Tears returned to his eyes, and he began walking homewards. The rain had created numerous little rivulets that were coursing down the hill. They would go to swell the mountain streams and strengthen the impromptu waterfalls. Tomorrow everything would burst with green and freshness. He pictured the ashes, carried by all this shining water, travelling everywhere over the mountainside. His father had got his wish — he was being strewn abundantly, with more thoroughness than any human could have exercised: nature’s mighty and scrupulous hand had taken charge, and he was everywhere, inseparable from the place he had loved so deeply.
Wrapped in a Kashmiri shawl, Mrs. Kohlah waited anxiously on the porch, gazing down the road. She waved frantically when Maneck came into view. He picked up his pace.
“Maneck! Where were you? I woke from my nap and you were gone! And it was raining so heavily, I got worried.” She grasped his arm. “Look at you, you’re soaking! And there is mud on your face and clothes! What happened?”
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I’m fine, I felt like taking a walk. I slipped,” he added to explain the mud.
“You’re just like Daddy, doing crazy things. He also loved rain walks. But go, change your clothes, I’ll make tea and toast for you.” The rain had made the years fall away. He was her little boy again, drenched and helpless.
“How’s your knee?”
“Much better. The ice pack helped.”
He went up to his room, washed, and changed into dry clothes. The tea was ready when he returned downstairs. His mother added two spoons of sugar for him and one for herself. His had been poured in his father’s cup. She stirred it before moving it towards him. “You remember how Daddy always used to drink the first cup, strolling about the kitchen?”
He nodded.
She smiled. “Getting in my way when I was busiest. But he stopped doing that in the last few years. He would just come in and sit down quietly.” Leaning sideways in her chair, she touched Maneck’s head lightly with her fingers. “Look at that, your hair is still dripping.”
She got a napkin from the linen cupboard and began to dry it. Her vigorous towelling with short, rapid strokes made his head roll back and forth. He was on the verge of protesting, but found it relaxing and let her continue. His eyes closed. He could see the masseurs in the city, eight years ago with Om at the beach, where customers sat in the sand to have their heads kneaded and rubbed and pummelled. Waves breaking in the background, and a soft twilight breeze. And the fragrance of jasmine, wafting from vendors selling chains of the milk-white flowers for women to twine in their hair.
“I think I
“How funny you sound. As if you were trying to talk and gargle at the same time.” She laughed and put away the napkin. “They’ll be so happy to see you. When will you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” She wondered if it was a ruse to get away from her. “And when will you return here?”
“I think I’ll go back to Dubai straight from there. More convenient.”
She knew the hurt was showing in her face, and he did not seem aware of it. His words grew indistinct to her ears, already travelling the distance he was to put between them.
“What I want to do,” he continued, “is get back to my job quickly — give them notice, find out how soon they will release me.”
“You mean, resign? And then?”
“I’ve decided to come back and settle here.”
Her breath quickened. “That’s a wonderful plan,” she said, restraining, as best she could, the tide of emotion that swept through her. “You can start your own business by selling the shop and — ”
“No. The shop is why I’m coming back.”
“Daddy would like that.”
He left the table and went to the window. It did not always have to end badly — he was going to prove it to himself. First he would meet all his friends: Om, happily married, and his wife, and at least two or three children by now; what would their names be? If there was a boy, surely Narayan. And Ishvar, the proud grand-uncle, beaming away at his sewing-machine, disciplining the little ones, cautioning them if they ventured too close to the whirring wheels and galloping needles. And Dina Aunty, supervising the export tailoring in her little flat, orchestrating the household, holding sway in that busy kitchen.
Yes, he would see all this with his own eyes. If there was an abundance of misery in the world, there was also sufficient joy, yes — as long as one knew where to look for it. Soon, he would return to take charge of Kohlah’s Cola and the General Store. The foundation cables needed attention. The house would be refurbished. He would install new bottling machinery. He had more than enough money saved up.
Mrs. Kohlah went to stand beside him at the window. His hands were on the sill, clutching it tight, the knuckles white. They were strong hands, like his father’s, she thought.
“It’s getting cloudy again,” he said. “There’ll be lots more rain tonight.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “which means everything will be green and fresh tomorrow. It will be a beautiful day.”
He put his arm around his mother and gave her the good-morning hug of his childhood although it was evening. Her contented sigh was almost inaudible. Her grip on his hand, where it rested on her shoulder, was tight and warm.
The rain followed Maneck down the country, down the hills and across the plains, for thirty-two hours on the southbound train. He had almost missed the train; the bus from the town square to the railway station had been delayed by mud slides. Yesterday’s promise of sun and green and freshness remained unfulfilled, the storm still going strong. And at journey’s end, when he emerged from the crowd and clamour of the station concourse, the city streets were shining wet from a heavy downpour.
The taxi stand was empty. He waited at the kerb, surrounded by puddles. There was nowhere to put his suitcase, and he shifted the bag to the other hand.
Then he noticed the crack in the flagstones behind him. Worms were pouring out of it, slithering dark red across the rain-slick pavement.
While he watched, the gears of time slid effortlessly into reverse, and the busy pavement became Dina Aunty’s bathroom. It was his first morning in her flat, he could hear her calling through the door, and he froze, keeping an eye on the wiggling battalion’s advance. How she had teased him afterwards. He smiled at the memory. The crack in the flagstones was now almost depleted of worms, as the last stragglers dragged themselves to the safety of the gutter.
He decided to spend the evening with his mother’s relatives, get that task out of the way. Then tomorrow could be devoted entirely to Dina Aunty and Ishvar and Om.
A taxi rattled up beside him. The driver, his arm hanging out the window, looked expectant, smelling a fare.
“Grand Hotel,” said Maneck, opening the door.
He washed, changed his shirt, and set off to suffer the fond attentions of the Sodawalla family. During the course of the evening he patiently allowed himself to be called Mac, flinching while they hugged and
patted and fawned over him. It was a bit like being the prize dog at a kennel show.
“What a terrible shock it was when we heard that your daddy passed away,” they said. “And you people live so far away, we couldn’t even go to the funeral. So sorry.”
“It’s all right, I understand.” He remembered what Daddy used to say about the Sodawalla relatives — no fizz, dull as a flat soda, in danger of boring themselves to death. And in the end, Daddy had lost his own effervescence.
Maneck felt suddenly oppressed in the house, exhausted by the visit. He thought he would collapse if he
