In the morning before school I am tugging my hair into sections for braids. The rules are strict. The part in the hair must be straight as a ruler and the hair must be pulled away from our faces, secured at the ends with the blue ribbons that along with the blue tie on the white uniform are emblematic of our school.
Amma comes in quietly, takes the comb from me, glides it through my hair, the teeth a gentle rasp against my skull, her hands careful. There is a slight tug as she sections the hair, intertwines the shanks. I close my eyes and imagine that this is always so. We are like this for a long, quiet time. She says, “I think that’s good.” A kiss on the top of my head. “That looks nice, right?” We survey her work in the mirror. My plaits are perfect, so much better than what I can usually manage alone. I say, “Yes, Amma. That’s very nice. Thank you.” She breathes a sigh of relief, pats my head, goes off. Some loveliness blooms.
*
Thatha’s dogs, Punch and Judy, were named for the puppets that were popular in his childhood. They lie at his feet watching his face with the devotion of lovers, waiting for instruction from this god. There is devotion too in the way he speaks to them. A certain tone of voice that makes these enormous, snarl-snouted dogs writhe with delight when he pauses with his hand on their heads. When he is home, they have no eyes for anyone else. But there are always students waiting, lectures to be written, books to be read, so often the dogs must make do with me. When he is not home, they are my constant companions. I throw stones, which they dash to retrieve. They come back panting, drop saliva-covered, river-smooth rocks at my feet to be thrown again and again.
In a corner of the garden is the well. Its mouth sinks down into the river through some long, secret drop. When the cousins come for school holidays we look over the edge, feel the cool breath of hidden water, peer down into the deep darkness with no end. We drop stones to hear them splash minutes later, shiver to imagine what it would be like to fall, to hurl ourselves into the cold water, to look up and see that perfect circle of light.
On the hottest days when everything is sticky and sweating and the cousins are far away in their boarding schools and Amma is closed up in her darkened room, I make Samson go down to the well with me. I take off my sandals and stand on the soft earth in my cotton housedress. Samson throws the bucket into the depths; we hear it clanging as it falls. He draws it up arm over arm, cold water sloshing over the lip, and says, “Ready, Baby?” I stand there, arms crossed over my shoulders in the fierce beating sunlight, tensed and ready for the chill. And even though I know it is coming, when the icy water spills down over me I jump, looking up through that veil of silver water into the sunlit world. The water is electric, alive. It sets me ablaze, it is so cold. Through chattering teeth I say, “Again, again, again!” He hauls up the bucket, pours the water slowly over my upturned head and shivering body. He does it over and over until finally he says, “Okay, Baby Madame. Enough now. Samson has so much to do and your Amma will be up soon.”
I lie flat, spread-eagled on the grass, soaking wet, my dress clinging to me. The red of it has turned a wet maroon. But minute by minute it is pulling free of my skin, the breeze is taking it, the sun is smashing down, and quickly I am dry again, sand dry, the only hint of wetness, like a secret, in the depths of my braids.
*
In the evenings, Sita brings dishes to the table. Red rice on a platter with a small tea saucer to serve it, the curries in their various bowls, fried beetroot, crackling papadams, a fiery chicken curry. The ceiling fan stirs the air methodically. We gather under it, an assortment of whatever relations have come that night. A clatter of spoons as we serve curries onto the rice. Gathered around the table, we sink our fingers in the food, smashing together rice, silver-skinned fish, fried potatoes, coconut sambol, making perfect bite-size balls, a bit of every delicious thing. The heat of the air, the heat on our tongues, a scorchingly delicate, almost unbearable pleasure.