Many more pieces—bowls, urns, drinking cups—were good enough to sell at the market, and Leena soon began to earn more than she had from the baskets, nearly as much as her father had from their farm crops. That first day at the market, Leena had not been looking for an old woman with a bent back, but she was drawn to her tiny, perfect creations. With her wistful words, the old woman had given Leena a gift. When Leena sat down at the wheel, she knew it was where she belonged. Not only was it her craft and her livelihood, it was her salvation.
Once, Leena had hoped for more from her life. Now, after the torment she’d lived through, the wounds still carried on her body and in her memory, it was an unspeakable gift to be able to live on her ancestral lands, in her family home, and support herself and her mother. Gradually, she emerged from the seclusion of their home, accompanying her mother to village gatherings, though others there still largely avoided her. When Leena saw her cousins and school friends, their lives full and busy with husbands and children, domestic chores and village gossip, sometimes she felt a deep longing. In time, she learned it was better to avoid these people, to retreat to the things that brought her solace: her mother, their home, the pottery wheel. That other kind of life was not her karma.
21
FOUR WEEKS LATER, WITH BALDEV STILL IN THE HOSPITAL recovering from knee surgery, Anil completed the second year of his residency and returned to India for the trip he’d planned months earlier.
Now, as he sat on the porch of the Big House, a light breeze rippled through the fronds of the coconut trees lining its perimeter. Anil closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the breeze caressing his face. With a cup of chai warming his hands, he allowed himself to sink into the newfound pleasure of being home. He’d sensed the difference as soon as he disembarked from the plane in Ahmadabad, when he slipped easily into the throngs of bodies jostling around the baggage belt, another unremarkable person in this country of millions; no one looking at him, no one noticing he was different.
The front door creaked open behind him and Ma stepped out onto the porch, carrying a tray laden with fresh cups of chai and a stack of warm paranthas. She nodded her chin toward the fields—Nikhil was walking back to the house for a morning tea break. He was darkened by the sun, his bare arms sinewy with muscle. Anil stood up to greet his brother, waving one hand high over his head.
They sat together on sturdy wooden chairs on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the land that now belonged to them. Ma poured two cups of tea, straining out the gingerroot and crushed mint leaves. Anil raised the cup to his lips and inhaled the fragrant cardamom.
Ma stood between her two sons, one hand on each of their shoulders. “This is how it should always be,” she said before retreating into the house.
Anil blew on his tea to cool it down.
Nikhil tipped his cup to pour a small amount of tea into his saucer, drank it in one gulp, and filled the saucer again. “You should tell her you’re never coming back, so she can stop pining for the day.” His voice was cold.
Anil turned to his brother and watched him slurp another saucerful of tea. “I didn’t say I’m never—”
“Well, are you?” Nikhil stared straight out at the land, his dark eyes glinting like coal. “Or are you going to keep telling us what to do from your comfortable life in America?”
Anil put down his teacup, still full, next to Nikhil’s empty cup on the tray. “Bhai?” His younger brother had never spoken to him this way. “Is something wrong?”
“You think you know more, sitting over there in your fancy hospital with your smart doctors? You think you know how we should do things over here?”
“Listen, bhai, I don’t want that role,” Anil said. “I’ve tried telling Ma I don’t want it, but she won’t listen.” Just that morning, Ma had told him she had scheduled an arbitration session for the following day. “What nonsense,” she’d replied when he protested he wasn’t up for it.
“You know what it’s been like here since you decided to give Dilip that land?” Nikhil’s voice grew louder. “Each and every other servant has come to me asking for his own plot. Men who’ve been here less than a year and get drunk at lunchtime, even they think they deserve a piece of our land. This land”—he swept his arm in a circle—“that’s been in our family for generations, that none of us would even own today unless Papa had died too soon. When I refused those other men, they went on strike for three days, all of them. Kiran and I were left to do everything, which we couldn’t, of course.” He paused. “We lost some crops.”
“Strike?” Anil cried. “What do you mean ‘strike’?”
Nikhil shook his head. “They didn’t call it a strike, but they all claimed illness at the same time, three days in a row. I knew they weren’t sick; they were playing cards down on the riverbank, but what was I to do? How does it look if I try to force a sick man to work?”
Anil reached for his cup. “So, what did you do?”
“I fired them,” Nikhil said.
“What?” Tea spilled over the edge of Anil’s cup, burning his thumb.
“I had to. They were of no use. They had to go.”
Anil sank back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “All of them?”
Nikhil nodded, staring straight ahead. “Even Dilip’s sons.”
“Why them?” Anil said. “Surely they didn’t strike. After what you did for their father?”
Nikhil shook his head. “They were getting into fights with the other men. You can’t expect men to do the same job and treat them differently. People will get upset, it’s only natural. I couldn’t afford the same problems with the new crew, so I fired them all. We lost three or four hectares on the west side to spoilage before I could find new workers.”
“Oh God, Nikhil. I’m sorry.” Anil twisted in his chair toward his brother, but Nikhil did not turn to face him. “I had no idea—”
“Yes, you did,” Nikhil interrupted. “I told you what would happen if you gave Dilip that land. I warned you.” He laid his head back against the chair and his voice dropped. “But you knew better.”
Anil closed his eyes, remembering the discussion, recalling Nikhil’s warning. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I know you’re doing very important work over there, saving lives and all.” Nikhil’s voice was laced with such hostility it was unrecognizable. “What I do here?” Nikhil threw his arms out in front of him. “I know it’s not so important, not so interesting for someone like you, bhai. I’m just trying to take care of Papa’s land, to make a living, to support our family. It was hard enough before—every day I have men out with injuries, or down with fever, or preoccupied with family problems. Some don’t show up at all when they’re drunk. It’s not an easy job, managing it all.”
“I know, and I want to support you, bhai.” Anil’s voice sounded softer than he intended. He tried to muster the strength to say more: to acknowledge how important Nikhil’s responsibility was, to appreciate how well he performed his work. But his words seemed insufficient.
Nikhil slapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward to stand up. “Bandar kya jaane adark ka swaad,” he said, then strode down the steps of the Big House. It had been one of Papa’s favorite proverbs. What does a monkey know of the taste of ginger? One who can’t understand can’t appreciate.
As Anil watched Nikhil return to the fields, he began to understand how much the natural order of things at home had been disturbed. When Papa was here, he’d managed to hold it all together, but his absence had created a wake of imbalance and simmering tensions. Anil had always believed he was right to pursue what he wanted, what his father had wanted for him. But Papa would not have wanted this.
In some ways, it would be a relief to come back home. Ever since the attack, Mahesh had been carrying on about how there was no way they would ever really belong in America, not the way it was possible in India. Anil disputed this assertion, pointing out the i
mmigrants of all types who were successful in America. But when he pictured Baldev in the hospital, lying in traction as his body rebuilt new bone tissue and cartilage, unease stirred within him. He didn’t find much consolation in knowing the same thing could have happened to anyone with dark skin in the South. And yet, Anil felt he belonged, more than he’d belonged anywhere, in that catheterization lab. He’d never been more alive, more driven, more purposeful. His hands literally tingled with the desire to start doing what he was meant to do.
“More paranthas?” Ma returned to the porch. “I’m so happy to see you eating, son. You’re getting some of your weight back.” She held out the plate to Anil, but he held up a palm.
Ma sat down in the chair vacated by Nikhil. “Son,” she said, her voice softening to a whisper. “You haven’t been eating … the wrong kind of food over there, have you?”
Anil understood her question despite its ambiguity. “No, Ma, I haven’t. Only vegetarian.”
“Ah, good.” She sat back in the chair, patting the armrest. “You must not forget your Indian values.”
His mother could rest knowing he hadn’t eaten meat, yet there were so many other corruptions about which she did not even know to ask. Perhaps she would tolerate the drinking and nightclubs, but if she knew about Amber, never mind the sexual extent of their relationship, Ma would certainly come unhinged. Anil told himself he’d been sparing her by keeping Amber from her, but now he could see he’d also been sparing himself. He’d been a coward, just as he’d accused Amber of being with her family.
Anil watched Nikhil showing two field hands how to pull the old tiller between them, a task he and his brother had shared themselves when they were younger. He had made things harder for Nikhil with his long-distance counsel, and this he regretted, even if it had been his father’s wish and at his mother’s insistence. His involvement, however remote, had done nothing but muddy the situation.
Piya came out to join them on the porch. “There you are.” She accepted a cup of tea from Ma and sat down.
“I’m going to start preparing lunch,” Ma said. “Manoj Uncle and your cousin will be coming this afternoon. They have begun juicing the mangos from the tree that splits their property. Every weekend, they bring mango lassi for all of us at the Big House.” Ma laid a hand on Anil’s shoulder. “Thanks to you, they have found a way to share the fruit.”
“Mmm, those mangos are delicious,” Piya said. “Good job, brother.”
“What about those two farmers,” Anil said, “with the water well?”
Ma clucked her tongue. “They’re still at it, fighting like billy goats. Some days, I can hear them all the way over here.”
“And Nirmala Auntie?” Anil asked. “Is the new payment schedule working out?” When Ma did not respond, Anil turned around to look at her, but she simply walked back into the house without a word. “What was that about?” he asked Piya.
Piya craned her neck to watch their mother until she disappeared from view. “You know, Ma’s general aversion to anything remotely scandalous.” There was a note of bitterness in her tone. “It’s so sad. They’ve had such a tough time since Leena came back.”
“She came back?” Anil said.
Piya nodded. “And then her father died a few months ago. Everyone said he died from the shame over Leena’s broken marriage.”
Anil looked at his sister, who was gazing out over the fields. “God, I didn’t know.” Even if he’d made an effort to keep up with the happenings in Panchanagar, bad news like this was rarely spoken of. Most people, including Ma, preferred to brush unpleasantness away, as if, by sweeping it outside with the dust, it could be forgotten. As if, by acknowledging the existence of something unsavory in their community, they might be tainted by it themselves.
Piya placed her teacup back on the tray. “Personally, I think he died of a broken heart. His only daughter, his only child.”
“What happened?” Anil asked. “With . . . Leena, with her marriage?”
Piya picked up her cup and took a long sip before responding. “It didn’t last long. She doesn’t like to talk about it.” She stood up and touched him on the shoulder. “I better go see if Ma needs help with lunch. I’m sure there’s a feast under preparation for you.”
After Piya left, Anil felt restless and decided to go for a walk. Something stirred inside him as he digested the news, and he couldn’t identify what it was. Crossing the fields, Anil spotted in the distance a coconut tree, its outline distinguishable from those around it. He recognized its grotesquely crooked trunk, which reportedly had survived being maimed by a wild elephant. As kids, they’d called that tree “the cripple” and used it as a meeting spot for cricket games.
Anil retraced the familiar paths of his childhood: down along the coconut-tree lane toward his old school, the dirt road over which his rickety bicycle had taken him twice a day. He circled back and over the low rolling hills to the banana tree where he had recited his lines as a child. That tree, which they’d named “the peacock” because of its perfect semicircle of branches, was taller now. Anil laid his palm against the smooth trunk of the tree, under which he’d sat for hours, wrestling his own demons.
Too unsettled to sit now, Anil continued walking. Trees he hadn’t noticed in years became recognizable again—“the elephant,” with its wide-eared fronds, “the dwarf,” shorter than its neighbors. Anil found himself at the end of the lane. In the distance, next to the riverbank, stood a familiar house with a large terrace. Peering closer, he made out the rows of earthenware pots clustered on the terrace. Among them was a figure in a yellow sari. Leena sat on a low stool, her eyes focused downward, her hands covered in slick brown clay. Her head moved rhythmically with her hands as they sculpted; she seemed to be in a meditative trance.
The farmland surrounding Leena’s house was barren, stripped of its crops, of its tools and equipment. Anil’s main recollection of Leena’s father was seeing him work in his fields from dawn to dusk, good-naturedly shooing them away when he caught them playing hide-and-seek in the crops. He was a man who had taken great pride in his small plot of land.
There had been one time, Anil recalled, when Leena’s father had found him hiding in the crops all alone. He was six years old and had been cornered after school by a few of the older boys who wanted the sweets Ma had sent for Diwali. The boys had surrounded him outside the school and taunted him until he stammered out a weak response: “L-l-leave m-m-me a-a-lone!” Mocking his stutter, the boys closed in on him. Anil dropped the metal tin he’d been clutching and covered the front of his pants with both hands, but not before wetness trickled down his legs. As the boys howled with laughter, Anil sprinted away.
Not until he could see the Big House up the lane did he stop and, breathing heavily, crouch down in the fields belonging to Leena’s family. How could he go home empty-handed, his shorts wet, stinking of his own cowardice? Anil sat in the dirt, his skin itchy and burning, determined not to move until he had a plan. He panicked when Leena’s father, cutting down sugarcane with a long knife, approached him, but Anil curled forward into a ball and waited until the footsteps receded. He thought he’d eluded notice, but not long afterward, Papa came walking down the lane, found Anil in the fields, and knelt down next to him. He touched his palm to Anil’s tear- and dirt-stained face. “Shall I carry you?” he’d said, and without a word about Anil’s soiled clothes, Papa had lifted him up and carried him home on his shoulders, like a hero.
Now, Anil watched Leena gently touch the upper rim of the piece on her wheel. In the space of the few minutes he’d been standing there, she had created a bowl with her bare hands. In the space of the two years since he’d last seen her, they had both lost their fathers. He began to walk again, drawing closer to the terrace, until he was only a few feet away.
LEENA BECAME aware that someone was watching her, and looked up to see Anil Patel standing at the bottom of the house steps. “Oh.” When had he come back? She slowed the wheel with her inner knee. She was no
t accustomed to having visitors other than Piya.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Anil said. “I-I-I . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “I just came home for a visit, and I heard about your father. I wanted to pay my respects, to you and your mother.”
Leena was caught by his words. She looked down, noticing the hem of her sari coated in dust. What a simple thing he was offering, yet hardly anyone had done so in the past few months.
“I’m sorry, I must be disturbing you—”
“No, it’s fine.” Leena stood up slowly. She was never quite certain of people’s intentions anymore. Was it Piya who’d sent her brother? What had she told him? “My mother isn’t home, but I can make us some tea.”
Anil smiled. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Leena forced a smile in return. “I should probably take a break. This one’s giving me some difficulty.” She gestured to the half-finished pot on her wheel. “It’s supposed to look like that one.” She pointed to a large footed urn that stood waist-high. “It’s for a hotel in the city. They’ve asked for a matching pair, to put at the front entrance. For um . . . umb . . .”
“Umbrellas?” Anil offered.
“Yes, that’s it. Um-ber-el-las,” she pronounced slowly, and they both laughed at the peculiar word and the absurdity of tourists trying to shield themselves from the monsoons.
Anil walked slowly around the terrace, looking at Leena’s clay bowls, urns, platters, and pots, all in various stages of completion. “You made all of these with your hands?” he asked.
Leena pulled her sari close around her, feeling exposed with her work sitting out in the open. “Please, come in.” She entered the house, conscious of how small it was as he followed her inside. Their home was more of a cottage, with a small drawing room in the front, the kitchen behind it, and two bedrooms on the opposite side of the hallway. It was a simple layout, a square split into four quadrants, each room with its own purpose. Unlike the Big House, with its open rooms and immense furniture, this home was built to accommodate only a few people.