Mira Jacob - The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing

The blood rushing to Sunil’s face darkened it like a shadow, and Amina scooted closer to Itty and her brother, unsure if there would be another explosion. Instead her uncle swallowed, saying quietly, “Thomas, bah . That is no reason to leave.”

“Oh, it’s quite enough—”

“No, I mean”—Sunil cleared his throat—“you don’t want to see me? Fine. I will go. But you stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Sunil snorted in disbelief. “What can’t ? Who can’t ?”

There was a long silence while Thomas struggled to come up with an answer.

“We can’t,” Kamala said, startling Amina and Akhil. “The children are sick with the heat, and I told Thomas to book one room at the beach.”

This was a lie and they all knew it, but invoking the children had done the neat work of making the rest of the conversation impossible, and Sunil looked away, beaten.

“Just tell the neighbors the kids aren’t used to the weather,” Kamala continued. “They’ll understand. Weak American constitution and all.”

Amina could not look at anyone, not Sunil, not Divya, and definitely not Itty. She felt her mother’s hands on her shoulders, propelling her forward, through the yard and up the verandah steps, down the hallway, past the living room and dining room and all the other bedrooms, to the one that smelled of camphor and roses and something else sweet and rotting, like a caramel roll left under the bed. The shadow of a fan cut across the pale blue wall, and in the bed, Ammachy was hunched under her sheets, her long hair loose from its customary braid, her eyes fixed on the pillow next to her.

“The kids would like to say goodbye,” Thomas said, and if she heard him, it did not change her position. Akhil was the first to go to her, leaning quickly over to kiss her cheek and then standing back. Amina did the same, running back to the bedroom doorway when she was done.

“Amma.” Thomas kneeled next to his mother.

Kamala joined him and had barely leaned forward when Ammachy’s hand shot out of the covers, snapping across her cheek hard. For a few seconds there was a terrible soundlessness, the round shock that left Kamala clutching her face. Then she put down her hand, exposing a red welt, and everyone began yelling.

“Ma!” Amina cried.

“You bitch!” Akhil exploded, lunging at Ammachy. “You fucking bitch!”

“Akhil!” Thomas caught him with quick arms.

“What? It’s true! Mom is so nice to her all the time, and why? So she can hear about how she’s too dark to matter? So she can get hit ?”

“Calm down.”

“And you! The only thing Ammachy ever does is make you feel like shit! She doesn’t deserve you!” Akhil’s voice broke. “She doesn’t deserve any of us!”

Thomas tightened his forearms across Akhil’s chest and then began to whisper sternly, tenderly. It’s okay , Amina saw more than heard; you’re okay, we’re okay , until the whites of Akhil’s eyes stopped slashing furiously around the room, until he stopped struggling and just stood there, panting heavily, looking like he was going to cry.

“I need you to take your mother to the car. Can you do that for me?” Thomas asked, and Akhil bent to put his arm around Kamala, who was already rising on jittering legs. They left the room together. Thomas waited until their footsteps grew soft before turning back to Ammachy.

“You,” he said, his voice murderously low, and Amina crouched against the wall as he began to pace. “What is wrong with you? Hitting! My God! Is there any shred of sanity left in this house?”

Ammachy glared at him.

“You think the kids will want to come back after this, Amma? You think any of us will want to—”

“Out!” Ammachy screamed. “Go if you are going!”

“You don’t even enjoy it when we’re here! Has that occurred to you? You’re so busy thinking of how it should be that you can’t even appreciate—”

“Cowards!” Ammachy roared. “Traitors! Good-for-nothings!”

Thomas’s voice rose in a rapid, angry swirl of Malayalam, pushing Amina out the bedroom door and down the hall. The last words her father said to his mother were in a language that she didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. He was still yelling as she shot out the front door.

“What happened?” Divya cried, and Kamala, already ducking into the car with Akhil, said nothing. The servant girls stared openmouthed, Babu paced, and Preetham pretended to polish the steering wheel. Mary-the-Cook spat something on the ground, hands on hips, but even she took a few paces back as Thomas came barreling out of the house a few seconds later, his eyes wild and dark.

“Goodbye,” he said, nodding curtly to his brother.

“Thomas, please!” Sunil said, but Thomas was already behind Amina, pushing her toward the car door. She scrambled into the backseat with her mother and brother as Babu unlatched the heavy steel gate to the main road and waved the car through.

“Are you okay?” Thomas reached for Kamala’s face, but she leaned as far away from him as possible, her eyes turned to the road.

“Coward! You’re as bad as she is!” Sunil shouted at Thomas through the window. He ran after the car, banging the flat of his palm on the trunk. “You wait. Your own children will leave you and never come back!”

And then they were out, on the other side of the Wall and rolling back down the dusty road, past the beggar children, down to the train station, where the Kanyakumari Express would take them to Kovalam Beach. For three whole days, they would stay in a resort built for rich Europeans. Akhil and Amina would eat pizza and French fries and begin to fight again without the fear of their grandmother to unite them. Kamala and Thomas would exchange pleasantries and logistics, a palpable coldness taking root between them. But it was Sunil’s parting words that had done the most damage, and more than once Amina turned to find her father staring at her and her brother as though they had become unfamiliar to him already. Four years later, when Akhil died, she knew her uncle’s words were ringing in his head much louder than any consolations the minister offered.

“I’ve got to go home Monday to see my folks,” Amina said, sliding into the wooden booth across from her cousin. Even early, it was crowded for a Thursday. She dipped her head to the cool pint Dimple had waiting, and swallowed.

“I’ve been here twenty minutes.”

“I’m sorry. I was talking to my mom.”

Dimple stared coolly at her. “You just went to see your parents last month.”

“Three months ago. And by the way, Bala Auntie wants you to call.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Amina.” Her cousin shook her head, glossy curls bouncing with candlelight. She plucked two cigarettes from the pack on the table and lit them, handing one over. “What now? You need to steam the rugs? Turn the compost?”

The last time Amina had gone home, Kamala had sent her to the roof to clean the leaves out of the rain gutters and for two days straight refused to pass on the phone, telling Dimple only, “She’s on the roof and not coming down.”

“No, it’s not that. Something is wrong.”

“Something is always wrong with your mother. What about you? What about that vacation you said you’d take?”

Amina looked around, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror behind her cousin. She hated seeing her own face right next to Dimple’s — all beak and long chin and awnings for eyebrows, where Dimple’s was a crisp, pert heart.

“Why is it so crowded in here?”