“What things?”
“About how strange it is that he drowned. They’ll ask what he was doing out at night by the river. It just doesn’t make sense, you know. It’s not me. I’m just saying what people are saying. And you have to be careful. You have a young girl. People have long memories here. They will remember when it’s time for the girl to marry.”
My mother says, “What does it matter?”
“It matters a hell of a lot. You want the girl to make a proper marriage, don’t you? It’ll be hard with this hanging over her head. And also how will you support yourself? You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
Uncle Sarath breaks in, his voice practical. “Think about it. Very soon his relatives will come. They will want the house back. You don’t think they will let you keep their ancestral house, do you?”
Amma makes a wounded sound. She knows this is true. Already the relatives are flapping around like vultures sniffing carrion. They want their house. They will get it back by legal or illegal means. Either way there will be a fight.
Aunty Mallini says, “What we are trying to say is that we think you should come with us. To America. We can sponsor you. The business is growing. It’s only a small agency now, but everyone there has to fly home, and they all buy their tickets from us. You can stay with us, work with us. Until you get on your feet.”
My mother says nothing. Aunty Mallini continues, “It’s the best thing to do. You’ll be able to give the girl a proper education. Nothing’s happening here. Between the army and the Tigers, anyway, this country is ruined. Better pack up now and come with us.”
Next to me Dharshi grins, whispers, “See, I told you we’ve come to take you away.” As if they were rescuing us. Airlifting us from our devastated lives into some new and exhilarating reality.
*
Amma comes into my room as I’m falling asleep. She sits on the bed and talks about things that don’t matter for a while. I wait and then she says, “Darling, listen. Aunty Mallini and Uncle Sarath, they think we should move to America. Live there for some time. Stay with them. What do you think? Shall we do this?”
In the last few hours I’ve thought about what to tell her when she asks me. I’ve thought about my father falling through air, about him getting off the train while we travel onward into the unknown future. I’ve thought about the small urn that held his ashes before Amma took me by the hand and we went down to the riverbank and let the water claim again what it had already taken. I can barely look at the river without imagining the waters closing over my father’s head, without reeling with guilt. Everything that has happened is my fault. Everything in this place knows it. The monsoon, the river, the trees—all the nonspeaking witnesses, they know who my father’s true murderer is.
And beyond all this, Samson. He may be anywhere, hiding, waiting. When I let my guard down, he will come, and then I know his punishment will be cruel.
I say, “Yes, Amma, I think we should go.”
“Really?” She has not expected this.
“Yes. Otherwise if we stay, people will keep saying things. If we go, at least we’ll be with family.” It’s the right thing to say. Her sister is the only family my mother has known. I saw it in the way they embraced.
She hugs me close, kisses me on the forehead. For a moment we clutch each other, panicked. Then she lets me go. I listen to her footsteps through the quiet house.
By the end of that week, it is decided. We will go to them as soon as we can get the proper papers. A new life. It’s what we have to carve out now.
*
Months later, the house is returned to my father’s people and our bags are packed. Puime and her mother come, both of them with worried eyes. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I’ve stayed out of school, hidden in the house. Puime’s mother sits awkwardly at the edge of the couch while Amma pours tea and tries to make small talk. When my mother releases us to my room, Puime says, “Really? You’re going to go to America?”
I nod.
She comes close, tears suddenly welling in her eyes, “I’ll miss you … a lot.”
I feel a squeezing in my throat and say, “I’ll miss you too. So much. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t know how they do things. Must be very different, I think…”