Holiday Homework

There is a child next door. A boy. I can see him from my bedroom upstairs: my window
overlooks the neighbouring garden. It is hard to tell how old he is; from my elevated position I
can see mainly the top of his head, the body below is shortened unnaturally. The boy never keeps
still: he darts in and out of the unruly foliage like quicksilver, stopping only when he is
exhausted. He is tired, I presume, for it is the beginning of summer. The days are marked by a
sultry heat, the harbinger of sweltering days ahead. I myself don't much mind the heat anymore; I
find I welcome it-my old bones, my aging flesh, oppressed by the cold winter days rejoice at the
warm touch of summer.

The boy makes little noise. That surprises me, intrigues me; I have only known boys who
trail noise and bedlam and destruction in their wake. My grandsons, for instance. When they visit
me, which they do once every three or four years, the house is filled with a tumultuous uproar
and there is constant commotion, all of which enrages me. After a brief--sometimes negligible--
period of forbearance I stand at the top of the stairs and roar. The effect on the household is
immediate and long-lasting; my ill temper is legendary, no one wants to be on the wrong side of
it.

I won't admit to this in public, but with Ila gone, and my old friend from next door,
Bhagwati, having passed on too, the silence in my house is deafening. It suffocates me. In a
ridiculous reversal of standpoint I now strain to catch the faintest sound, endeavour to trap it in
my cupped palms, to hold it against my heart.

i
 The boy does not oblige: he flits in and out of the overgrown wilderness, silent as a
butterfly. The only sounds I hear are the old, familiar ones: the rise and fall of the vendors' cries
as they peddle their wares along the narrow lanes, the banging of pots and pans outside as the
maid washes them vigorously at the tubewell, the plaintive cry of a kuli bird hiding in the mango
tree.

They seem to be a quiet lot next door. Since they moved in, a week ago, there is no more
noise than when the house stood locked and empty. For so many years Bhagwati had lived
there--forty, maybe more--and then, one day, just like that, he was gone. Chest pain in the
morning, gone by evening. A good death--a good death for a good man--none of the excruciating
lingering on. Five years have passed since his death. Five solitary years I have spent by myself in
this too-big house. The empty rooms mock me; there are too many of them. What had I thought
all those years? That I would live to a grand old age surrounded by, cosseted by my progeny?
Absurd! How foolish, how shortsighted an otherwise intelligent man can be! Progeny live up to
their very name; like the seeds that they are, mine have scattered to faraway corners of the earth.
They were blown there by the winds of their destiny, and there they took root to build their lives.
They travel back in time and space to me; they pay their respects, they dole out their love and
man they are good children. But in the end, I am cared for people who are paid to look after me.
Romesh, the cook and Sita, the maid.

Washing fluttering on lines strung out between bamboo poles. There are rows of them in
Bhagwati's back garden now. The breath catches in my throat; they make a pretty sight, the
clothes, flapping gently in the wind, catching the sunlight as they swing. An oddly comforting
sight. I am growing soft, I think. The foibles of old age.

It is Sunday; the boy is there, weaving in and out between the lines of washing. A young
woman is hanging out the clothes; she is sturdily built, her mekhela is hitched above powerful
calves, she bends with ease and straightens a gracefully, stretching on her toes to reach the line.
My muscles respond in recognition; they remember being young, being flexed and stretched with
supple elasticity. My skin ting1es. I will go for a walk, I decide. I will go for a ramble and toast
my poor skin in the benevolent morning sun.

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 Romesh lays out my clothes. I dress slowly, with infinitesimal care; there is no one to
harry me now. Ila would itch with impatience at my toilette. 'Takes twice long as me,' she would
grumble. I suppose I did. There w a pleasure I derived from grooming myself that Ila just did not
comprehend. She could not be bothered with make-up or fine clothes, an attitude that wounded
me, for I bought her expensive things--silk saris, baby-soft shawl perfumes--sometimes when I
could ill afford them. But she discarded them each time with a scornful look. Vanity, her look
seemed to say, but I did not agree. No one could say I was vain about my looks--although, I
could have been, I suppose: I am six feet tall and have heard people describe me as handsome-
looking after myself was merely a part of putting my best foot forward. My father had once told
me--I must have been six then--that any job worth doing is worth doing well. Those words
stayed with me long after he had gone, those words are still with me and will fade only when this
old heart stops beating.

'Where to, Deuta?' Romesh calls out as I descend the stairs.

'For a walk.'
'Don't go too far,' he cautions.

I pick up my walking stick and slam the door in reply. A warm, balmy day. A few
threadbare clouds drifting across a calm blue sky. The sap rises in me; I am filled with goodwill
towards all fellow men.

As I shut the gate behind me I am accosted by Goswami, my neighbour on the other side.
He is lounging by his gate in a grimy dhoti (I cannot with certainty say if it is, or ever was,
white), jaws working rhythmically, chewing at his paan. He shoots out a stream of foul red betel
juice-quite expertly; I have to concede-into the open drain beside him. His mouth cracks into a
red-toothed smile.

'Arre, Barua-sir, nice to see you!' he says.

I smile widely. 'Good weather, Goswami, too good to waste. Thought I would take a turn
in the neighbourhood.'

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 I can see that my smile has flummoxed the man; he smiles again, uncertainly. 'Good idea,
good idea,' he says.

The narrow lane is asphalted, but the surface is pockmarked with potholes. I tread with
care, leaning on my cane: a fall will do me no good. As I pass the house next door, I look across
the hedge into the garden. There is no one there. The front windows are open, thin cotton
curtains frame them, but I can see nobody.

I walk to the end of the lane, right up to Iftikar's paan shop. He is sitting cross-legged in
the gloomy interior. He sees me and starts, 'How are you, Saar? Come sit, sit here out of the sun.
A cigarette?'

'No, Iftikar, not today. Some other day perhaps. How are things with you? All okay?'

I pass the shop and turn on to the main road. At this time on Sunday morning it is
deserted, save a few stray dogs sleeping in the dust. From the far distance comes the sound of
traffic, insistent blasts of horns, squealing of tyres.

All of a sudden my spirits quail. Where did I think I was going to go? Down the road and
then back again? There is no point to such a journey. With tiredness now seizing my slack
muscles, I turn back into my lane. I walk down it an old man, older than I was a few minutes
ago.
'Hello!'
I stop precipitously. I am at the gate of the house next door and I haven't even noticed.
The little boy is swinging on the gate. He is small, barely up to my knees; he is five no, maybe
four years old. A shock of dark brown hair tumble: into his eyes-too long, I think, but who am I
to judge?

I smile down at him. 'Hello!' I say, too loudly, toe cheerfully, and wince as I hear myself.
There, I have done it again. Assumed that little children are deaf and slow.

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 The boy does not answer. His brown eyes are watchful. Strange that one so young should
be so watchful. It pleases me, I find, this restraint.

I sense another presence. Looking beyond the boy, into the dim depths of the spacious
veranda, I see a young woman reclining in a chair. She is almost supine, the chair more a
lounger than a chair. She raises a hand to me; I am affronted. She seems to have lost her
manners, this young woman, not to stand in the presence of an elder. I stand ramrod straight and
inspect her. My eyes adapt to the dim light: I see now that she is thin, this woman, too thin,
maybe ill, or recovering from some wasting illness. I relent a bit and smile at her.

The boy has run in to her, his mother, and is standing at her side. Strange how still he
stands, how purposeful is his gaze. I wonder if I should go in. But they have not made any
invitation. It is too soon and would be unseemly if I were to walk in so impetuously.
The sun is hot. The sparse strands of hair are sticking to my bald head. It's time to
retreat.

They have set up camp on the veranda, mother and son. Over the next few days I watch
as things are carried out. A daybed with a comfortable-looking mattress; peg tables that are
soon piled high with useful things: books, magazines, a bamboo fan, jugs of drinking water,
one filled with orange juice for the boy. There is also a mat for the boy that is laid on the floor
or on the grass, as the mood strikes him. It is the young maid who does all the carrying; the boy
helps her, but the mother just lies on her bed, covered with a thin rug even in this warm
weather. Unusual for young bones to feel so cold.

The two of them spend most of the day in the encampment; in the mornings the boy is
taken to school--I see him in a car being driven by a man who, I presume, is the father. He
returns from school at one and rushes direct to his mother who has been lying there on her bed,
picking at a book or a magazine, or simply staring out into the garden. From my room I can see
her face clearly: it is thin, the bones standing out unnaturally, the eyes at the bottom of sockets so
deep they are frightening; a wide mouth, the same mouth that her son has, only hers is ever ready

v
with a smile, the sweetest of which she reserves for her son. I was at my window this afternoon
when the boy came home, and witnessed something so singular it hurt, as if there were a needle
in my heart.

As the boy approached the mother's side she made a frantic effort to sit up, raising herself
on her elbows, dragging her poor body up against the backrest; all this, while her face rearranged
itself into a smile. And her eyes! Her eyes glowed like burning embers, riveted on the boy,
lighting up his path; the child felt the love stroking him and laughed in response. They
embraced-the boy placing his short arms around her gently, but she, she held him hard, the
tendons in her thin arms standing out.

I was overcome with desolation, a despair that was acute that for a moment it seemed like
I had ceased to exist. In all my seventy-five years, never has anyone shown such need for me; I
have never been able to light up anyone’s eyes in that way. What has been the worth of my life
then?

It was too late then to visit them, it was time for lunch and then for my siesta, but I would
venture out this evening. I must!

This time I unlatch the gate purposefully. At the clang of the latch the boy appears out of
nowhere, at my knees.
I bend down. 'What is your name?' I say.
'Siddharth Sarma,' he replies. 'Sarma, spelt only with an”S”.’

He is bold, this boy.

'And what do they call you at home, young Sarma, spelt only with an “S”?
'Son,' he says evenly. Ah, Son or Xon, the first letter pronounced as a soft 'H' sound, the
whole word said in a way that it rhymed with 'loan'. Xon, which means 'gold' in our tongue. A
good name, a strong name, for a son.

The mother is smiling at us from her bed. I walk up to her, Son leading the way.
I am suddenly ebullient. I call out as I climb the three steps to the veranda. 'How are you?

vi
I am sorry, my dear, to barge in uninvited, but I thought I would come and introduce myself.'
The mother is smiling. 'Very pleased to see you,' she says, motioning for me to sit down
in a chair placed by the bedside.
'My name is Shiva Prasad Barua,' I begin, but she interrupts.
'I know,' she says with another smile, 'Rohit, my husband, told me.' She pauses. ‘I think
you may have known my father. Madan Kataki? From Shillong?'
I am thunderstruck. Madan was an old boyhood friend from Shillong. 'Of course, we
were boys together. How is he?'

'Well, he passed away last year.' The woman's voice is calm.

I am contrite. 'So sorry,' I say.
'Thank you,' she replies. A pause again. 'I am Amrita ' she says. 'Everyone calls me
Majoni, though.'
I hesitate. 'If you don't mind I would like to call you Amrita.’ I lean forward in the
chair. 'It is a lovely name and, if I may say so, it suits you.'
Amrita smiles. 'I have been ill,' she says, 'that is why Rohit brought us down from
Shillong to Guwahati. The weather is kinder here.'
I am unprepared for what she says next.
'It is cancer. Breast cancer.'
The needle in my heart again.
'But you are well now?' I must sound foolish.
‘Yes, I suppose so,' Amrita says, and I breathe again.
‘That is a remarkable boy.' I look at Son. He is building something with blocks.
'Mmm,' Amrita screws up her eyes as she looks at Son. 'Too old for his age, some
would say.'
'Well brought up, I would say.'
There is not much to say. We do not know each other well enough, but I feel
comfortable in my place.
I sleep well that night, a calm, dreamless sleep.

There are very few people I am comfortable with, and very few people - I have no

vii
illusions here - are comfortable with me. I know what they say about me; that I am irascible,
intolerant of fools, too rigid, set in my ways, harder than a block of concrete and fastidious to
boot. Quite natural, then, that I have few friends. None at all from all those years in the police;
a few scattered around town from my boyhood. I wonder why it is that childhood friends are
more tolerant of one's deficiencies--and then there was Bhagwati. Good neighbour, good man
and good friend. He seems to be watching out for me still, from that place in the wide, blue
sky. He populates his house with possibilities for me.

Amrita, Son and I have become friends. In the four months since I walked up to their gate
we have melded together into an unlikely threesome; three generations apart, separated by three
decades each. We have hunkered down into a tidy routine: every afternoon, on weekdays, I stroll
across to the veranda. Amrita waits for me to unlatch the gate to order tea; with her extraordinary
perception, she has learnt early on the way I like it: a light liquor, so light that the bottom of the
china cup is visible, and no sugar, no milk. She has also teased out of me my preferences in food
and, very often, I find my favourite things laid out on the tray next to the tea cup. Hot malpoa,
cucumber sandwiches and fruit cake.

'Is it all right?' she always asks and I raise my cup in reply.

Son plays on the lawn; he is absorbed in a world of his own, although he is not wholly
insensible, for he responds to his mother's every call. They have a curious connection, these two.
It is almost as if there are invisible strings, soft as gossamer but strong as steel, that bind them.
They are able to hear each other's heart beat.

'Son!' Amrita has only to say, in her low voice, so soft I can't hear it, but the boy is there,
directly at her side. The child is so biddable it is extraordinary; it is as if he does not know any
other way to be.
'How did you make him this way?' I ask Amrita. I have no doubt that she did not use
force.
'I told him it would make me happy if he did as I asked I also told him that in the end it
would make him happy and strong, but he does not understand that yet.'

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 Remarkable, I think with a pang, as I recall the canings I have dealt out to my children.
But that was the only way we had known.

Yes, Son was gentle, but I was delighted to find that inside the boy there was a core of
absolute fearlessness. 1 came about this discovery in an unusual way.

One morning-on Saturdays our meetings took place in the mornings, as Saturday
evenings and Sundays were, in my firm opinion, family days-Amrita and I are on the veranda.
She is telling me about some school friends who have started a shelter for homeless women; I
am half listening to her while I watch, lazily, a golden oriole hopping on the branches of a
mango tree in the garden. A sudden movement in the grass catches my eye. It is a snake,
difficult to say what variety of snake at that distance but it is a large one, and it is heading Son's
way. Son is on a mat on the grass, colouring in a book.

Twenty years younger, and I would have leapt up and dashed to Son's side, but now I
cannot hope to reach him in time. Amrita sees the snake now, a murmur of distress escapes her
lips. I am sweating now, cold sweat trickling down my back.
The boy sees the snake. He raises himself on his knees; he is stock-still. He watches the
snake advance as the reptile comes to within three feet of the child and stops. They regard each
other, the snake and the boy. Neither moves. Three minutes pass. The boy still does not flinch;
he does not cry out or run or jump up, he does none of the things a boy would have done. The
snake moves, slithering away into the undergrowth, and then Son jumps up and runs. He is
shaken, there are tears pouring down his face, but he still does-not cry out loud. He flings
himself on his mother and I can hear her gasp.

Well done, I think, well done, little man.

'How did you know to keep still?' I ask when Son is recovered and is nibbling at
fruitcake.
'Koka told me,’ he says. 'He said snakes and other animals are more afraid of us than
we are of them. If you keep still and do not hurt them they will not hurt you.'
Only four years old, and a hero already. I see the boy in an entirely new light. .

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 Although it was the boy who had caught my eye in the beginning, it was his mother
whom I had found increasingly fascinating. Her grace, her tenderness, her indomitable good
spirits and the warmth with which she greeted my arrivals lured me again and again to her
veranda. I did not succeed in lighting up her face, the way I knew it could be lit up-- it would be
presumptuous of me to even aspire to do so --but I managed to draw out a smile and a twinkle in
her eyes. It was more than I deserved. The boy I had begun to regain as a passive object; unkind
of me, I know, but something the boy's manner, so still, so restrained, almost aloof, he caused
me to lose interest in him.

But now. Now I see that I have been too quick to dismiss too quick to judge. Son is
anything but passive, something flickers inside him that quickens my interest.
'What do you think the snake wanted? Was it looking for food?' Son asks,
I consider my reply. 'Yes, possibly.'
'What does it eat?'
'Oh, birds and frogs and small animals like that.'
'Do you think it was looking for that yellow bird in the mango tree?'
I am impressed. So, he noticed the oriole without actually seeming to.
'Maybe.'
He is now picking out the raisins from his slab of cake 'What is it called, that bird?'
I hesitate. Can he even pronounce it? 'Oriole,' I said enunciating it carefully. 'Golden
oriole.'
'Oriole,' Son echoes. 'Golden oriole.'
'Oriolus oriolus,' I say, with delight.

'Enough, you two,' Amrita's voice is uncharacteristically sharp. 'My head hurts,' she
says, in apology,
'No, no.' I am ashamed.
'I have told Rohit,' Amrita waves her hand in agitation to get the garden cleaned; to get
the jungle cleared out God only knows what festers there.' She dabs at her eye, with a
kerchief. 'And now ... look what happened. Or could, have happened.'

x
 'Oh, my dear,' I say in distress. 'Don't cry, don't cry. It will be done ... You should have told
me. That lazy mali of mine and Romesh-they have all the time in the world. I will send them
across this very afternoon. Your jungle will be cleared! I promise.'
The garden is restored to scrupulous order by evening.

Romesh and Jiten, the gardener, have cut and sawed, pruned and weeded under my
unwavering supervision-I stood over them like a minor despot in my old sola topi-until order
has emerged out of anarchy. No sign of the snake, though.
The smile is restored to Amrita's face; I am relieved.
'Anything else I can do for you, dear lady?' I jest.
She laughs. 'Can I be difficult? I adore the fragrance of the nobo mallika-a few sprigs
from your garden ... ?'
'Say no more! Jiten will have saplings planted in the morning.'
'Saplings? But they will take months to grow!'
Oh, the impatience of youth! 'Yes, that they will,' I am gruff.
'Of course, of course they will,' Amrita's voice is soothing now, 'but in the meantime, if
I could have a few sprigs, cut, you know, with blossoms?'
'Absolutely,' I say. 'Every morning.'
'And what can I give you in return?' she says gaily. 'A song? Can I offer you a song?'
I am intrigued. 'Yes, why not?'
'Son will sing with me,' Amrita beckons to Son, who is swinging on the gate. 'Any
requests?'
I am seized by an odd desire. 'Actually, yes.' This was absurd, she wouldn't know the
hymn that my mother used to sing. An obscure, out of fashion, Asomiya hymn.
I clear my throat. 'There is a hymn ... that goes like this,' I speak the starting line, 'Ki diya
poojim.'
Amrita smiles. 'Yes, as matter of fact, I do know that one.
She gathers Son into the crook of her elbow. 'Come now, at the count of three.'
I hold my breath.
Mother and son begin to sing

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 Ki diya poojim, Had he, sarana Murari, Ram Ram,

Sarana Murari,
Tomar poojar pushpa napalu bisari,
Ki diya poojim, Hari he.

The words claw at my heart. They are so achingly tender; so much love and longing is
couched in these simple, unassuming lines, so quietly are they offered to the Lord that their
power cannot be denied. The devotee sings to his Beloved, the Lord himself telling him that he
has not been able to find flowers for the Lord-how should he then worship him? Instead, the
devotee goes on to offer flowers of his own device: as a first flower he offers the relinquishing of
envy; then he offers others: reigning in of the selfish senses, compassion for all living beings.
The fourth flower, forgiveness, follows; the fifth, concentration; the sixth, worship; and, finally,
wisdom. He offers all these fervently and asks that the Lord forgive and overlook any mistake in
the order in which the flowers are offered. He is certain that the Compassionate One will pardon
and bless him.

This simple hymn has had an amazing hold on me: every time I have heard it, or even
when I have recited it, or merely thought about it, I have been transformed into something more
than I was-into something wholly better, purer. Some of the yearning, the devotion and the
immense love that the unknown devotee felt for his God seeped into me. Bit by bit, drop by
drop, until I was drenched in that unalloyed grace. And this evening, I have been touched like
never before. By this mother and her son. So beautiful is their song, so perfect every note of the
melody, that I am overcome with emotion. I am undeserving, yet what a gift I have been given!
A state of grace. That is what Amrita and Son are for me in that moment. To be full of
grace, to be graceful in everything that you do and to touch all around you with grace and
tenderness; my father should have added that instruction to his other one about putting the best
foot forward. I never knew, you see, that compassion was what sweetened life.

I have caught a cold. A consequence of my own mulish obstinacy, as Romesh never fails

xii
to remind me.
It has grown increasingly colder over the last one month.
Although the days have been pleasant, once the sun retreated, withdrawing its sheltering
warmth, the temperature has dropped dramatically. This is the time of the year when I bring out
my warm clothes from where they have been packed away with camphor and dried neem leaves.
This event is always marked by a simmering gaiety, for the advent of the cold weather means
many things: that the cruel heat of summer is over for that year; that more agreeable things are
in store. Durga puja is the first of such events, then follow Lakshmi puja and Kali puja, and after
that Diwali, the festival of lights-a special favourite of mine.

I Suppose I am a hill man at heart. The cold is familiar, to me, familiar in a way that one
knows his friends. Every aspect of the season fills me with a nostalgic fondness the smell of
wood fires, the bundling up in soft warm clothing, hot soups drunk by an open fire, even the
warm breath mists in the air making one so aware of oneself. I have never disrespected the cold;
as soon as its arrival heralded I have taken the necessary precautions. With predilection for
bronchial trouble, I take no chances.

This year I have been careless. Too absorbed, distracted by new friendships, perhaps a
little arrogant, too. A lone loot, almost forgotten sense of strength, of well-being, has seized
me. I have been cavalier about my precautions.

One night, a week ago, it had drizzled a little as we were sitting out on Amrita's veranda.
I made sure she had an extra blanket-couldn't take any chances with her recovery but I had no
hat, jumper, not even a scarf. That night there was an annoying itch in my throat. The next
morning, it became a sharp, stabbing pain. By evening I was hot with fever.

There was an entire pharmacy stuffed into the drawers my bedside table. Through the
long years I had grown to be an expert at ministering to myself; I dug out some paracetamol
and some antihistamines. A cocktail of that should do the trick. No need to send for a doctor. I
have less and less patience with their probing and prying these days.

Romesh made me a strong chicken soup. That and my cocktail, was the treatment I

xiii
followed for three days. The fever dropped soon after I swallowed my pills but returned with
renewed vigour a while later; I was drenched with sweat and shivering one moment, and the
fever was burning me up the next. I tossed and turned in bed; no matter what I did I could not get
comfortable. The damp bedclothes were intolerably twisted and knotted around me; my body
ached wretchedly, there was a pain in my chest that I could not dislodge.

This morning Mohan, my nephew, who is a doctor, has appeared, summoned, I discover
later, by Romesh. He sets to examining me. Bronchitis, he pronounces, and if I persist in being
so willful and irresponsible it will soon progress to pneumonia. I hang my head in defeat. I will
obey every instruction, I swear; I just want to end this misery.

Antibiotics and decongestants, steam inhalations and nourishing food. Romesh is a

tyrant: he puts me through the paces with exquisite care. From the corner of my eye I think I see
him grinning, but I can't be sure. I don't care either; if he can haul me out of this pit I find myself
in he can smirk till kingdom come. The torture yields swift results. In a couple of days I feel well
enough to sit in my easy chair near the window. I can now see my friends again.

A surprise awaits me. One that fills me with unspeakable alarm. Amrita's makeshift camp
on the veranda has been dismantled; it has disappeared. Only her potted plants remain on the
borders of the empty space, mute witnesses to the melting away of my dreams.
Romesh! Romesh! Quick ... come here,' I shout.
Romesh races up the stairs. 'What is it?'
'Where are Sarma-baideo and Son? They aren't there on the veranda.'
'Is that so?' Romesh peers out of the window. 'No, I have no idea what has happened,
Deuta.'
I am consumed by anxiety. Where could they have gone? Surely, Amrita would have let
me know before leaving, before going back to Shillong.
'Run, Romesh,' I snap, 'fetch me the cordless phone at my telephone book.'
It is the maid who answers my call.
'Urmila, where is Baideo? I don't see her outside.'
'She is not feeling well, Deuta,' the girl replies. 'It is the cold outside, she has moved into

xiv
her bedroom.'
I exhale deeply.
'Deura?' the girl sounds perplexed.
'Can I speak with her? Is she awake?'
'Let me see.' The girl places the receiver down.
'Hello?' It is Amrita's voice, frail and tentative.
I am smiling now. 'How are you, my dear?'
'Well,' she says. 'It is this cold weather. I find it too much nowadays.'
Accursed cold, merciless winter. 'Yes, I know,' I say. 'But it will pass. Think of the
spring.'
Amrita laughs softly. 'How are you? Are you recovered now?' she asks.
'Up and about now,' I say stoutly.

'Son has been asking about you. He wants to see you.’

I am delighted. 'Send him over. Any time.'

It is late afternoon when Son comes; he brings some catfish curry that Amrita has sent
for me.
He perches on the side of my bed, inspecting me. 'You look ill,' he declares.
'Yes, I was ill. But I am better now.'
'I saw another bird,' Son says, 'in the mango tree. This one was green, this small.' He
opens up his palms to show how large the bird was; it is the size of a sparrow.
The boy continues, 'It had a green beak and it hopped from flower to flower, eating
something.'
'Ah,' I say, 'sounds like the flowerpecker.'

An idea suddenly springs to my mind. I have a book on Indian birds by the great
birdwatcher, Salim Ali. It is inscribed by the man himself-I had met him once in Dehradun.
Why not give the book to the boy? I had used it enough, and none of my heirs had shown the
slightest interest in anything that moved or flew, unless it was mechanical.

'Son,' I say, 'can you bring that book to me?' I point it out on my bookshelf.
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 The boy stands on his toes and reaches for the book.
'That book is for you,' I tell him.
He props it up on the bed, slowly turning the pages. His face is screwed in a frown. All
of a sudden, it clears and a wide smile illuminates it.
'A bird book!' he exclaims. 'Thank you.'
He places the book carefully on the bedside table and then wanders around the room,
inspecting it. He stops to look at a photograph hanging on the wall. 'Who is this?' he asks.
'It is I,' I smile.
The boy is incredulous. 'On a horse? Why are you in that uniform? Are you a soldier?'
'Well, sort of,' I say. 'I was a policeman.'
'I want to be a soldier,' Son says, marching around the room. 'A General.'

He stops, his brow furrowed in thought. 'Do you think I could have a horse? Then I
could take Ma for a ride.'

'Of course, you will have one.' I am definite.

My heart is suddenly full. Will I live to see him a General, I wonder.

Over the next few days, Son comes and goes. Every time he comes, I find myself feeling
stronger. When he leaves it is as if he has left some of his energy, his vitality, for me. I lap it up
greedily.

Durga puja has commenced. For the next week, across the land, people will be immersed
in the worship of this powerful yet benevolent devi. I am tempted to visit a pandal to share in
this worship, but better sense and Romesh's dire warnings prevail. I have to be satisfied with
listening to the Chandi Patth, that magical and lovely invocation of the goddess that rings out
from a pandal in the next lane. The sonorous recitation washes over me every morning.

'Isn't it beautiful?' Amrita asks me on the phone.

She too does not dare to venture out. 'Never mind,' I console her. 'Next year we will do
the rounds.'
Son comes bearing important news on the day of Saptami.
'It is a secret,' he cautions me. 'Ma is going to invite you to dinner.'

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 Sure enough, Amrita calls that evening. 'Since we cannot go out and have a good time, I
thought we would celebrate in the house. And Rohit wants so very much to meet you.'

The dinner is scheduled for the next day.

That day, I am beside myself with excitement. So much to do: clothes to be readied, and
I want to pick out some gifts for Amrita and Son. Puja gifts. By midmorning I have decided. For
Son I will get a jigsaw puzzle. And for Amrita I will choose something special. A shawl, and I
know exactly which one: the one I had bought for IIa, the one she never wore. It is sage green
with a narrow border of woven paisleys-perfect for Amrita. Mohan is instructed to buy a jigsaw
puzzle. He promises to bring it around by evening.

On the stroke of eight I ring Amrita's bell. Urmila answers the door. Amrita is sitting in
an armchair. She is wrapped up in layers of warm clothes, she reminds me of a baby in
swaddling clothes. My heart trembles as I look at her; she is frail, much more so than before.
She must really find this shift in weather unbearable. By her side is Rohit. I hold out my hand,
at the same time examining him for-for what? Signs of worthiness, any indicators of
unsuitability. I suppose I want to ascertain, for my own satisfaction, that he is worthy of Amrita.
At first glance he passes the test. Rohit is a tall, heavy man, slow in his movements, as if he
is deliberating every move, but they are executed with immense sympathy. I can see right away
that his every thought and corresponding action is directed towards Amrita's comfort. I am
satisfied.
Son runs out from somewhere inside. 'Hullo! Hullo!' he says, his voice shiny with
excitement.
I hold out my gift. 'Hello! Look what I have got for you.'
The child receives the gift quietly, both arms outstretched.
'Can I open It, Ma?' he asks.
'Yes, darling,' Amrita says.
We watch as Son tears open the wrapping paper; he tries hard not to tear it but the tapes
defeat him and the paper rips.
'A jigsaw puzzle!'
I am gratified: it was a wise choice.

xvii
 'I have something for you, Amrita,' I rise to my feet.
'A shawl,' Amrita whispers as I hand it to her. 'Why for me? Such a waste!'
I am hurt and cannot stop a look of aggrievement from crossing my face.
Amrita clutches the shawl to her chest. 'Forgive me, I don't know what I am saying! This
is lovely.' Thank you.'
Dinner is a pleasant affair. I am satiated by the good food and warm company. Amrita is
so vivacious this evening that I am almost ashamed of my earlier trepidation; it must have been
my illness that invoked such disquiet. Now I am at peace. I wrap my happiness around me like a
familiar, beloved endi shawl.

It is the day of the Bisarjan, the day the devi is laid to rest in flowing waters.
Early this morning, even before the milkman appears, Son presents himself at my door.
He is bundled up in a thick jumper; there is a scarlet muffler wound around his neck, yet his face
is pinched and wan. He holds a thick brown envelope in his hands.
'Ma said to give this to you.' He hands me the envelope.
I rub the coarse texture of the paper in consternation.
'What is this, Son?' I ask.
Son stares up at me, squinting with the effort.
'Ma said when she went on her holiday I was to give you this. It is my holiday
homework. Things to do so I can keep busy.'

Fear clutches at my heart, but I try to concentrate on the envelope in my hand. It is not
sealed; I lift the flap and pull out two sheets of thick paper. It is inscribed in a flowing
handwriting.
I begin to read.
5iddharth's Holiday Homework, the heading reads. The following line says, Things to do.
Take a walk every day with Koka-mama (that is me). Spot three new birds every day. Look them up in
the bird book. Draw their pictures in a sketchbook.
I smile. Excellent suggestion.
Help Jiten-da in the garden. Learn how the plants grow. Koka-mama will help you find their names.
Ask Deuta to read to you. Very important. It will help your imagination (ask Koka-mama what this is) to

xviii
grow.
I smile again.
Eat well. Remember: carrots for shiny eyes; fish, so you can swim in the deep blue sea; rice, so you can
be wise; dail, meat and chicken so you can be strong.
Be a wise man.
I frown now.
Be a brave man, but be gentle, Son, be gentle always. Let your heart be kind.
I am agitated: What does she mean?
Sing when you miss your Ma. Sing, Sing out loud, and I will hear you wherever I am. I promise.
Remember your Ma, darling.
I cannot read any more. My heart is full. Oh my dear, what exquisite deception! No I am
being unfair. Amrita never deceived me. It was I, wretched man, who chose to be blind. I
chose not to see what was right in front of my eyes.

Son, did your mother leave for her holiday last night?' I ask.
The boy regards me steadily. 'Yes,' he says.
'All right then, boy,' I say. 'We are going to do your mother proud. As soon as I have
bathed, we are off for our daily walk. When I am finished with you, you are going to be a
General.'

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