And if so, there are two faces she must see once more. She gets to her feet.
In the kitchen, Anna Chedethi seeds the leftover milk with a fleck of that day’s yogurt, covers it with a cloth, and moves it to a cool spot. Big Ammachi scans the darkened walls. Long ago this stopped being a kitchen, becoming instead sacred space, a faithful companion that cosseted her with its warm, scented embrace. She gives it her silent thanks.
Anna has made the jeera water. Big Ammachi adds an extra dollop of honey to the hot cups, a treat for herself and her son. Standing in the kitchen for the last time, she feels a surge of love for Anna Chedethi, the angel who came when they most needed her, and who became her companion of so many years. When Anna Chedethi notices Big Ammachi still standing there, cups in hand, looking at her tenderly, her smile breaks out like the sun through heavy clouds.
“What is it?” Anna Chedethi says.
“Nothing, my dear. Just looking at you, that’s all. You were lost in thought.”
“Aah aah . . . Was I?” Anna Chedethi laughs self-consciously, such a happy musical sound. Only Big Ammachi can hear the sad undertones. Hannah’s decision to join a nunnery has dimmed the lamp of perpetual joy that lights Anna Chedethi’s face. But it has only solidified her devotion to and her affection for the family of which she is now a seamless part.
“You and your laughter have been keeping apart of late.”
“Is it prayer time?” Anna Chedethi says, embarrassed. “Were you waiting on me?”
“We already prayed, silly! Don’t you remember? You sang so sweetly.”
“Goodness! Yes, we did!” Anna Chedethi says, laughing at herself.
“I prayed for you, as I do every night. And for Hannah. Sleep well, my dear one. Sleep well. God bless you.” She doesn’t trust herself to look back to see Anna Chedethi’s response.
She pauses outside the ara. Then she peeks into the old bedroom where she gave birth and where her mother spent her last days, and where Mariamma was born—it has been Anna Chedethi’s room for years now. Her gaze sweeps lovingly over the tall velakku that she lit after Mariamma’s birth, again ensconced in its corner. The cellar below this room has been quiet for many years, the spirit there having found peace.
She sits for a moment on Baby Mol’s beloved bench, still clutching the two cups, looking up at the rafters, then out at the muttam, taking it all in for the last time, her eyes misty. Then she rises and goes to Philipose. The radio is silent and he’s busy writing at the small desk in his bedroom. He looks up and smiles, puts his pen down. She sits on the bed, where he joins her, and she hands him his cup. She doesn’t trust herself to speak as she gazes at him. She loves her son so much, loved him even during the times when he’d been so unlovable, so enslaved by opium. She’d loved Elsie too, like a daughter. How terribly the couple had suffered. She sighs. If I haven’t said what I need to say by now, it couldn’t be worth saying. She laughs, conjuring up her husband and his silences. I’m becoming more like you all the time, old man. Letting the spaces between words speak for me. I’ll see you soon.
Philipose says, “What is it, Ammachi?” reaching for his mother’s free hand and squeezing it.
“Nothing, monay,” she says, sipping on her cup. But it isn’t nothing. She’s thinking of Elsie, of the drawing Elsie left behind: a newborn and an older woman—herself. Drowning accidentally is terrible, but to drown oneself deliberately is a mortal sin. The drawing was Elsie’s way of committing Mariamma to Big Ammachi’s care. She never showed it to her son. Never shared her misgivings. He will find it in her belongings and make of it what he will.
Unlike Baby Mol, who sees things forward, she sometimes sees things only by looking back . . . but mostly the past is unreliable. She thinks of the day Elsie went into labor, much earlier than expected, and when two lives hung desperately in the balance. That day God in His infinite mercy gave her the two things she prayed for: Elsie’s life and Mariamma’s life. It could so easily have been two funerals on the same day. And then Elsie drowned.
“Forgive me,” she says now.
“For what?”
“For everything. Sometimes we can wound each other in ways we don’t intend.”
Philipose regards his mother with concern, waiting for her to explain. When she doesn’t, he says, “Ammachi. I put you through so much. And you forgave me long ago. Why would I not do the same? So, whatever it is, I forgive you.”
She rises, touches his cheek, kisses him on his forehead, letting her lips linger there for a long time. From the doorway, she turns, smiles, blinks her silent love to him, and heads for her bath.
She’s glad for the luxury of an indoor bathroom, but if it wasn’t dark outside she’d visit her bathing spot or swim in the river one last time to take her leave. She’ll miss those rituals just as she’ll miss the monsoon and the way it nourishes body and soul just as it does the land. She disrobes and pours water over her head, gasping and luxuriating in the feeling as it washes over her. Such precious, precious water, Lord, water from our own well; this water that is our covenant with You, with this soil, with the life You granted us. We are born and baptized in this water, we grow full of pride, we sin, we are broken, we suffer, but with water we are cleansed of our transgressions, we are forgiven, and we are born again, day after day till the end of our days.
Her mat takes her weight kindly, eases the ache in her back as she stretches out. She pictures Mariamma, her namesake, far away in Alwaye, studying under a lamp, her books before her. Big Ammachi sends her a blessing and a prayer. Perhaps another matriarch with advance warning of her impending departure might summon the family from near and far. What for? All my life I told them, “Keep going! Keep faith!” She kisses the sleeping Baby Mol, her eternal child, hoping that she might not suffer her mother’s absence too much. Her lips linger on her daughter just as they did on her son. Baby Mol in sleep automatically wraps her fingers around her mother’s arm again.
She says a prayer for everyone. Her children and her grandchild. Anna Chedethi, and Hannah. She asks God to bless Joppan, Ammini, and Podi. She thinks of Shamuel, of the burden stone. It’s my turn, my dear old friend. I can put my burden down, too. She prays for Lenin, the incorrigible child and future priest. She remembers Odat Kochamma, and smiles—maybe they can pray together once more in the evenings. She prays for Damo, who increasingly prefers his high forest paths and the company of other elephants. She’d have liked to see him again, lay her hand against his wrinkled hide. She saves her husband for the end. They have been apart for over four decades now, even though he, like Shamuel, is here in every particle of Parambil. When they’re together again, she’ll tell him every single thing he missed, even if it takes longer than all the years she has been alive. She’ll have an eternity to catch up.
The next morning when the sun rises, the hearth fires have burned down. Chickens scuff around outside. Caesar runs to the back of the kitchen and waits expectantly.