The ladies’ hostel is deserted. Most students have gone home for the break. A few clinical students remain. Since the mess hall is closed, they must eat in the hospital canteen.
Mariamma writes to her father that she has passed Anatomy . . . but she must delay her return to Parambil for a month or so to finish an “incomplete project.” The incomplete project is herself. Outwardly, she has shrugged off the vile episode with Brijee. But her insides are still in disarray. She’s ashamed to face her father. The sight of the scar on her forehead and the explanation would distress him; he’d want to see justice done. She had justice in that they believed her story—Brijee was known for this sort of thing. But Brijee’s heart attack, his disgrace, his suspension from government service aren’t enough punishment. He should be jailed. But she has no appetite to draw more attention to herself by pursuing this cause. Already, some medico, a frustrated poet, has immortalized her shame in verse:
Doctor Brijee once gave an exam
Offering his willy as part of the plan
But to his dismay
She obliged in a way
That left him much less than a man.
In the mornings she tags behind a senior posted to the internal medicine ward. She’s excited by her first exposure to live patients and disease; it’s a reminder of why she’s here. In the afternoons she stays in her sweltering room, reading about the patients she encountered. Perversely, she misses the torture of a looming exam or a fat textbook to memorize—anything to distract her from what happened. She is adrift.
Three weeks later, when she returns from the hospital, she sees a man seated cross-legged on the bench under the oak tree in the hostel courtyard. A carpet-like beard runs up his throat and cheekbones and ends in curls on his crown. A scar across his left cheek is only partially concealed by his beard. His sunrise-orange kurta makes him look like a man on fire. With a parrot and playing cards he could pass for a fortune-teller. But for those soft, sleepy eyes, she wouldn’t recognize Lenin. He holds a hostel tea mug; soft-hearted Matron Thangaraj must have let him into this inner sanctum.
He certainly recognizes her, even though the Mariamma they both knew vanished inside the Red Fort a year and a half ago. On the inside she is someone else.
He puts the tea down and comes forward. “Mariamma?” His hands reach for hers, but she retreats.
“What’re you doing here? Did Appa send you?”
“It’s nice to see you too, Mariamma—”
“The hostel is off limits to men.” She can’t explain her outward hostility when inside she’s happy to see him.
“And yet here I stand,” he says defiantly.
“I’m surprised that Matron let you past the gate.”
“I told her I’m your twin.”
“In other words, you lied?”
“I was speaking . . . metaphorically. And Matron said, ‘How sweet! You must have felt Mariamma’s pain and decided to come!’ ”
“So, did you? Did you feel my pain?”
Lenin’s expression is that of the boy who “borrowed” the bicycle he crashed, and whose curse is to tell the truth, whatever the consequences. “No,” he says. “No, I didn’t. You didn’t reply to my letters. I assumed you were at Parambil. I just happened to arrive at Central Station a few hours ago. I looked across the street and there was Madras Medical College. I took a chance. I asked for the ladies’ hostel, and here I am.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at your rural posting?”
“Aah. I had a . . .”
This isn’t the old Lenin. He’s missing the righteous indignation. He can’t even say that word he so often used to explain away his troubles.
“Me too, Lenin. I had a little ‘misunderstanding.’ ”
“Matron told me indirectly. She assumed I knew,” he says, eyeing her uncertainly.
“Yes, everyone knows. But they don’t know what to say. ‘Wishing you hearty, happy recuperation’?” Her laugh sounds strange even to her. Stranger still is that she’s dabbing her eyes.
Lenin reaches again for her hand. Then he gently pulls her to him. She clings to him like a drowning woman. His kurta feels like sandpaper scraping her face, but no cloth has felt more welcome. If Matron sees them . . . but then, he is her twin.
“I’m ashamed to go back to Parambil.”
“Why shame? I’m proud of you! The only shame is that you didn’t kill the fellow.”
“Let’s get away from here, Lenin,” she says urgently. “Let’s get out of the city. Please.”
He hesitates, but only for a moment. “Let’s do it.”
The ocean seems to be covered in glittering diamonds as the bus hugs the shore. With every mile she feels she’s shedding soiled garments, peeling off contaminated skin. The noisy diesel and the wind through the open windows discourage conversation. Lenin has nicotine stains on his fingers. He’s leaner, and his beautiful eyes have a hardness in them she’s never seen before. His thick scar is more extensive than she thought, running onto the pinna of his ear, a wound that clearly wasn’t sutured. They’re both marked.
At Mahabalipuram, a vendor slices off the tops of fresh coconuts for them to drink. Lenin buys cigarettes, biscuits, and a string of jasmine for her hair. The scent hovers like a halo around her as they approach the stone temples.
It’s not temples but the ocean that Mariamma wants most: the murmur of the waves, the restoration of water. She lets the surf wash over her ankles while Lenin holds back. The two of them are quite alone. Sanderlings line up like porters on a train platform, waiting for the next wave; they retreat smartly just ahead of the tongue of water, pecking at invisible creatures.
“Lenin, I must swim. I’ve never swum in the sea. The surf’s too strong at Marina Beach.” He looks worried. “Turn around, face away. Don’t look.” She sheds her sari, underskirt, and blouse, piling them by him. In just her underwear and bra, she plunges in. The ground falls off below her. The current is unpredictable, but she relishes being in the water. Lenin is still turned away. “Hey!” she says. “You can look.” He turns and looks nervously at her. He calls for her to be careful. She tries to swim but struggles to get the ocean rhythm. Her eyes are burning, and salt water goes up her nose. But she’s grinning. Immersion is mercy and forgiveness.
Lenin is relieved when she emerges. He turns away but hands her a thorthu from his cloth bag. She feels bold, reckless. After what she has been through, she’s entitled to be reckless, to be any way she wants. He shields her as she sheds her wet underclothes and puts her blouse, skirt, and sari back on. The water has broken down a barrier within her.
They sit on the sand. She tells Lenin about Brijee. Even if everyone knows her story, no one really knows how she feels. It pours out now: her rage, her shame, her guilt—it still lingers. But with the telling comes a sense of empowerment. She has no culpability in the Brijee matter. None, other than being na?ve and being a woman. During the inquiry she had tapped into the righteousness that was her due; she slapped down the least suggestion that she might be at fault. She had learned a lesson: to show weakness, to be tearful or shattered didn’t serve her. One shouldn’t just hope to be treated well: one must insist on it.
She feels better when she’s done. She eats a biscuit. Lenin sits cross-legged, smoking, head down, tracing circles in the sand. He was visibly affected during the telling of her story, even holding her hand. Is she being self-centered by not asking about his misunderstanding, his scar, and why he is here? Or is she giving him room to decide? He can tell her when he chooses to. Or not.
The breaking waves sound louder as the light fades. The dark silhouettes of the stone temples against the sky make her feel they’ve slipped back in time. Her mother must have come here when she studied in Madras; she must have splashed in these same waves. This water connects the living and the dead. Perhaps the sculptures here inspired the Stone Woman. The sea breeze soothes and refreshes her. Madras feels a million miles away.