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Authors: Sharath Komarraju
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this country.’
Your home is here. In Palem .
It all seemed such a waste, suddenly. All those arguments and fights about Nimmi. All that bickering about who was giving more to the relationship. All the nights of hurt and hate, all of his big words, all of her tears. All those unspoken feelings, the techniques that Dr Mehta suggested to them, the methods they were to use to work on their marriage, to fall in love with each other again...
Such a waste, all of it. It no longer mattered.
They walked, hand in hand, up the road, to the end of the straight stretch. Then they turned right along with the sharp bend, at the row of five coconut trees that rustled in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a stream gurgled. Now Ritu remembered what she had smelled on that black mirror. It had been the smell of fresh blood. Her own blood. Nimmi’s blood. That night in the hospital, when they had showed her a stain of blood on a cream-coloured towel and told her that it was all they could salvage.
She had hugged that blood-stained cloth to her bosom that night. She had wept into it, smelled it, kissed it, sung lullabies to it.
‘How dare he make such fools of us. Tell you what, Ritu, we should go back, and I should give him a piece of my mind.’
Ahead of them, they saw a gathering of fifteen or so people, looking at something. Some of them were speaking on their phones. Others milled about and stared. ‘Do you know what I saw in the mirror?’ she asked him.
‘What is going on here?’ said Vikas, looking ahead.
‘I saw nothing.’
‘What?’
‘I saw nothing in the mirror.’
‘How is that possible?’ said Vikas, laughing, but his face had turned pale. ‘You’re seeing things, Ritu. You and mirrors – you have a bit of history together, in case you’ve forgotten.’
Ritu did not reply. None of the people there took any notice of them. They went to the front of the crowd and saw the shattered Ford Falcon. Yes, thought Ritu, it did not matter anymore. Even as they stepped slowly along the side of the vehicle, examining the damage, she knew what she would see in the front seat. Vikas had been stunned into silence; surely he must see now why they had not remembered where the car was.
Kanakangi Road .
‘Ritu,’ he said.
Ritu nodded. ‘Yes.’
The phone in the jacket of Vikas’s body rang, and someone from the crowd came trotting forward, answered it. Vikas retrieved his own phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. No missed calls. No unanswered messages.
‘There has been an accident,’ the man was saying into the receiver. ‘Both the driver and the passenger have died on the spot. I am so sorry, madam...’
They stood to the side, listening.
* * *
The man at the mouth of the muddy path to Palem looked up from his mirrors. The couple with bags strapped to their shoulders were returning, their hands clasped tight together. As they passed him, the girl looked at him and smiled.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘This is our home.’
And they walked on to the village, in the direction of the mist.
The Sitarist of Palem
2002
Even in mid-monsoon, even under heavy early-morning mist, Rudrakshapalem was a parched place. Sister Agnes, one of the elderly matrons at the church of Dhavaleshwaram, here on assignment, looked out of the side window and saw a woman walking toward the building from the direction of the village. She appeared only as a smudge in the fog, but her step was slow, and the way she wrapped her arms around herself as she walked made Sister Agnes certain that she was headed for the centre.
For a moment Sister Agnes thought that one of the centre’s ladies was returning after a stealthy night out. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened, and Sister Agnes was practical enough to ignore such incidents – after all, the centre was no church; women who lived here were not required to live like nuns. They lived lives that required them to stay out of doors for most
Your home is here. In Palem .
It all seemed such a waste, suddenly. All those arguments and fights about Nimmi. All that bickering about who was giving more to the relationship. All the nights of hurt and hate, all of his big words, all of her tears. All those unspoken feelings, the techniques that Dr Mehta suggested to them, the methods they were to use to work on their marriage, to fall in love with each other again...
Such a waste, all of it. It no longer mattered.
They walked, hand in hand, up the road, to the end of the straight stretch. Then they turned right along with the sharp bend, at the row of five coconut trees that rustled in the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a stream gurgled. Now Ritu remembered what she had smelled on that black mirror. It had been the smell of fresh blood. Her own blood. Nimmi’s blood. That night in the hospital, when they had showed her a stain of blood on a cream-coloured towel and told her that it was all they could salvage.
She had hugged that blood-stained cloth to her bosom that night. She had wept into it, smelled it, kissed it, sung lullabies to it.
‘How dare he make such fools of us. Tell you what, Ritu, we should go back, and I should give him a piece of my mind.’
Ahead of them, they saw a gathering of fifteen or so people, looking at something. Some of them were speaking on their phones. Others milled about and stared. ‘Do you know what I saw in the mirror?’ she asked him.
‘What is going on here?’ said Vikas, looking ahead.
‘I saw nothing.’
‘What?’
‘I saw nothing in the mirror.’
‘How is that possible?’ said Vikas, laughing, but his face had turned pale. ‘You’re seeing things, Ritu. You and mirrors – you have a bit of history together, in case you’ve forgotten.’
Ritu did not reply. None of the people there took any notice of them. They went to the front of the crowd and saw the shattered Ford Falcon. Yes, thought Ritu, it did not matter anymore. Even as they stepped slowly along the side of the vehicle, examining the damage, she knew what she would see in the front seat. Vikas had been stunned into silence; surely he must see now why they had not remembered where the car was.
Kanakangi Road .
‘Ritu,’ he said.
Ritu nodded. ‘Yes.’
The phone in the jacket of Vikas’s body rang, and someone from the crowd came trotting forward, answered it. Vikas retrieved his own phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. No missed calls. No unanswered messages.
‘There has been an accident,’ the man was saying into the receiver. ‘Both the driver and the passenger have died on the spot. I am so sorry, madam...’
They stood to the side, listening.
* * *
The man at the mouth of the muddy path to Palem looked up from his mirrors. The couple with bags strapped to their shoulders were returning, their hands clasped tight together. As they passed him, the girl looked at him and smiled.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘This is our home.’
And they walked on to the village, in the direction of the mist.
The Sitarist of Palem
2002
Even in mid-monsoon, even under heavy early-morning mist, Rudrakshapalem was a parched place. Sister Agnes, one of the elderly matrons at the church of Dhavaleshwaram, here on assignment, looked out of the side window and saw a woman walking toward the building from the direction of the village. She appeared only as a smudge in the fog, but her step was slow, and the way she wrapped her arms around herself as she walked made Sister Agnes certain that she was headed for the centre.
For a moment Sister Agnes thought that one of the centre’s ladies was returning after a stealthy night out. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened, and Sister Agnes was practical enough to ignore such incidents – after all, the centre was no church; women who lived here were not required to live like nuns. They lived lives that required them to stay out of doors for most
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