Visitors to the house, p.28
Visitors to the House, page 28
We found our places on the benches and Baby stayed where he was, hopping in his seat like it was the first time he’d come out. He wasn’t cranky, just a shade cheery. A lone traveller, a clerk at the bank perhaps, waited in the far corner for the last bus out of Didoli. He had a small bag on his knees, indicating he was a father going home to his wife and daughter farther than the villages twinkling below us. In between bouts of dozing, he would look at us and smile at Baby.
I realized why we were there at that hour, just then. The house was too big for us without Mini. We escaped from it. Mira was to come on Sunday and that should fill the blanks, I hoped. We never spoke of Mini’s surgery, I don’t know why. Would it make her absence more obvious?
The bank clerk looked at his watch and got up to glance down the road. He cocked his ear for the familiar rumble of the bus and wore a woeful expression. He wanted to rush home to his Mini and Theresa. What was keeping the bus? He looked at the sky and stuck his hand out as if checking for rain. Of course there was no chance of rain. Baby gurgled in his pram as if to catch his attention and shook his head from side to side, glee writ in his eyes. The man followed the action and came prancing up to the pram. Baby lifted his arms to be picked up, surprising us. He never did that with anyone, least with a stranger.
I got up and lifted him and put him down on the floor. He waddled off to where the man had stood and checked for rain, imitating him. And then he swung his head again, left and right, and kept doing that, as if drunk on some distant drum-beat. Theresa looked at me and I at her.
‘That boy has a gift,’ the man said, once again sitting down and embracing his faux-leather bag.
I merely smiled, too lazy for conversation.
But Theresa asked, ‘What gift?’
‘He just told me the bus wasn’t coming.’
‘He doesn’t talk,’ she said, without telling him we were not deaf or blind and we saw nothing of the sort.
‘Then I must have imagined. I’m too tired and sleepy you see, and my bus isn’t coming, I’m sure.’
‘Why did you say he has a gift?’ Theresa wasn’t giving up so easily and I could see why. Baby unnerved us a bit. A loose statement like that got to us. Had he said ‘sweet boy’ or something it would have been okay, but he had meant a good deal more.
‘There’s a wind picking up,’ he said, avoiding an answer.
‘Sir, why did you say what you said?’ I added gravely, understanding the import of Theresa’s insistence.
‘Do you think it will rain?’ he asked instead.
I shook my head. We had a clear sky, I remembered.
‘I imagined your boy told me the bus wouldn’t come because a tree would block the road because a storm would uproot the tree. I went to check and I saw clouds. The wind has picked up, did you notice?’
I said, ‘You had dozed off smiling at him and dreamt what you said. Perhaps you have the gift, sir. If you are proven right, you have it.’
In reply the heavens growled. A warm wind rose from the gorge and was replaced by a cold current. As if on cue the sky lit up and revealed dark, heavy clouds rolling in from the east. A louder roar. The man stood up and watched with his jaw way down low. We crept to the edge of the shelter where Baby stood with his hands on his ears, grinning. In moments the sky was one black shroud. The storm came like a flood of anger. The tin roof shook and rattled, threatening to come loose. A multi-forked tongue of lightning streaked from one end of the sky to the other. A mighty clap shattered our ears and a million rocks battered the roof.
‘Hailstorm!’ Theresa shouted. We pulled Baby back and put him in the prison, the pram. He held my leg and we stood watching hailstones as large as tennis balls race and roll and scoot across the floor. The man held his bag to himself and stood on the bench as if snakes had been released.
The show went on for ten minutes. Rain came down quick and hard for another ten. The road shone silver. The hills were lit with moonlight despite the clouds. The benches were wet. We spoke not a word. And the bus never came.
‘I told you the boy has the gift,’ we heard the man whimper in the dark, for the power was out. We forgot to switch on our torches. We didn’t respond to what he said.
Theresa pulled my elbow and said, ‘Look.’ A dark form trudged up the road. It could not be a bear or an ape by the size of it. It headed straight for our shelter. We stiffened. It was a few metres from us when it stopped.
‘I knew you would be here,’ Mira shouted. ‘I went to the house and it was locked. Why do you guys do this to me?’
We didn’t answer, we laughed. We should have known it wasn’t a mighty storm, it was our own Mira. And in the excitement we completely forgot the man standing on the bench, punished for god knows what.
Chapter 9
The rain went as fast as it came, the hail melted faster. We trooped down the glistening road, our torchlight picking up the litter left behind by Baby’s storm. I say ‘Baby’s storm’ because the bank clerk reminded us he was sure he had connected with the child in a brief dream when he’d dozed off. Mira wore an incredulous look while he laughed unconvincingly. I knew there was no bus arriving for the confused man and that he would spend the night shivering in an open shed, but I did not offer to take him home. I did not want him to go on about what he saw and so ardently believed. Most of all I had no mind for explaining something to Mira that I did not comprehend in the least. It was cruel on my part. The man would have to miss the chance of seeing his wife and daughter. I don’t know why I thought he had them waiting at their doorstep. The next bus was not until ten in the morning and it could only take him back to Didoli if the fallen trees had been cleared by then, which was close to impossible. It would have been wiser if he had started walking back then to warm up and reach some sort of comfort soon enough. Didoli was barely an hour’s trudge if he had a light. I was certain he didn’t.
There was more debris than we had imagined. Mira had left her bag on the porch. She carried the pram and I took Baby, who looked drunk on sleep after all the excitement. I had had a mild stroke some years ago, which had left my right side lazier. Carrying Baby took effort when a larger branch lay across my path. Neither of the girls offered help, knowing Baby was my appendage. We are practical people and saying something and not meaning it is considered dishonesty in Mini’s world. How I longed to be there with her. Still I never mentioned going over to Delhi for one reason clinging to my shoulder: Baby.
Clearly, he would not stay with anybody else. My going to Delhi was impossible. He could not be allowed near strangers, I knew now, and least of all at the hospital. Baby may go crazy sniffing out disease. I sound ridiculous even to me. The man at Rhododendron should be happy he was healthy. Baby had spared him.
‘What was that all about?’ Mira said finally.
Theresa and I pretended to examine the road with deeper interest. We had expected the query to come sooner. The stranger had been surprised by Mira’s appearance out of nowhere, just as the storm had. He tried convincing us even more vociferously, especially Mira, on what he had experienced. We said ‘Yes, Yes’ to humour him and gave the girl a look which said we had a clown on our hands. Mira was no fool.
She kept the question for later. We walked on. We could see the house plunged in darkness, with our mind’s eye. The power could not be expected for another day, maybe more. Mini loved bad weather. She called it beautiful and sat transfixed on the porch, watching the clouds and the wind first waltz around and then go into a wilder, more violent tango. A cup of tea between her palms, she seemed possessed by a silent communion. I too had tried reading the bank clerk’s mind, imagining he had a wife and daughter waiting for a knock on the door. I had even imagined he was a bank clerk. What he had seen or heard in that magical space was a dream becoming real. If you can imagine it, it happens. That is the power of silence.
Theresa fumbled with the lock. The storm had swept leaves and twigs across the yard. Had we left any window open? I was glad Mira was there to take control. My phone beeped, telling me I had six missed calls. Another great thing about Rhododendron was this – no signal. You connect with each other while you’re there. Mira had called six times.
I laid Baby down on the bed. Theresa went around lighting candles. Mira took the lantern from her and kept it at the doorstep.
‘He might see the light and come in,’ she explained.
‘Who?’ said Theresa.
‘The madman,’ came the reply from Mini’s daughter, who cared for everyone and anyone. The smell of ginger and cardamom wafted out of the kitchen. An hour past midnight was perfect for tea.
Baby slept like a baby on his left side, facing my part of the bed. Theresa placed the tray at the foot. And we sat around on an assortment of stools, except Baby’s. The glow of the candles spread like honey. Mira threw a light quilt over my shoulders.
My daughters were exactly the same and totally different. A play of environment and birth, I suppose. Apart from the colour of their hair and eyes and genetic memory, they were the products of their childhoods. It is the first ten years of life that make us who we are forever. While Theresa was half-gypsy and half-Mini, Mira was half-Mini and half-Aum. Her brother’s wisdom and her mother’s generosity became her. And her mercurial temper, now warm now cool, came from my mother, who had bought the house we sipped tea in, on a whim. Our home in Didoli, like all homes, was a big life coach. What the hills teach, Delhi can’t, and the other way round too. The role of a father I’m not certain of, but I do feel fathers are like the weather we just witnessed. They can cause damage if they don’t behave themselves. All other forces of childhood can be negated by a father who cannot be careful. The father cannot contribute except by being good himself.
I’m not sure if my role in the girls’ lives was exemplary. Perhaps my not being around too much was good, but in Baby’s case I was Mini, Didoli and me. And to make matters simpler, he would never come out of his childhood ever. There he lay, eyes shut, upon the bed we sat around, watching him and wondering.
‘What’s this business of chips?’ Mira’s question had waited too long. She saw Theresa keep Baby’s jar behind the curtain and an extra line had been added to the frown she wore so well. Theresa and I looked at each other. If we didn’t tell her in such intimate conditions, it would amount to distrust and dishonesty, which was unacceptable in the house.
‘What’s the big secret, Papa?’
That instant I told them about my theory of the chips and the birds and how I believed Baby communicated. Theresa looked surprised, though Mira chewed on my words like a ruminating calf.
‘So what you are saying, Papa, is that our Baby isn’t…’ She couldn’t find the right expression.
‘Damaged,’ I completed. ‘No, I think he merely understands a different language and speaks at a higher frequency.’
‘You can’t be serious.’ She looked serious.
I shrugged. ‘Well, you asked.’
‘That may be correct,’ Theresa added, though she wasn’t privy to this bit of information and may have felt betrayed. ‘He sits still and the birds seem to wait. I didn’t think of it that way. You have to struggle to get out of bed, the peace is so deafening.’
‘You mean silence,’ Mira murmured.
‘No, I mean peace.’ The younger sister smiled patiently. ‘There’s silence in abundance out here, this is different.’
‘Papa,’ Mira said with a good hard look at Theresa, ‘this little thing is a monster. What wisdom, my god.’
We laughed, Theresa beamed. The air became sombre again. In a sense I was glad the queen was there. It was some reassurance. Sharing the secret took a weight off my shoulders. I bet Theresa felt more relaxed too. We had borne Mini’s worry stoically for days and here Mira was, taking off the layers.
‘A miracle? Are we talking miracles here? I know a bit about animals.’
‘Naturally,’ quipped the younger, and got a sideways kick. We knew of the veterinarian Mira wanted to marry and made fun of how appropriate it was for her to be with an animal doctor.
‘So the animal instinct is real,’ she said, grinning, ‘but this is hard to digest, Papa.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay, next question.’
She asked what the stranger at Rhododendron had said. And when we narrated the incident of the storm, she went out and came back with more tea.
‘Was the man drunk?’ She said it was common in the hills so late in the night. She was clearly playing the cynic to make us see sense. She probably imagined we had managed to create this myth, this legend and were now forcing the logic on it. I wished she was right.
‘You were there. He looked overawed, didn’t he?’
Mira scratched the tip of her nose like she was some hard-nosed detective of a medieval novel. She had too much to chew and hadn’t had a clue.
‘Tell her the Mini-Mum story, Papa,’ Theresa coaxed.
Mira looked up. ‘I remember what you said. Baby sent her for a check-up, right?’
‘Yes.’ This time Theresa built the argument better than I could. She explained how dogs detected cancer and how Baby had done just the same and been correct every time. ‘Mini-Mum had no symptoms whatsoever. We felt foolish sending her off but see what happened.’
Mira said nothing.
‘You know what I feel?’ Theresa waited, I nodded and she continued. ‘I feel all these things are connected to a common talent or power Baby possesses.’
We listened.
‘It is an animal instinct. Birds become restless when a storm approaches. He was too. Dogs can sniff out cancer, so does he. The birds, Papa says, are silent when he is.’
Theresa was the detective now, putting together the pieces. We wanted to hear her go on in her girlish sweet voice.
‘It’s no miracle, Mira, he has a heightened perception perhaps because of not having other faculties. A blind man hears more, feels more.’ She stopped abruptly, breathing fast, overwhelmed by her own delivery in front of someone she looked up to.
‘She is a monster, Papa!’ Mira exclaimed in a whisper. ‘I believe every word she said.’ And she clasped her sister’s hand.
Suddenly, without warning, Theresa sobbed. Mira slid closer and pulled her in an embrace. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. The glow of the candles reflected in their eyes. This was the first time I’d seen the two sisters, separated by a generation almost, displaying emotions shamelessly. I suppose the absence of Mini created a vacuum that needed filling. In the jigsaw of our lives, the pieces shift and try to create a whole. Mini had become a child in Aum’s home and Mira quite naturally filled the place she vacated.
‘What bothers my sister?’ Mira spoke gently, like I had never seen her do. The celebration her muscles underwent every second had slowed down since our little conversation bordering on the absurd. ‘You needn’t worry. I’m here for good. I’m here till you grow four more inches and stand taller than us midgets with average good looks.’
Theresa smiled and pressed her nose into Mira’s shoulder.
‘Now I know what these emerald lakes instead of eyes mean. They are meant to overflow now and then.’ Mira held the golden-haired girl at arm’s length and said jauntily, ‘I know why you love her more than me, Papa, now I do. She is like a goddess. Just look at her, who can take their eyes off?’
Theresa buried her face in the pillow beside Baby’s head. He hadn’t stirred in two hours, his face upwards and his legs apart.
‘What made you cry, my dear?’ Mira said this like a young aunt perhaps, and not an elder sister.
‘Mmmmmm,’ came a sound.
‘What was that? Some new language you invented?’
‘Mmmmmm.’
Before we could say something smarter still, Theresa’s head snapped to the right. She stared at Baby. His eyes were wide open and upon me.
‘Mmmmmm,’ he said again.
Theresa translated for us. ‘He is saying Mini-Mum.’
That was the first word Baby had ever spoken. Was he answering Mira’s question or was he trying to tell us something that had appeared in his dream?
Instinctively, I reached for my phone and called Aum.
Chapter 10
Aum sounded surprised. ‘Did Dina call?’ It was past midnight and he had been called to the hospital just minutes ago. How did we know?
‘What happened? Is she fine?’ I had done too much explaining to his sister and the details could be left for another day. After mumbling what we thought was Mini’s name, Baby had shut his eyes and gone back to the world he inhabited in his waking hours too. His mouth remained slightly open and saliva dribbled down the corner of his lips. Theresa dabbed his cheek with her shirt-cuff, feeling no disgust. I never knew Mini as a girl, but she would have been a combination of those two young women. I never tire of saying that.
Aum explained the surgery was to take place the next morning. He had been getting the tests and other formalities done the entire day. He was to stay the night at the hospital and had gone home for a couple of hours to check on Dina and the baby, have dinner and get his clothes. The call came halfway into his bath, asking him to return.
‘Why were you called, Aum? She was perfectly okay and cheerful when we spoke in the evening,’ I asked patiently. The girls stared at me.
Aum hesitated. ‘She’s good now. Nothing to worry. The surgery is delayed by two days, Papa.’
‘Why?’
‘She had a reaction to one of the injections. I had left her laughing at some silly television show. But she was shivering when I got back. The nurse was fairly capable, the doctor said. Such things can happen. She’s sleeping, Papa, don’t worry. I’m here like a watchdog.’
‘Get some sleep,’ I managed to say, my heart thumping.
‘Did Dina call?’ he still wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ I lied. This was no time for explaining miracles. ‘You’re doing a good job all on your own. But don’t forget to rest. Are you sure you don’t want one of us?’
