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

moving quickly as he muttered, his white beard reaching his collarbone. His blank eyes wandered around the room, but mostly they were rolled up, as though digging their way back inside his skull. He wore white and, because his hand was shoved beneath his leg, the kurta’s sleeve curled back and revealed a watch on his left wrist.
    Noor leaned over his ear and whispered something. He nodded, but continued his silent chant. She kissed his forehead. He rocked. She turned his wrist and read the time. He placed it back under his foot. She smoothed out the fabric, covering the watch. Then she whispered something more. He nodded again. She now headed toward our room and I retreated.
    “She’s coming,” I said.
    Abu Uncle and Amme both rose.
    “The alim ’s very good,” Abu Uncle said. “So don’t be scared. Remember, you’ve been through this a dozen times before.” He took a comb out from his side pocket and began combing, one palm patting down the heavier strands as the teeth passed through.
    “I’m not worried,” I said. “Are you sure he doesn’t charge?”
    Noor’s footsteps approached from behind.
    “Well,” he said, hesitating. “It’s customary to give him a donation. He doesn’t have a flat fee. People just give him what they think is necessary. The rich give more, the poor less.” He put the comb away.
    “What if we don’t give him anything?”
    “Ar’re!” He was surprised, even offended, as though he had cut himself a deal with the alim. A commission he would receive from our sale. Abu Uncle had done things like that in the past. “He’s got to run this house,” he said. “You can’t just take his advice and leave. It doesn’t look good.”
    “But I thought you said he’s free?”
    “He is.”
    Amme clucked. “What can we do now?” she asked, shaking her head. She looked disappointed in me. Then she sighed and said more tenderly, “Don’t be worried about money, Layla. What matters is that he cures you. My money is not worth more than your well-being.”
    Money, as far as I could see, was all Amme had left, just dollars and the little freedom they offered her. Hearing her say this, I felt guilty and ashamed about what I had done in Minneapolis, and how it was causing my mother such misery. If Abu Uncle wasn’t in the room, I would have confessed everything to her right then and willingly accepted her judgment of me. But he was there, as someone always seemed to be in India. Hardly any privacy. So I had no time to tell Amme the truth.
    Noor pulled open the curtain, and I felt her against my back. For a moment, I didn’t move. What if we just left? I wondered. If the alim was a fake, as I imagined him to be, then why spend the money when I already knew what ailed me? And, if by chance, he was authentic, why take the risk that he might detect the truth and give me away?
    “Follow me,” Noor said, talking over my shoulder. She placed her veiny hand on my waist to push me aside, but I resisted.
    “Layla,” Amme said, “move away and let Noor in. Why are you being so rude? She’ll think I didn’t raise you properly.”
    I didn’t budge.
    Amme gripped my arm and pulled me aside. Abu Uncle walked out. My mother followed.
    “Amme,” I called.
    “Stop being such a child, Layla,” she said.
    “I’m no longer a child, Amme.”
    She stopped and looked strangely at me, the chador making her body formless and unrecognizable.
    “If you have something to tell me, child, tell me now,” she whispered. “I have been wondering. But I’ve been waiting for you to tell me yourself.”
    Amme always knew when I kept something hidden.
    “Layla, what is it?” she asked.
    She was shorter than me, and though enveloped in that monstrous chador, the way her eyes stared up at mine, she seemed entirely exposed. Her shoulders had tensed as she prepared herself to hear my perverse confession. It took all her strength.
    In my family, the only things revealed and discussed were those things that