Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2003 - Ljudmila

The sound of the sundial
Excerpt from chapter III. The Route to the Sun
Six months of separation stretched to twenty-two. I was over a year old by the time Dad
came back for us. He got down from the train and went straight to his wife, waiting for
him with a boy in her arms. What went through his head when he saw me for the first
time? Mama several times described how happily he laughed when he set eyes on me.
Maliciously, he denied it every time. He maintained he was devastated because I looked
like a drooling meal-worm. Yes, I did laugh, he used to say, what could I do but laugh
at such a sight. A bald-headed pudding with chubby cheeks and an irresistible smile.
Two big front teeth with a space wide enough for two matchsticks between them. A wellfed
little marmot. And then there was another shock. Rachel. In a white blouse and
sailor's trousers. Hair cut short comme les garcons, the perfect street urchin.
****
A couple of months later, in November '32, we set out together on the route to the sun.
The ship sailed from Marseilles, the Monarch of Bermuda. Lavish evening parties, long
dresses and dancing. A conjuror and a ventriloquist. The English everywhere. How do
you do? Polished manners, and specialities of the chef d'. Rachel had a stomach like
dough in a kneading trough. It rose and rose. Sails bellied in the gathering wind and the
waves grew bigger and more terrifying. The heavens clouded over and the horizon
disappeared. Strings of rain created a visible screen, a veil that drew closer. A
transparent curtain dividing dryness from the terrible spray. Magic. When the first drops
fell on the prow of the ship, the stern still remained dry for some seconds longer. Then
the wall of rain shifted another few metres and swallowed the whole ship. Through this
singular phenomenon the dough in the kneading trough deflated. She completely forgot
she'd ever felt unwell.
That lasted fine while she was on the ship, but in Madras she collapsed. She threw up
for half a day. Maybe the problem was those pills she'd had to take against cholera and
typhus. We reached Calcutta two weeks before Christmas. When, after three days spent
in bed, she unpacked the last things, it was almost dark. She heard him come in the
house. She was waiting in the dining room.
He sat down, reached into his pocket and threw on the table some worn coins.
- This is the currency here?
- Yes. One rupee is approximately ten crowns.
- And they have something like hellers?
- Of course. One rupee has sixteen annas, one anna has four paise and one paisa three
pai.
The dismay showed in her eyes.
- What sort of arithmetic is that?
- One rupee has sixteen annas, sixty-four paise and one hundred and ninety-two pai.
Easy.
- Crazy!
- You'll get used to it. The Indians are proud of it.
- Proud of what?
- Of their arithmetic. The population is counted in khror. Three khror of population
equals thirty million people.
She calculated in silence.
- So one khror is ten million.
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- Correct. I told you it was easy, didn't I? One kror has a hundred laakh and a hundred
khror is one arb and a hundred arb is one kharb -
- Stop it! I don't want to know.
He put a consoling hand on her shoulder.
- You're going to like it here, you'll see.
She didn't like it in India at all. She saw the dirt, the mouldering walls of the houses,
litter floating in the sludge. It made her feel sick, the putrid stench wafting towards her,
the dozens of curs and cats running around, hairless and mangy. She went into fits
when she saw crippled children lying in the dust of the street, wretched beggars with
elephant foot and a hand stretched out. She suffered from phobias. About dirt and
disease. She couldn't bear the naked face of reality, the raw shape of misery, sickness
and dying. The day she saw her first snake she wanted to go home.
Mother India. Land of an ancient culture, mysterious and inscrutable. Broad rivers of
rolling yellowy-grey water, silent and everlasting. India. ather tried to merge into the
land and extract the best from the tangle of different people, cultures and religions. To
begin with, mother tried to understand the country. Always she sought for meaning in
everything. But then, you should have hated India.
India wasn't going to change on her behalf. India had been like that for thousands of
years. It was Rachel who changed. She came to terms with it. Thanks to her infatuation
with age-old myths, images of faith and by the power of the word, she uncovered for
herself and for us the poetry of the oriental continent, she let herself be carried away
by extremes and by the abundance of destinies. She fell in love with it. India was our
common love. Scorching and relentless, sweet and distressing, sensuous and repellent.
I grew up in the embrace of its contrasts, amongst people who ignited a desire for
harmony with myself in my life. My India. I didn't try to understand it. I loved it.
Kavita. That was the name of my nurse. My ayah. A well-built woman of uncertain age
with eyes like coals and a nose which ran the whole length of her face and whose
aquiline tip touched her full lips. She wore a blue sari, just one strip of material
mysteriously wound python-like round the upper and lower parts of her body. Dozens
of shimmering bangles and chains rang around her in the rhythm of her movement. She
moved like a cat, subtly and fluently. When she walked, her voluptuous body flowed
gracefully as though being poured from one dish into another, changing shape and
returning to its original form. An atmosphere of peace and kindness spread around her.
Ayah means "nurse". She became an indivisible part of our home and an independent
member of our family. With me she spoke a peculiar mixture of English and Hindu, and
I was the only one who understood. Papa laughed at our method of mutual
understanding, but it irritated Mama. Eventually she got used to it and stopped getting
angry, because I was touchingly devoted to Kavita and she - she adored me.
Transport along the Ganges, the flat surface of the river with its steamboats, the street
barber. The drying of cow pats in the streets for fuel, the primitive carts with their
massive wheels, the spindly palms like upturned comets.
or a week Rachel had been struggling with the heat. She couldn't breathe and worried
about her child. Thomas didn't notice the heat. He came home late, worn out by
conflicts with the authorities and by the easygoing workmen on the building site. rom
time to time he made demands she found difficult to accommodate.
- We have to hire a cook.
- Why? I don't want a cook. I can do the cooking myself.
- No you can't. We're in India. We have to have a cook who will do the cooking and
shopping. You can't go alone to the market.
- I'm not putting up with social dictates like that!
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