The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [149]
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She fled outside. Stood in the rich humus dark in her white cotton pajamas and felt the empty burden of the day, her own small heart, her disgust at the cook, at his pleading, her hatred of the judge, her pitiful selfish sadness, her pitiful selfish pointless love….
The sound followed her, though, the muffled thuds and cries of the men inside, of the judge beating the cook. Could it really be for Mutt’s sake…?
And Mutt? Where was Mutt?
Sold to a family that couldn’t love her in a village beyond Kurseong, an ordinary family, paying hard for modernity, receiving a sham. They wouldn’t care for Mutt. She was just a concept. They were striving toward an idea of something, toward what it meant to have a fancy dog. She disappointed them just as modern life did, and they tied her to a tree, kicked her…
Sai thought of crossing the jhora and escaping to Uncle Potty—
Who would be thinking of Father Booty—
Wobbling across the bridge, through the bamboo, with a wheel of cheese fastened to the backseat of his bicycle.
One day soon, the GNLF men would arrive again—
Don’t mind me, love—just shut the door behind you when you leave, don’t want the rowdies getting you—
When Uncle Potty woke, he would realize he’d signed away his property and Father Booty’s, as well, to new owners….
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And Mrs. Sen—she would knit the sweater that Rajiv Gandhi would never wear and that Lola and Noni said would not have matched his Kashmiri pundit, peaches ‘n’ cream complexion anyway. His destiny would be interwoven with a female Tamil Tiger in more intimate fashion than anything Mrs. Sen with her yellow sweater could have dreamed of.
And Lola and Noni would commit annual massacres at this time of year with Baygon, mosquito coils, and swatters. Every two years Lola would visit London, come back with Knorr soup packets and Marks and Spencer underwear. Pixie would marry an Englishman and Lola would almost die with delight. “Everyone in England wants an Indian girl these days!”
And Gyan? Where was Gyan? Sai didn’t know that he missed her—
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She stood in the dark and it began to rain as it so often did on an August night. The electricity went off, as always, and the televisions frizzed and the BBC was diced by storm. Lantern light came on in homes. Plunk, ping, piddle, drips fell into the pots and pans placed under leaks—
Sai stood in the wet. The rain boxed the leaves, fell in jubilant dunglike plops into the jhora. The rain slapped, anthem-singing frogs exulted in their millions, from the Teesta up to Cho Oyu, high into the Deolo and Singalila Mountains. Drowned the sound of the judge hitting the cook.
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“What is this all about?” asked Sai, but her mouth couldn’t address her ear in the tumult; her heart lying in pieces, didn’t seem able to address her mind; her mind couldn’t talk to her heart. “Shame on myself…” she said…. Who was she… she with her self-importance, her demand for happiness, yelling it at fate, at the deaf heavens, screaming for her joy to be brought forth…?
How dare…. How dare you not…?
Why shouldn’t I have…?… How dare…. I deserve…. Her small greedy soul…. Her tantrums and fits…. Her mean tears…. Her crying, enough for all the sadness in the world, was only for herself. Life wasn’t single in its purpose… or even in its direction…. The simplicity of what she’d been taught wouldn’t hold. Never again could she think there was but one narrative and that this narrative belonged only to herself, that she might create her own tiny happiness and live safely within it.
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But what would happen at Cho Oyu?
The cook would hobble back to his quarter—
The judge would return to his room—
All night it would rain. It would continue, off and on, on and off, with a savagery matched only by the ferocity with which the earth responded to the onslaught. Uncivilized voluptuous green would be unleashed; the town would slide down the hill. Slowly, painstakingly, like ants, men would make their paths and civilization and their wars once again, only to have it wash away again….
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The new morning