After the cremation

He has left his glasses on the table.

There are two photographs—
One from a trip to Bannerghatta that I say I remember.
I don’t.
We are watching monkeys.
In another
he is watching me come down a yellow slide.

He was old even fifteen years ago.

Amma said I was never stung by a bee.
But I’m telling you, it stung me
Ask him—
Drink coffee, take, Suma is saying.
His cupboard is full of books
Where are his clothes?
Remember when? Suma is asking me.
—We still haven’t given away Amma’s clothes either—

Do yoga.
But what about physical exercise?
He shakes his thumb at my answer:
Touch your toes and show me.
Drink coffee, Suma is saying.
I stand on my toes—
Uddha, he says,
surprised.
That day I stood on my toes
to look over the wall with the binoculars he brought me,
and see Golconda fort from my bedroom window.

Can I have these travel books of his?
More coffee? Suma is asking me.
There is a book about frogs on his cupboard.

—don’t worry, I’m fine, Rukmini aunty insists.

 

Waiting

I watch him crouch on his feet in a way that I cannot; I crouch on just my toes, and he on his feet. I see him sitting, a monkey on his shoulder—bandar, he says—and I am sure he has dressed the same way for days, and does not remember. He unties his three monkeys at night, I imagine, unafraid that they will disappear. He is smiling now, holding his drum.

I hear his drum.

At six—that is how old I think he is—Appa would read Monkey’s Drum to me every Sunday. The sound I hear now is the sound he made then, hitting hand on a table in a rhythm I could never copy. But at six, the sound he hears is of people walking away—his drums make no sound, even though his hands are moving. The pointed sound of heels on an uneven road, the drag of rubber chappals that she loves to wear to college, the firm, formal tap of black shoes that need polishing take over.

I am sitting on the sidewalk, watching the waves in Bandra. He is looking towards the ice cream cart that a man is pushing slowly, walking towards the old woman sitting with two children. I wonder if I should buy the boy an ice cream, but I don’t know how to call him to me or what to say, so I let him be. For a moment, I wonder if the monkeys will interfere. As the man comes to stop before them the children ask the old woman for ice cream—orange flavour, they say. I remember the two of us, standing in a shop trying to pick chocolates, picking the same so that we didn’t have to share.

The old woman obliges easily, pulling out from her blouse a little change—she has enough for one, so they will have to share. If they mind it they do not show it, and I decide that next time I call home, I will ask about Dodda. The image I have of her is of the times she is standing before the mirror that I see her through. Her hand is outstretched unsteadily, the tips of her fingers touching those of a version of herself that she does not know she has become. Her hair greys faster than she realises; on days that she does, she calls me to her room and hands me a brush—next to her is black dye in a bowl that she has used for the same purpose all her life. She will insist on standing as I apply it to the back of her hair, complaining of the maid who did not come again, of the food she longs to make, but never of her feet which I know hurt her because of groans that travel through walls of paper at night. I will always nod, say little, but say that I understand, apply the colour, and leave. Next time, I will talk to Dodda.

The child has crouched down again. He is sitting on the ground next to one of those chairs that remind me of the parks back at home—and of the man who left stones on one of them to count the number of rounds he had walked. I wonder about the stories the boy was told, and about the stories he makes—do his monkeys appear in them?—or whether he makes stories at all. I wish I was the woman who walked up to people and talked to them, asking them questions out of curiosity, like a person looking for stories that are not their own.

I remember the man I met at a writing workshop with whom I exchanged a memory and played Bingo. I make his memory my own. He knows his grandfather by the stories he is told, his picture taken from photographs that are in black and white. There is the grey city that he sees in colour, but from inside the house his father is calling, telling him of the pond his grandfather’s genie lived by. He is sitting by the pond and feeding the fish again, there is the story of Aladdin, and there are the stories he now makes.

By the pond he knows his grandfather as the one who saved them. His grandfather’s walks, his favourite fish—later stories are additions to the one he has always known—that they were left alone by that genie his grandfather banished. Now, sitting at a table at 23, he writes fantasy fiction. The pond is outside.

The boy turns to look at the waves, wondering if he can get any closer. But his monkeys do not like the water, so he will sit where he is and stare from the distance. There is a man selling Marathi newspapers but the boy doesn’t look at him. He stands up again, throwing one last glance at the ice cream seller’s cart. His monkeys begin to walk away, and he walks with them.