When they’ve all but given up, the monsoon tapers to a stop. It’s still two weeks before the newspaper resumes delivery. They learn that hundreds have drowned, thousands are displaced, and cholera and dysentery are rampant.
When the post office reopens, Philipose is nervous, because it means Elsie could soon leave. His pride won’t let him ask her, and besides, he’s never alone with her again. Late that night, his bamboo spoon scrapes the bottom of his opium box. The sound is as chilling as a ship’s keel striking rock. All night he rubs menthol balm over his body and groans with pain. The next morning, he rides and walks his bicycle to the opium shop, passing through slimy fields of mud, and gagging on the stench of dead fish that were marooned by receding water. Three fidgety old men wait outside the opium shop, sniffling and scratching. I’m not like them. Philipose struggles to corral his restless hands. Krishnankutty opens late and without apology. The sole opium licensee in the area has nummular scars of smallpox on his cheeks and dotting his bulbous nose. One eye drifts off, daring the customer to guess which to address. Krishnankutty uncovers the motherlode—a shiny lump the size of a man’s head, its moist surface like the sweat-sheened back of a laborer, and giving off a musty, repulsive stink—and cuts a wedge . . . but then feels a sneeze coming on. He rubs vigorously above his lip, while the rudderless globular tip of his nose flies back and forth, until the sneeze is averted. The balance beam on his scale has hardly settled before he wraps the piece in newspaper and tosses it at his customer. Philipose bites his tongue, loathing himself for swallowing such indignities. Once outside he quickly rolls a pill thrice his usual dose. He gags on its bitterness, but his shrieking nerves sob in relief.
Soon the gnawing body aches and the belly cramps are gone. The clenched fist that was his heart now opens. He smiles at strangers who eye him warily. Already, whole volumes are shaping themselves in his head, itching to be written down. Some might imagine the black pearl is the source for such inspiration, but that’s absurd. The ideas are always there! But pain is the padlocked door, the stern gatekeeper locking them inside. The little pearl merely frees them, and his pen does the rest.
Approaching the house, he hears an odd hammering sound. Elsie in her smock, forearms coated in dust, pounds on a stone in her studio. But what a stone! It’s the size of a bullock, but broad at one end and tapered at the other. How did it find legs to get there? Shamuel and his helpers must have dragged it in from outside. And those tools: the mallet, big chisel, and the rasper? The blacksmith, no doubt. It pains him to think that she converses more with Shamuel and the blacksmith than with him. But the feeling passes when he realizes that the ambition of this undertaking means she’s staying! He stands, mesmerized, watching her swing the heavy mallet with practiced, masculine strokes, her hips swaying to the rhythm. She’s so absorbed in her task that not even a stampede of elephants would distract her. He retreats to his room to work, inspired by her example.
He intends to join the family for lunch, if not for dinner . . . but he drifts off. It’s midnight when he wakes up. The house is still. He randomly opens a page in his bible, The Brothers Karamazov. Even when he isn’t paying attention, the feel of the words, the cadence, and the reentry into the dream in Dostoevsky’s head are soothing. He reads: God preserve you, my dear boy, from ever asking forgiveness for a fault from a woman you love. “Chaa!” he says and puts the book down. For once, Dostoevsky’s tone is contrary to his mood.
The next morning, Elsie is neither in the kitchen nor in her workspace. When he goes to the room where the three women sleep, Baby Mol stops him, finger to her lips. “You can’t go in.”
“What? It’s nearly ten. Is she not well?”
His mother walks by and says, “Shhh!” Has everyone gone mad? When Elsie pounds on a stone for hours, that’s somehow all right, but now he’s too loud? He opens his mouth to protest but Big Ammachi puts her fingers on his lips. “Keep your voice down,” she says, smiling. “She needs the sleep of two people. That’s how it was when I was carrying you.”
He stares blankly at her.
“Chaa! Men! Always last to notice,” she says, pinching his cheek before heading to the kitchen with a verve she hasn’t shown for ages. His knees go weak. Since that one night that they were intimate he has hoped that Elsie might come after the others slept, her lips curved into that temple dancer’s smile of desire. But she has not. And yet God—their God, not his—had decreed once was enough! A baby! A second chance! They’ll start anew. Why didn’t she tell him? He goes to his room to wait for his wife to wake up.
He falls asleep and is woken by the sound of chisel on stone. Standing in the doorway to her workshop, he sees the fine hairs on her forearms outlined in dust, glistening like silver wires in the light; there’s a patina of dust on her forehead. She does a slow dance around the rock, shifting her weight from hip to hip. Watching her, he thinks, The God who failed us is making amends, making overtures after urinating on our heads. He feels such lightness. The weight of disappointment is lifted and—
A new thought follows, an idea so exciting, so outrageous, so full of joy and redemption . . . No, he won’t let himself say it aloud. Not yet.
He appears at dinner to the surprise of all. Elsie rises to bring him a plate, but he stops her. “I ate earlier.” He didn’t. Big Ammachi sighs and goes to the kitchen to get him yogurt and honey—that is what he subsists on. When he’s alone with Elsie he says, “I heard!”
She tries to smile. Then, without warning, her face crumples and she’s fighting back tears. Of course, he understands: the blessing of a new child is also a reminder of their loss.
Two days later, Baby Mol announces from the crowded bench where the ladies gather now as a ritual, “Baby God is coming.” Elsie, fresh after her bath, braids Baby Mol’s hair. Big Ammachi waits for her to finish, holding a cup of hot milk for Elsie.
Ten minutes later, Philipose’s very first teacher, the kaniyan, lopes up the path, sweating from his walk, his sanji across his chest. “Who sent for that fellow?” Big Ammachi says, shooting a jet of tobacco juice in his direction, inadvertently revealing the bad habit she pretends not to have.
“I did,” Philipose says.
The kaniyan’s polished shoulders are miniatures of his bald head, a trinity that speaks of a lifetime of avoiding manual labor. Someone had mischievously told Baby Mol that the wen was a baby god living atop the kaniyan’s head.
“Coming on a Wednesday?” Big Ammachi grumbles. “Of all people, he knows it’s inauspicious. Even a leopard cub won’t leave its mother’s womb on a Wednesday.” She retreats to the kitchen. The kaniyan follows her there, his hand resting on top of the door frame, catching his breath while asking Big Ammachi for “something” for his thirst, hoping for buttermilk or tea. Scowling, she gives him water.
Squatting down on the muttam before Baby Mol’s bench, the kaniyan pulls out his parchments from the sanji. Big Ammachi wanders back. The kaniyan traces a square in the sand with a stick, then divides it into columns and rows, muttering, “Om hari sri ganapathaye namah.”