The Girl in the Garden (22 page)

I stared at the book in my hands, then down into the well, so black even the blinding sun flickered and disappeared like a dying bulb in its depths. My legs standing in that awful grass throbbed, but managed to stay rooted.

My parents had instilled the idea in me that books were sacred. Both Aba and Amma agreed on this one point. If I left books lying around on the floor of my room, Aba would pause in the doorway as he passed and frown.

“It seems to me you have more than enough shelf space, Rakhee, am I right?” he would say.

Amma taught me that if I ever stepped on a book, I should immediately kneel down, touch my fingers first
to the book, then to my forehead, as a sign of respect. That motion had become a reflex to me now and I did it without thinking whenever my foot accidentally brushed against one. Books were meant to be revered, not destroyed.

How could something feel both right and wrong?

I heard the scratchy shuffle of cow hooves on sand. Soon Hari would be shepherding them onto the lawn and backing them into their pens. He would see me standing paralyzed and suspicious at the rim of the well.

It was now or never.

With a quick shove I sent the book over the edge. It seemed a long time before I heard a quiet splash but I forced myself to wait until I heard it.

Then I fled.

That night my cousins and I sat at the dinner table with Vijay Uncle and Dev, who had been over to check on Muthashi, while the aunts, Amma, and Gitanjali stood in silence against the wall. The creamy balloons of Vijay Uncle’s cheeks seemed to have miraculously deflated into flaccid jowls over the course of the last week. He was making small talk with Dev, but I could see that every word that left his dry lips was painful, strained, and that he seemed to be using up every last ounce of energy he had to keep up his end of the conversation.

“Na-na-nalini,” Dev said, turning finally to my aunt, who was standing behind her husband with a sullen expression on her face. “Your old friend Thara T-t-thomas. Did you hear, sh-sh-she has gone back to her parents’ p-pplace in disg-g-grace?”

“Oh, that woman, she is no friend of mine,” said Nalini Aunty in a subdued tone, though her eyes lit up at this piece of gossip.

“Her f-f-father should have thrown her out, but they h-h-have taken h-h-her in and she has no problems bringing sh-sh-shame to them all.”

Nalini Aunty clucked and shook her head from side to side in agreement, and through the corner of my eye I saw Amma scowl.

When Dev had finished eating, Sadhana Aunty gave Gitanjali a nudge and she came forward with downcast eyes to reload his banana leaf. He leaned back and watched her as she ladled curry onto his leaf, his eyes flicking upward from her face down to the soft hands that served him.

“Sh-sh-she is a lovely girl, indeed, Sadhana Chechi, this d-d-d-daughter of yours. L-l-l-ike a full moon on a c-c-clear night.”

Meenu let out a loud, involuntary snort, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Krishna’s eyes widened and Sadhana Aunty’s lips tightened.

A dull shade of red crept into Dev’s neck and he turned to Meenu, who met his look with a mixture of fear and brazen amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Quite unlike this one,” he said in a voice suddenly smooth as silk, “so dark, so homely.” Dev tore off a piece of dosa from his plate, stuffed it in his mouth, and chewed. “I fear, my dear Sadhana Chechi, sh-sh-sh-she will be difficult to marry off. She was not b-b-blessed with the Varma beauty.”

To my surprise, Meenu’s face fell at these words. She had always seemed so tough, so uncaring. But now a shadow dulled the glint in her eyes, and the hand that had
covered her mouth dropped to her lap, revealing the limp corners of her lips.

Sadhana Aunty cleared her throat. “I’m not concerned with that just yet, Dev. She is still very young.” She moved to the table where she began to collect our banana leaves, before adding in a softer voice, “And she is a good, smart girl.”

Dev opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth it. “Vijay, shall we r-r-r-retreat and leave these l-l-ladies to their dinner?”

“Yes, let us do that,” said Vijay Uncle uncomfortably, pushing back his chair with a squeak.

I looked at Meenu; something had changed in her face. The mischievous glint had returned to her eyes, but her nostrils were flared and her lips screwed up into a tight, bloodless ball. She didn’t say or do anything—just stood and went to wash her curry-smeared hands in the sink, but my bad feeling was confirmed when she came up behind me as we left the dining room.

“Rakhee, switch parts with me,” she said casually, but as she said it her fingers curled around my arm and she gave me a hard squeeze.

“What?” I said, turning to face her. “We’re performing tomorrow. How can we switch now? I thought you liked your part. My character doesn’t even come in until halfway through.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” She let go of my arm. “I already know all your lines and it won’t be difficult to learn mine. You hated playing the villain anyhow.”

Krishna furrowed her brow but didn’t say anything.

Meenu stared at me.

“Fine,” I said.

“Good. I’ll give you the script, you can relearn your lines tonight, and we’ll rehearse tomorrow. Just trust me, it will be better this way.”

I stayed awake late into the night reading the script and only let myself close my eyes long after the net of sleep had settled over the house. A couple of hours later, I opened my eyes and it dawned on me that it was my birthday. I was eleven. Birthdays were still something exciting back then, so in spite of my lack of sleep I leaped out of bed, full of energy, and pulled my dress over my head, eager to get to the garden. I wrapped the Shakespeare book in a silk shawl I had swiped from Amma’s room. I stuck it in my backpack and secured the straps around my shoulders.

Before I left I crept into the bathroom for a glance in the mirror, just to see if anything had changed. I thought that there surely had to be some kind of minor transformation to mark this passage into a new year. To my disappointment, however, my reflection was the exact same one that had greeted me the day before. It was a funny thing to look and feel identical to the way I did yesterday, but to suddenly be a whole year older.

When I got to the garden, Tulasi put her arms around me and wished me a happy birthday. “I’ve made a cake,” she said with a smile. “Let me just finish watering these roses and we’ll go inside and have some.”

I knelt down beside Puck, who was curled up in the grass. He looked at me with his beady black eyes, then bent his head down, much in the way Merlin would do, and I realized he wanted to be petted. I ran my hand
across his snowy feathers, from the rounded nub of his head down to the tip of his endless tail. I wondered if he ever danced, like the peacocks I saw in nature books, spreading out the intricate fan of his plumage. I was glad that Tulasi had Puck as a companion, but seeing him there, lying in the grass like a purring cat, also made me sad.

“I’m finished. Let us go indoors and have cake,” said Tulasi, smiling at me and wiping her hands on her tunic.

As we ate the cake and sipped tea, Tulasi’s eyes fell upon my backpack. “What have you got in there?”

“Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.” My face warm, I unzipped the backpack and pulled out the book, still wrapped in Amma’s shawl.

Tulasi took it from me.

“Rakhee!” she said, her eyes dancing, “I cannot believe you have been so kind as to bring me a book. You are the kindest girl in the world.” Before she unwrapped it she held the book to her face and inhaled. She took the tasseled edge of the shawl in her fingers and stroked it.

“This smells delicious,” she said in a dreamy voice, and then slowly began to remove the shawl. It fell in a silken rumple onto her lap.

She stared at the cover of the book. It seemed that she stared forever, her smile vanishing, her hands shaking. Where were the gushing words of gratitude, the effusive hugs?

She placed the book down on the table as if it were a repulsive object and turned her head to one side so that I couldn’t see her expression.

“Rakhee, thank you very much. You are so very kind to think of me, especially on this day, your birthday.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

“It’s wonderful,” she said lightly.

“It’s Shakespeare, your favorite. You see, he’s written much more than that one play. Now you can read everything he wrote. I’m sure I can find the rest—”

Tulasi cut me off. “I’m suddenly feeling a bit ill. I hope you will not find me ungracious if I end this visit now. I don’t think I shall be very good company henceforth.”

I still had half an hour left before I had to be back. Tulasi had always seemed so excited to see me. I couldn’t understand her coldness.

“Okay, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

I stood up and went to the door. Tulasi did not follow me, but as I opened it, I heard her say, “Please do come tomorrow, Rakhee. I live for your visits now.”

As I walked through the forest back toward Ashoka, it hit me for the first time that maybe I wasn’t helping Tulasi. Maybe I wasn’t helping her at all.

I had forgotten all about the look I had seen on Meenu’s face when Dev had taunted her. During the day she went back to being the regular old Meenu, making us rehearse for hours, ordering us around, tearing at her hair when we didn’t infuse enough expression into our lines.

The servants had prepared my favorite meal for dinner: idlis and sambar. Dev and Prem were both there, but in spite of their presence I still managed to have a good time. Everyone seemed lighthearted, like their cares had dissolved into thin air for one night. Amma’s face was rosy and glowing. Vijay Uncle was cracking jokes right and left. Even Sadhana Aunty, who usually got a distressed look on
her face whenever Prem unexpectedly dropped by, was laughing. Muthashi’s fever had finally subsided, and although she appeared a bit frail, she seemed otherwise healthy, her hair neatly pulled back, a smile on her face.

After we had finished eating, Amma disappeared into the kitchen, and emerged carrying a round white cake decorated with yellow roses and twelve burning candles.

“One for good luck,” she said, setting the cake down in front of me.

Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” and I paused for a moment before I blew out the candles in one giant breath.

“What did you wish for?” asked Krishna.