Chapter 1
The sleeper class compartment was dirty. The noisy family of four that had occupied the berths opposite had alighted sometime in the middle of the night. But they had left their presence behind, in the peanut shells and crumpled newspaper strewn over the floor. The alley was wet with rainwater. Each time the train slowed down or pulled into a station, the stink of urine emanated from the toilets three compartments down the corridor, overpowering Tara’s senses.
The West Coast Express spewed black columns of smoke that trailed over the coaches. The soot had settled over Tara, darkening her face, lodging under her fingernails. The wind mangled her short hair as she peered into a vast canvas from the window-side seat. Her happy thoughts splashed everything she saw in bright watercolors. The rain gods had worked furiously all night. The rice fields were waterlogged along the way, shimmering emeralds. There were dark clouds too, smudges of dense black ink that threatened to let their wrath loose again, but she only saw how an orange sun reached out, dousing everything he embraced in his glow.
Beside Tara sat Amma, her beautiful face still clean, hair coiled into a neat bun—like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. But her eyes, like the ink clouds on the horizon, were mist laden. Her blue-and-yellow sari with the geometric patterns fluttered every once in a while, revealing her taut, bloated belly. Amma’s belly reminded Tara of a birthday balloon every time she looked in her direction, but she didn’t smile, because Amma looked sad.
Every now and then, when her happy thoughts permitted her, Tara wondered about it: Why was Amma sad? A few times, Tara put her dirty little hand on Amma’s swollen, hard belly and gently stroked it. Amma said little; she only looked at Tara with those large, melancholic Belle eyes that threatened to brim over. But Tara’s thoughts were whimsical; they strayed and inevitably wandered back to Pinky, her new doll, and a gush of joy erupted in her chest.
Daddy was still asleep on the top berth, as if he were the one under the sleeping spell. He had slept almost all the way—during the first leg of their train journey from their town by the Great River off National Highway 5 to Madras Central—and now, from Madras to Mangalore. He had come down once last night, though, to order railway meals for the three of them, his usually slickly brushed, lush hair unruly, and his handsome face a bit frog-like from all that sleeping. He had ordered two plates, and the three of them had eaten in bland silence, amid the cacophony of their travel companions across the berth.
Amma and Tara had shared a plate. Tara had hard, flaky puris dipped in sambhar. Amma had the rice with the rest of the sambhar, yogurt, and lime pickle. The mother from the opposite berth had offered Tara a ripe, black-spotted plantain after their meal. Aunty from the opposite berth looked kindly, but Tara had declined, with an uncertain shake of her head, because she had received no cues whatsoever from Amma—no nod or subtle nudge on her elbow to indicate that she should accept the plantain. Amma was busy staring at the palms of her interlocked hands that guarded her belly, as if there were so much to decipher in them. And Daddy had already reclaimed his spot on the top berth. Soon, his snores had wafted down, rhythmic over other human sounds and the steady clanging of the moving train.
Tara had slept well and dreamed long dreams of lovely Pinky. She remembered only snatches of her dream, but every shard of what came back to her was imprinted with pink skin, luminous golden hair, and violet-blue eyes that closed and opened and closed and opened.
Pinky was like a real person, not a doll. She even wore a real blue-and-white-striped frock, and her soft feet were encased in white rubber shoes. If only Amma had thought of giving her the doll before her best friends Pippi, Leenika, and Runa had left for the summer. What a smashing hit Pinky would have been! She could imagine the wonders that came with owning the prettiest doll in their neighborhood, the clamor of her friends to play with Pinky at her house. She had never had that standing before.
The day Amma gifted Pinky to her, Tara had spent all afternoon in the square shoe room next to the verandah, the only calm spot in a chaotic house. Seated among empty shoe racks, she had brushed Pinky’s golden hair, fed her make-believe tea and biscuits, run her forefinger over her long curled up lashes, stood her up and laid her down again and again to make her open and shut her beautiful eyes.
The packers had come in. Twelve sturdy wooden boxes were being filled with household items. Daddy and Amma were busy packing the two metal trunks, a green canvas holdall, and the large, brown, leather-trimmed suitcase they would be traveling with. Tempers were frayed, and Tara knew better than to be in her parents’ way. In the evening, Daddy had peeped into the shoe room, a frown on his sweaty brow.
“You can play with it at your grandparents’ house in Mangalore,” he had pointed toward Pinky. “It needs to go into the trunk now.”
She knew better than to displease Daddy when he was tired and irritable. She had handed Pinky over to him, and then followed him to the bedroom and watched as he laid her down in one of the two identical trunks, over Amma’s peacock-blue-green-yellow sari, the one with the whirlwind-like swirls.
One afternoon in a shoe room; brief enough to seem like a dream. Almost. But Pinky was real, even if she was not of flesh and blood. She felt more real than their long train journey.
Tara turned toward Amma, tapping her arm. “Amma, how much longer?”
“Soon.” Amma had turned monosyllabic as soon as they had left home.
“Soon,” repeated Tara, then in a whisper, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of the trunk soon, okay?”
Pinky didn’t get out of the trunk soon. The day they arrived at Shanti Nilaya, Amma only opened their brown, leather-trimmed suitcase to draw out essentials—home clothes and toiletries. The next morning, Amma had just unlocked the trunks when Grandfather Madhava, Daddy’s father, called out, rather loudly, his older son’s name. The urgency in his gravelly voice made Amma stop her job at hand and follow Daddy downstairs to the verandah. Tara had no choice but to do as Amma did. The prime minister had declared internal emergency in the country, Grandfather Madhava said. The Philips radio that sat on the blue-linen-clad round table in the verandah was crackling, and over the shortwaves, a child-like voice filled the room. It drew Grandmother Indira and Daddy’s younger brother Uncle Anand out to the verandah as well. They huddled around the radio as the prime minister used big words in her speech—widespread conspiracy, inciting our armed forces to mutiny, country’s stability to be imperiled, deliberate political attempts to denigrate, and she used the word democracy many times, even though, Daddy said, Madam Prime Minister had just suspended the democratic rights of six hundred million people when the country was under no threat of war.
When the speech ended, the prime minister’s subjects, those circled around the Philips radio, found themselves in uncharted territory.
“Emergency may not be such a bad thing. We need discipline to progress,” Grandfather Madhava said in his gruff voice.
“Such a bold woman,” whispered Grandmother Indira, of her namesake.
Uncle Anand only shook his head, the slightest hint of a smile on his face, as if he had secret insight into the matter.
Amma, seated at a distance on a wicker chair, muttered to herself with a big heave of her chest, Emergency in the country and emergency in my life!