leading hotel and resort chains now worshipped at the altar of God’s Own Country. The new terminal itself, fully air-conditioned and as modern as Mumbai’s own Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport, had intimidated her almost as much as the body search. The other changes she viewed en route evoked mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was proud to see Kerala finally making an entry into the 21st century. Yet at the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been brought or bought.
The turn off to Varkala looked much the same except for the oversized hoarding advertising a housing colony with the dreadful name ‘Papanasam Paradise’. ‘All apartments sea view!’ boasted the signboard. She wondered where those sleek glass-and-steel multi-storey towers were scheduled to rise. Surely not here? Still, the crunching of sand beneath the Esteem’s tires, the glimpses of the blue ocean behind the swaying palms, the smells of drying fish, and that peculiar odour that was home eased her heart and made her resolve to act calm and dignified. She owed that to Lalima’s memory. Whatever else had happened here, it took away nothing from what Lalima and she had shared for that one glorious summer. She bumped her nose on the half-wound window trying to see the cliffs as the car took the last curve; and suddenly, as the old mossy gateposts appeared, she felt a terrible longing to see Lalima’s fifteen-year-old face again, laughing with her tongue out in that peculiar canine way, just for a minute or two, just one glimpse. Oh damn. Oh fuck. She couldn’t do this alone. She had to, she must, she would. Damn you, Lalima. You ditched me and left. Again. And this time you went so far, even a passport and visa won’t get me there .
The old house looked the same, barring one or two minor changes. There was a dish antenna perched on one corner of the roof and most of the roof tiles were broken or displaced, no doubt during one of the several winter monsoon storms that hit this part of the coast hard three years ago. She had read about the storm and felt vaguely guilty for not being there, as well as relieved that she wasn’t. Looked like Philip, Graham and Isaac hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, or perhaps, judging by the overall rundown condition of the garden and grounds, the rusting iron gate off its hinges and overgrown well-mouth in the courtyard, they simply couldn’t be bothered. She admonished herself with a pang of remorse: There could be another reason and you know it. They might not be able to afford repairs. But a part of her, the mean bit, snorted and said, Yeah, sure, but I bet they found money to drink every day. Besides, how much would a few tiles, some general maintenance cost?
She walked around the house, putting off the inevitable as long as possible. The ancient Chevy Nova – its tires gone, resting on rims that had warped over time, streaks of rust like veins of copper in a mine visible beneath a thick patina of encrusted dust, leaves and bird droppings – was in the back garden, which now resembled a wilderness. It made her sad to see the vehicle in that condition. They had had quite a few happy times in that car, before Achchan fell ill and died and things went from sad to fucking miserable in the Matthew household. She remembered one particular long trip that they took to Mariam Appachchi’s house in Mundakottukurussi where the Big Fight happened. It was undertaken before the night of the Big Fight, and that trip was pure gold, or as close to it as was possible in the Matthew household. She could still remember how happy she had been, thinking that maybe now things would be all right, they would be a real family at last, the way Lalima’s family was, or Varkey’s. For the first several hours of the trip, things had actually been wonderful, with all of them singing old songs and everybody still sober, and the sheer pleasure of going somewhere, anywhere, had suffused her with a warm, fuzzy hope. But after