas and ride in palanquins.
Shibani’s fingers caressed her husband’s pillow, remembering. She slipped her small supple hand under it and found a sprig of dried jasmine from the garland of her hair. Her sweet husband must have tucked it there. Breathing in the scent, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
An inky darkness had fallen outside by the time Shamol finished his letter. The rain had ceased and the candles, now reduced to shapeless gobs, spluttered in their pools of wax. Outside the door the jackals howled in a lonely chorus. Shamol quickly folded the letter, gathered together his things and picked up the ledger and keys from the table. Then he blew out the candles one by one. As he stepped off the platform, the keys slipped from his hand and fell with a clatter to the floor. He bent down and felt for them in the dark and bumped up against what he thought was the leg of the table. But it was hard and muscular and writhed against his upper arm. Too late, he realized it was a snake. He jerked back his hand and heard a loud spitting hiss followed by a needling stab on his right wrist. Shamol’s knees buckled; he grabbed the table to steady himself and slowly crumpled to the floor. A milky film floated before his eyes, his tongue twisted to the roof of his mouth and ribbons of white froth dribbled down his chin. The last thing Shamol Roy felt was a tremendous crushing pain in his chest and the sensation of being sucked underwater.
Twenty minutes later, he lay dead in the jute godown, surrounded by the rats and the filth. His hand clutched his pocket that held the six pencil stubs wrapped in a blotting paper he had planned on taking home for his son.
The disheveled man waiting for Biren in the headmaster’s office looked vaguely familiar. His hair was uncombed and he was still in his night pajamas. It finally dawned on Biren he was their neighbor, Apu’s husband, a man he had probably seen five times in his life and never spoken to even once.
“Mr. Bhowmik will take you home,” said the headmaster, fiddling with a bunch of papers on his desk. He did not explain why. From the look on their faces, Biren knew something was wrong. It must be something to do with his granny, he thought. Maybe she had died. Old people died quickly and suddenly after all. Like Kanai’s granny. Kanai said one day she was chewing betel nuts on the front steps and chatting with the neighbors and the next day she was gone.
On the boat ride back home the man turned his face away toward the jute fields and made no attempt at conversation. He was not one to talk much, from what Biren remembered. If Granny had died, why hadn’t his father come to get him? It was not like Father to send a stranger in his place.
Maybe he could trick Apu’s husband into conversation.
“I wonder if it will rain tonight,” Biren remarked, peering up at the clouds. “This changing weather is terrible. It is making us all sick. My granny had a high fever last night. She was terribly unwell.”
The man coughed and gave a brief nod but did not say anything. The silence was getting sticky. The boat rowed past the backwaters.
“I went fishing out to the backwaters yesterday,” Biren said brightly. “Kanai the fisherman caught a big chital fish a few days ago. Fifteen kilos, imagine!” Biren cast a sly glance to see if the man was impressed, but he just crossed his arms over his chest. “But it was hopeless for me,” Biren continued. “I did not even catch a two-inch pooty fish! It is this rough weather, you know. When it gets too windy, the fish go down too deep and don’t bite. It was a good thing we decided to come home...” His last few words dribbled off. His pitcher of conversation was running dry.
Finally, as the boat pulled up to Momati Ghat, the man cleared his throat. “You will stay at our house today,” he said. Biren was startled to hear his voice. It was low and throaty. Something warned him not to ask further questions.
They entered Apu’s house through the front door, which had a different street entrance from their own. Nitin was already there, behaving in a manner that would have earned him a sound paddling from Shibani. A half-packed trunk lay open on the floor. Nitin and Apu’s two little girls, Ruby and Ratna, had pulled out an expensive silk sari from the trunk and ran shrieking through the house as they trailed the leaf-green silk behind them. Biren remembered it as the same sari he had delivered the day before.
A toothless granny with collapsed cheeks, her hair coiled into a walnut-size bun, sat on the bed with a string of prayer beads wrapped in her hand. She called after them in a wavery voice, “Careful, careful.”
“Ma!” yelled Apu’s husband loudly in the old woman’s ear. “I am going out. Keep an eye on the children, do you hear? Don’t let them out of the house.”
Biren tugged the man’s hand. “Can I go home?”
“Not now,” said the man. “Your Apumashi will come to get you both later.”
“Where is Apumashi?”
“She’s gone...out,” said the man. “You all stay here. You must not leave the house.”
He turned around and left.
Four-year-old Ruby came running up to Biren and hugged him tightly around the waist. “Oh, my husband! My sweet husband!” she cried. She grabbed his hand and kissed it feverishly.
“I am not your husband,” Biren said gruffly, snatching his hand away. He disengaged her arms from around his waist.
“But of course you are,” Ruby replied in a sugary voice. She gave him a sly, coquettish look. “You are, you are, my handsome husband.” She twirled her skirt and sang. “We are going to get married. I will wear a red sari and we will exchange garlands. Oh, I love my husband! We are getting married.”
“Getting married! Getting married!” shrieked the other two, flinging the folds of the sari up in the air.
“Careful, careful,” chirruped the granny.
It was strange, but there didn’t seem to be another soul in the house.
“Granny!” yelled Biren in the old lady’s ear. “Where is everybody?”
“Everybody?” pondered the granny. “Everybody must be doing puja.”
The puja room was empty, the sandalwood joss sticks burned down to a bed of ash.
Biren