the far corner a giant Nataraj with one sleek limb raised, all in ivory.
Several craftsmen sat at the tables, some carving with awls fine as a sparrow’s claw. A man ground a piece against a whetstone. A young boy went from table to table, using a careful cupped hand to sweep ivory shavings into a bag.
“We sell them to Ayurvedic doctors,” Communist Chacko said, causing my heart to jump. “Little ivory powder and coconut oil could do wonders for your dandruff.”
“I do not have dandruff.”
“Then I suppose that shit on your shoulder is snow.”
As I brushed at my shirt, I could feel his eyes on me, narrowing.
“You are a curious fellow, aren’t you?” he said.
“Sorry, sir, the door was open—”
“Oh, I don’t care. I have a license. Got it ten years before the ban, luckily.”
“So the Forest Department looks the other way?”
“Depends on who is doing the looking.” He pointed to a pair of tusks on a nearby table. “Those are for P. K. Kurian, the divisional range officer before that lardy little Muslim took over. She’s a tough one. Have you met her?”
“No.”
Communist Chacko ushered me out of the shed, closing the door. “Count yourself lucky.”
So every other month Jayan and his fat-necked associate drove their spoils to Kottayam and I returned to my studies quite happily. I was only fifteen years old, yet I had mapped the course of my life—to do my pre-degree in Commerce and attend college and someday be chief manager of a bank, with my own glass-walled office where visitors had to wait their turn. Jayan may have been our lifeboat in those days, but I would build a great ship of myself. I would keep the sea so calm my mother would hardly feel it shift beneath her feet.
But ships take a long time to build, much longer than it takes to build a dream. In the meantime Jayan would give her no peace.
One dull gray morning, the mini-lorry came up the road and stopped before our house. My brother stepped out, followed by a woman who kept her apologetic gaze on the ground.
She had dainty toe rings on each of her dusty feet, the sort of ornament that seemed to me both ridiculous and intriguing. I tried not to look too hard at her face, at the lashes that grazed her cheeks. I tried to appear calm when Jayan introduced her as his wife. Leela. A woman he had found and then married in a Kottayam courthouse.
Oh, the fit my mother threw. How could Jayan do such a thing? Elope with some Christian no-name without even a hello-goodbye to his mother? What kind of loose shameless beef-eating she-dog would run off with a Hindu, no engagement, no dowry, no nothing? (The indecent kind, that’s what—the taking-advantage kind!) And why did Jayan think the beef-eater would never run from him?
From the look of her, Leela seemed the kind of woman who had been fed an exclusive diet of pomegranate and almonds and milk, by which I mean she was fair and softly built, her features made to fill a movie screen. “World class, mangoes like that.” Raghu sighed. I smacked his head. He smacked me back, claiming she wasn’t
his
sister.
Leela had lived her life on the coast and had never seen the forests and valleys and ghats my brother had promised her. Once she asked me: “Is it true the tribals are so dark because they are partway African?”
“Partway who?”
She toyed with the tip of her braid. “I heard the tribals married the African slaves that the Britishers brought with them. That is why the tribals are so dark. Because of the Africans.” Hesitantly she added, “There are no tribals in my village.”
I stared at her, much conflicted with thoughts.
You are simpleand silly. You are the most beautiful thing I have seen. You are married to my brother. Why? My brother has the brain of a wall lizard. I am sharp in school. I am sure to make something of myself, sure as calves become cows. But will Mother let me find a Leela of my own? No. Because every family only allows itself one mistake. You
Several craftsmen sat at the tables, some carving with awls fine as a sparrow’s claw. A man ground a piece against a whetstone. A young boy went from table to table, using a careful cupped hand to sweep ivory shavings into a bag.
“We sell them to Ayurvedic doctors,” Communist Chacko said, causing my heart to jump. “Little ivory powder and coconut oil could do wonders for your dandruff.”
“I do not have dandruff.”
“Then I suppose that shit on your shoulder is snow.”
As I brushed at my shirt, I could feel his eyes on me, narrowing.
“You are a curious fellow, aren’t you?” he said.
“Sorry, sir, the door was open—”
“Oh, I don’t care. I have a license. Got it ten years before the ban, luckily.”
“So the Forest Department looks the other way?”
“Depends on who is doing the looking.” He pointed to a pair of tusks on a nearby table. “Those are for P. K. Kurian, the divisional range officer before that lardy little Muslim took over. She’s a tough one. Have you met her?”
“No.”
Communist Chacko ushered me out of the shed, closing the door. “Count yourself lucky.”
So every other month Jayan and his fat-necked associate drove their spoils to Kottayam and I returned to my studies quite happily. I was only fifteen years old, yet I had mapped the course of my life—to do my pre-degree in Commerce and attend college and someday be chief manager of a bank, with my own glass-walled office where visitors had to wait their turn. Jayan may have been our lifeboat in those days, but I would build a great ship of myself. I would keep the sea so calm my mother would hardly feel it shift beneath her feet.
But ships take a long time to build, much longer than it takes to build a dream. In the meantime Jayan would give her no peace.
One dull gray morning, the mini-lorry came up the road and stopped before our house. My brother stepped out, followed by a woman who kept her apologetic gaze on the ground.
She had dainty toe rings on each of her dusty feet, the sort of ornament that seemed to me both ridiculous and intriguing. I tried not to look too hard at her face, at the lashes that grazed her cheeks. I tried to appear calm when Jayan introduced her as his wife. Leela. A woman he had found and then married in a Kottayam courthouse.
Oh, the fit my mother threw. How could Jayan do such a thing? Elope with some Christian no-name without even a hello-goodbye to his mother? What kind of loose shameless beef-eating she-dog would run off with a Hindu, no engagement, no dowry, no nothing? (The indecent kind, that’s what—the taking-advantage kind!) And why did Jayan think the beef-eater would never run from him?
From the look of her, Leela seemed the kind of woman who had been fed an exclusive diet of pomegranate and almonds and milk, by which I mean she was fair and softly built, her features made to fill a movie screen. “World class, mangoes like that.” Raghu sighed. I smacked his head. He smacked me back, claiming she wasn’t
his
sister.
Leela had lived her life on the coast and had never seen the forests and valleys and ghats my brother had promised her. Once she asked me: “Is it true the tribals are so dark because they are partway African?”
“Partway who?”
She toyed with the tip of her braid. “I heard the tribals married the African slaves that the Britishers brought with them. That is why the tribals are so dark. Because of the Africans.” Hesitantly she added, “There are no tribals in my village.”
I stared at her, much conflicted with thoughts.
You are simpleand silly. You are the most beautiful thing I have seen. You are married to my brother. Why? My brother has the brain of a wall lizard. I am sharp in school. I am sure to make something of myself, sure as calves become cows. But will Mother let me find a Leela of my own? No. Because every family only allows itself one mistake. You
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