as in sun-warmed mud: her first week as a bride, newly come of age, learning to be mistress of her own house; her husband’s delight at showing her the Dindigul safe. Dindigul: a brand to rely on.
There are four iron keys, only two of which are key-shaped. Another is a rounded stick, like a hairpin, and the fourth is flat, a lever. Hanumarathnam had deposited the bundle of keys in her palm and pointed to the safe without a word, challenging her to figure it out. She had poked and tickled and pounded the safe, neither wholly haphazard nor exactly methodical, but determined. Finally, Hanumarathnam had wrested the keys back from her, near helpless with laughter, and shown her the way:
1. Use the flat stick to remove the screw from the trim on the top right-hand side of the door.
2. Poke the rounded stick into the hole and the “L” in the safe’s nameplate will pop loose, revealing a keyhole.
3. Insert the key with the clover-shaped end and turn it once counterclockwise. Pull open the front of the safe. Within you’ll find a second, smaller door with a keyhole in the conventional place, halfway up on the left side.
4. Turn the second key a half turn clockwise in this hole, just until you feel a soft click.
5. Slide the flat stick between the door and the wrought iron trim on its left edge. The lever will catch and the inner door pop open.
It sounds like her heart popping open. She feels her shoulder blades locking across her back. From the safe’s inner sanctum drifts the scent of sandalwood.
She takes out the bundles of ancient palm leaves on which were recorded mysteries of the universe: her husband’s treasures. She pushes their clothes aside and puts the palm-leaf bundles in the bottom of the trunk even though he didn’t give her the keys to unlock these mysteries. Now she takes out a slim sandalwood box. It contains the leaves on which the children’s astral portraits are scratched. She doesn’t open the box, just lifts it quickly from the safe and drops it in the trunk, among the children’s clothes. She shuts up the safe and the memories and the scent. She shuts the trunk lid on the little clothes, and her spare sari, and the scent. She lifts her hand to her nose. The smell of the soft, golden wood is upon her fingers.
The children play in the sun on the veranda. A familiar shadow darkens the light from the front door. Her hand falls from her face and resentment and fear rise in her throat: it is them again, the siddhas. She wonders if they know that her husband is dead. She has not allowed herself to be seen.
Before she decides whether to move to the door, the siddhas begin to sing, accompanied by a little dholak drum, finger cymbals and a rough lute. Their voices are more strident than melodic, yet everyone on the Brahmin quarter will hum this tune, without admitting it, for weeks.
Where there is onion, pepper and dry ginger
What is the use of other remedies?
Pus and filth, thick red blood and fat
Together make an ugly smelling pitcher.
A few morsels for the cremation fire am I
Like a bubble that arises on the surface of water and perishes,
So indeed perishes this unstable body.
Salt will dissolve in water
Be one with the incomparable.
The wish to master science does not halt
I wish to master powers undissolved
To transform all the three worlds into shining gold.
Use as your riding beast the horse of reason
Use as your bridle, knowledge and prudence
Mount firmly your saddle of anger and ride in bright
serenity.
When there is no solace in the world
There is still solace
In the holy names of the lord who rides the bull ...
The song’s undertow pulls Sivakami to the open door, but the siddhas have already begun to move off. They travel the length of the Brahmin quarter, singing.
At the end of the street, they keep walking, but one of them—which?—calls out mockingly, “Here is a body, feed it!”
PART TWO
7.
Her Father’s House 1905
AT HER FATHER’ S HOUSE in Samanthibakkam,
There are four iron keys, only two of which are key-shaped. Another is a rounded stick, like a hairpin, and the fourth is flat, a lever. Hanumarathnam had deposited the bundle of keys in her palm and pointed to the safe without a word, challenging her to figure it out. She had poked and tickled and pounded the safe, neither wholly haphazard nor exactly methodical, but determined. Finally, Hanumarathnam had wrested the keys back from her, near helpless with laughter, and shown her the way:
1. Use the flat stick to remove the screw from the trim on the top right-hand side of the door.
2. Poke the rounded stick into the hole and the “L” in the safe’s nameplate will pop loose, revealing a keyhole.
3. Insert the key with the clover-shaped end and turn it once counterclockwise. Pull open the front of the safe. Within you’ll find a second, smaller door with a keyhole in the conventional place, halfway up on the left side.
4. Turn the second key a half turn clockwise in this hole, just until you feel a soft click.
5. Slide the flat stick between the door and the wrought iron trim on its left edge. The lever will catch and the inner door pop open.
It sounds like her heart popping open. She feels her shoulder blades locking across her back. From the safe’s inner sanctum drifts the scent of sandalwood.
She takes out the bundles of ancient palm leaves on which were recorded mysteries of the universe: her husband’s treasures. She pushes their clothes aside and puts the palm-leaf bundles in the bottom of the trunk even though he didn’t give her the keys to unlock these mysteries. Now she takes out a slim sandalwood box. It contains the leaves on which the children’s astral portraits are scratched. She doesn’t open the box, just lifts it quickly from the safe and drops it in the trunk, among the children’s clothes. She shuts up the safe and the memories and the scent. She shuts the trunk lid on the little clothes, and her spare sari, and the scent. She lifts her hand to her nose. The smell of the soft, golden wood is upon her fingers.
The children play in the sun on the veranda. A familiar shadow darkens the light from the front door. Her hand falls from her face and resentment and fear rise in her throat: it is them again, the siddhas. She wonders if they know that her husband is dead. She has not allowed herself to be seen.
Before she decides whether to move to the door, the siddhas begin to sing, accompanied by a little dholak drum, finger cymbals and a rough lute. Their voices are more strident than melodic, yet everyone on the Brahmin quarter will hum this tune, without admitting it, for weeks.
Where there is onion, pepper and dry ginger
What is the use of other remedies?
Pus and filth, thick red blood and fat
Together make an ugly smelling pitcher.
A few morsels for the cremation fire am I
Like a bubble that arises on the surface of water and perishes,
So indeed perishes this unstable body.
Salt will dissolve in water
Be one with the incomparable.
The wish to master science does not halt
I wish to master powers undissolved
To transform all the three worlds into shining gold.
Use as your riding beast the horse of reason
Use as your bridle, knowledge and prudence
Mount firmly your saddle of anger and ride in bright
serenity.
When there is no solace in the world
There is still solace
In the holy names of the lord who rides the bull ...
The song’s undertow pulls Sivakami to the open door, but the siddhas have already begun to move off. They travel the length of the Brahmin quarter, singing.
At the end of the street, they keep walking, but one of them—which?—calls out mockingly, “Here is a body, feed it!”
PART TWO
7.
Her Father’s House 1905
AT HER FATHER’ S HOUSE in Samanthibakkam,
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