The Ink Bridge by Neil Grant Page B

the lights not shine like jewels? Look, some of them have fallen into the river.’ He pointed at a dark serpent of water that had sprung up beside them. ‘Even she is beautiful at night. Now we cannot see the plastic bag and dead dog and mud.
    â€˜Hindus have great respect for the rivers. Mother Ganga in India sprouted from Siva’s hair. Siva is very important god and Ganga is important river. See this bridge.’
    The bridge was a dark hump with the river easing under it.
    â€˜That is way across without trouble. No need to get wet foot. From one sides to next sides, no problem. You want to see the highest up bridge? I can show you this no charge, but we must go by my taxi as it is far.’
    While they drove, Puravi allowed a plastic pocket of photos to gush onto the seat between them. They stopped at traffic lights and were immediately surrounded by motorcyclists, pushing to the head of the traffic. Puravi switched on the light and pointed at the first photo.
    â€˜This!’ he said pointing at the photo. ‘My wife Ambuvali. Is she not beautiful?’
    Omed nodded. Her gold jewellery shone against her dark skin.
    â€˜Ambuvali meaning piercing eyes . See the shape of her eyes.’
    Omed bent closer, studying the photo, her kohl-rimmed eyes.
    â€˜Eyes like arrow tips. Like vel, the spear, of Lord Murugan.’ He touched the photo with his fingers and then moved to the next one. It was of a small child, a girl with the thick black hair of Puravi and the arrow-tip eyes of Ambuvali. As Omed looked from the photo to Puravi, he noticed the man’s lips disappear under his beard. Puravi shoved the car into first gear and rushed away from the lights. The motorcycles were like a swarm of angry bees around them. When the bikes had gone, he whispered, ‘This is my daughter.’ He closed the wallet and held it against his chest for a moment, steering with his free hand. ‘This is a special story. This one is miracle.’
    Puravi eased the taxi into a space in front of an open-fronted restaurant. Glazed ducks hung from hooks and food was being tossed in huge curved pans over roaring gas burners. The cooks in dirty white singlets mopped their brows with rags thrown over their shoulders. Puravi took Omed by the hand along the dark street. Above them and beyond, a dark giant of a building peered over its brother’s shoulder into the valley between the shops and houses. The buildings pierced the sky like swords.
    â€˜My daughter,’ said Puravi, coming back to the story. He leant against the doorway of an old shop and his face was split by shadow. ‘Her name is Inimbili because we knew when she was born even her cry was sweet. That is her name – sweet voice . Inimbili is hard to be born and Ambuvali she almost dying with the strain of it. I thought I would lose everythings, but Inimbili, she is born and everyone is happy and I am dancing and sometime I am drinking whiskies and people they are looking at me differently now and I am proudly because I am a daddy and the world looks different. You understand?’
    Omed shook his head slowly and Puravi shrugged. ‘I have this very big feeling inside me and sometimes it is too proudly and I am angering God. I do not know. Maybe it is because I am having too much happy and this is not my karma.’
    He stopped and twisted his lower lip with his fingers. ‘My Inimbili, she is getting sickly. She is burning feverish and I am too stupid, too stupid, to get doctor quickly. I do go, but later. I run, I get doctor, but then it is too late.’
    He rubbed his face in the crook of his elbow, his eyes were shiny. ‘It is too late. I am stupid.’
    Omed wanted to put his hand on the man’s shoulder. After a moment they resumed their slow walk. Rain drifted down from the two towers, castles against the purple-black of the sky, a new bruise.
    â€˜Ambuvali she is crying for two years. Every night, you cannot believe