Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

beyond what is visible, like my blind husband can, but I know many things. One thing I know, child, is that you doubt those people you can trust. And those who will betray you are your best friends. You see with only your eyes, child, so you see nothing. You are the blind one—as blind as your name tells us. Layla. Darkness. Learn to see with all of yourself, and from the eyes of those around you and those who came before you. Until then, you will always be misguided.” She raised her chin and left.
    “You’re a good one,” I said to Amme. “Why didn’t you say anything to her?”
    “What could I say?”
    “I thought she was the servant,” I said, shaking my head. “Why is she wearing such a shabby sari?”
    “Why should she dress up to walk around the house?”
    “Just forget it,” Abu Uncle hushed us. “Both of you are just nervous. The alim will take care of everything, I promise.” He set his hand on Amme’s arm, softly reassuring her again, “The wedding will go on, Apa,” Sister. “There is nothing to fear. What you have been praying for all these years is about to come true. Allah will reward you.”
    He looked at me, tilting his head, asking me to comfort her, too. I began pacing. The room was not longer than ten feet, with white cement walls, no windows, and the dead face of that damn clock reflecting my shadow, so I felt trapped, like a black fly buzzing away inside a clear jar, not knowing that everything it sees is actually outside the glass.
    Noor’s words had been incisive, as though she had intuited the real
nature of my bleeding and the truth behind those nightmares. I had carried something across the ocean with me this time and kept it hidden from everyone—even from those to whom my condition would have mattered the most. I wondered now if I should come clean. But, in the end, I decided she was wrong. For I didn’t think I could trust such people as alims . Indeed, I felt no one, Indian or American, healer or doctor, family or friend, could help me. All their responses seemed predictable. Amme would surely become desperate and unreasonable, locking herself inside a room again and, this time, not come out. My cousin and closest friend, Henna, would retreat even further, making me into a stranger. And Nate would say that now of all times I should be given the space to make my own decisions—as though I hadn’t done so already.
    And alims would use their sorcery—burning locks of my hair to check the smell, placing a lemon on top of my head to see which way it fell, advising me to sleep with unboiled eggs. Don’t show hair, don’t wear makeup, don’t expose skin. I wasn’t American, after all, so why act like them, why deprive the spirit of morals in such a cruel way? This only attracted demons—and America was full of them. A few prayers, a bath with a gold bangle inside the tub, and my body and spirit would be purified. Then the alim would unfold his brown palm. the lines deeply engraved and dusty, and ask for his fee.
    How could I have faith in any of them?
     
     
    PEEKING OUT AGAIN, I could see the women were now standing by the edge of the living room, slipping on their sandals. The little boy had cried himself to sleep and lay limp in his mother’s arms, head dangling. He looked dead. Most likely typhoid or dysentery. Poor, innocent child.
    The women straightened their burkhas, pulling the heavy net veil over their faces, and brought their right hands close to their noses and lips to salaam the alim. The alim salaamed back and I wondered how he had seen them make the gesture. He then began to rock, his hands
folded under his crossed legs. The three walked across the courtyard to where Noor stood by the door, waiting to let them out. As they rounded the well, the doves flew away. Silently. When they came to Noor, each woman kissed her hand. The old woman ran her fingers through the child’s hair, then shut the door behind them.
    The mystic continued to rock, his lips