“Sing,” she whispered, wincing in pain. “I’m going to sing.”
He let go with a shove, and Poornima fell forward. She knocked against the steel cups in which she’d served the tea, and her hand split open. One of her brothers ran to get a rag, and she tied it around her hand. The blood soaked through, and there was still dinner to prepare. She sent them out to play and leaned against the wall of the hut. It was the eastern wall. Across from her was a high window. Through it, beyond Indravalli Konda, she could see the setting sun. Not the sun itself, but pink and yellow and orange clouds, thin, their ends sharp as knives, rushing toward the mountain as if they meant to bring it to its knees. How delusional, she thought: as if those useless bits of fluff could maim a mountain.
She closed her eyes. The pain in her hand, her scalp, her face where he’d slapped her, none of them she even noticed. They were still there, but she could no longer feel them. Her body swam, slowly, as if through a thick and sedimental sea. It’s the heat, she thought, but the heat wave had passed. It was April, and though the temperatures had lessened some—although stepping outside in the afternoons was still unwise—the heat would not completely abate, not until July when the monsoons arrived. Until then, the air was stifling. The hut was stifling. Poornima could hardly breathe. She wanted to cry, but her body felt as dry as a coconut husk. The heat having sapped everything, even tears.
And it was only April.
Savitha saw the cut on her hand, the bruise on her face when she came in for lunch the next afternoon, and was livid. “Don’t you worry,” she said, fuming.
“Worry about what?” Poornima asked.
“Nothing. Don’t you worry about a thing.” Then she laid Poornima’s head in her lap, she brushed the hair from her face, and she said, “Do you want to hear a story?”
Poornima nodded.
“What kind of story?”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“All right, but an old story or a new one?”
“A new one.”
“Why?”
Poornima thought for a moment. Savitha’s lap was warm, though a little uneven, like sleeping on a lumpy bed. “Because I’m sick of old things. Like Ramayya. And this hut.” She raised her hand to her face, the cut still open on her palm. Curved, like a clay pot. “I want something new.”
“In that case, once upon a time,” Savitha began, “though not very long ago, since you want a new story—once upon a time, an elephant and the rain had an argument. The elephant was proud. It walked proudly around the forest. It ate whatever it wanted, reaching high into the trees, scaring away all the other animals. It was so proud that one day the elephant looked up, saw the rain, and declared, ‘I don’t need you. You don’t nourish me. I don’t need you at all.’ The rain, after hearing this, looked sadly back at the elephant and said, ‘I will go away, and then you will see.’ So the rain went away. The elephant watched it go and had an idea. He saw a nearby lagoon filled with water and he knew that without rain, it would soon dry up.” Here, Savitha stopped. Poornima lifted her head from her lap and sat up.
“So what was it? What was his idea?” Poornima asked.
Savitha turned to face her. She smiled. “The elephant, you see, saw a poor old crow walking along the forest path, looking for grubs, and ordered him to guard the lagoon. ‘Only I may drink from the lagoon,’ he told the crow. So the old crow sat and sat and guarded the lagoon. Eventually there came a monkey and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’ The monkey shook its head and went away.
“Then came a hyena and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Along came a cobra and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Then came a jungle cat and said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’
“Then came a bear and a crocodile and a deer. They all asked for water and the old crow always gave the same answer. Finally, there came a lion. The lion said, ‘Give me water!’ and the crow answered, ‘The water belongs to elephant.’ When the lion heard this he roared; he grabbed the poor crow by the neck and beat him. Then he took a long, refreshing drink from the lagoon and walked away into the forest.
“When the elephant returned, he saw that the lagoon had dried up. ‘Crow,’ he said, ‘Where is the water?’ The old crow looked down sadly and said, ‘Lion drank it.’ The elephant was enraged. He said angrily, ‘I told you not to let anybody else drink from the lagoon. As punishment, shall I chew you up, or simply swallow you whole?’
“‘Swallow me whole, if you please,’ the crow said.
“So the elephant swallowed the crow. But once the crow entered the elephant’s body, the crow—our little crow—tore at the elephant’s liver and kidneys and heart until the elephant died, writhing in pain. Then the crow simply emerged from the elephant’s body and walked away.”
Savitha was silent.
Poornima looked at her. “What about the rain?” she said.
“The rain?”
“Did it come back? Did it fill the lagoon again?”
“The rain doesn’t matter.”
“No?”
“No.”
“But what about—”
“That doesn’t matter either.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No,” Savitha said. “Here’s what matters. Understand this, Poornima: that it’s better to be swallowed whole than in pieces. Only then can you win. No elephant can be too big. Only then no elephant can do you harm.”
They grew silent.
Savitha went back to her loom, and Poornima, washing up after lunch, looked at the wound on her hand, open again now from scrubbing dishes, and she thought about her father, she thought about the old crow, and then she thought, Please, Nanna. If you swallow me, swallow me whole.
6
Savitha began working longer hours. She was fast, but orders for the wedding season were even larger than expected. She came in early in the morning and left late at night, working harder than any man Poornima’s father had known. Sometimes, Savitha caught him eyeing her greedily—as if he were already counting the coins she was minting for him. She didn’t mind. “He’s paying me extra,” she said to Poornima. “Besides, once the rush ends, I’ll be able to make yours.” She was trying to cheer her, but Poornima only looked back at her sadly. Ramayya arrived every evening at teatime and proclaimed defeat. One night, she told Savitha, she’d stood behind the door of the hut and listened. “No one will have her. No one,” he declared to her father. “They’ve all heard. The minute they hear her name, your name, they shake their heads and say they’re not interested. And dark, on top of it. Word travels, after all. No, we might have to increase the dowry. Some poor fool will need the money.”