The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [150]
And always there would have to be something sweet and something salty—
Sai stood there—
She thought of her father and the space program. She thought of all the National Geographics and books she had read. Of the judge’s journey, of the cook’s journey, of Biju’s. Of the globe twirling on its axis.
And she felt a glimmer of strength. Of resolve. She must leave.
______
The congress of hopeful frogs continued to sing, even as a weak whiskey light showed in the east as the rain slowed.
Behind Sai, Cho Oyu was still full of shadow. She could no longer hear the men inside. The judge lay exhausted in his bed. The cook sat hunched in the kitchen, his face still in the grip of a nightmare.
Sai, dizzy from lack of sleep, turned to go inside. But then, just as she did, she became conscious of a tiny dot of a figure laboring up the slope through the clouds that were still sunk in the valley. She stopped to look. The dot vanished into the trees, reappeared, vanished again, came around the bend in the mountain. It made a pink and yellow patch of color slowly growing bigger—striving through bushy detonations of wild cardamom—
Gyan? she thought with a burst of hope. A message: I will love you after all.
Someone who had found Mutt? Right here…. She’s right here, alive and well! Plumper than ever!
______
The figure persisted. Someone else. A bent-over woman dragging one leg onerously. She must be on her way elsewhere.
Sai went inside to the kitchen. “I’ll make you tea,” she told the cook, who was covered in slipper marks.
She put on the kettle, struggled with a soggy match. Finally it flared and she lit the balled newspaper under the sticks.
______
Then they heard the gate being rattled. Oh dear, thought Sai with dread, perhaps it was the same begging woman again, the one whose husband had been blinded.
Again the gate rattled.
“I’ll go,” said the cook and he got up slowly, dusted himself off.
He walked through the drenched weeds to the gate.
At the gate, peeping through the black lace wrought iron, between the mossy canonballs, was the figure in a nightgown.
“Pitaji?” said the figure, all ruffles and colors.
Kanchenjunga appeared above the parting clouds, as it did only very early in the morning during this season.
“Biju?” whispered the cook—
“Biju!”He yelled, demented—
Sai looked out and saw two figures leaping at each other as the gate swung open.
The five peaks of Kanchenjunga turned golden with the kind of luminous light that made you feel, if briefly, that truth was apparent.
All you needed to do was to reach out and pluck it.
My Salaams
To my editor, Joan Bingham, and my agent, Michael Carlisle, for their unstinting enthusiasm and generosity regarding everything to do with The Inheritance of Loss. Also, to Rose Marie Morse, David Davidar, David Godwin, Simon Prosser and Ravi Singh. To Adelaide Docx for additional editing help.
To the Santa Maddalena Foundation, the Eastern Frontier Society, to Bunny Gupta and Doma Rai of Sukhtara, each for a desk with a view during three vital stages in the writing of this book.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Preface
The Inheritance of Loss
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
My Salaams