The Covenant of Water

Baby Mol recovers, but with Mariamma gone Parambil feels off-kilter again, just as when Philipose left for Madras. It’s as though the sun rises on the wrong side of the house and the stream has reversed course. The reminders of her are everywhere: the impossibly fine needlepoint portrait of her hero, Gregor Mendel; the drawings she made of the human body, copied from her mother’s anatomy book. Philipose even misses the unmistakable vibrations he’d sense in the early morning when his daughter snuck under his window to plunge into the canal, though it always made him anxious. She thought he didn’t know. Big Ammachi sees her son reading aloud, though softly, from a novel every night, even though there is no one to read to.

Podi surprises her parents by consenting to marry, as though with Mariamma’s departure, she’s ready to leave Parambil. Joseph, her groom, is of the same caste, and works in a warehouse. Joppan came across him first and liked the boy’s confidence and ambition, reminiscent perhaps of Joppan’s youthful self. Joseph is determined to get to the Gulf and has a precious “No Objection Certificate”—NOC—through a broker. His first year’s salary will go to paying this off. The marriage is over before Philipose’s letter reaches Mariamma at Alwaye College. Her peevish reply asking why she wasn’t invited reminds him of his own sentiments when Joppan married.

These days, when Big Ammachi stands on the canal’s edge, she sees the future. On the other bank, instead of trees and shrubs she sees temporary sheds covering great stacks of brick, bamboo, and sand. The canal is being widened to allow for bigger barges to come by. Damo is overdue. What will he make of all this activity? She wishes he would come now for no other reason than that she misses him; there’s much to tell him.

On a Thursday evening in late February the weather is as perfect as it gets, a gentle breeze stirring the clothes on the line. Big Ammachi sits with Baby Mol on her bench, sharing with her daughter the unchanging view of the muttam. “You drink the hot jeera water, and take your medicines, then you’ll sleep well tonight.”

“Yes, Ammachi. Will I snore?”

“Like a water buffalo!” Baby Mol guffaws at this. “But I like your snores, molay. It tells me my little girl is sleeping soundly and all is well with the world.”

“All is well with the world, Ammachi,” Baby Mol repeats.

“It is, my precious. You have no worries, do you?”

“No worries, Ammachi.”

What is worry but fear of what the future holds? Baby Mol lives completely in the present and is spared all worry. Unlike her daughter, Big Ammachi, now seventy-nine, increasingly inhabits the past, reliving the memories of her years in this house. Her life before Parambil, that fleeting childhood, is like a dream that crumbles in daylight; she holds onto its edges while the middle vanishes.

This gloaming hour before they go to bed is her favorite time. Baby Mol sits sideways, while Big Ammachi unties her ribbons and combs out her thinning hair. Her daughter dangles one leg off the bench. Her adorable doll’s feet of old now stay puffy with fluid, her anklebones obscured, the overlying skin thin and shiny.

Baby Mol says, “I love weddings!”

Her mother looks for a connection with the events of the day, but she finds none. “I do too, Baby Mol. One day, our Mariamma will get married.”

“Why not marry now?”

“You know why! She’s in college. Premedical.”

“Pre-medical,” Baby Mol says, enjoying the sound of it.

“Then she’ll study to be a doctor. Like the one who helped you. After that, she can marry.”

“We’ll have a big wedding. I’ll dance!”

“You must! But wait . . . we need a good groom, don’t we? Not some silly boy who picks his nose. Not a tree stump who doesn’t move and says, ‘Bring me this, bring me that.’ ”

Baby Mol says, “No tree stump!” and guffaws so hard that she has a coughing spell. “What kind of husband do we want, Big Ammachi?”

“I don’t know. What kind do you think?”

“Well, he must be at least as tall as me,” Baby Mol says. “And as good-looking as our precious baby.” By that she means Philipose. “And he must have a good walk.” She eases off the bench effortfully, but intent on demonstrating. The walk she portrays is so reminiscent of her father’s broad stride, the feet slightly outturned, that Big Ammachi gasps.

“Aah! So a brave, fearless fellow?” Baby Mol nods, but keeps walking because there’s more to convey. “Oh, I see. A confident fellow but not too confident, is that it? He must be humble, yes?”

“And kind,” Baby Mol says. “And he must like ribbons. And beedis!”

“Chaa! If he doesn’t like ribbons, forget him. But beedis, I don’t know . . .”

“Ammachi, beedis just to look at! But no little box, no black pearls!”

Perhaps their audience has been there for some time: Philipose pokes his head out of his room, his glasses on the tip of his nose and a book in his hand; and Anna Chedethi emerges from the kitchen, her hand stifling a laugh, taking in Baby Mol’s promenading up and down, a sight so rare of late.

“Hello, hello! What’re you all looking at?” Big Ammachi scolds, shaking a finger in mock anger at the audience. “Can’t Baby Mol and I have a private moment? Did the Manorama say we’re giving out free bananas to all the monkeys?”

“No free bananas for monkeys!” Baby Mol chants, delighted. The sound is so joyful that her “precious baby,” now graying and towering over her, falls in step with her, taking up the refrain. “No free bananas for monkeys! No free bananas for monkeys!”

Big Ammachi’s heart swells with joy to see this: her Baby Mol of old, Baby Mol of the monsoon dance, her precious, precious daughter, eternally five years old. Such a gift, Lord. Thank you, thank you.

At bedtime, it takes a while to settle Baby Mol against her mountain of pillows. Her pantomime has left her breathless. Her mother massages her ankles, milking them up in the hopes the swelling will recede by morning.

Outside, the frogs announce themselves and Caesar howls at the moon. In the kitchen, Anna Chedethi lights the lamp and a moth comes to dance around it. From Philipose’s room, the radio crackles, a woman speaks but is cut off when he turns the dial to another voice. These foreigners chattering at dusk were sounds once so alien to Parambil. Now, if Big Ammachi didn’t hear these voices, something would feel amiss. The world is rapidly changing, but still the house feels just like Baby Mol: timeless.

Big Ammachi lies beside her daughter on the mat, Baby Mol’s pudgy fingers encircled around her mother’s upper arm like an amulet, a ritual of hers from the time she was a baby. Big Ammachi hums a hymn; she hears a melodious echo from Anna Chedethi, sweeping the kitchen. Baby Mol’s breathing slows.

Big Ammachi asks Baby Mol the question, the one she has asked every night for over a decade now, a question that counts on Baby Mol’s gift of prophecy. She asks it partly in jest, and always in a whisper.

“Baby Mol? Is this my night?”

For all these years, the answer has been the same. “No, Ammachi. It can’t be. Then who’d be there to take care of Baby Mol?” There hasn’t been a single night on which Baby Mol has failed to give that answer.

But tonight, Baby Mol is silent. Her eyes stay closed, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

At first, Big Ammachi thinks that she didn’t hear. “Baby Mol?”

Her daughter gives her mother’s arm a squeeze, and her smile stays the same. Baby Mol heard. But she doesn’t reply. Big Ammachi waits for a long time while Baby Mol’s breathing slows, and the encircling fingers around her mother’s arm relax. Big Ammachi kisses her daughter on her forehead.

What did I imagine? That I’d go on forever?

She feels some sorrow, just as when she was a twelve-year-old on the eve of a journey to marry an unseen widower, leaving her beloved mother and her home behind. That was the second-saddest day of her life. But on this occasion, her sorrow is mixed with some excitement.

She gently disentangles her arm. No, she doesn’t feel sad for herself, or afraid. She only worries about Baby Mol. But she knows she can count on Philipose and Anna Chedethi and even Mariamma to care for this precious child. It’s arrogance to think that only she can do it. Still, can anyone really replace a mother? Nothing more I can do, is there, Lord? If it’s my time, then let it be so. This is the moment when I can stop worrying, isn’t it? So be it.

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