Pia Padukone - Where Earth Meets Water

In this poignant and breathtaking debut, one man searches for meaning in the wake of incomparable tragedy...

Karom Seth should have been in the Twin Towers on the morning of 9/11, and on the Indian shores in 2004, when the tsunami swept his entire family into the ocean. Whether it’s a curse or a blessing, Karom can’t be sure, but his absence from these disasters has left him with crushing guilt—and a belief that fate has singled him out for invincibility.

Karom’s affliction consumes everyone around him, from his best friend, Lloyd, to his girlfriend, Gita, who hopes that a trip to India will help him find peace. It is in Delhi that he meets Gita’s grandmother, Kamini—a quirky but wise woman with secrets of her own. At first Karom dismisses Kamini, but little does he realize that she will ultimately lead him to the clarity he’s been looking for.

Spanning the globe from New York to India, Where Earth Meets Water is a stunning portrait of a quest for human understanding, and a wise exploration of grief, survival and love in all its forms.

Praise for Where Earth Meets Water and

Pia Padukone

“Smart and insightful. A worthy addition to the burgeoning field of new Indian literature.”

—Gary Shteyngart, author of Absurdistan and Little Failure: A Memoir

“Padukone offers a gripping tale of one man’s haunting sorrows, the wounds that bind a people, and the redemptive power of love. An unforgettable debut by a very promising young writer.”

—Patricia Engel, author of It’s Not Love, It’s Just Paris and Vida

“Pia Padukone adeptly captures the aspirations and heartbreak of her engaging characters—how tragedy marks them, love drives them and need makes them ruthless.”

—Manil Suri, author of The City of Devi

Where Earth

Meets Water

Pia Padukone

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For both my grandmothers, who have loved me intensely:

my Anamma, Vrinda Padukone, with her quietly creative inspiration

&

my Ajji, Nalini Nadkarni, whose fierce loyalty

and passion for the written word always fueled me forward.

Contents

Could Have COULD HAVE It could have happened. It had to happen. It happened earlier. Later. Nearer. Farther off. It happened, but not to you. You were saved because you were the first. You were saved because you were the last. Alone. With others. On the right. The left. Because it was raining. Because of the shade. Because the day was sunny. You were in luck—there was a forest. You were in luck—there were no trees. You were in luck—a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake, A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant… So you’re here? Still dizzy from another dodge, close shave, reprieve? One hole in the net and you slipped through? I couldn’t be more shocked or speechless. Listen, how your heart pounds inside me. —Wisława Szymborska

Karom

Kamini

Lloyd

Mohan and Rana Seth

Gita

Karom

Lloyd

Kamini

Karom

Acknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Pia Padukone

COULD HAVE

It could have happened.

It had to happen.

It happened earlier. Later.

Nearer. Farther off.

It happened, but not to you.

You were saved because you were the first.

You were saved because you were the last.

Alone. With others.

On the right. The left.

Because it was raining. Because of the shade.

Because the day was sunny.

You were in luck—there was a forest.

You were in luck—there were no trees.

You were in luck—a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,

A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant…

So you’re here? Still dizzy from

another dodge, close shave, reprieve?

One hole in the net and you slipped through?

I couldn’t be more shocked or

speechless.

Listen,

how your heart pounds inside me.

—Wisława Szymborska

Karom

From the first morning that Karom awakes in Gita’s grandmother’s house, he can tell that their time in Delhi is going to be different from the rest of their trip. They arrive late at night from Agra, and as they drag their suitcases up to the second floor, Gita caresses the nameplate outside Ammama’s apartment lightly, leaving a small wake in the dust with her fingers. “Huh,” she says. “That’s new.” Kamini Pai, it reads. Before Karom has a chance to ask what she means, they are tumbling into the small flat, sandy from road silt and Indian rail travel, blinking under the fat fluorescent tube lights like a pair of bears emerging from a long winter’s hibernation. After formal introductions and sleepy smiles, they fall into bed, Karom in the living room, Gita in her grandmother’s room, surrendering to sleep miles away from any nettlesome insect buzzing or monotonous calls to prayer that echo through the compound. The night passes swiftly, gathering snatches of reality and combining them with fancy, translating and then siphoning them into their ears so that they dream vividly, solidly.

But then, in the early morning, in fact for each of the mornings for the six days they stay with Ammama in her small flat, a gong rings somewhere outside that sounds like a frying pan being hit with a metal spoon. Karom cautiously opens one eye to peer at his vintage Rolex, perched carefully on the chair he is using as a bedside table. Five forty-five. This is when Ammama pads into the sitting room, where Karom sleeps on the hard wooden pallet, his legs tangled in the threadbare sheets, his skin cool and clammy from nightly sweats. She presses a damp cloth on his forehead and he feigns sleep, unsure of how to react, rigidly aware of Gita asleep in the next room. She lowers herself onto the slate floor beside him with a towel under her knees. She swipes a line of vermilion across the hollow in her throat, directly in the center of her clavicle and, depending on how Karom is situated, mirrors the gesture on him. She closes her eyes, reopens them immediately to ensure that Karom is still sleeping, sucks in her breath and lets out a slew of Sanskrit. Karom yearns for the sweet, strong cold coffee that she places inches away from him—he can smell the chicory as the fan gathers the scent into the air—but is afraid that Ammama will see him awake and either make him participate in her ritual or scurry away in embarrassment.

He is touched that she has remembered his love for cold coffee, that it is a sacred thing in India. Back home in New York City, there is only iced coffee: simply ice dumped on top of coffee that becomes immediately diluted and insipid. Cold coffee is creamy, strong and pure. He waits until she finishes mumbling her indecipherable words, heaves herself to her feet and leaves the room. It is only once he hears the crescendo of the bucket being filled for her bath that he dares to reach for the drink, beads of sweat gathered around the base of the brass tumbler.

On their third day in Delhi, he tells Gita as they step out into the street and the blinding light of the premonsoon summer.

“She comes into my room in the mornings,” he says. “With a tray of perfectly ripe bananas, a glass of cold coffee and a cold compress that she puts on my forehead. She kneels down next to my bed and mutters under her voice. It’s hard to tell with the whirring of the fan, but I’m pretty sure she’s praying.”

“Get out,” Gita says, hitting him playfully on the chest, smiling broadly. “What do you do?”

“Nothing,” Karom says, stepping over an open sewage grate. “I pretend to sleep. What else am I supposed to do?”